Murder at the Pumpkin Pageant

Book 4: Beacon Bakeshop Mystery

by Darci Hannah

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Ghost

Synopsis

Lindsey prefers to keep her bakeshop's Halloween décor light and autumnal, rather than gruesome and ghoulish. But everyone knows her lighthouse home is haunted. Some intrepid teens have even tried to break in to witness the resident ghost themselves. Dreading Halloween night, Lindsey reluctantly allows her influencer and podcaster best friend, Kennedy, to host a live ghost hunting investigation in the lighthouse, conducted by a professional team. Protective of her ghost, Lyndsey is understandably nervous about what they might uncover . . .



The segment is uneventful—until things take a terrifying turn. The team freaks out. As Kennedy joins the mad dash outside, she bumps into what looks like the prankster teens' creepy clown costume hanging from a tree. But when Lindsey's dog, Wellington, begins to whine, they make a grim discovery: the clown is no dummy. It's a corpse.



Now Lindsey and company will need to keep their cool if they want a ghost of a chance to solve the murder—and see another Halloween . . .

Release date: July 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Time to make the donuts! Time to make the donuts! That ridiculous sound bite from the old Dunkin’ Donuts ads swirled in my head as I sprang awake in the pitch-black darkness. Although it wasn’t the first time this plaguing earworm had struck in the wee hours of the morning, I didn’t appreciate the irony and tried to thrust the singsong voice from my head, but to no avail. Was it indeed time to make the donuts? As a baker, I embraced early mornings as a rule, even chilly fall mornings such as these (and it was chilly!), because that was my job. I had left the Wall Street world of finance to become a baker in a small town in Michigan. Purchasing an old lighthouse was my own folly, but I loved it. I truly did, even if it was haunted.

I sat up in bed and stared at the time on my alarm clock. I even squinted to make sure I was reading it correctly. One a.m. Not time to make the donuts (and sweet rolls, and coffee cakes, and pumpkin scones . . .). I still had three hours of blissful sleep left. Feeling confused, I was ready to plop back on my pillows and fall back to sleep. Then Welly, my giant Newfoundland dog, barked again.

“What on earth . . .?” I stared at the noble head of my dog silhouetted by moonlight streaming through the window. Then I heard it too. The jiggling of a door handle. It sounded like it was coming from the light tower, and not my front door. I stiffened at the sound and addressed my dog. “Someone is trying to break into the light tower!”

Welly barked again. I couldn’t imagine that whoever was on my lawn trying to break in couldn’t hear him. Welly had a bark to rival thunder.

I sprang out of bed and threw on my thick night robe. It wasn’t only warm and soft as a cloud; it was pretty enough for the runway. Bless Mom, it was an Ellie & Co. original. Dressed for an unpleasant night encounter, Welly and I left the bedroom. My dog ran ahead of me down the stairs and to the front door, barking all the way. Although the racket was coming from the external light tower door, which was twenty feet from the main lighthouse door, I thought that springing out the front door just might scare the would-be intruders away. I paused long enough to grab a flashlight, then followed Welly.

I flung the front door open, shouting, “Get away! Get away from there!”

Whoever had been rattling the light tower door handle must have heard us. The moment I swung the beam of light at the door in question, all I caught was a swiftly moving black mass that disappeared behind the curvature of the light tower. I got the impression that there was more than one person responsible for the racket. I also distinctly heard a giggle, followed by a swift shushing sound. Likely not the sound of a deranged murderer. Still, my heart was racing like a spooked herd of deer heading for the safety of the forest.

Holding Welly back by his collar, which was no small feat, I cried again in my most intimidating voice, “Get away! This is private property! And it is not funny!”

I waited a whole minute or two before I could muster the nerve to investigate. When my heart was nearly back to normal, I let go of Welly and followed him into the chilling darkness. It wasn’t until I rounded the entire light tower and came into the backyard that I saw it. Welly was already there, barking at it like a demon possessed.

“Oh, no way!” I cried as my heart flipped right back into panic mode. Because there, hanging from the bare branches of the old oak tree, was a body. As it gently swayed into the beam of my flashlight, I realized I was staring up at the hideous face of none other than Freddy Krueger!

