Gourd to Death

Book 5: Pie Town Mystery

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Crime & Mystery; humor; Cozy Mystery; culinary cozy; halloween

Synopsis

This Halloween, pie shop proprietor Val Harris must patch together clues to solve a murder by pumpkin . . .



As the owner of Pie Town, Val's been tapped to judge the pie making contest at the annual pumpkin festival in the coastal California town of San Nicholas. Things could get sticky though—her boyfriend, cop Gordon Carmichael, is entering the competition with his "special" family pumpkin pie recipe. But Val's got bigger problems than a conflict of interest when she and her flaky piecrust-maker Charlene discover another contestant crushed under an enormous pumpkin.



When grudge-holding Chief Shaw comes up with a half-baked reason to toss Carmichael off the case and onto the suspect list, it's up to Val and Charlene to find the tricky killer. But as they dodge lethal pumpkin cannons and follow the clues into a figurative and literal maze, the pie pals are in for the scariest Halloween of their lives—and it may be their last . . .

Release date: August 25, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 302

Sample

All it takes is one bad impulse.

In my defense, I’d had a late night of sexy aliens and pitched battles. So my impulse control was low this morning.

But.

Going along to get it over with was still a bad impulse. I was ditching work on what could be the busiest day of the year. My staff needed me. Pie Town needed me.

The thuds of hammers and clangs of metal on metal drifted through the predawn fog. It shrouded Main Street, hiding the workers setting up festival stalls.

Yawning, I jammed my hands into the pockets of my winter-weight Pie or Die hoodie and hesitated guiltily in the doorway of my pie shop. The scent of baking pumpkin escaped Pie Town’s open door and wafted into the chill October air.

“I can only take ten minutes,” I said through another jaw-cracking yawn. Pie Town was still a start-up, and I loved it like a helicopter mom. But I couldn’t ruin Charlene’s fun. “Then I need to get back to the prep work.”

My elderly piecrust specialist, Charlene McCree, pulled the ends of her snowy hair from her jacket collar. “You work twelve-hour days, Val. No one’s going to hold it against you if you take a peek. You won’t get much chance when the festival’s in full swing. Relax.”

In a blur of purple knit jacket, she surged past me and onto the brick sidewalk. We’d both been up until midnight watching a Stargate marathon, and it was now five A.M. Charlene claimed old people didn’t need much sleep. I felt like deep-fried death.

“Last year,” she said, “the winning pumpkin was over two thousand pounds. This year’s would have been bigger if those arms dealers hadn’t chiseled in on the action.”

Hiding a smile, I let Pie Town’s glass door swing shut behind us. Charlene might be the best piecrust maker on the NorCal coast, but I’d learned the hard way not to encourage her. “You know San Adrian isn’t infested with gun runners.”

But Saint Adrian was the patron saint of weapons dealers. The town’s true crime, however, was starting a pumpkin festival to rival San Nicholas’s. Farmers now had to choose between San Adrian and us. Our tiny beach town was feeling the pinch.

“You don’t understand pumpkin festivals,” she said darkly.

I yawned again and flipped up my hood, orange and black for Halloween.

Ray, a gamer who usually staked out one of Pie Town’s corner tables, waved from beneath a festival booth’s green awning. “Hey, Val! Hi, Charlene.”

We ambled to his booth, one of dozens lining the middle of the street.

“Nice socks,” he said.

Charlene pointed the toe of one of her high-tops, modeling the striped purple and black socks. They nipped at the hems of her matching purple leggings. “Thanks. I got ’em on sale.”

I eyed the comic art hanging against the green canvas walls. “You drew these?” I asked, impressed.

Ray’s round face flushed. His freckles darkened. “Well—”

His girlfriend, Henrietta, popped up from behind a stack of boxes. “They’re all his. Isn’t he amazing?” She tugged down her shapeless army-green sweatshirt. It matched the color of the knit cap flattening her sandy hair. “I told him he should work as an artist for a gaming company, but he’s set on being an engineer.”

