Читать книгу Gourd to Death - Kirsten Weiss - Страница 13

Chapter Seven

I’d like to claim my catlike reflexes saved me. But I did not dive elegantly to safety.

Awkwardly, I half jumped backward. My heel caught on a coil of thick rope and I tumbled to the straw-dusted floor.

The board whizzed past my head. It thunked against the ship’s wheel, nails sparking off the brass.

I shrieked. But it was one shriek lost in a chorus of feminine screams echoing through the barn. My stomach bottomed. In a haunted house, no one can hear you scream.

I rolled blindly. My feet tangled with the ghost’s, and my attacker collapsed in a pile of bedsheets. My assailant sprang to its feet. Sheet flapping, it darted from the pirate ship and into the next room.

I scrambled to standing, tripped again over the stupid rope, staggered after my attacker. Pushing past gaggles of squealing girls, I raced into a weird, fog-filled maze. A werewolf sprang from behind a cardboard tree. Unthinking, I punched, catching myself just in time and jerking back and grazing its snout.

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” I ran outside the barn and into the watery sunlight.

A white sheet flapped around the corner of the jail.

I charged past clusters of giggling tourists, past the line to get into the haunted house. Rounding the corner, I ran into the pumpkin parade. The 2,100-pound winner drifted past the old jail on a flatbed truck. A young woman in a tiara sat atop the gourd carrying a sign listing its winning poundage.

I hesitated. My attacker may have dropped his weapon, but confronting him might not be the smartest plan.

I dodged into the high school’s marching band anyway. Its tunes clashed with the faint thrum of music from the stage at the south end of Main Street.

A trumpeter trod on my foot. He glared, his cheeks puffing.

“Sorry.” I pushed past him and onto the sidewalk.

Something white flapped ahead. I plunged into the crowd.

The sheet lay draped over a juniper in front of a familiar purple house. Fog hung low above the flat roof.

I tugged the sheet free, scattering hard, blue juniper berries onto the sidewalk.

Because Charlene would have my head if I didn’t, I climbed the steps to the purple front porch and knocked.

The front door cracked open. A bloodshot eyeball stared out. “Is it safe?” Tally-Wally asked.

“It depends on what you mean by safe.”

“This blasted festival.” Tally-Wally pulled the door wider and groaned. “After the first hour, I want to commit homicide. Not that I ever would,” he added hastily. “Are you seeking haven from the crowds?”

“No. Did you see who left this on your juniper bush?” I extended the sheet.

He frowned down at me. “Someone left that on my juniper? Damned litterbugs.”

“It was a prankster who tried to, um, scare me, but I didn’t get a good look at him or her. You didn’t happen to see anything, did you?”

“Nope, I was watching The History Channel. All they’re talking about this month is ghosts and famous hauntings,” he griped, “not real history.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said, disappointed. But it had been a long shot. “I’ll see you around.”

“See you tomorrow morning.” He shut the door.

I hurried back to the old jail.

Takako waited beside the ticket line, her head swiveling anxiously.

“Blood is all well and good,” Charlene said to a kid in a zombie costume. “But what you need is more gore. A disconnected eyeball. Rotting flesh.”

His mother hurried forward. She grasped the boy’s shoulders, tugging him away and frowning at Charlene.

“Parents,” Charlene said. “They ruin all the fun.”

The pumpkin racer bumped my sneaker.

“Val!” Takako hurried to me and gave me a hug. “What happened? We lost you inside the haunted house.”

“I don’t know how we got separated,” I said. “And then I saw a, er, friend.”

“And she gave you a bedsheet?” Charlene arched a snowy brow and fiddled with the remote control.

“Her costume was becoming a real pain.” I bundled it up and tucked it beneath my arm. “I told her I’d hold it for her at Pie Town. Did you see the winning pumpkin?”

Charlene nodded. “Petros didn’t win. The crack was disqualifying.”

I winced. Ouch. “He knew it would lose him the contest, but still, that must have smarted.”

“Who’s Petros?” Takako asked.

“He’s my assistant manager Petronella’s father,” I said. “It was his pumpkin that was on top of Dr. Levant.”

A high-pitched scream echoed down the street.

I started. Had my ghostly attacker returned?

The crowd scattered, shrieking.

A goat charged down the street, horns curved wickedly.

“It’s a stampede!” Charlene shouted.

“It’s a goat,” I said.

“It’s a goat stampede!”

A little girl sat crying in the middle of the road.

“She’ll be trampled,” Charlene bellowed. “Val, do something.”

“It’s a goat.” I glanced around. No one else was running for the girl. Where were her parents? “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I jogged into the street and grabbed up the girl, clutching her to me.

The goat focused on us. It increased speed, its hooves clattering on the pavement. It lowered its head, ramming position.

Oooh, this was going to hurt. I turned one hip toward the goat and winced, readying myself for the inevitable blow.

The pumpkin racer zipped between us and the goat. The animal skidded to a halt, its hind legs collapsing.

A woman charged into the street and wrenched the girl from my arms. “What are you doing?”

“I was . . .” I stammered. “She was in the street.”

“Why did you take her into the street?”

“I didn’t!”

“Stay away from my daughter.” She stormed away with the child.

“I was only trying to help,” I said weakly.

“Charlene, Val!” Laughing, Takako jogged to my side. “You’re heroes.”

“If I don’t get arrested for child abduction,” I muttered, face warm.

Robo-pumpkin lurched toward the goat.

Shaking its wooly head, the goat clambered to its feet. It nosed the pumpkin.

“And Val thought I was sending her into a dangerous situation. I had it all under control.” Charlene smiled modestly. “Now, watch me herd the goat back to the petting zoo.”

The pumpkin reversed, then bumped forward and tapped the goat.

The goat nosed it back.

Charlene fiddled with her controls. The pumpkin reversed and accelerated forward.

The goat lowered its head, and the robot pumpkin rammed its skull.

The goat shook its head, sniffed, and bit into the pumpkin.

“Nooooooooo!” Charlene howled.

The goat chewed meditatively.

“Get away from my pumpkin!” Charlene hurried forward, flapping her hands.

The goat took another bite, and Charlene snatched up the racer.

A man in overalls huffed down the road. He grabbed the goat’s collar. “Sorry about that.”

“He ate my racer!”

“She eats everything,” he said.

“We can replace the pumpkin,” I said.

Charlene shook her finger at him. “Your goat’s a menace. I’ll—”

I steered her toward Takako, who shook with laughter.

My stepmother wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. Is the robot mechanism damaged?”

“I guess not,” Charlene grouched.

“Ray might be in Pie Town.” I glanced in that direction. “Maybe he can take a look at it.”

“Later,” Charlene said. “I promised Takako we’d take her by the glass studio.”

My lips compressed. I needed to return to Pie Town. But I also wanted to talk to Charlene about that ghost, and the glass studio was only around the block. “Fine.”

We walked past the Lutheran church where I’d once planned to get married. I stifled a sigh—not about the broken engagement. Not really. But it was a beautiful church, tall, wooden, and white, painted with blue trim.

Since Pastor Hiller wasn’t howling in the fog, we turned right toward 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.”