Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss

I could have prepared something for her or arranged time off. I’ve got Mondays free, but the pumpkin festival officially starts tomorrow, and—”

      “Come on. You don’t do time off. And you don’t have to do anything special for her. The pumpkin festival can be her entertainment.”

      “Oh,” I said, relieved. “So, she’s only here for the weekend?”

      His blue-eyed gaze slipped sideways. “I’m not sure. She’s staying at that luxury hotel down the road.”

      Marla’s lips curved. “No one leaves that hotel willingly. Or until they run out of money, which doesn’t take long. I’ve heard the standard rooms are over five hundred dollars a night. What does your mother do?”

      “She’s made good investments,” Doran said.

      I grabbed the coffees and thrust one into Doran’s hand. “Here.”

      We returned to the table.

      “Val’s going to be a judge,” Charlene was saying, “since professionals can’t participate in the pumpkin pie bake-off.”

      “I suppose that’s fair,” Takako said. “I’m sure Val’s pumpkin pie would be the best.”

      My skin prickled, and I looked over my shoulder.

      Mrs. Thistleblossom’s face wrinkled in a scowl. She made a strange, quick gesture.

      My grip tightened on the mug. Slowly, I lowered it to the table.

      “Thanks, Val.” Takako took the mug and patted her flat stomach. “I plan to eat as much of your pie as possible tomorrow at the festival.”

      I joined them in the booth. We chatted about things to do around San Nicholas, and when the mugs were empty, Takako stood. “And now I should let you get back to work.”

      I hugged her briefly. “Thanks for coming. It really is great to meet you.”

      “We’re family.” Her smile had a firm set to it. “Of course, I came.”

      But were we really family? Doran was. And she was his mother. I wasn’t sure how these things worked. Maybe the details didn’t matter? Uneasily, I backed toward the cash register. “Okay, well, see you tomorrow.”

      I fled to the kitchen. The ovens were off. The counters were clean. Hunter, our teenage busser/dishwasher, was loading plates into the dishwasher. Everything was under control. Now how was I supposed to take my mind off today’s dose of crazy?

      Petronella leaned against a metal countertop and grinned. “So, you’ve got a stepmother.”

      “Don’t you start.” I tightened the apron around my waist. “And she seemed nice.”

      “They all seem nice,” my assistant manager said, “until they’re not.”

      Abril’s dark brow furrowed. “Where’s Doran?”

      I smothered a grimace. Why hadn’t the dummy stopped by the kitchen? “I think he took his mother back to her hotel.”

      Her face fell. “Oh.”

      “It sounds like her visit was a surprise,” I said. “He looked a little frazzled.”

      “That makes sense,” Abril said uncertainly. She slid a pie from the oven onto a wide, wooden panel and set it on a metal rack.

      “And it’s too soon for you to meet his mother.” Petronella grinned and as quickly sobered.

      “How’s your dad doing?” I asked.

      “He’s not happy.” Petronella rubbed the top of her hairnet. “Small farming’s tough, and so is Dad. He’ll get through it. But I don’t trust Chief Shaw.”

      I opened my mouth to assure her, but I didn’t feel particularly assured myself. “Your father wasn’t responsible for what happened. His pumpkin didn’t roll off the truck and crush someone.” There was no way any of the pumpkins could have. They were all flat at the bottom, their shapes deformed by their enormous weight. “It was deliberately moved.”

      “Does Shaw understand that?” she asked.

      “Maybe . . .” Not. I pointed over my shoulder to the swinging door. “Would you two mind if I did a little office work?”

      “I don’t think things are going to pick up today,” Petronella said.

      I didn’t either. Prefestival day had been slow for a Friday. I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen about the real festival, this weekend.

      “We’ve got this,” Petronella said.

      I hesitated. But if things did get busy, I’d only be in my office. “Thanks.” I hurried to my barren office. Sitting in the creaky executive chair, I Web surfed.

      Dr. Levant’s optometry office had a Facebook page. But there was nothing personal or murderous there. It was all vision tips and community events. The pumpkin festival featured prominently.

      Next, I checked social media pages for Dr. Levant and Dr. Cannon. Tristan Cannon’s page wasn’t illuminating either, though he was thinking of adopting a puppy. I paused over the puppy pictures, then forced myself to move on. My tiny house did not have enough room for a dog.

      Dr. Levant’s husband, Elon, wasn’t on social media at all. But their ex-employee, Alfreda Kuulik, was. After she’d been fired, she’d left a string of nasty grams on Twitter about Dr. Levant. Oh yeah, she was a suspect.

      I expanded my Web search. Since becoming a Baker Street Baker, I’d become more savvy about online investigations. There’s a Web site that searches the deep Web for court records and all sorts of stuff. But it too was a bust.

      I leaned back in my chair and rested my heels on the metal desk. The chair creaked, zipping backward and thunking against the wall.

      Scowling and rubbing the back of my head, I dug my cell phone from my apron pocket with one hand. I called the head judge for the bake-off.

      “Hi, Denise,” I said, “this is Val Harris.”

      “Oh, hi! What’s going on? You’re not backing out of the judging, are you?”

      “No, no. I just wanted to report a contact with one of the entrants, Heidi Gladstone. She mentioned she was entering a . . .” Oh, shoot. If I gave her the details, would it make it impossible for Denise to judge the pie too? “She mentioned a detail about her pie which would make it recognizable.”

      She snorted. “I can guess her big reveal. Don’t worry. It’s not as if a low-calorie pie had much chance of winning, is it?”

      “You never know,” I said, taken aback by her casual attitude. “But maybe I shouldn’t judge that pie.”

      “If you’re able to identify the pie, judge it, and put a mark on your card so I’ll know. And thanks for letting me know. You wouldn’t believe how much agony goes into this contest.”

      “What do you mean? Do you need help with something?” I smacked my forehead and hoped she said no. I didn’t have time for extra volunteer work.

      Denise hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’ve met Mrs. Thistleblossom?” she said in a low voice.

      “Actually, she came into Pie Town today.” I laughed uncertainly. “I think she might have tried to bribe me. She offered to buy a hundred pies.”

      There was a long silence.

      “I told her I couldn’t accept any purchases from her until after the contest.” I studied my tennis shoes. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

      “Yes . . . yes, that’s fine.” Her gulp was audible. “Has she, er, said anything else?”

      “No. Why?”

      “No reason,” Denise said quickly. “I’m sure nothing