Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  I’d seen this behavior before. This was stress eating. “Gordon, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he mumbled through another mouthful of pie. He pointed with his fork at the whiteboard. “What do you think?”

  “About your murder board?”

  “About any of it.” He swallowed and set down the plate. “Shaw’s on the wrong track. But I can’t go behind his back this time and work the case. It would be the end of my career in San Nicholas.”

  My chest tightened. “Isn’t going behind his back what you’re doing now?”

  “Semantics.” Leaning against the back of the sofa, he pulled my back against his chest, so we both faced the whiteboard. “What do you see?” He motioned with his near-empty plate.

  I studied the board. But if there was a clue in the mash-up of photos and maps and sticky notes, I didn’t see it. “I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I guess I’m not a visual learner. What do you see?”

  “After we spoke on the phone, I got this idea I can’t let go of.”

  “Oh?”

  His phone vibrated in the pocket of his slacks, and I started. He pulled it out and checked the number. Gordon straightened, and I stepped away.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to take this.”

  “The station?”

  “My mom.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Mom? What’s going on?”

  I walked to the board and mentally blocked out the conversation. Gordon had shifted the photos, so Denise and Elon’s were side by side. And he’d drawn a red line between Elon and Laurelynn. Alfreda was on the board as well, with lines to Dr. Levant and Dr. Cannon.

  “Val.”

  I turned.

  Gordon pocketed his phone, his green gaze somber. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “My father’s had a fall.”

  My breath caught. “Oh, no. Is an ambulance there?”

  “No.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “My dad’s refusing help. I could hear him bellowing over the phone. If he’s shouting, then it’s probably not life threatening, but my mom needs me.”

  “How can I help?”

  “When my dad’s like this, it’s best if I just go.”

  “When he’s like this? Did it happen often?”

  Gordon gave me a long look, then tugged me against him and pressed his lips to my forehead. “We can’t seem to catch a break, can we? Between your work and my work and my parents—”

  “It’s life. It’s fine.”

  There wasn’t much more difficult than watching a parent decline. I’d taken care of my mother at the end. And I remembered every awful moment.

  What Gordon was going through with his parents wasn’t the same. But that didn’t make it easier. It did explain all the pie. And his obsession with the murder was about more than clearing his name. He needed the people he cared about to be okay. And his parents’ health problems were making that impossible for two of the people he loved the most.

  “Forgive me?” he asked.

  I blinked away the heat in my eyes. “There’s nothing to forgive.” I brushed my lips across his. “Go. Help your parents.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I’m going to the corn maze to check out this vandalism that’s got everyone up in arms. Follow every lead, right?”

  He checked his watch. “Is the maze still open?”

  “Until ten. I’ve got an hour or so.”

  Gordon saw me to the door. “Hold on.” He lifted a navy-colored knit cap from a hook near the door and tugged it over my head. “I’d rather be the one keeping you warm, but until then . . .” He pulled me into another embrace. “Thank you for understanding,” he rumbled.

  I strode to my delivery van and drove away, sympathy twisting my heart. The fog thickened, swirling in front of my headlights. I turned onto Highway One and tried not to dwell on Gordon.

  A rabbit darted across the highway.

  I slammed on my brakes, heart thumping.

  The animal disappeared into the fog.

  I drove on, scanning the road for the sign to the corn maze. Finally, I spotted the simple wooden billboard, lit from below. I turned the van, bumping along a dirt drive and slowing to a stop on its shoulder.

  Lowering my window, I craned my neck, studying the sign. Crude graffiti was spray-painted across it. I angled my head. Whoever had tagged my van had way better penmanship. And I was guessing the kids who’d wrecked the corn maze sign hadn’t used chalk.

  Since I was here, and the maze was open, I drove to the lot beside the black-painted barn and parked.

  There was a thunk—the pumpkin cannon in action.

  I strolled inside the barn.

  A woman wrapped like a mummy in a thick gray scarf and matching sweater stood behind the counter. Her time stamp thump-clicked on a ticket.