Charlene squinted at a cartoon woman in a chain-mail bikini. “Looks uncomfortable. If I was going into battle, I’d want a lot more covered than those two—”

“It all looks great,” I interrupted. Age had dulled Charlene’s verbal restraint. If my friend had ever had any.

“And don’t worry,” Ray said. “I’ll be sure to send customers into Pie Town.”

Charlene laughed hollowly. “I don’t think that will be a problem. This is my fiftieth pumpkin festival. They’re wolves, I tell you. Wolves!”

Henrietta’s eyes twinkled. “Werewolves?”

“Don’t encourage her.” I groaned, knowing it was too late. Charlene was convinced a local pastor was a werewolf. She also believed Bigfoot roamed the woods, ghost jaguars stalked the streets, and UFOs buzzed the California coast.

“I was speaking metaphorically,” Charlene said, surprising me. “I meant the festivalgoers act like wolves. Though if I were you, I’d keep an eye on Pastor Hiller around the full moon. Not that he can help himself, poor man. Once you’ve been bitten, it’s all over.”

And there it was. “It was great seeing you two,” I said. “We’re going to check out those giant pumpkins, and then I’m going back to work.” We’d left my staff slaving in the kitchen while Charlene and I scoped out the massive gourds. I wasn’t sure how much pie we’d sell today, during the prefestival, but I didn’t want to take any risks.

“Speak for yourself,” Charlene said. “I’ve already completed my piecrust quota. See ya, Ray. Bye, Henrietta.”

We ambled two booths down, and I stopped in front of another green awning. A sign hanging from the top read HEIDI’S HEALTH AND FITNESS. Directly beneath it: SUGAR KILLS.

I sighed. “Seriously? At a pumpkin festival?” The gym had moved in next to Pie Town earlier this year. Its owner and I had a loathe-hate relationship.

Heidi turned to me, and her blond brows drew downward. “Sugar kills every day of the year.”

“So does life,” Charlene said.

Heidi tossed her ponytail. “Your life might be longer and more fulfilling if it included better diet and exercise.”

“I’m fit as a fiddle.” Charlene thumped her chest and coughed alarmingly. “I eat what I want, and I stop when I’m full. And I have a drink every night for my heart. It’s the French way.”

Heidi’s lip curled. “We’re offering blood pressure and other fitness testing. You should stop by.” She eyed me critically. “Especially you.”

My eyes narrowed. I was not overweight.

She smoothed the front of her sleek and sporty Heidi’s Health and Fitness microfiber jacket. “You’re going to have some competition at the pie-making contest.”

“I’m not competing, I’m a judge.” Not that judging didn’t have its own pressures. My boyfriend, Gordon Carmichael, had entered the pie contest. He was a good cook, and it was a blind tasting, but still. And then there was old Mrs. Thistleblossom. She won every year, and I was supercurious about her pumpkin pie. What was her secret? I’d never met the woman, but I’d heard she was over a hundred.

“I don’t think it’s fair for a professional baker to be in the contest,” Heidi said.

I pulled my mouth into a tight smile. “Which is why I’m not in it. I’m a judge.”

“Well, I am entering a sugar-free pumpkin pie,” Heidi said. “It’s low-fat and low calorie.”

What was the point? But I decided to be the better woman and refrained from comment.

Charlene had no such compunction. “And low taste?” She squinted at my hips. “Though some of us could stand to lose a little weight.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my weight,” I said to Charlene. And to Heidi, “And don’t tell me anything more. This is a blind tasting.”

“Most of the calories are in the crust anyway,” Heidi said, “so it will be crust-free.”

“What!” Charlene flared. “Then it will definitely be taste-free.”

“But now,” I ground out, “I can’t judge your pie, because it won’t be a blind tasting.” And I was going to have to report this to the head judge. San Nicholas took its pie contest deadly serious.

“Your style of pies is on its way out,” Heidi said. “Tastes are changing. Most Californians find all that sweet food gross.”

“Enjoy the festival,” I caroled and walked on, hoping Charlene would follow. My pies on the way out. As if ! Had she even met a Silicon Valley engineer?

