Читать книгу Gourd to Death - Kirsten Weiss - Страница 10

Chapter Four

I walked to the front of the dining area and gazed through the glass at the foggy street.

In the street, Ray handed a piece of comic art to a customer from his green booth. He caught my eye and waved.

I waved back half-heartedly.

In the optometry booth, Tristan Cannon stood motionless, arms limp at his sides. The poor man looked stunned. Had he been questioned by Shaw yet?

My skin prickled, as if someone was watching me. I turned.

The elderly, pixielike woman in the booth quickly looked away.

Hmm. I’d introduce myself to her later. Right now, it looked like Dr. Cannon had the greater need.

“Petronella,” I said, “do you mind—”

“Go ahead,” she said from the counter.

“What?” Charlene asked. “What’s going on?”

“Tristan needs help.” I walked out the door and immediately regretted leaving my hoodie behind in the cold and damp.

Charlene grabbed her jacket off the peg and followed, the bell above the door jingling.

“The Baker Street Bakers are on the case.” Marla’s voice floated, sardonic, through the slowly closing door.

“Marla’s solar-powered pumpkin will never work,” Charlene muttered. “They’ve always been gravity only. We just run them down a hill. It’s tradition.” She glanced at Ray, adjusting a drawing in his booth. Her eyes narrowed with cunning.

“Thanks for coming along,” I said.

“What? Oh, well, if someone’s going to save Tristan, it should be me. I know him better.”

Heidi scowled at us from her stall.

Ignoring the gym owner, we strode to the optometry stand.

“Tristan, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Charlene reached across the narrow table to take his hands.

He swayed slightly. His eyes were hazel, his gaze as misty as the coastal morning. “Thank you, Charlene,” he said in his light, Southern accent. He swallowed. “I don’t—This is so . . .” Beneath his white doctor’s coat, his broad shoulders folded inward. “What do you do in a situation like this?”

“The best you can,” I said gently. “It’s all anyone can do. How can we help?”

He rubbed his forehead, his pleasant, regular features crumpling in distress. “I’ve no idea. Kara and I were supposed to set up and work the booth today. Now . . .” He straightened. “I think I have to keep going. I don’t have any appointments at the office, and I’d just be . . .”

“Sitting around thinking about what you’ve lost,” Charlene finished for him. “Better to work and get your mind off the murder. What time was Dr. Levant supposed to be here this morning?”

Subtle. I shot her a look.

“At five,” he said, “like me. I was surprised when she was late, but I assumed something had come up.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He gnawed his bottom lip.

“Did she have any enemies?” Charlene asked.

“Enemies? No, of course . . .” Briefly, he shut his eyes. “Oh, damn. I should have told that policeman.”

“Chief Shaw?” The muscles between my shoulders loosened. Someone had already interviewed Tristan. So, maybe-possibly—we weren’t interfering in Shaw’s investigation?

“Shaw?” Tristan’s pale brow furrowed. “I think that’s what his name was.”

“Tell him what?” Charlene asked.

“We had to fire someone last week,” he said. “It got a little ugly.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Our receptionist, Alfreda. Alfreda Kuulik. But I can’t believe she would have done something like this. I don’t want to get her in trouble for nothing.”

“Are you sure it’s nothing?” Charlene asked.

“No,” he said. “I guess not. I have to report it. I should have told that policeman at once, but the news of Kara’s death . . .”

“You must have been horribly shocked,” I said. “No wonder you didn’t think of Alfreda right away. Why was she fired?”

He shifted a stack of brochures on the table. “Ah, I probably shouldn’t say. Labor laws, liability, you know.”

Phooey.

“Anyone else have an ax to grind with your partner?” Charlene asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“What about Kara’s husband?” I asked.

His eyes widened. “Elon?”

“Did they get along?” I folded my arms over my apron and suppressed a shiver.

“They seemed to. He was very supportive. The poor fellow must be devastated.”

Charlene’s eyes narrowed.

“Have you got lunch today?” I asked. “Can I bring you anything? Coffee now? A turkey pot pie later?”

“Thanks, Val,” he said, blinking rapidly, “but I couldn’t.”

“Take the pie,” Charlene said. “She doesn’t make that offer lightly, and you know you love them.”

“Then, thank you. I don’t have lunch organized. I assumed I’d be able to switch off with Kara and grab something.” The muscles jumped in his neck. “Kara . . .”

“I’ve got you covered,” I said, teeth chattering. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”

“Thank you.”

Charlene and I hurried toward Pie Town.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think he was somewhere on Main Street when Kara was killed,” I said, “and he was her business partner.”

“And that makes him a suspect.”

“Yes,” I said heavily. I liked Dr. Cannon. He’d always been friendly, and he provided free services to people who couldn’t pay.

“I’ll be a minute. You go on.” Charlene beelined for Ray’s stall.

Farther down the row of booths, a flash of orange caught my eye. As if my feet had a mind of their own, I found myself in front of an artist’s stall. Colorful paintings blazed in a modern, American-primitive style. Rolling hills and harvest moons and fields of pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins.

The artist, a woman with a kerchief over her hair, hooked a painting of hot-air balloons onto a metal rack.

