Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

“Heidi? Where are you at . . . ? Okay . . . someone sabotaged our pumpkin cannon. . . .”

  I frowned. It wasn’t exactly sabotage of the cannon, but whatever.

  “No?” he asked. “All right. Drive safe.” He hung up. “She left a little before ten. Went straight to her car and didn’t see anything suspicious.”

  “So, no one saw anything?”

  “It must have been kids from San Adrian.” He nodded, a hopeful expression on his face. “Who else could it be?”

  “I don’t know. There have been too many strange things going on, and I don’t think we can blame San Adrian for them all.”

  A gust of mist drifted between us and as quickly vanished.

  He eyed me. “Now what? Are you going to call the cops?”

  “It’s not my cannon. Are you going to call them?”

  His gaze shifted. “I’ll have to talk to management.”

  In other words, no. I had to tell Gordon.

  But I didn’t want to, not now. He had his father to deal with, and I didn’t want to pull him in another direction.

  I drove home through the thickening fog. I didn’t call Gordon.

  I procrastibaked.

  Though pie is my passion, woman cannot live on pie alone. There’s also pumpkin bread.

  I pulled a plastic container of recently baked pumpkin from my tiny refrigerator.

  Soon my tiny house was filled with the smells of pumpkin and all its associated spices. There’s no better smell for soothing the troubled soul. Unless you happen to hate pumpkin, in which case, we need to talk.

  I do love pumpkin, but my thoughts remained unsettled. There’d been two attempts on me in one day. Unless sabotage of the maze really had been the goal?

  But I suspected something worse.

  Someone had been targeting me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My tiny home’s door shuddered, a fist rattling it in its metal frame.

  I lifted my head from my pillow and squinted at the light streaming through the vertical blinds. Was it too much to hope I’d get to sleep in on Monday, my day off?

  Apparently, yes. It was.

  I staggered from my futon, hiked up the bottoms of my pie pajamas, and yanked open the door.

  Charlene and Takako grinned up at me. They both carried paper coffee cups—Takako two. Around Charlene’s neck, Frederick yawned, showing off needlelike teeth.

  I took an involuntary step back.

  “Good morning.” Takako extended a cup to me. “Charlene told me you liked to wake up to soy chai.” Takako wore all black: black jeans, black sweater, shiny quilted black jacket. She looked like she was about to knock over a liquor store.

  “What are you doing still asleep?” Charlene asked.

  “I’m not asleep anymore,” I grumped. If only I was still tucked in bed. I glanced at my stepmother. “But there was an incident at the maze last night.”

  “Another?” Charlene asked.

  They squeezed past me into my tiny house and settled themselves at the fold-down table. Since it was made for two at a pinch, I leaned against the kitchen counter and told them about the pumpkin cannon.

  “Four hundred miles an hour?” Takako whistled. “Who knew pumpkins could be so dangerous?”

  Charlene rubbed her chin. “Did someone follow you there?” She was dressed like a candy corn. Thick yellow tunic and jacket. Orange knit leggings. White socks and high tops.

  I straightened off the counter. “I don’t think so, but I wasn’t checking for a tail.”

  “If you weren’t followed,” Charlene said, “then that cannon was fired by someone who had reason to be there and saw you. Someone who took advantage of an opportunity. Someone who worked there.”

  “Only Petros, Heidi, and Joy were working that night. None of them had reason to launch a pumpkin at me.” Heidi might despise me, but she was no killer.

  “Then you were followed,” Charlene said.

  “What about that Alfreda woman?” Takako asked. “You said she was there.”

  “If she wants a job at Pie Town, she’d better not have launched that pumpkin,” Charlene growled.

  “I didn’t see Alfreda leave the parking lot,” I said. “She could have stuck around to shoot the cannon. But it seems a stupid thing to do. She must have known it would make her look guilty of the murders.”

  “I hate to say it,” Charlene said, “but this sounds more like another San Adrian prank gone wrong.”

  She laid Frederick on the table. Eyes closed, the white cat flicked his tail.

  “Another?” I asked. “We don’t know if someone from San Adrian was involved in any of the incidents so far.”

