Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss

      “They were trying to knock down the new gates a spoiled techie put up. They were blocking public access to the beach.”

      “That’s . . . that must have been interesting.”

      “It was a job for a beat cop.” He blew out his breath. “And not your problem.”

      I rested my hand on his arm. “Gordon, if it’s your problem, it’s mine too. Consider yourself our number one client.”

      “Client?”

      “Charlene and I will let you know everything we discover. But I’m going to be working this festival all weekend. And my stepmother turned up, so I’ll probably be spending time with her on Monday if she’s still around.”

      “Your stepmother?”

      “She surprised me yesterday.” I laughed weakly. “But she seems nice.”

      “How are you doing with it?”

      “It’s family, I guess. The more the merrier, right?”

      He pulled me against his chest. “Thanks for putting up with my temporary insanity.” He drew me into a bone-melting kiss, his hands exploring the hollows of my back.

      We broke apart, breathing heavily.

      “Oh,” I said, my lips burning.

      He grinned. “And thanks for doing this. Helping the Athletic League, I mean.”

      I forced my breathing to steady. “Did I mention you’ll have to wear an apron?”

      He quirked a brow. “You think that bothers me?”

      I laced my fingers behind his neck and leaned against him. “No. I’m sure your manhood will remain intact. Plus, they’ve got pockets for your tips.”

      “Always thinking.”

      “I may have another non-murdery case for you.” I ran my hands down the front of his pressed shirt. “Someone put graffiti on my van last night while I was sleeping. It all came off, but it’s kind of weird.”

      “It came off? Did you take any photos?”

      “Uh, no. I was so freaked out about having to take the van to the festival with that stuff on it, I forgot.”

      “What did it say?”

      I told him.

      He laughed. “Charlene?”

      My glance flicked to the dented office door. “I don’t think so. It made me late, and she wouldn’t do that on the first day of the pumpkin festival.”

      “No, she wouldn’t.” His brow furrowed. “I don’t like that someone made the trek all the way to your house. You’re pretty isolated on that bluff. But it sounds like a prank. It could have been kids trying to get to that cemetery.”

      “What cemetery?”

      “The one behind your house.”

      I stared. “What cemetery behind my house?”

      “You know, behind your place, down the hill. It dates from the eighteen-hundreds. Now it’s so covered in brambles and poison oak, most people don’t bother with it.”

      “You’re pulling my leg,” I said flatly. It had to be a Halloween joke. “Did Charlene put you up to this?”

      “You didn’t know?”

      “No!” He really wasn’t kidding. “I never go down that hill. I don’t want to get poison oak.” And why the devil hadn’t Charlene mentioned a graveyard when she’d rented me the house?

      “It’s just an old cemetery.”

      “Right.” I stepped away from him and pulled some aprons from a box. “Your uniforms. Excuse me. I’ve got to have a chat with my landlady.”

      I stormed into the kitchen and yanked open the door to the flour-work room. “A cemetery? Behind my house?”

      A ghost of cold air flowed into the kitchen.

      Charlene patted dough into a round and dropped it onto a metal tray. “Oh, yeah. It’s real historic.” Stooping, she brushed flour from her brown-and-orange striped socks.

      “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      “What does it matter?” she asked, arch. “You don’t believe in ghosts, remember?”

      “That’s not—” I sputtered. “You should have disclosed!”

      “California law only requires disclosures of deaths on the property within the last three years. Those corpses are over a century old, and they’re not on my property.”

      “Oooh!” But there was no point being mad. The only real surprise was freewheeling Charlene hadn’t held a ghost hunt in my backyard. But not even Charlene fooled around with poison oak.

      Abril poked her head into the flour-work room, her white net puffed high with her thick hair. “They’re coming,” she squeaked. “It’s a mob. I’ve never seen so many—”

      “We’ll talk about this later,” I said to Charlene. “Abril, breathe.”

      She bent, taking deep, gusty breaths.

      Charlene shrugged.

      I hurried into the kitchen. A roar of voices flowed through the order window, and I looked out.

      A maelstrom of pumpkin-starved festivalgoers flooded into the dining area.

      If it hadn’t been for the cops, there might have been a riot. But our new system for taking orders in line seemed to work. I wasn’t sure if the customers were charmed or cowed by the aproned police officers. But there was no shoving or sniping.

      I worked harder than I’ve ever worked—we all did. Even Charlene stayed beyond her usual piecrust-making hours to run the cash register.

      Around three o’clock, Charlene whistled through the order window into the kitchen. “Val, you got a visitor.”

      The kitchen’s swinging door bumped and swayed but didn’t open.

      I jammed a plate of pumpkin chiffon pie through the window. “Who is it?”

      Charlene set the pie on the counter. A cop grabbed it, whisking it to a table.

      “Open the door,” Charlene said.

      Shaking my head, I bustled to the kitchen door.

      It bumped open, and a pumpkin zipped between my legs.

      I yelped.

      Gears whirring, the pumpkin jounced onto the black fatigue mats. It twirled in a tight circle.

      “Remote controlled!” Charlene cackled through the order window. “I’m sure to win the pumpkin race this year.”

      I peered at the spinning pumpkin. Someone had mounted it on what looked like miniature tank treads. “Did you make this?”

      “Ray built it. He owed me one.”

      The pumpkin circled Abril, and she squeaked, jumping.

      It raced to my feet. The contraption’s metal arm extended an order slip.

      I plucked the slip from its mechanical claw. Charlene’s uneven script scrawled across the yellow paper: Your stepmother is here. “Thanks.”

      “De nada.” Charlene pulled her head from the order window. “Oh, they changed the race time. I’m going to be a little late to your pumpkin judging.”

      Rats. That meant I wouldn’t be able to see the races either. I would have liked to cheer on Charlene.

      Peeling off my plastic gloves, I hopped over the pumpkin and hurried through the swinging door to the dining area.