In the stall beside Heidi’s, a handsome, harried-looking man unpacked boxes of reading glasses. White earbud cords dangled from his ears and faded to invisibility against his white lab coat.

Charlene nodded to the man in the optometry stall. “Morning, Tristan.”

He looked up and tugged an earbud free. “Oh. Hi!”

“What are you listening to?” Charlene asked.

He blushed. “Oklahoma!” he said in a sultry Southern drawl. I might be a one-man gal, but I could listen to him talk all day.

Charlene chuckled benignly. “You and your show tunes.”

“Have you seen Kara—I mean, Dr. Levant?” he asked.

We shook our heads.

“Why?” Charlene asked.

“She was going to help me set up for the prefestival.” He motioned around the half-built stall. “I guess she got hung up at the haunted house.”

“What’s she doing there?” Charlene asked.

“Her husband, Elon, is volunteering there today.”

“If we see her,” I said, “we’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

Charlene and I continued on.

“I hear Heidi broke up with that fellow who left you at the altar,” she said in a casual tone.

“Mark didn’t leave me—Wait, really?” I had been dumped, though not at the altar. We’d been months away from the wedding. But Mark had done me a favor. Now I had a new and improved boyfriend, Detective Gordon Carmichael of the SNPD. My chest tingled at the thought.

I glanced over my shoulder. The booths and Pie Town had vanished into the mist, and I shivered. “We need to hurry,” I said. “I really should get back soon.”

“Those pies will bake without you. Your first pumpkin festival is a special event. There’s something magical about a giant pumpkin. Maybe it’s because they’re not supposed to be that big. But when you see them, anything seems possible. You can believe a pumpkin might actually turn into a coach.”

I grimaced. “Or the Pie Town staff might riot.”

“Never.”

Charlene was right. The people who worked at Pie Town were easygoing and professional. That was exactly why I didn’t want to take advantage.

“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” she continued. “With the street closed off to cars for the decorating today, business is going to be slow.”

I jammed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “I hope not.” The festival didn’t officially begin until tomorrow. But for years, Friday had been its unofficial start. It gave stores and vendors an early jump on sales while the street was closed to traffic.

The stalls petered out. We strolled down the deserted road, our footsteps echoing. The dark shapes of low, nineteenth-century brick buildings wavered in the fog.

I squinted into the dense mist. “How far is it?” The fog this morning was deliciously thick and spooky, like something out of a Sam Spade novel.

“Why? Are you tired? Maybe Heidi was right about you needing more exercise.”

“I get plenty of exercise.” Sort of.

“Hold on.” Charlene vanished into the mist.

I waited, inhaling the crisp, October air. It smelled faintly of salt, and I smiled. Though I’d come to San Nicholas for all the wrong reasons, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Charlene returned with a newspaper and inhaled gustily. “The ink is still warm.” She rustled the paper. “The festival’s on the front page. Pie Town might get a mention.”

We walked on. Strands of damp hay lay scattered on the pavement.

“We must be getting close,” I said.

Bloblike shapes rose before us. A gust of wind parted the fog, strands spiraling like phantoms across the street. Farm trucks with monster pumpkins in their beds blocked our way.

“Whoa,” I said, stunned.

Pale and misshapen, the pumpkins lay on their flattest sides. They were big enough for me to crawl inside.

These could make a lot of pumpkin pies, if they were sweet enough. “What varieties are those?”

Charlene made a face. “They’re cultivated from Mammoth pumpkins. I don’t think you’d want to eat them.”

I nodded. My personal favorite for pumpkin pies were Jarrahdales, but Blue Hubbards were good too, and Cinderellas . . . The latter not only tasted delicious, but they looked like something out of a fairy tale.

I studied the forklift that would be used for the weighing.

“Uh-oh.” Charlene pointed at a monster pumpkin lying on the road in front of the forklift. A crack shaped like a lightning bolt shot down its side. Orange pumpkin guts oozed from the ruined shell. “They say it’s not a party unless something gets broken, but someone’s just lost the contest.”