Halloween was approaching, and someone was finding it hilarious to target my lighthouse with a host of spooky, disrupting pranks. Finding the life-sized dummy of Freddy Krueger, the Nightmare on Elm Street icon, dangling from a noose on my oak tree, had, unfortunately, been the first of many to come. I had awakened to find a handful of wispy ghosts once, then a vampire, followed by a spree of generic ghouls in creepy masks. The worst, in my opinion, had been my predawn discovery of Pennywise, the terrifying clown from Stephen King’s It, swinging from the gnarled branches of my tree. And on more than a few nights, someone kept trying to break into my light tower. They were obviously trying to make contact with my resident ghost, the first lightkeeper, Captain Willy Riggs, the ghouls! Unfortunately, everyone in the village knew my lighthouse was haunted.

I loved fall. I truly did. I loved everything about it, including Halloween. This year, however, as the town of Beacon Harbor prepared for its annual Beacon Harbor Halloween Bash, my patience was really being tested. The Halloween Bash was the highlight of October, and the Beacon Bakeshop was embracing the celebration with zeal as well. Our pumpkin-inspired baked goods were a hit! I mean, who could resist a fresh-baked pumpkin scone with a pumpkin-spice latte on a chilly fall morning? Not me. I loved fall baking, and I was looking forward to Halloween as well, but, truthfully, I was on pins and needles. I hated having the daylights spooked out of me every morning as I made my way to my bakery kitchen!

Rory, my boyfriend, wasn’t as concerned with the spooky pranks as I was. He marveled at the ingenuity and often commented on the creative flare of the spooksters before helping me take down the creepy ghouls and ghosts from my tree. I think he found them funny. After his morning coffee with me, he’d then head off to his warehouse at the marina with a handful of men from the village who were more than willing to offer their two cents. Rory was in the middle of transforming the old warehouse into the Beacon Harbor Aquatic Adventure Center. It was his passion project, and I was proud of him for embracing his dream. But, as I pointed out, no one was pranking his lakeside warehouse with ghouls.

I took great care to decorate the entrance of the Beacon Bakeshop to be inviting during the fall season. A smattering of plump orange pumpkins and dried cornstalks, bound with fall ribbon, decorated the front steps. It was pretty. It set the mood, and yet even this harmless fall décor had been targeted by a plague of spiderwebs and ghosts! As if fighting a very determined tide, I finally took my barista Tom’s advice and left the prankster’s handiwork. But I was quickly losing my sense of humor!

I had complained about the Halloween harassment to my friend, Betty Vanhoosen. Betty, above anyone else, had her finger on the pulse of Beacon Harbor. She owned Harbor Reality, was on the town council, was president of the Chamber of Commerce, and, best of all, she was my friend. If anybody could help me find the culprits and stop the harassment, it would be Betty.

“Ooo,” she had remarked as she thought on my dilemma. Betty, always one to embrace the colors of the season, had walked into the Beacon Bakeshop wearing a bright orange angora sweater over black leggings that were tucked beneath tall brown boots. Although cute, she resembled a fuzzy pumpkin. A tad ironic, I mused, as she sipped her pumpkin-spice latte.

“This sounds like the work of high schoolers,” she said without hesitation. “I’m going to put you in touch with Leslie Adams. Have you met Leslie yet?” Before I could shake my head, she sent me a text with Leslie’s phone number. “Leslie is a history teacher at the high school. Not only has she won Teacher of the Year over a dozen times, but she also knows every young person in that school. She’s also the teacher sponsor of the senior class. If any young person is responsible for the debauchery at your lighthouse, Lindsey, Leslie will know. Call her. And don’t forget my cinnamon roll, dear.” I didn’t forget the cinnamon roll, and Betty carried on with her day.

I called Leslie Adams, as Betty had suggested. That was why I was now driving Rory’s pickup truck back from the pumpkin farm. Leslie and I had formed a plan over the phone.

“Do you really think this ridiculous plan of yours is going to work?” Kennedy asked, looking up from her phone for the first time since leaving the pumpkin farm. Kennedy had come with me to help pick out pumpkins. At least that was my expectation. But who was I kidding? She’d been as much help as Wellington had. While Welly preferred to lick and drool on the pumpkins, Kennedy had just stood there taking pictures of him and sharing them on her social media. Not the best helpers, but they were good company.

“It is short notice,” I admitted. “But why not host an impromptu pumpkin-carving party for the senior class at the lighthouse? Halloween is tomorrow, and we now have plenty of pumpkins to carve. Besides, Leslie told me the kids were very curious about my lighthouse.”

