Читать книгу Gourd to Death - Kirsten Weiss - Страница 7

Chapter One

All it takes is one bad impulse.

In my defense, I’d had a late night of sexy aliens and pitched battles. So my impulse control was low this morning.

But.

Going along to get it over with was still a bad impulse. I was ditching work on what could be the busiest day of the year. My staff needed me. Pie Town needed me.

The thuds of hammers and clangs of metal on metal drifted through the predawn fog. It shrouded Main Street, hiding the workers setting up festival stalls.

Yawning, I jammed my hands into the pockets of my winter-weight Pie or Die hoodie and hesitated guiltily in the doorway of my pie shop. The scent of baking pumpkin escaped Pie Town’s open door and wafted into the chill October air.

“I can only take ten minutes,” I said through another jaw-cracking yawn. Pie Town was still a start-up, and I loved it like a helicopter mom. But I couldn’t ruin Charlene’s fun. “Then I need to get back to the prep work.”

My elderly piecrust specialist, Charlene McCree, pulled the ends of her snowy hair from her jacket collar. “You work twelve-hour days, Val. No one’s going to hold it against you if you take a peek. You won’t get much chance when the festival’s in full swing. Relax.”

In a blur of purple knit jacket, she surged past me and onto the brick sidewalk. We’d both been up until midnight watching a Stargate marathon, and it was now five A.M. Charlene claimed old people didn’t need much sleep. I felt like deep-fried death.

“Last year,” she said, “the winning pumpkin was over two thousand pounds. This year’s would have been bigger if those arms dealers hadn’t chiseled in on the action.”

Hiding a smile, I let Pie Town’s glass door swing shut behind us. Charlene might be the best piecrust maker on the NorCal coast, but I’d learned the hard way not to encourage her. “You know San Adrian isn’t infested with gun runners.”

But Saint Adrian was the patron saint of weapons dealers. The town’s true crime, however, was starting a pumpkin festival to rival San Nicholas’s. Farmers now had to choose between San Adrian and us. Our tiny beach town was feeling the pinch.

“You don’t understand pumpkin festivals,” she said darkly.

I yawned again and flipped up my hood, orange and black for Halloween.

Ray, a gamer who usually staked out one of Pie Town’s corner tables, waved from beneath a festival booth’s green awning. “Hey, Val! Hi, Charlene.”

We ambled to his booth, one of dozens lining the middle of the street.

“Nice socks,” he said.

Charlene pointed the toe of one of her high-tops, modeling the striped purple and black socks. They nipped at the hems of her matching purple leggings. “Thanks. I got ’em on sale.”

I eyed the comic art hanging against the green canvas walls. “You drew these?” I asked, impressed.

Ray’s round face flushed. His freckles darkened. “Well—”

His girlfriend, Henrietta, popped up from behind a stack of boxes. “They’re all his. Isn’t he amazing?” She tugged down her shapeless army-green sweatshirt. It matched the color of the knit cap flattening her sandy hair. “I told him he should work as an artist for a gaming company, but he’s set on being an engineer.”

Charlene squinted at a cartoon woman in a chain-mail bikini. “Looks uncomfortable. If I was going into battle, I’d want a lot more covered than those two—”

“It all looks great,” I interrupted. Age had dulled Charlene’s verbal restraint. If my friend had ever had any.

“And don’t worry,” Ray said. “I’ll be sure to send customers into Pie Town.”

Charlene laughed hollowly. “I don’t think that will be a problem. This is my fiftieth pumpkin festival. They’re wolves, I tell you. Wolves!”

Henrietta’s eyes twinkled. “Werewolves?”

“Don’t encourage her.” I groaned, knowing it was too late. Charlene was convinced a local pastor was a werewolf. She also believed Bigfoot roamed the woods, ghost jaguars stalked the streets, and UFOs buzzed the California coast.

“I was speaking metaphorically,” Charlene said, surprising me. “I meant the festivalgoers act like wolves. Though if I were you, I’d keep an eye on Pastor Hiller around the full moon. Not that he can help himself, poor man. Once you’ve been bitten, it’s all over.”

And there it was. “It was great seeing you two,” I said. “We’re going to check out those giant pumpkins, and then I’m going back to work.” We’d left my staff slaving in the kitchen while Charlene and I scoped out the massive gourds. I wasn’t sure how much pie we’d sell today, during the prefestival, but I didn’t want to take any risks.

