Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss

to a stop beside us. Six-feet-two inches of muscular, square-jawed detective slowly unfolded himself from the car.

      In spite of everything, my heart lifted. The sudden joie de vivre was totally inappropriate for a crime scene, but the detective and I were dating.

      “Val.” Gordon strode to me and grasped my shoulders. His gaze bored into mine, and my breath caught. “Are you okay?”

      I nodded, unable to speak. There was something steadying about his solid presence, even if it was a little rumpled at this early hour. I smoothed the lapel of his blue suit jacket.

      “Helen told me it was you on the phone, but I didn’t want to believe it.” He took in the pumpkin, the shoes. Swiftly, he released me and knelt beside the pumpkin, checking the woman’s pulse. He shook his head. “You were right. She’s gone. Did you touch anything?”

      “I took her pulse,” Charlene said.

      “I didn’t touch anything,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

      “I’m the town’s only detective, remember? Of course, dispatch called me. Plus, Helen knows we’re dating.” He stood. “What brought you two down here?”

      I dug my fisted hands into my hoodie pockets, my shoulders folding inward for warmth. “We were here early, baking, and we thought it would be a good chance to check out the giant pumpkins—”

      “I thought it would be,” Charlene said.

      “—while it was quiet,” I finished.

      “Did you see anyone else?” he asked.

      I shook my head. “Not here, but Dr. Cannon is setting up the optometry booth next to Heidi’s Health and Fitness.”

      “Dr. Cannon?” he asked.

      “Her shoelaces,” I said. “I think the person under the pumpkin is Dr. Levant, the eye doctor.”

      “She and Cannon are partners.” Charlene flipped up the collar of her purple jacket. “I mean, they were partners.”

      “Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves,” he said. “A pair of shoelaces isn’t exactly an identification, though those do look like doctor’s shoes.”

      A slick-looking black-and-white SUV roared to a halt beside the sedan. A uniformed officer leapt from the car and ran to the rear passenger side, opening the door for Chief Shaw.

      Gordon’s handsome face tightened. “Why don’t you two go back to Pie Town?” he said. “I’ll come by to take your statements later.”

      “Belay that order.” Tall, ferret-faced, and slender, Chief Shaw stepped from the car.

      I blinked. I’d never seen the chief in a tracksuit before.

      He gripped a newspaper in his hands and scowled.

      Gordon’s jaw clenched. “Sir?”

      Shaw braced his hands on his narrow hips. “Helen called. She said there was a body at the pumpkin festival. What have we got?”

      “A woman beneath one of the giant pumpkins,” Gordon said. “Her body appears to have been placed there deliberately.”

      “Homicide?”

      “A suspicious death,” Gordon corrected.

      The chief arched a thin, dark brow. “Not so particular about your terms for the press, are you, GC?”

      Gordon’s brow wrinkled. “Sir?”

      “Any idea who the victim is, hero?”

      “What?” Gordon asked.

      I looked at Charlene. She shrugged. I thought Gordon was heroic, but that sort of went with the boyfriend territory.

      Chief Shaw walked around the pumpkin and stopped to gape at the woman’s feet. “Good God, I’d know those laces anywhere. That’s Elon’s wife, Dr. Levant.”

      “Possibly, sir. We need the crime scene techs to remove the pumpkin, and then we can be sure—”

      “Poor Elon. I’ve got to . . .” The chief shook himself. “You’re off the case, GC.”

      Gordon’s nostrils flared. “Sir, I believe I can—”

      “And I believe you’ve got a conflict of interest.”

      “Val and Charlene found the body together,” Gordon said. “They’ve got nothing to do with—”

      The chief slapped the newspaper onto Gordon’s chest. “You and the doctor were competitors.” He glared at me.

      Charlene whistled.

      She held her own newspaper open and read aloud. “‘Of special interest to San Nicholas locals is this year’s pumpkin pie bake-off. Local hero Detective Gordon Carmichael will be facing off against newcomer ophthalmologist Kara Levant. But the local favorite still remains beloved San Nicholas centenarian, Mrs. Amelia Thistleblossom. ’ Hmph!”

      My stomach shriveled roughly to the size of an olallieberry. But not even Shaw could think Gordon would kill someone over a bake-off. He was just steamed about the article calling Gordon a local hero.

      Chief Shaw’s chin quivered. “What do you have to say for yourself, GC?”

      I winced. Gordon hated being called GC, because at the station it stood for Grumpy Cop. There was a certain lovable truth to the moniker, at least when it came to police work.

      Gordon’s expression hardened. “I wasn’t aware of the other contestants—”

      “Not about the other contestants! About this shameless self-aggrandizement. Hero of San Nicholas?”

      “I did not speak with that reporter, sir. I’d no idea—”

      “You’re off the case.”

      Gordon’s hands clenched. “Yes, sir,” he ground out.

      No, no, no. Shaw couldn’t take Gordon off the case for something so trivial.

      “And you two.” The chief pointed the rolled newspaper at Charlene and me. “Get out of my crime scene.”

      Charlene took one step to the left and ducked her head behind her newspaper.

      Chief Shaw glared at Gordon. “Some surfers are on that tech millionaire’s beach again, GC. Go and deal with it.”

      “Yes, sir.” Gordon strode to his sedan. He turned and caught my eye, and something softened in his gaze. Gordon slid into the car, and he did not slam the door. He made a slow turn, cruising sedately down the street.

      I watched his taillights vanish into the fog.

      “This is ridiculous,” I hissed to Charlene.

      “What are you two gawking at?” Chief Shaw shouted. “Shoo! Get out of here!”

      Charlene raised her head above the paper and her blue eyes crackled. “Shoo? Did you shoo me, young man? I’m a senior citizen!”

      He stepped backward and bumped into the giant pumpkin.

      “Hey! Get off my pumpkin! What did you do?” A middle-aged man with a face like Father Christmas and a voice like a cement mixer strode angrily toward us. He rolled up the cuffs of his plaid shirt. His dark, curling hair was streaked with gray.

      My stomach bottomed. I knew that man. He was my assistant manager, Petronella’s father, Petros Scala. This being a small town, Gordon was related to the Scala family.

      “What’s going on here?” Petros asked.

      “This is a crime scene,” Shaw said. “Stop where you are.”

      “A crime . . .” The farmer’s gaze traversed the pumpkin, and his mouth sagged. “My pumpkin!”

      Shaw