  With a start, I recognized her—it was my friend Joy.

  She slid the ticket across the counter to a broad-shouldered brunette. The customer’s maple hair was knotted in a bun beneath a black knit hat.

  “Hi, Val,” Joy said in her usual monotone.

  The customer stiffened.

  “Hey, Joy. And . . . Alfreda?” I asked.

  The woman faced me and colored. “Val?”

  “Running into you twice in one night?” I asked. “It must be fate. Are you going into the maze? I thought I’d give it another try myself. We can do it together.”

  “Oh. Um, no. I just remembered I have to . . .” She brushed past me and out the wide barn doors.

  “Waste of a good time stamp.” Joy picked up her comic book, caped superheroes winging across its cover.

  “I’ll take her ticket,” I said.

  “You’ll have to pay for it. She never did.” She looked up, expressionless. “What are you doing here alone?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be here alone? And what are you doing here?”

  “I’m the volunteer night shift.” She tilted her head, her black hair cascading over one shoulder. “And you’re usually not. Alone, I mean. Besides, a corn maze isn’t the sort of thing one does on one’s own.”

  “Why not?” I adjusted the cap over my ears. The barn was cold enough I could see my own breath. I didn’t know how Joy stood it.

  “Because it’s creepy.” Her shoulder twitched—Joy’s version of a shudder.

  “I was relying on Charlene the first time. Tonight, I’d like to try and beat the maze myself. Was that the pumpkin cannon I heard?”

  She rolled her eyes. “The damn thing’s even more popular than the maze.”

  “How can anyone even see the pumpkins flying in this fog?”

  Joy shrugged. “Beats me. The kids love it. Maybe I should get one for the comic book store.” Her lips quirked. “Can you imagine me on the roof, lobbing pumpkins across Main Street?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d target Heidi’s gym?” I laughed.

  “Wrong angle.” She glanced toward the door to the maze.

  I paid for Alfreda’s ticket. “Any leads on whoever vandalized the maze sign?”

  “Please. Everyone knows who did it.”

  “Who?”

  “San Adrian. This rivalry will lead to disaster.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  “You’ll need to hurry if you plan to beat the maze,” she continued. “We close at ten.”

  “Thanks. I will.” I wandered through the door and into the maze.

  Lamps on high poles made globes of light in the fog. I crunched along the dried, matted cornstalk floor.

  Occasionally, I heard a murmur of distant voices, but I never saw anyone. The whomps of the cannon were the only reminder of life outside the maze.

  My mother’s cancer had been relatively quick—a matter of months rather than years. And there were times, God help me, when I’d thought that speed had been a blessing. The times I’d been up all night, listening to her groans. Flinching against the storm of her outbursts when the cancer had
moved to her brain. When I’d had to slog to work the next morning, eyes burning, shaking with exhaustion. When I’d thought it wasn’t possible for me to go on, my heart beaten and broken. The moments when I just wanted it to end, and in the next, the hard grip of remorse.

  I hoped Gordon’s father was okay.

  I hoped Gordon was okay.

  After twenty more minutes of wrong turns, I began to regret my impulse. Sure, battling the maze had mostly stopped me from thinking about Gordon and his parents.

  Now I was thinking about getting murdered in a cornfield.

  I veered left at a familiar-looking junction. But every corner looked familiar. There isn’t much variety in a cornfield.

  The stalks cast long, wavering shadows. Buttoning my coat to my chin, I hurried onward, invisible ants crawling up my spine.

  I paused, my head cocked, listening. The cannon had fallen silent. Did that mean they were closing?

  Breaking into a jog, I made random turns into dead ends and retraced my steps.

  I checked the clock on my phone, and my throat tightened. It was a minute to ten. What happened when the corn maze closed? I imagined them turning off the lights and leaving me to stumble in the darkness until a mountain lion—

  My grip tightened on my phone. Joy wouldn’t abandon me. She knew I was in the maze.