I leaned closer, admiring a farm scene with a black cat sitting on a pumpkin. My heart twinged with desire and regret. The painting was 500 dollars and out of this year’s budget. But wow.

“I thought you were in a hurry to get back to Pie Town?” Charlene said in my ear, and I jumped.

“You’re right,” I said. “I got distracted.”

She rested one hand casually on her hip. “Well, you’d better get undistracted. You’re in Thistleblossom’s crosshairs now.”

“What?”

“She was in Pie Town. Didn’t you notice?”

“Wait. That woman in the corner booth?”

Charlene’s expression darkened. “You know how she’s made it over a hundred, don’t you?”

“Clean living?”

“Because the devil can’t die.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, exasperated. Charlene’s favorite explanations always veered toward the supernatural.

“It means she’s one hundred percent mean.” Charlene waggled her fingers. “She scares the whole town.”

“Oh, come on. That newspaper article said she was beloved.”

“Only because the editor’s terrified of the woman. Why do you think she was sitting alone? Anyone old enough to really know her avoids her.”

My hands fell to my sides. What a lonely existence. “That’s terrible.”

We turned toward Pie Town.

“That’s self-preservation,” Charlene said. “She wins that pie contest every year because she’s got the judges running scared. But now you’re a judge, and she hasn’t got anything on you. She’s in Pie Town looking for weaknesses to exploit.”

I shook my head.

She tugged down the cuff of her purple jacket. “Not every grumpy old person has a heart of gold, you know.”

“It’s a pie-making contest,” I said. “The winner gets a ribbon and a mention in the local paper. It’s for fun.”

“I hate to say it,” Charlene said, opening Pie Town’s glass door, “but Marla was right. You don’t understand pumpkin festivals. They’re cutthroat.” She rubbed her neck.

Mrs. Thistleblossom still sat alone in the corner booth.

I smiled at Charlene, smoothed the front of my apron, and approached her. “Mrs. Thistleblossom?”

She started. “Oh!” she said in a quavery voice. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Val Harris.” I extended my hand.

She looked like I’d offered her arsenic.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I said, stuffing my hand back into my apron pocket. “I’ve heard your pumpkin pie is the one to beat. I’m looking forward to tasting it.”

She grimaced, exposing yellowed teeth. “Why, thank you, my dear. You have such a lovely pie shop.” Her voice deepened. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”

“Hap—” I blinked. “What would happen to it?”

“Nothing, nothing. This terrible news got me thinking—you’ve heard about Dr. Levant’s murder?” Her face contorted. “A murder that shall not go unavenged.”

“Y-yes. Did you know Dr. Levant?”

“She was my eye doctor. And it’s no mystery why you’re asking. We all know about your little detecting society. You should tread carefully, young Val.”

Little detecting society? When she said it, it just sounded creepy.

“Now to business.” She folded her gloved hands atop a patent leather purse. “I’d like to order one of your pumpkin pies, the one with the little maple leaves and pumpkins on the top crust?”

“You don’t need to order it. I’d be happy to give you one.”

Cries of outrage drifted from the counter.

“Because you’re a contest entrant,” I clarified. Maybe Charlene was getting to me, but I didn’t want to be accused of taking bribes disguised as pie purchases. I’d had to reveal my connection to Gordon to the judges as a potential conflict of interest. They’d assured me since he was a law-abiding cop, they trusted he wouldn’t give me any tip-offs about which pie was his. And he hadn’t.

“Did I say one?” Her spectacles glittered. “I meant, I’d like one hundred.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback.

“Attempted bribery!” Charlene howled. “Everyone saw it.”

But all my customers’ backs were mysteriously turned away, their shoulders hunched.

Mrs. Thistleblossom’s eyes narrowed behind their spectacles. She deliberately tapped her handbag. “If you’re turning down my generous offer, I will be very disappointed.”

My piecrust maker stepped closer to the booth. “Get used to the feeling, you old—”

“Charlene!” I turned to the diminutive woman. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

“Why, yes.” Mrs. Thistleblossom extended the cup.

“Then you’ll have to get it yourself,” Charlene said, “because we’re self-serve.”

I took the cup. “But I’m happy to get a cup for a fellow baker.” I stalked to the coffee urn and filled the mug.

“Excellent,” Mrs. Thistleblossom purred. “That will give you time to reconsider my offer.”

Marla shifted on her barstool. “That was your second mistake,” she murmured into her mug.

“What was the first?” I asked, then thought better of it. “Never mind.” Do not engage.

I brought Mrs. Thistleblossom her cup. “I’m afraid I can’t sell you the pies before the contest. But I can give you the number of another bakery that delivers.”

“How disappointing.” She smiled coldly. Her lenses glinted, two flat and shining disks.

An odd chill rippled through me. In that moment, there was something uncanny about the old lady. Then the moment passed, and she was just a little old lady in a print dress.

I’d been spending too much time with Charlene. Now I was starting to see the supernatural everywhere.

The bell over the front door jingled.

I backed from the table. “It was great meeting you, Mrs.—”

“Val!” a feminine voice screeched.

Someone tackled me, and I tumbled sideways.