Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss

She hung up.

      I stared at the phone. Weird.

      Pocketing my phone, I strode into the dining area and stopped short.

      Marla stood on a chair, her platinum hair skimming a pendant lamp. The sequins on her black jacket glittered. A cluster of elderly regulars gathered around her.

      “Revenge!” Graham shook his fist. “It’s time we take ’em out.”

      “Yeah!” The gray-haired crowd roared.

      I sidled to Charlene. “What’s going on?”

      “Ray caught a spy from San Adrian taking pictures of the festival decorations.” She angled her head toward the window. Across the street, a man on a ladder pinned a giant black spiderweb to a building cornice. “On top of the murder and the wrecked pumpkin, catching a spy has tipped them over the edge.”

      “They sabotaged our best pumpkin,” someone shouted.

      “Guys,” I said, “a woman was killed. It’s not likely someone from San Adrian murdered Dr. Levant to ruin our festival.”

      “I don’t disagree,” Graham said. “But they took advantage of the murder by dropping that pumpkin on her and now stealing ideas from our festival while the cops are busy collecting evidence.”

      Marla’s chair rocked beneath her, and she hastily stepped onto the floor. “That pumpkin was an insult to Dr. Levant and everyone in this town who cared about her.”

      I tried again. “But we don’t know—”

      “War is hell.” Tally-Wally rubbed his reddened nose. “So, I don’t say this lightly, but it’s payback time.”

      “What about a zombie apocalypse prank?” a woman who worked as the church organist suggested. “We could dress as zombies and scare people at their festival.”

      “That would make their festival more interesting,” Marla said. “If you really want to unnerve people . . .” She looked around, making sure everyone was listening. “A creepy clown.”

      The crowd muttered, shifting.

      “A clown?” Graham asked. “Isn’t that a bridge too far?”

      Marla raised her chin. “It’s better than they deserve.”

      I gave up on rationality and nudged Charlene. “I’m surprised you’re not getting in on this action.”

      “Revenge was that bloodsucker Marla’s idea,” Charlene muttered. “Don’t listen to the vampire,” she said more loudly.

      “Will you stop calling me that?” Marla tugged on her black jacket.

      “Who’s going to volunteer to be the clown?” Charlene asked. “He might get attacked or arrested.”

      “Only if he gets caught,” Marla said.

      I returned to the kitchen and left them to scheme. Creepy clowns and pumpkin plots paled in comparison to murder. If it got their minds off the real horror of Dr. Levant’s death, I didn’t see the harm.

      But that night, I couldn’t stop seeing that small hand sticking out from beneath the pumpkin. I lay awake in my tiny house and listened to branches scrape across my roof. Animals snuffled and shuffled outside, and I finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

      Chapter Six

      It was dark when I awoke at my usual ungodly baker’s hour. Yawning, I grabbed a Pie Town T-shirt, slipped into a pair of jeans, and brushed my hair into a ponytail. I made myself peanut butter toast, jammed it in my mouth, shrugged into a Pie Town hoodie and staggered out the door.

      The light above the tiny house’s door flipped on, illuminating the picnic table and my delivery van.

      I stumbled to a halt. The toast dropped from my mouth.

      Someone had tagged the Pie Town van in shaky black text that read: FULL OF BALONEY.

      I picked up the toast, which had naturally fallen peanut butter-side down, and walked around the pink van. There was more. The words COFFIN VARNISH Scarred the rear doors. And on the other side, VAL HARRIS IS A FLAT TIRE.

      Flat tire? What did that even mean? I checked the tires. Nope. Not flat. And coffin varnish? I vaguely remembered that had been an insult in the dark ages of the early twentieth century.

      This was the weirdest graffiti ever, and in other circumstances, I might have laughed. But this was the official Pie Town delivery van. I couldn’t drive around town with this stupid graffiti. How much was getting it repainted going to cost?

      I stomped around and cursed, because it made me feel better and no one could see.

      Beside the picnic table, I stilled, my skin crawling. Was whoever had painted my van watching?

      The automatic light over my door switched off, bathing me in darkness.

      I ran back to my shipping container/tiny home. The light over the door snapped on again.

      Heart pounding, I scanned my yard from the tiny home steps. The shadows seemed to shift, and I blinked rapidly. I must be imagining that watchful feeling. But my house was out of the way, at the end of its own winding dirt road. This wasn’t a crime of opportunity. Someone had driven here and targeted me with oddball graffiti.

      I ran back inside, grabbed a flashlight, and returned to the van. If the paint was wet, this had been done recently.

      Swallowing, I touched the graffiti.

      Dry.

      Relieved, I pulled my hand away. Black smeared my fingertips.

      Huh?

      I rubbed my fingers together. The stuff felt chalky. I ran my finger through the graffiti, drawing a pale line.

      I hurried inside and retrieved a rag from beneath the kitchen sink. The clock on the miniature stove blinked, baleful. I was going to be late.

      But I trotted to the van and scrubbed. The graffiti came off, and a rush of relief flowed through my veins. A good car wash would probably remove any remaining traces.

      I stepped from the van and studied its pink sides. No permanent harm had been done. Had the graffiti been a practical joke? But by whom?

      It didn’t seem like the gamers’ style.

      Charlene’s? But if she’d done it, she’d have stuck around to crow over my reaction.

      Locking my house, I jumped into the van and bumped down the dirt road, descending into a bank of fog.

      Soon, I was pulling into the misty brick alley behind Pie Town. A light shone through one of the small, high windows in the kitchen, and I grimaced. I hated being the last person to get to my own business.

      I hauled open the heavy, metal door and strode into the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late,” I shouted over the roar of the mixer.

      Petronella looked up from a counter full of apples in various states. With her gloved hands, she adjusted the net containing her spiky black hair. “What happened?”

      Abril switched off the heavy mixer. Her brown eyes widened with concern. “You’re late. Is everything okay?”

      My face warmed. It was the first official day of the pumpkin festival. Tardiness was a high crime, or at least a misdemeanor. “Someone graffitied the van. Fortunately, they used chalk.”

      “What a lame prank,” Petronella said. “Who would go all the way to your house to chalk a van?”

      “Maybe Charlene’s up to her tricks.” Abril angled her head toward the flour-work room. Odd mechanical noises emerged from behind the closed, metal door.

      “Yeah.” My brow furrowed. The language on my van had recalled flappers and ragtime. But I couldn’t see Charlene doing something so