I frowned, edging closer. “Do you think the owner knows? How did it fall onto the ground?” These monsters couldn’t exactly roll.

Charlene hissed, fists clenching. “Sabotage. It must have been one of those rats from San Adrian. Or maybe another pumpkin farmer. I told you people turn into wolves. You think this pumpkin festival is all fun and games. But it’s serious business. And—”

I gasped, stopping short, and grasped the sleeve of her soft jacket. “Charlene.” Hand shaking, I pointed to the broken pumpkin.

Two white tennis shoes stuck out from beneath the monstrous gourd.

I gaped at the pumpkin. At the silent, still form beneath. My brain whirled, nausea making its way up my throat. My college first-aid class hadn’t covered this.

Chill mist spattered my face, shocking me into speech. “Is he . . . ?”

Knees cracking, Charlene squatted beside the pumpkin. “I found a hand. And a wrist. And no pulse. She’s cold.”

I swayed. “It’s a woman? Are you sure?” I fumbled in my hoodie’s pocket for my phone.

“It’s a woman’s hand and a woman’s watch.”

I called 9-1-1.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a female dispatcher asked, and my shoulders loosened. I recognized the voice.

“Helen? It’s Val. I’m on Main Street near the giant pumpkins. Someone’s hurt or dead.”

“Dead,” Charlene shouted, still crouching.

“Is this a Halloween prank?” Helen asked.

“I wish it were.” My voice cracked. “There’s a woman under one of the giant pumpkins.”

“How—? It’s all right, the police and fire are on their way. You stay there.”

I pocketed the phone. “I can’t believe this,” I whispered, horrified.

“San Adrian’s gone too far this time,” Charlene said. “Help me up.”

I grasped her gnarled hand and pulled her to standing.

“Any idea who she is?” Charlene asked.

“How could I? All that’s sticking out is one arm and her shoes.” I frowned. Why did those shoes look familiar? Professional white sneakers, like a baker would wear, with extra support and softness for people who stand all day. And the shoelaces . . .

I bent closer, squinting. Multicolored eyeglasses decorated the laces. I sucked in a breath. “It’s the eye doctor, Dr. Levant. She must have come to help Tristan with their stall this morning and . . .”

“And what? A two-thousand-pound pumpkin rolled off its truck and squashed her? No pun intended.”

I straightened, staring at the white shoes. “This doesn’t make sense. How did she get under that pumpkin? I mean, they’re not exactly mobile.” The killer pumpkin had a flat base, like the other monster gourds.

“The only way to move those bad boys is with a forklift,” Charlene agreed. She nodded toward the nearby equipment, and the thick canvas straps hanging from the lift.

“But forklifts are slow and noisy,” I said slowly. “Who would stand around and wait for a pumpkin to be dropped on them?”

Sirens wailed, faint and muffled by the mist.

Charlene jammed her hands into the pockets of her knit jacket. “Maybe she was unconscious when the pumpkin dropped?”

“Or dead.” Bile burned my throat, and I swallowed hard. I really hoped she’d been dead when that thing had landed on her.

“Think Tristan did it?” she asked.

My insides quivered. I glanced into the fog swirling on Main Street. “He was nearby, setting up that booth. Tristan probably knew she’d be here. They were business partners. Still, he took an awful chance. Anyone could have seen them.”

“Could they have?” Charlene turned. The stall builders hadn’t reached this section of Main Street yet, and the fog was thick and obscuring.

“Maybe not,” I admitted.

“Look for clues,” she said.

“We shouldn’t disturb the . . . crime scene.”

Charlene was bent, running her fingers through the loose hay on the ground.

So much for not leaving DNA evidence. I walked around the forklift. The key was still in the ignition. That explained how someone had moved the pumpkin. Hopefully Gordon would be able to get fingerprints.

“See a purse?” Charlene called.

“No,” I said. “Do you?”

A gray sedan, light flashing on its roof, glided to a stop beside us. Six-feet-two inches of muscular, square-jawed detective slowly unfolded himself from the car.