  “Whatever the case,” Takako said, “these pranks are getting out of hand. Were the police called?”

  “I don’t know. It was late when I got home,” I hedged, “so I didn’t get a chance to call Gordon.” I still didn’t know how his father was, but I didn’t want to disturb Gordon.

  Charlene smacked her hand on the table, and the paper coffee cups jumped. “This is getting too complicated. We need to thin the herd.”

  “Who are we going to take out?” Takako asked.

  Mug warming my hands, I looked askance at the two women. “You two sound like hitmen.”

  “Thistleblossom,” Charlene said. “She’s been lurking in the background, and she’s up to no good. We need to remove her from the equation.”

  “See,” I said, “there you go again with the language.”

  “Rub her off the list,” Takako agreed.

  “Neutralize her,” Charlene said.

  “Now you’re just doing it on purpose,” I said.

  “Are you going to get dressed?” Charlene asked.

  “So, we can iceberg the SS Thistleblossom?” I joked.

  The two women stared blankly.

  “Never mind.” What harm could talking to Mrs. Thistleblossom do? She’d been at the pumpkin patch the morning we’d been attacked by the farm truck. She knew our main players. She might actually have some intel. And interviewing Thistleblossom would keep Charlene and Takako out of trouble.

  I dressed quickly in a ribbed, white turtleneck sweater and sand-colored vest. Sucking in my gut, I buttoned my jeans. They must have shrunk in the wash. Because it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the holiday pies I’d been sampling.

  We crowded into Charlene’s yellow Jeep. I sat angled sideways, crushed in the back.

  “Hold Frederick.” Charlene twisted in her seat and dumped the cat in my lap.

  “OK—”

  The Jeep lurched forward. It zipped past the picnic table and made a sharp U-turn in my front yard. Rocketing through the eucalyptus trees and down the dirt trail, we exploded onto the main road. The Jeep darted between two semis and merged onto the highway.

  I relaxed my grip on Takako’s headrest. Who could blame Frederick for keeping his eyes closed? Valium and a blindfold were the sanest accessories when Charlene was driving. Sadly, I had neither.

  Takako sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Charlene said.

  But I did. I twisted and peered into the storage space behind my seat. Charlene’s pumpkin drone sat at an angle between a rolled-up sleeping bag and a hand ax. The jack-o’-lantern’s face puckered, folding in on itself.

  “Maybe it’s time to retire the pumpkin drone,” I said.

  “Just because it’s old,” Charlene said, “doesn’t mean it’s no good. Besides, it looks scarier all wrinkled.”

  “Who do you want to scare?” I asked.

  “Brinks.” Charlene’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “He’s not going to toilet paper my house this year.”

  “And your thirst for revenge has nothing to do with that kid winning the pumpkin race?” I asked.

  She sniffed. “He didn’t win. His father did.”

  All-righty then.

  Trees and houses and ocean views blurred past us.

  Charlene hit the brakes. Th
e Jeep screeched to a halt in front of a crooked Victorian with peeling paint and an overgrown front yard.

  “Here we are,” she caroled.

  “You’re kidding me.” Slap some candy on the front and call us Hansel and Gretel. I hadn’t seen anything this creepy since I’d helped Charlene clean out her attic. “No wonder people think she’s a witch.”

  “Only you think she’s a witch,” Charlene said.

  “I don’t.” I unlatched my seat belt. “I’m just saying—”

  “Mrs. Thistleblossom wants you to believe she’s got supernatural abilities,” Takako said. “Her performance in your pie shop, the clothing, her odd gestures . . . all create fear, and that gives her power.”

  “Thank you!” At least someone got it. “I don’t understand how you don’t see it, Charlene.”

  “Because I grew up. I’ve learned better.”

  Ha. Charlene would never grow up. It was part of her charm. “Why are you being so rational about this? You think everything’s supernatural.”

  “Do not.” Charlene unsnapped her seat belt.

  “You think Pastor Hiller is a werewolf,” I said.

  “He is a werewolf.”

  “Then when it comes to Thistleblossom, why are you acting like . . . me?”

  “A better question,” she said, “is why are you acting like me?”

  “I’m—” Oh, damn. Was I?

