Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss

Maybe it’s because they’re not supposed to be that big. But when you see them, anything seems possible. You can believe a pumpkin might actually turn into a coach.”

      I grimaced. “Or the Pie Town staff might riot.”

      “Never.”

      Charlene was right. The people who worked at Pie Town were easygoing and professional. That was exactly why I didn’t want to take advantage.

      “I don’t know what you’re worried about,” she continued. “With the street closed off to cars for the decorating today, business is going to be slow.”

      I jammed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “I hope not.” The festival didn’t officially begin until tomorrow. But for years, Friday had been its unofficial start. It gave stores and vendors an early jump on sales while the street was closed to traffic.

      The stalls petered out. We strolled down the deserted road, our footsteps echoing. The dark shapes of low, nineteenth-century brick buildings wavered in the fog.

      I squinted into the dense mist. “How far is it?” The fog this morning was deliciously thick and spooky, like something out of a Sam Spade novel.

      “Why? Are you tired? Maybe Heidi was right about you needing more exercise.”

      “I get plenty of exercise.” Sort of.

      “Hold on.” Charlene vanished into the mist.

      I waited, inhaling the crisp, October air. It smelled faintly of salt, and I smiled. Though I’d come to San Nicholas for all the wrong reasons, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

      Charlene returned with a newspaper and inhaled gustily. “The ink is still warm.” She rustled the paper. “The festival’s on the front page. Pie Town might get a mention.”

      We walked on. Strands of damp hay lay scattered on the pavement.

      “We must be getting close,” I said.

      Bloblike shapes rose before us. A gust of wind parted the fog, strands spiraling like phantoms across the street. Farm trucks with monster pumpkins in their beds blocked our way.

      “Whoa,” I said, stunned.

      Pale and misshapen, the pumpkins lay on their flattest sides. They were big enough for me to crawl inside.

      These could make a lot of pumpkin pies, if they were sweet enough. “What varieties are those?”

      Charlene made a face. “They’re cultivated from Mammoth pumpkins. I don’t think you’d want to eat them.”

      I nodded. My personal favorite for pumpkin pies were Jarrahdales, but Blue Hubbards were good too, and Cinderellas . . . The latter not only tasted delicious, but they looked like something out of a fairy tale.

      I studied the forklift that would be used for the weighing.

      “Uh-oh.” Charlene pointed at a monster pumpkin lying on the road in front of the forklift. A crack shaped like a lightning bolt shot down its side. Orange pumpkin guts oozed from the ruined shell. “They say it’s not a party unless something gets broken, but someone’s just lost the contest.”

      I frowned, edging closer. “Do you think the owner knows? How did it fall onto the ground?” These monsters couldn’t exactly roll.

      Charlene hissed, fists clenching. “Sabotage. It must have been one of those rats from San Adrian. Or maybe another pumpkin farmer. I told you people turn into wolves. You think this pumpkin festival is all fun and games. But it’s serious business. And—”

      I gasped, stopping short, and grasped the sleeve of her soft jacket. “Charlene.” Hand shaking, I pointed to the broken pumpkin.

      Two white tennis shoes stuck out from beneath the monstrous gourd.

      Chapter Two

      I gaped at the pumpkin. At the silent, still form beneath. My brain whirled, nausea making its way up my throat. My college first-aid class hadn’t covered this.

      Chill mist spattered my face, shocking me into speech. “Is he . . . ?”

      Knees cracking, Charlene squatted beside the pumpkin. “I found a hand. And a wrist. And no pulse. She’s cold.”

      I swayed. “It’s a woman? Are you sure?” I fumbled in my hoodie’s pocket for my phone.

      “It’s a woman’s hand and a woman’s watch.”

      I called 9-1-1.

      “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a female dispatcher asked, and my shoulders loosened. I recognized the voice.

      “Helen? It’s Val. I’m on Main Street near the giant pumpkins. Someone’s hurt or dead.”

      “Dead,” Charlene shouted, still crouching.

      “Is this a Halloween prank?” Helen asked.

      “I wish it were.” My voice cracked. “There’s a woman under one of the giant pumpkins.”

      “How—? It’s all right, the police and fire are on their way. You stay there.”

      I pocketed the phone. “I can’t believe this,” I whispered, horrified.

      “San Adrian’s gone too far this time,” Charlene said. “Help me up.”

      I grasped her gnarled hand and pulled her to standing.

      “Any idea who she is?” Charlene asked.

      “How could I? All that’s sticking out is one arm and her shoes.” I frowned. Why did those shoes look familiar? Professional white sneakers, like a baker would wear, with extra support and softness for people who stand all day. And the shoelaces . . .

      I bent closer, squinting. Multicolored eyeglasses decorated the laces. I sucked in a breath. “It’s the eye doctor, Dr. Levant. She must have come to help Tristan with their stall this morning and . . .”

      “And what? A two-thousand-pound pumpkin rolled off its truck and squashed her? No pun intended.”

      I straightened, staring at the white shoes. “This doesn’t make sense. How did she get under that pumpkin? I mean, they’re not exactly mobile.” The killer pumpkin had a flat base, like the other monster gourds.

      “The only way to move those bad boys is with a forklift,” Charlene agreed. She nodded toward the nearby equipment, and the thick canvas straps hanging from the lift.

      “But forklifts are slow and noisy,” I said slowly. “Who would stand around and wait for a pumpkin to be dropped on them?”

      Sirens wailed, faint and muffled by the mist.

      Charlene jammed her hands into the pockets of her knit jacket. “Maybe she was unconscious when the pumpkin dropped?”

      “Or dead.” Bile burned my throat, and I swallowed hard. I really hoped she’d been dead when that thing had landed on her.

      “Think Tristan did it?” she asked.

      My insides quivered. I glanced into the fog swirling on Main Street. “He was nearby, setting up that booth. Tristan probably knew she’d be here. They were business partners. Still, he took an awful chance. Anyone could have seen them.”

      “Could they have?” Charlene turned. The stall builders hadn’t reached this section of Main Street yet, and the fog was thick and obscuring.

      “Maybe not,” I admitted.

      “Look for clues,” she said.

      “We shouldn’t disturb the . . . crime scene.”

      Charlene was bent, running her fingers through the loose hay on the ground.

      So much for not leaving DNA evidence. I walked around the forklift. The key was still in the ignition.