In spite of everything, my heart lifted. The sudden joie de vivre was totally inappropriate for a crime scene, but the detective and I were dating.

“Val.” Gordon strode to me and grasped my shoulders. His gaze bored into mine, and my breath caught. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, unable to speak. There was something steadying about his solid presence, even if it was a little rumpled at this early hour. I smoothed the lapel of his blue suit jacket.

“Helen told me it was you on the phone, but I didn’t want to believe it.” He took in the pumpkin, the shoes. Swiftly, he released me and knelt beside the pumpkin, checking the woman’s pulse. He shook his head. “You were right. She’s gone. Did you touch anything?”

“I took her pulse,” Charlene said.

“I didn’t touch anything,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m the town’s only detective, remember? Of course, dispatch called me. Plus, Helen knows we’re dating.” He stood. “What brought you two down here?”

I dug my fisted hands into my hoodie pockets, my shoulders folding inward for warmth. “We were here early, baking, and we thought it would be a good chance to check out the giant pumpkins—”

“I thought it would be,” Charlene said.

“—while it was quiet,” I finished.

“Did you see anyone else?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not here, but Dr. Cannon is setting up the optometry booth next to Heidi’s Health and Fitness.”

“Dr. Cannon?” he asked.

“Her shoelaces,” I said. “I think the person under the pumpkin is Dr. Levant, the eye doctor.”

“She and Cannon are partners.” Charlene flipped up the collar of her purple jacket. “I mean, they were partners.”

“Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves,” he said. “A pair of shoelaces isn’t exactly an identification, though those do look like doctor’s shoes.”

A slick-looking black-and-white SUV roared to a halt beside the sedan. A uniformed officer leapt from the car and ran to the rear passenger side, opening the door for Chief Shaw.

Gordon’s handsome face tightened. “Why don’t you two go back to Pie Town?” he said. “I’ll come by to take your statements later.”

“Belay that order.” Tall, ferret-faced, and slender, Chief Shaw stepped from the car.

I blinked. I’d never seen the chief in a tracksuit before.

He gripped a newspaper in his hands and scowled.

Gordon’s jaw clenched. “Sir?”

Shaw braced his hands on his narrow hips. “Helen called. She said there was a body at the pumpkin festival. What have we got?”

“A woman beneath one of the giant pumpkins,” Gordon said. “Her body appears to have been placed there deliberately.”

“Homicide?”

“A suspicious death,” Gordon corrected.

The chief arched a thin, dark brow. “Not so particular about your terms for the press, are you, GC?”

Gordon’s brow wrinkled. “Sir?”

“Any idea who the victim is, hero?”

“What?” Gordon asked.

I looked at Charlene. She shrugged. I thought Gordon was heroic, but that sort of went with the boyfriend territory.

Chief Shaw walked around the pumpkin and stopped to gape at the woman’s feet. “Good God, I’d know those laces anywhere. That’s Elon’s wife, Dr. Levant.”

“Possibly, sir. We need the crime scene techs to remove the pumpkin, and then we can be sure—”

“Poor Elon. I’ve got to . . .” The chief shook himself. “You’re off the case, GC.”

Gordon’s nostrils flared. “Sir, I believe I can—”

“And I believe you’ve got a conflict of interest.”

“Val and Charlene found the body together,” Gordon said. “They’ve got nothing to do with—”

The chief slapped the newspaper onto Gordon’s chest. “You and the doctor were competitors.” He glared at me.

Charlene whistled.

She held her own newspaper open and read aloud. “‘Of special interest to San Nicholas locals is this year’s pumpkin pie bake-off. Local hero Detective Gordon Carmichael will be facing off against newcomer ophthalmologist Kara Levant. But the local favorite still remains beloved San Nicholas centenarian, Mrs. Amelia Thistleblossom. ’ Hmph!”

My stomach shriveled roughly to the size of an olallieberry. But not even Shaw could think Gordon would kill someone over a bake-off. He was just steamed about the article calling Gordon a local hero.