  Charlene unlocked her door. “Tell her Thistleblossom isn’t a witch, Takako.”

  “Belief is a powerful thing,” my stepmother said vaguely.

  We stared at the small Victorian. Monterey cypresses and pines pressed against the crooked house. They created thick wells of shade, ideal for ambush by goblins. The picket fence had once been white. Now it was mainly the color of rotted wood.

  “But I could be reading too much into her behavior,” Takako admitted. “My PhD in anthropology had a specialization in witchcraft.”

  Charlene cocked her head. “You can specialize in that?”

  “It was a useful combination with my specialization in ethnoarchaeology.”

  “Ethnoarchaeology?” I asked.

  “Working with descendant communities to learn about traditional beliefs and rituals,” Takako explained. “I have PhDs in archaeology and anthropology.”

  Wow. My stepmom was one smart cookie.

  Which goes to show that even smart women can make dumb romantic decisions. I mean—my father?

  “Are you sure Mrs. Thistleblossom’s home?” Takako asked.

  Charlene turned and removed Frederick from my lap. “Every Monday morning, she cooks her food for the rest of the week.”

  I scrunched my forehead. “Have you been surveilling Mrs. Thistleblossom?”

  “She’s had the same cooking routine for fifty years.” She draped Frederick over one shoulder and stepped from the Jeep.

  We followed her to the front gate. It stuck, and I had to give it a shove, scraping it across the concrete path.

  A crow landed on a cypress branch and cawed. The branch swayed, dried leaves drifting to the ground.

  I stepped through the gate. The temperature dropped in the shadows of the looming trees, and I rubbed my arms.

  We crept down the path.

  Something thudded softly, and I started, scanning the yard. A pine cone rolled to a shuddering halt on the overgrown lawn.

  “Hold it.” Charlene raised her fist.

  We froze.

  “She’s in the kitchen,” Charlene whispered, pointing at a curtained window on the left side of the porch.

  “And?” I asked.

  “And be quiet.” Charlene tiptoed up the porch.

  Takako shrugged and followed.

  Shaking my head, I did the same.

  Charlene ducked beneath the kitchen window and straightened on the opposite side. She peeked in and jerked away, flattening herself against the wall. Charlene motioned toward the window. Takako and I looked inside.

  Cast-iron cauldrons steamed on the old-fashioned stove. Mrs. Thistleblossom plucked a dish towel looped through the refrigerator door. She slipped her arm through it to the elbow. The elderly woman leaned back, and the door creaked open.

  She extricated herself from the towel. Reaching into the refrigerator, she drew out a bowl. It slipped from her hands and crashed to the tile floor. Liquid splattered the faded kitchen cabinets. She cursed and tottered to a narrow closet, fumbling with the knob.

  I stepped from the window. “She has arthritis.” I should have guessed from her gnarled fingers. No wonder she’d cheated in the pie contest. Rolling out piecrusts must be agony. And her spooky yard . . . Of course, she couldn’t do yard work. “She needs help.” I strode to the door and knocked. A witch. I’d been an idiot.

  After a long two minutes, Mrs. Thistleblossom shouted, “No solicitors!”

  “It’s me, Mrs. Thistleblossom—Val Harris. I’m here with Charlene and my, uh, with Takako.”

  The knob started to turn, snapped back, and twisted open. Her wizened face glared out. “What do you want?” She jerked her head toward Charlene. “And why is she dressed like a candy corn?”

  “We wanted to talk to you about the murders,” I said. “We thought you might have some insight.”

  Her black eyes danced, her face creasing with glee. “You think I killed those eye doctors?”

  “Absolutely not. Charlene and I have—and Takako—have been gathering evidence. We wanted to go over it with you and get your opinion.”

  She smoothed her twisted hands on her Christmas-tree apron. “My opinion?”

  Charlene nudged me aside. “Everyone knows you’ve got your finger in every pie in this town.”

  “Is that a crack about me losing the bake-off?”

  “No,” I said.

  Mrs. Thistleblossom sneered. “You’re a fine one to talk, McCree, sticking your nose into murders and stolen surfboards.”

  “We found that surfboard.” Charlene jammed her hands on her hips. “And the moose head.”