“Speak for yourself,” Charlene said. “I’ve already completed my piecrust quota. See ya, Ray. Bye, Henrietta.”

We ambled two booths down, and I stopped in front of another green awning. A sign hanging from the top read HEIDI’S HEALTH AND FITNESS. Directly beneath it: SUGAR KILLS.

I sighed. “Seriously? At a pumpkin festival?” The gym had moved in next to Pie Town earlier this year. Its owner and I had a loathe-hate relationship.

Heidi turned to me, and her blond brows drew downward. “Sugar kills every day of the year.”

“So does life,” Charlene said.

Heidi tossed her ponytail. “Your life might be longer and more fulfilling if it included better diet and exercise.”

“I’m fit as a fiddle.” Charlene thumped her chest and coughed alarmingly. “I eat what I want, and I stop when I’m full. And I have a drink every night for my heart. It’s the French way.”

Heidi’s lip curled. “We’re offering blood pressure and other fitness testing. You should stop by.” She eyed me critically. “Especially you.”

My eyes narrowed. I was not overweight.

She smoothed the front of her sleek and sporty Heidi’s Health and Fitness microfiber jacket. “You’re going to have some competition at the pie-making contest.”

“I’m not competing, I’m a judge.” Not that judging didn’t have its own pressures. My boyfriend, Gordon Carmichael, had entered the pie contest. He was a good cook, and it was a blind tasting, but still. And then there was old Mrs. Thistleblossom. She won every year, and I was supercurious about her pumpkin pie. What was her secret? I’d never met the woman, but I’d heard she was over a hundred.

“I don’t think it’s fair for a professional baker to be in the contest,” Heidi said.

I pulled my mouth into a tight smile. “Which is why I’m not in it. I’m a judge.”

“Well, I am entering a sugar-free pumpkin pie,” Heidi said. “It’s low-fat and low calorie.”

What was the point? But I decided to be the better woman and refrained from comment.

Charlene had no such compunction. “And low taste?” She squinted at my hips. “Though some of us could stand to lose a little weight.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my weight,” I said to Charlene. And to Heidi, “And don’t tell me anything more. This is a blind tasting.”

“Most of the calories are in the crust anyway,” Heidi said, “so it will be crust-free.”

“What!” Charlene flared. “Then it will definitely be taste-free.”

“But now,” I ground out, “I can’t judge your pie, because it won’t be a blind tasting.” And I was going to have to report this to the head judge. San Nicholas took its pie contest deadly serious.

“Your style of pies is on its way out,” Heidi said. “Tastes are changing. Most Californians find all that sweet food gross.”

“Enjoy the festival,” I caroled and walked on, hoping Charlene would follow. My pies on the way out. As if ! Had she even met a Silicon Valley engineer?

In the stall beside Heidi’s, a handsome, harried-looking man unpacked boxes of reading glasses. White earbud cords dangled from his ears and faded to invisibility against his white lab coat.

Charlene nodded to the man in the optometry stall. “Morning, Tristan.”

He looked up and tugged an earbud free. “Oh. Hi!”

“What are you listening to?” Charlene asked.

He blushed. “Oklahoma!” he said in a sultry Southern drawl. I might be a one-man gal, but I could listen to him talk all day.

Charlene chuckled benignly. “You and your show tunes.”

“Have you seen Kara—I mean, Dr. Levant?” he asked.

We shook our heads.

“Why?” Charlene asked.

“She was going to help me set up for the prefestival.” He motioned around the half-built stall. “I guess she got hung up at the haunted house.”

“What’s she doing there?” Charlene asked.

“Her husband, Elon, is volunteering there today.”

“If we see her,” I said, “we’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

Charlene and I continued on.

“I hear Heidi broke up with that fellow who left you at the altar,” she said in a casual tone.

“Mark didn’t leave me—Wait, really?” I had been dumped, though not at the altar. We’d been months away from the wedding. But Mark had done me a favor. Now I had a new and improved boyfriend, Detective Gordon Carmichael of the SNPD. My chest tingled at the thought.

I glanced over my shoulder. The booths and Pie Town had vanished into the mist, and I shivered. “We need to hurry,” I said. “I really should get back soon.”

“Those pies will bake without you. Your first pumpkin festival is a special event. There’s something magical about a giant pumpkin. 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.