Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss

half-price hand pies on the counter.

      I did a final check of the dining area. The glass counter, where pies would go, was crystal clear. The pink tables and booths were spotless, the black-and-white floor blemish-free.

      Everything was perfect, but I couldn’t shake my worry. I knotted my hands in my pink apron. Was Mr. Scala in trouble with Shaw? I glanced up at the pink neon sign with its big smiley face beside the clock. tURN YOUR FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AT PIE TOWN. My logo didn’t have its usual, cheering effect. I hurried into the warm kitchen, scented with baking pies.

      At a central, butcher-block table, Abril arranged dough leaves and pumpkins on top of a pumpkin pie.

      I paused to watch. She was better at pie decorating than me, and I was glad to let her do it. This was prefestival crunch time. Pie Town needed to shine, and our decorated pies were powerhouse sellers.

      The bell over the front door jingled, and I peeked through the order window.

      Senior citizens strolled into the dining area. Drawing back, I shook my head at Abril, and she grimaced. No Petronella.

      The swinging kitchen door creaked open. One of our elderly regulars, Tally-Wally, poked his drink-reddened nose through. “Hey, Val. You’ve got a visitor.”

      “Thanks.”

      He nodded and vanished into the dining area.

      I peeled off my gloves. Wiping my damp hands in my apron, I strode from the kitchen.

      Chief Shaw stood beside the counter. He frowned down at the half-price hand pies, and my insides lurched.

      I could guess what he wanted, and I forced a smile. “Chief Shaw, hi. How can I help you?”

      Heads swiveled along the counter. The kaffeeklatsch at the center tables went quiet.

      “A word alone,” Shaw said, “if you don’t mind?”

      “Sure.” I glanced at our goggling regulars. “We can talk in the back.”

      I led him behind the counter and to my spartan office. Metal desk. Metal shelves lined with boxes of supplies. An outdated desktop computer. All my decorating instincts had gone into the kitchen and dining areas.

      The VA calendar fluttered as he shut the door.

      “Are you ready for the fund-raiser?” the chief asked.

      I blinked, wrong-footed by the unexpected question. Maybe he was a better investigator than I’d thought. But I nodded. During the festival tomorrow, local cops would act as waitstaff at Pie Town. All their tips would go to the Police Athletic League, a children’s charity. It would be easy for the cops; people ordered at the counter, so all they had to do was bring pies to the tables. The coffee was usually self-serve, but I suspected the cops would give top-ups to work the tip angle. It had been Gordon’s idea, and I loved him more for it.

      “Good.” The chief pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his tracksuit and tapped the screen. “I’m speaking with Val Harris. It is six-thirty A.M. on Friday, the thirteenth of October. I’m recording this conversation,” he said to me as an aside. “Tell me about finding the body.”

      I explained about our walk down Main Street and the gruesome discovery.

      “And you say you abandoned your kitchen just to look at pumpkins?” His hawkish eyes narrowed.

      I stepped backward, my hip bumping the metal desk. “It was only supposed to be a quick peek.”

      “Of course, this isn’t the first body you’ve found.”

      “Well. No. But—”

      “Nor is it the first time I’ve had to remove Detective Carmichael from a case.”

      I didn’t respond. Gordon didn’t need me arguing on his behalf.

      “I’d say it was quite a coincidence,” he continued. “You find bodies and Detective Carmichael miraculously catches their killers.” His eyes narrowed. “But I don’t believe in coincidence. Do you believe in coincidence, Ms. Harris?”

      “Well, I mean, no, probably not, but it really was—”

      “Collusion?”

      I gulped. “What?”

      “You setting ’em up, and Carmichael knocking them down?”

      “Setting what up?” What was he saying? That I was murdering people so Gordon could solve the crimes?

      He tapped his phone and slipped it into his jacket’s inside pocket. “I’ll talk to Mrs. McCree now. Send her in. And I want you, the both of you, to stay out of my case, or I’ll arrest you for interfering.”

      Stunned, I tottered from the office and into the kitchen.

      At the butcher-block work island, Abril looked up from ladling apple filling into pie pastry. “Is everything okay?”

      “He wants to ask Charlene some questions.” My voice cracked like an egg, and I hurried into the flour-work room.

      The air conditioner hummed, ensuring the butter stayed at the right temperature for optimal dough. I shivered in my Pie or Die T-shirt.

      Charlene set a ball of dough on a metal rack. “That’s the last of ’em.” She turned to me. “What’s wrong?”

      I glanced at the slowly closing metal door. “I think Chief Shaw just accused me of being a serial killer.”

      She laughed. “Tell me another one.”

      The door clanged shut, and I started.

      “I’m serious,” I said. “He implied—” But that was too crazy. Had I heard right? I must have misunderstood. “I’m not sure what he was saying.”

      “Chief Shaw probably didn’t know either.”

      “And he wants to talk to you now.”

      “Oh, does he?” She untied her apron from around her purple knit tunic and flung it onto the long table in the center of the room. Flour poofed into the air.

      Charlene sailed past me and into the kitchen.

      “He’s in my office,” I called after her.

      “Huh!” She slammed out the kitchen’s swinging door.

      Abril stared, frozen. “He thinks you’re a serial killer?”

      Maybe I shouldn’t have said that until after the door had shut. “Well, I’m not.”

      “I know you’re not.”

      “I must have misunderstood. I mean, he was just trying to shake me.” But why? I was a witness, not a suspect. Just because I’d found . . .

      Hmm. I had stumbled across quite a few bodies in the last year.

      I had to call Gordon, and I fumbled in my apron pocket for my phone. But what if that was what Shaw wanted?

      What if he’d bugged our phones?

      What if I’d tipped over the butter-knife edge into paranoia?

      I hesitated, phone in hand.

      The phone vibrated, and I started.

      It was a text from my brother, Doran: ON MY WAY. DON’T PANIC.

      In spite of the day’s horror, my heart warmed. Doran was the half brother I hadn’t known I’d had until last summer. He’d moved here to try his hand at graphic design in nearby Silicon Valley. But how had he found out about the murder so quickly? Or that I’d been involved?

      It was a little weird.

      “What is it?” Abril asked, anxiety threading her voice. “Is something else wrong?”

      “No, it’s Doran. He’s coming to Pie Town.”

      She