“Correction, darling. Those teens are curious about your resident ghost.” She cast me a wry grin before returning to her phone and her relentless thumb-typing.

“Well, well, Officer Cutie Pie must be chatty today.” I tossed her a grin as I turned down Main Street. “Is he bored?” The officer in question was Officer Tuck McAllister, Beacon Harbor’s youngest and hottest man in uniform. For reasons I still couldn’t fathom, my fashion-forward friend was in a relationship with the humble, hometown young man. I believe the fact they were still seeing each other surprised even her.

“I’m not texting Tucker, darling. He’s on patrol, and therefore, according to scary Sergeant Murdock, unless I’m dying, I am forbidden to bother him.” She glanced up at me long enough to deliver a cheeky grin. “What I am doing is promoting the Beacon Harbor Halloween Bash. Correction,” she added with a pointed look. “I’m promoting the Pumpkin Pageant that Ellie and Company is hosting during the bash. I also have a few other spooky surprises up my sleeve that I’m certain you’re going to love.” Although she didn’t divulge what those spooky surprises were just yet, the look on her face could only be described as coy.

We were back at the lighthouse, and I was in the process of parking Rory’s truck when Kennedy inhaled sharply.

“What is it?” I asked, thinking she might have caught a glimpse of Captain Willy leering at her from the panoramic window of the light tower. Kennedy and the ghostly captain were not on the best of terms. His presence spooked her, and part of me thought he took a little pleasure in reminding her that he was in residence too. Whenever Kennedy was with me in the light tower, the captain showed up early for his watch, often with a gust of wind and a flicker of the decorative Edison lights I’d hung there. However, the look on Kennedy’s face was not one of horror, nor was it delight, but something in between.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve finally done it.”

Turning off the engine, I ventured, “You’ve finally cancelled your subscription to Gamer Grub?” Although Kennedy was now financially on track and doing very well (after I’d helped her with her shopping addiction years ago), she did have an awful lot of silly subscriptions that billed her monthly for the privilege. Gamer Grub, essentially junk food for gamers, was, in my opinion, the worst of the lot. Honestly, how much effort did it take to walk to the corner market to buy a bag of Doritos rather than having them shipped to you monthly?

“Don’t be silly, Linds. That’s for Tucker. Do you remember when I was telling you I wanted to do a podcast on ghosts?”

I vaguely remembered the conversation. In fact, due to her ignorance regarding ghosts and saying things like, “We’re safe outside, because everyone knows ghosts can’t come outside,” and her real fear of them, including the captain, I might have even suggested such a podcast. I gave a little nod.

“Well, you are not going to believe this. The Ghost Guys from the Travel Channel are coming here, to Beacon Harbor, tomorrow night to investigate your lighthouse!”

“Wait. What? On Halloween night?” I was having a hard time comprehending what she was saying.

“Exactly! On Halloween night! And I’m going to be doing a livestream video podcast while they summon the spirit of Captain Willy Riggs. This is my spooky surprise. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to pull this off, but I did. Isn’t this amazing?”

With my heart inexplicably pounding in my ears, I asked, “Why? Why would you arrange to have ghosthunters here . . . at my lighthouse?”

“Because it’s Halloween night, darling, and everyone knows your lighthouse is haunted.”

“That’s . . . really not a good reason, Ken,” I countered as my stomach gave a painful lurch. “And anyhow, how did you arrange to have real TV ghosthunters come all the way to Beacon Harbor?”

“Lindsey, I’m crushed. You underestimate my vast network of connections.” Her smile was too quick and too shallow to be genuine. I knew she was bluffing.

“Okay, I will admit I’ve watched an episode or two of The Ghost Guys,” I told her, trying to calm my racing heart. This wasn’t a lie. Once I realized I was living in a lighthouse with a ghost, curiosity had compelled me to jump on YouTube and go down a ghost video rabbit hole. I looked Kennedy in the eye. “Although the Guys are undoubtedly up on their ghost tech, I doubt they can spot real fashion if it hit them in the face. They’re all baggy jeans, printed tees, ball caps, and hoodies. I specifically remember one of the Guys wearing a T-shirt that said, ‘Ghosts were people too.’ I sincerely doubt they follow you on Instagram.”

