Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss

Main Street. Hay bales and pumpkins sat stacked around the iron lampposts, their flower baskets filled with autumnal blooms. Not a single shop window was pumpkin-free.

      Behind a white lattice fence, a man in overalls and a straw hat carved pumpkins into elaborate faces. At a nearby table, children painted faces on pumpkins.

      We paused in front of a set of shop windows filled with glass pumpkins and autumnal paperweights. A video in the window showed the glassmaker at work, creating a sapphire pumpkin.

      Takako leaned closer to the window and gasped. “They’re beautiful.”

      “They’ll be cheaper after the festival,” Charlene said. “You should stick around.”

      The scent of baking pies wafted down the street. “And I need to get back to Pie Town. Takako, will you excuse me?”

      “Of course. I’ll see you soon.”

      “Thanks.” I gave Charlene a look that I hoped said follow me, and trotted back to my pie shop.

      Another surge of customers had wedged themselves inside Pie Town. Their amiable chatter echoed off the linoleum floors and Formica tables.

      Uniformed police officers skimmed through the crowd, delivering pies and collecting tips. I hoped they were making some good money for their Athletic League.

      Dropping the sheet on my office desk, I tied on an apron and got to work, glancing at the door for Charlene.

      She didn’t return.

      At six, I turned the sign in the front window to CLOSED.

      Officer Billings clapped my shoulder. “Nice job, Val. I think we made over a thousand bucks today for the League. We’ll see you tomorrow for an encore.” He and his fellow cops ambled out the door.

      I surveyed the empty restaurant. Nothing looked busted, and we’d sold out. I couldn’t imagine a better day. But what had happened to Charlene?

      My staff and I cleaned the restaurant and kitchen. Finally, Petronella, Abril, and Hunter left, and I finished up the floor, which was always the last thing to be cleaned.

      The front door rattled beneath someone’s fist.

      I started, dropping my mop.

      On the other side of the glass, Charlene pointed at the lock.

      I let her inside. “Where were you?”

      “We took a pumpkin glassblowing class. Look!” She pulled a tiny cerulean pumpkin from the pocket of her knit jacket. “I made this one.” A curling, black vine coiled from the pumpkin’s top.

      “That’s gorgeous.” Now I wanted to make a glass pumpkin. I shook myself. Later.

      “Well, Countess Báthory was doing it—”

      “Countess . . . you mean Marla?”

      “Who else would I mean? I had to stick around and make sure she didn’t drain your stepmother’s blood.”

      “I thought you two were going to put this rivalry behind you?” Charlene and Marla Van Horn had been one-upping each other since they were teenyboppers.

      “We will. When I win.”

      “How do you win a rivalry?” I asked.

      “It’s like pornography,” she said. “I’ll know it when I see it.” She pocketed the glass pumpkin and pulled out her remote control. “And to start, I’ll win the pumpkin race tomorrow.”

      There was a crash from the kitchen. The door bumped open and the half-eaten pumpkin robot rolled beneath the Dutch door.

      I blew out my breath. “Come with me.”

      Charlene and Robo-pumpkin followed me into the office.

      I plucked the sheet off my battered metal desk. “A ghost attacked me in the haunted house.”

      “Attacked you?” She squinted. “Don’t you mean scared you?”

      “I mean attacked. He swung a two-by-four at me and then ran away. He or she left the sheet in Tally-Wally’s front yard.”

      “So, that’s where you went. Did Tally-Wally see anything?”

      “No.”

      We examined the sheet but didn’t find any clues. It was just a white sheet.

      “Eight hundred thread count,” I said. “It seems a bit spendy to turn into a ghost costume.”

      “It’s the sort of thing a man would do.” Charlene dropped the sheet on my desk. “But most men wouldn’t bother with such expensive sheets in the first place.”

      “That’s a little sexist.”

      Her white brows caterpillared downward. “What’s your point?”

      “I’ve forgotten.”

      “Why would someone attack you?” Charlene asked.

      “Could someone we talked to about the murder have gotten nervous? It would narrow down the suspects, since we’ve only spoken to Dr. Levant’s husband and her medical partner.”

      Charlene winced.

      “What?” I asked. “Did you talk to someone else?”

      “No, but Marla’s been blabbing all over town about the Baker Street Bakers investigating the murder. It was all I could do to put your wicked stepmother off the scent.”

      “Charlene . . .” I said warningly.

      “Fine. Takako’s awesome as applesauce.” She pointed at me. “But she can’t join the Baker Street Bakers. We’ve been lax with the rules in the past, but I draw the line at visiting steprelatives.”

      No argument there. I didn’t want Takako anywhere near this investigation. “Fine. What exactly has Marla been saying?”

      “The Baker Street Bakers are on the case, that sort of thing.”

      “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

      “She uses a tone. The point is, word’s gotten out we’re asking questions.”

      My insides sank like a deflating soufflé. Had Chief Shaw heard? We’d skated too close to interfering in an investigation before. I tried to stay on the right side of the law, but Charlene was less persnickety. And if Shaw got wind of what we were doing, he’d use it to drop the hammer on Gordon again.

      I untied my apron. “This could be a problem.”

      She nodded. “You need to warn your detective.”

      Chapter Eight

      Gordon paced his condo, his muscular body tense and hard. Like Gordon, the condo was contemporary and minimalist. He crossed his arms over his ivory fisherman’s sweater. “Did you call the police? Because I know you didn’t call me.”

      Sucking in my cheeks, I tossed the plastic bag containing the ghost’s sheet onto the leather couch. Unlike anything I owned, the couch was quality. It matched the cappuccino-colored floor. “He was long gone. There didn’t seem much point.”

      He paused beside a gray, mid-century-modern chair. “At the very least, when you report it to the police, there’ll be a record of the attack at the haunted house.”

      Sure. And also a notation that I was a hysterical female who’d misinterpreted a pre-Halloween prank. “I’ll call Chief Shaw,” I muttered and glanced at the gray-curtained window. I might as well go straight to the top and get the humiliation over with.

      He nodded. “Thanks. Now, what Baker Street Bakering would inspire someone to attack you? Assuming this wasn’t a random prank.”

      I tried not to stare at the fireplace, covered in narrow pieces of dark brown stone. In