  I turned a corner. The cornfield opened up, revealing the puzzle’s center.

  My muscles loosened. I’d done it!

  I stopped short in front of the empty gilt throne. Where was the person to stamp my card and, more importantly, help me find my way out?

  The pumpkin cannon whumped.

  I oriented on the noise. Would I do any permanent damage to the maze if I just ran straight through—

  A whoosh of air. The throne exploded in a hail of wood and gilt and pumpkin rinds.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My cheek burned, lacerating fire. Heedless of direction, I plunged into the cornstalks. Leaves thwacked my arms, face, legs. I stumbled forward, weaving, in the darkness.

  The cannon whumped again, fell silent.

  Heart hammering, I stopped, panting. I braced my hands on my thighs.

  The cornstalks whispered, a menacing chorus. Shadows flickered between the crackling leaves.

  I had to get out of here. But where? Moonlight silvered the fog, outlined the silhouette of the eastern hills.

  I forged south, where I knew I’d eventually reach a road, the parking lot, the barn. Leaves slapped and scratched at my exposed hands and face.

  I emerged in the parking lot.

  A car roared off. Its tires kicked up a swirl of dirt in its wake. The taillights turned the dust to flame, and then the car vanished over the rise.

  I stared after the car a moment, then shook myself and jogged to the black barn.

  The door was shut. I tugged the handle, rattling a lock. There were still a few cars in the dirt and hay-strewn lot, so I wasn’t alone. I banged on the rough, wooden door.

  “Is that you, Val?” Joy shouted through the massive door.

  My body trembled, the adrenaline rush collapsing. “Let me in!”

  “Just a sec.”

  “Hurry,” I shouted back. “Someone blew up your throne.”

  There was a rattling of locks. The door rumbled sideways, and Joy peered out. She shouldered into a long, black, wool coat. “What did you say?”

  “The pumpkin cannon. Someone turned it on the maze. The throne’s gone. Destroyed.”

  “That’s impossible,” she said flatly. “Petros would never fire a pumpkin in that direction. It could kill someone. What were you saying about the throne?”

  “Petros? Petros Scala?” My heart deflated like a wronged soufflé. Petronella’s father couldn’t be involved in the murder, but why shoot a pumpkin at me?

  “You said the throne was damaged?” She stepped from the barn.

  “It’s a total loss.” But it must have been an accident. How, after all, had someone targeted me inside the maze?

  Joy blinked. “That’s—Petros?”

  Petronella’s father rounded the barn. Mr. Scala scrubbed his hands in a rag and stuffed it into the pocket of his thick vest. “Yeah?” He wiped his hands on the front of his plaid shirt.

  “Val said the maze throne was hit with one of your pumpkins.” Joy stepped past me into the parking lot.

  “Impossible.” He frowned. “Val? What happened to you?”

  “Happened?” I asked.

  “Your face is swollen.” Impassive, Joy brushed a chunk of rind off my shoulder.

  I touched my cheek and winced. “I was in the center of the maze maybe five minutes ago when someone shot a pumpkin into it. It hit the throne.”

  Petros swore. “I thought I—” He turned and trotted back the way he’d come.

  Joy and I followed.

  “Thought you what?” I asked.

  “Check the throne,” he barked over his shoulder to Joy.

  “There was no one at the throne to check my time when I arrived,” I said. “Wasn’t there supposed to be?”

  My friend frowned and made a U-turn, toward the north side of the barn. “Not if you arrived around ten. Our time stamper had to leave a little early—there was a gym emergency.”

  “Gym emergency? You mean . . . Heidi? Heidi’s working here?” I tamped down an irrational burst of anger. Heidi had every right to volunteer at the maze. But leaving me alone there seemed personal, even though logic told me it couldn’t have been. Heidi hadn’t known I was inside.

  “I knew you’d react this way.”

  “I’m not reacting.”

  She pulled her silky hair from beneath her coat collar and flipped it forward. “Oh?”