“Alright,” she confessed with a dramatic eye roll. “You got me. It was Teddy who called them. He has the connection, not me. The text came from him. But I’m still doing the livestream podcast.”

“Teddy Pratt?” I questioned, staring at her. “My new assistant baker?” The moment I blurted his name, the man in question sprang out of the bakeshop door, as if he’d heard me. He hadn’t, of course, but that didn’t stop him from bounding to the truck as he waved excitedly. The smile on his face was not only incandescent, but tinged with a hint of pride. Assistant bakers, I mused darkly, responding to Teddy with a half-hearted wave. I really knew how to pick ’em!

“Sweet, swirlin’ pumpkin pies!” Teddy was grinning at the ridiculous load of pumpkins in the back of Rory’s truck. He stopped just long enough to give Welly a two-handed ear rub. Welly loved our new addition to the bakeshop. The moment he was out of the truck, he ran to Teddy and leaned his 150-pound frame against the man’s legs. Welly groaned in tail-wagging pleasure. “How many pumpkins did you buy, Lindsey?” Teddy raised an eyebrow at me, then released Welly with a pat on the head.

“Everyone of them that wasn’t rotten, smooshed, or flat-out ugly,” Kennedy offered with a grin. “She’s reached favorite customer status at the farm.”

“I’ll bet.” Teddy grinned.

“I just wanted to make sure we had enough. These are seniors in high school we’re dealing with. I shudder to think what would happen if we ran out of pumpkins to carve. Also, I wanted to have plenty for our helpers too, your kids and the Jorgensons included. Whatever is left, I’m sure we’ll find a use for.”

“No doubt, but those aren’t the best baking pumpkins, Lindsey.” Teddy walked to the bed of the truck to take a better look. “I’m surprised the farmer didn’t give you a gift card, or a complimentary fruit basket, for buying all these,” he teased.

“No gift card or fruit basket, but we did get a complimentary cup of hot apple cider,” I told him. “And speaking of apple cider, are those apple cider donuts I’m smelling?” I knew it must be. Teddy and Wendy had been working on the batter when we’d left for the pumpkin farm. The heavenly scent of fried dough comingling with the spicy-sweet tang of apples and cinnamon-sugar was out of this world. Somehow, the crisp fall air seemed to heighten the mouthwatering smell to greater effect. My stomach growled in anticipation. It nearly wiped the unpleasant thought of the Ghost Guys from my mind. Nearly.

“Like your pumpkins, Wendy and I might have overdone it a bit in the kitchen,” Teddy remarked with a grin. “Don’t think we’ll be running out of pumpkins or donuts this afternoon.”

“That’s a comfort,” I remarked. “However, before we start setting up for the party, we need to talk about these ghosthunters that are coming to the lighthouse tomorrow.”

“What a stroke of luck!” Teddy remarked with eyes twinkling. “Can you believe it? It was very short notice, but the Guys are a class act. A few of the sites they were about to investigate pulled out at the last minute, leaving a gap in their itinerary. When I contacted them about the Beacon Point Lighthouse, they pulled some strings and decided to make it happen. I guess the lure of a haunted lighthouse—” Noticing the frown on my face for the first time, Teddy fizzled to a stop, cleared his throat, and corrected, “A supposedly haunted lighthouse on Halloween night was too much to resist.”

“Yes, Halloween night. And that’s the problem.” As I spoke, a ripple of anxiety moved though me.

Teddy cast Kennedy a questioning look. She heaved a theatrical sigh. “Forgive me,” she said with a hefty dose of sarcasm. “I guess I never got around to talking to Lindsey about it.”

“What?” Teddy, to his credit, looked truly aghast. “But . . . you said Lindsey was on board with this!”

With arms crossed and a deep, fortifying breath, Kennedy corrected, “What I said was that I was sure she’d be on board with it—once I got around to mentioning it to her. Which I just did. I know,” she offered with a look of concern, “I’m shocked by her reluctance too. I mean, who wouldn’t be elated by the news?”

I raised my hand and wiggled it like a school kid trying to get the teacher’s attention. “The owner of the lighthouse, that’s who. And anyhow, how do you have connections with these Ghost Guys, Teddy?”