  “Hmph! Come inside. I don’t want riffraff cluttering up my porch. The neighbors will complain. And don’t get cat hair on my sofa!”

  We edged inside. Milo leapt from a dog bed near the door and emitted a rusty bark.

  “Some watchdog,” Charlene said.

  “He can’t help it if he’s deaf,” Mrs. Thistleblossom said.

  “So’s Frederick.” Charlene pointed to the ball of white fur coiled around her neck.

  Milo growled, spotting the cat.

  I sniffed. Whatever was cooking smelled awful—like burning plastic and deep-fried death.

  “That is the stupidest way to wear a cat I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Thistleblossom said.

  Charlene bridled. “How—?”

  “Did we interrupt your cooking?” I asked.

  “Everyone knows I do the week’s cooking on Mondays. My potions too.”

  I started.

  Mrs. Thistleblossom cackled. “Heh. I had you going, didn’t I?”

  I crossed my arms. “Yeah, you got me.”

  Something hissed in the kitchen. “My stew!” Mrs. Thistleblossom hurried into the kitchen, and we followed.

  A pot bubbled over on the stove. Orange liquid and broken bits of bowl spilled across the floor. Mrs. Thistleblossom swore.

  Milo trotted after us, one crossed eye on Frederick.

  “Where do you keep your mop?” I asked.

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” the old lady snapped, “and I don’t need it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But you should clean it up,” Mrs. Thistleblossom said. “It’s your fault I dropped that bowl.”

  Charlene exhaled an outraged breath. “Our fault?”

  I nudged her. “We’ll clean it up.”

  “First cupboard on the right,” Mrs. Thistleblossom said.

  I pulled the mop from the tall cupboard and picked up the bigger pieces of broken bowl. Takako mopped the floor behind me. Soon we had the mess cleaned up.

&nb
sp; Mrs. Thistleblossom braced her fists on her hips. “I suppose you want coffee now?”

  Milo growled.

  “We don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Takako said.

  “But coffee wouldn’t go amiss.” Charlene cast a wary gaze at the dog and adjusted Frederick around her collar.

  Mrs. Thistleblossom reached for an ancient-looking percolator. Her hands clenched.

  “Let me.” Hastily, I grabbed the pot.

  She pointed to the cupboard with the cups, and I poured.

  We settled ourselves in the breakfast nook on cracked plastic chairs. Dried herbs lay piled in the center of the round table. Tall windows looked out on a trio of pines.

  “You put that chalk graffiti on Val’s van, didn’t you?” Charlene asked.

  “I was having a good day.” She flexed her hands and winced. “And the crossing spell under your doormat.”

  “Crossing spell?” I yelped. What was that?

  Mrs. Thistleblossom laughed, slapping her knees.

  “I think,” Takako said wryly, “that was a joke.”

  The old lady wiped her eyes. “I suppose you want me to apologize.”

  An apology would make a nice change, but Charlene never said she was sorry. Why mess with tradition? “Nah. But why did you do it?”

  “To throw you off your game. I knew you’d sniff out my store-bought pie. You’re a professional.”

  But I hadn’t, I thought, rueful. “I’ll bet you would have given me a run for my money before your arthritis.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders rounded. “You figured that out.”

  “Getting old is nothing to be ashamed of,” said Charlene. “It will happen to us all, if we’re lucky.”

  Takako and I carefully did not look at my piecrust specialist.

  “And the graffiti on Pie Town’s rear wall?” Takako turned her cup on the plastic tablecloth, a red and green poinsettia pattern.

  Mrs. Thistleblossom hung her head. “I thought that was chalk-based as well. Sorry for the trouble.”

  “What about trying to run us off the road at Laurelynn’s pumpkin patch?” Charlene asked.

  “Drive you off the road?” She sneered. “What are you talking about?”

  “We know you were there.” Charlene jabbed a finger toward her. “You had access to the keys to the truck.”

  “I can’t drive a truck! Look at my hands.” She raised them for us to see. “I didn’t do anything aside from what I told you. Well, there was that bit of hocus-pocus in your pie shop, but aside from that, nothing.”