  “Well, it is suspicious,” I sputtered. “She tried to get me disqualified as a pie judge. She put that SUGAR KILLS sign in the closest possible spot to Pie Town’s window—”

  “Nice haunted village, by the way.”

  “Thanks. But don’t you think Heidi—?”

  “Cut her a break. She’s going through a rough patch.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I muttered insincerely.

  “She and Mark Jeffreys broke up.”

  So, the rumors were true. I exhaled heavily. “That bites.” And to my surprise, I meant it. “Okay, Heidi was here. How did I miss her leaving the maze?”

  “There’s a hidden path for the staff.” Joy pointed to where the cornfield covered the road and pressed against one side of the barn. “Never mind that. I’ll be right back.” She turned and strode through an almost invisible break in the corn.

  Huh. Heidi and Mark were over. I’d had nothing to do with their breakup. So why did I feel . . . bad?

  Pressing against the side of the barn, I slithered past the corn maze and to the winding road. Joy had obviously expected I’d wait, but I was curious about the cannon.

  Mr. Scala’s broad figure marched up the dirt road ahead of me.

  I hurried after him, my chest heaving a little as the road stretched up a low hill. A mechanical hum grew, filling the air.

  At the top of the hill, I slowed, astonished.

  The pumpkin cannon was an actual cannon. A long orange barrel had been attached to what looked like a septic tank. The tank and barrel were mounted on the back of an old fire truck where the ladder should be. An American flag fluttered from a pole on top.

  Petronella’s father clambered onto the fire truck. He peered through a sighting mechanism. He cursed again and twisted toward me. “You said you were inside the maze when it happened?”

  “In the center.”

  He turned a lever. The mechanical grumble silenced.

  His shoulders slumped. “You could have been killed, Val. The throne was targeted deliberately.” Petros motioned to the sight.

  “But it was only a pumpkin.”

  “A pumpkin that flies nearly four hundred miles per hour.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “There’s a chance whoev
er targeted this didn’t notice you were in the center.” He worked a hand crank, and the cannon rotated on the fire truck. “Maybe you walked in after they’d targeted the throne, and they fired without looking.”

  “Who knew how to work this?” I croaked.

  His round face darkened. “Anyone who’s watched me launch a pumpkin.”

  “But sighting properly? Turning the machine on? That must have taken some knowledge of the machinery.”

  He scratched his bristly cheek. “Maybe someone who worked here. But no one who works here would do that We’ve all busted our butts on this harvest festival and the corn maze.” His jaw tightened. “San Adrian.”

  “No,” I said. Heidi had better odds being the shooter, and those odds were win-the-lottery low. “I don’t think—”

  “They’ve got their own pumpkin cannon. They’d know how to work this one. It was bad luck you were in the center when they fired.”

  “When did you shut down the cannon tonight?” I asked.

  “Nine-thirty. We close at ten, but that gives the spectators time to walk back to the barn, buy some souvenirs before they leave.”

  “And what were you doing after you shut it down?”

  He seemed to crumple in on himself. “Val, you can’t think I did this. Just because Chief Shaw . . .” His Adam’s apple bobbed above the collar of his plaid shirt. “I’d never—”

  “I know,” I said. “Of course, you didn’t. But if someone had gotten hurt inside the maze—”

  “I’d be blamed,” he said heavily.

  “We need to figure this out. Tell me what you did after you left the cannon.”

  “I put the unused pumpkins away in the shed.” He motioned toward a small outbuilding near the black-painted barn.

  “Did you notice anyone hanging around?”

  He shook his head. “I never thought we’d need a lock and key for this cannon, but clearly we do.”

  “Okay, who was working here tonight?”

  “Tomorrow’s a school day,” he said. “Business lightened up after eight or so. It’s just the three of us. Joy, taking tickets and selling souvenirs, Heidi, in the center of the maze, and me.”

  “We need to talk to Heidi.”

  He pulled a phone from the pocket of his thick vest and made a call.