Teddy, in his early forties and standing a good six-foot-two, was thickly built, which one would expect for a baker. He had short, chocolate brown hair and a clean-shaven face that accentuated his sunny personality. However, there was something about his round blue eyes that reminded me of the best assistant baker I’d ever had. They were clear, guileless, and punctuated by laugh lines. Therefore, when he looked me in the eyes and remarked, “Lindsey, did you even bother to read my résumé?” alarm bells went off in my head.

“I . . . I did. Of course, I did. You have an excellent résumé with a great list of baking skills, work experience, and glowing references.” Dear heavens, what had I missed?

Having hired my share of interesting assistant bakers, to say the least, I decided I needed to be extra-diligent when looking for a new person to fill the position. Although I loved baking with my dad in the mornings, I knew that he and Mom were snowbirds at heart and would be heading to sunny Florida after the holidays. Knowing that baked goods were always in season, Dad had suggested I hire a new assistant baker. I had no sooner put the word out when my friend and fellow shop owner Felicity Stewart came to the Beacon Bakeshop with a glowing recommendation for Teddy Pratt. Felicity owned the Tannenbaum Shoppe, but her husband, Stanley, owned a software company in Traverse City that catered to wineries, microbreweries, and local distilleries. Teddy’s wife, Jessie, had been a powerhouse marketing consultant to many burgeoning wineries in Napa Valley, until Stanley offered her a position at Tartan Solutions in September. His hope was that Jessie Pratt would work her magic on the wineries in Traverse City and beyond. Jessie accepted his generous offer, and the couple moved their young family to Beacon Harbor, Michigan.

Teddy, father of two precocious preteens, and with enviable baking skills, had been aimlessly frolicking around Beacon Harbor until I met him. One look at Teddy, a witty, talented man with childlike wonder in his eyes and a laugh that was infectious, and I practically begged him to come work for me. It really was the perfect fit. Teddy preferred early mornings so he could leave with plenty of time to pick up Willow and Tanner from school. He had given me his résumé, and I had read it, was impressed by it, and had hired him on the spot. I looked at Teddy for help. Thankfully, he obliged me.

“Before I was a baker, I worked in film and video, Linds. It’s what I majored in at California Institute for the Arts. All my work experience in film was on the back of the page.”

“There was type on the back of the page?” An inexplicable welling of panic seized me. How had I missed it? “All I saw on the back of your résumé was an impressive graphic of a cupcake.” Although I knew he had received a BA from California Institute for the Arts, I was so excited to find a worthy baker that I never took a closer look at the back of his résumé.

“Lindsey,” Kennedy snapped at me. “Are you mental? Who in their right mind draws a cupcake on the back of their résumé?” She said this as if I were the crazy one.

“To be fair,” Teddy interjected with a look of pure innocence, “there is a graphic of a cupcake on the back of my résumé. My cupcake of irony, I call it. After all, I spent all that money on college, only to become a baker. I’m rather proud of that cupcake. Besides looking awesome, it’s actually made of very small type, four-point to be exact. That’s where I brag about my former career in film and video editing—like the fact that I’ve worked for both the Discovery and the Travel Channel, and how I’ve flown all over the word with a camera in my hand, filming such compelling reality TV shows as The Loch Ness Papers, Dare You to Eat This, Victorian Sewer Tours, My Sasquatch Summer—spoiler alert, I’ve never caught a Squatch on camera—and the first season of The Ghost Guys.”

“Wow, that’s quite a résumé,” I said, truly impressed. “And it was all there—in that cupcake? I’m going to have to take a closer look at it.” The thought that I needed glasses did cross my mind. I looked at my surprising assistant baker and asked the obvious question. “After all that adventure, why did you become a baker?”

“Well, I was traveling so much with the different film crews that I hardly got to see Jessie and the kids. Willow and Tanner were babies back then, and Jessie did all the hard work. She knew I loved what I did, but we both wanted me home more.” He shrugged. “So, I took a leap of faith and quit my job. I then stayed home with the kids while Jessie pursued her marketing career. I knew she was the brilliant one. It doesn’t take a genius to hold a video camera while crawling through sewers. I clearly have a few marbles loose, but not Jessie. Anyhow, that’s when I started baking. I realized I had a talent for it and took a job at a local bakery once the kids started school.”

“So, you really do know The Ghost Guys.” For some reason, I was impressed by this.

“Yep. One of the weirdest yet most rewarding shows I’ve ever worked on, and t. . .