Chief Shaw’s chin quivered. “What do you have to say for yourself, GC?”

I winced. Gordon hated being called GC, because at the station it stood for Grumpy Cop. There was a certain lovable truth to the moniker, at least when it came to police work.

Gordon’s expression hardened. “I wasn’t aware of the other contestants—”

“Not about the other contestants! About this shameless self-aggrandizement. Hero of San Nicholas?”

“I did not speak with that reporter, sir. I’d no idea—”

“You’re off the case.”

Gordon’s hands clenched. “Yes, sir,” he ground out.

No, no, no. Shaw couldn’t take Gordon off the case for something so trivial.

“And you two.” The chief pointed the rolled newspaper at Charlene and me. “Get out of my crime scene.”

Charlene took one step to the left and ducked her head behind her newspaper.

Chief Shaw glared at Gordon. “Some surfers are on that tech millionaire’s beach again, GC. Go and deal with it.”

“Yes, sir.” Gordon strode to his sedan. He turned and caught my eye, and something softened in his gaze. Gordon slid into the car, and he did not slam the door. He made a slow turn, cruising sedately down the street.

I watched his taillights vanish into the fog.

“This is ridiculous,” I hissed to Charlene.

“What are you two gawking at?” Chief Shaw shouted. “Shoo! Get out of here!”

Charlene raised her head above the paper and her blue eyes crackled. “Shoo? Did you shoo me, young man? I’m a senior citizen!”

He stepped backward and bumped into the giant pumpkin.

“Hey! Get off my pumpkin! What did you do?” A middle-aged man with a face like Father Christmas and a voice like a cement mixer strode angrily toward us. He rolled up the cuffs of his plaid shirt. His dark, curling hair was streaked with gray.

My stomach bottomed. I knew that man. He was my assistant manager, Petronella’s father, Petros Scala. This being a small town, Gordon was related to the Scala family.

“What’s going on here?” Petros asked.

“This is a crime scene,” Shaw said. “Stop where you are.”

“A crime . . .” The farmer’s gaze traversed the pumpkin, and his mouth sagged. “My pumpkin!”

Shaw puffed out his chest and smoothed the front of his tracksuit jacket. “That’s your pumpkin?”

“Of course, it’s my pumpkin,” Petros snapped. “Why isn’t it in its truck bed, Shaw?”

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Charlene said.

“That’s enough from you two.” Shaw whirled to face us. “Get out of here.”

The newcomer’s face flushed red. “And it’s cracked! It’s ruined! Those rats!”

“What rats?” Shaw asked.

“San Adrian,” he said. “They told me I’d regret it if I didn’t bring my pumpkin to their festival. But how could I? I live here, and I had a real shot at winning . . .” He trailed off, finally noticing the body beneath. The blood drained from his face.

“San Nicholas’s first chance in a decade for its own prizewinner.” Shaw rubbed his angular chin.

I raised my hand. “Uh, do you really think San Adrian would kill a woman just to get back at you for not entering their stupid contest?”

“It’s not stupid,” Charlene said. “It’s killing our festival.”

“You don’t understand pumpkin festivals,” Shaw said. “They make people nuts.”

I really wished people would stop telling me I didn’t understand pumpkin festivals. What was there to understand?

Two more police cars rolled to a halt beside Shaw’s.

“Is she . . . ?” Petros swallowed. “Oh my God. There’s got to be something we can do.”

Shaw clapped his hand on the farmer’s shoulder and squeezed. “Your pumpkin’s a murder weapon, Petros. A little less indignation and a little more information is in order.”

The farmer shot us a pleading look. “Will you tell Petronella—”

“What are you two still doing here?” Shaw roared at us. “Get gone before I arrest you!”

“With pleasure.” Charlene raised her chin and stalked into the swirling fog.

I scurried after her, down Main Street. Murder. Gordon in trouble. Petros’s pumpkin as a murder weapon. This was awful.

“We’re in big trouble if Shaw takes over the case,” C. . .