Page 13 of Pumpkin Patch Peril
“Extreme situations call for extreme measures,” Ida observed, re-wrapping a piece of pumpkin spice scone she’d somehow produced despite the darkness. “And a man who’s been fighting chemical contamination for years might see stealing one pumpkin as justifiable revenge.”
“Plus,” Ruth added, “he’d have all the right equipment. Tractors, trailers, knowledge of the local roads and field access points.”
“And,” Helen said quietly, “he’d know your routines better than anyone. When you sleep, when you’re away from the farm, and where you keep your prize pumpkin.”
The implications settled over them like the October chill. What had seemed like a straightforward case of competition theft was looking more complicated by the minute.
“So what do we do now?” Brenda asked, her voice smaller than it had been an hour ago.
Mona looked back toward the barn, then across the fence toward Tom Knowles’ property, then at the washed-out tire tracks that could tell them everything or nothing. The darkness was settling in earnest now, and the temperature was dropping with the sun.
“Now,” she said, checking her watch, “we call it a day. It’s getting too dark to investigate properly, and we need to think through what we’ve learned.”
“Plus I’m starving,” Ida announced, as if this was crucial evidence. “All this detective work makes me hungry.”
Ruth was already turning back toward the farmhouse, her phone light bobbing across the uneven ground. “She’s right. We can add Tom Knowles to our suspect list and pay him a visit tomorrow morning when we can actually see what we’re doing.”
“Good plan,” Helen agreed, falling into step beside her. “Fresh eyes and daylight make everything clearer.”
As they picked their way back across the field, Ida’s voice drifted through the darkness: “So where should we go for dinner? Somewhere with good portions—all this outdoor investigating works up an appetite.”
“How about Murphy’s Diner?” Ruth suggested. “They have a pot roast special on Tuesdays.”
“Ooh, and pie,” Helen added. “I could go for a nice slice of apple pie after tramping around in the dirt all afternoon.”
Mona smiled in the darkness. Tomorrow they’d tackle Tom Knowles and see what their suspicious neighbor had to say. But tonight, they’d fuel up for whatever revelations awaited them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains of Mona’s apartment as the four ladies gathered once again around the mahogany dining table. The whiteboard stood at attention like a military aide waiting for orders, yesterday’s suspect list still visible in red marker.
Ida had already arranged a fresh selection of pastries on Mona’s good china plates—apple turnovers, blueberry muffins, and what appeared to be enough cinnamon rolls to feed a small army. The coffeepot percolated cheerfully in the kitchen, filling the apartment with the aroma of serious business about commencing.
“All right, ladies,” Mona said, positioning herself in front of the whiteboard with a fresh marker. “Today’s plan of attack.”
She wrote “Today’s Agenda” across the top of the board in bold letters, then turned back to face the group.
“First priority—Gertrude Hartwell,” she announced, writing her name under the agenda. “We need to hear her side of the story and see if she has an alibi.”
“Oh, I know!” Helen said, sitting up straighter in her chair with the excitement of someone who’d just solved a puzzle.“She’s in my book club. I can tell her I’m there on official book club business.”
“What kind of official business?” Ruth asked suspiciously.
“I’ll think of something. Emergency book selection, maybe. Or a scheduling conflict with our next meeting.” Helen waved her hand dismissively. “Trust me, I’ve been a journalist long enough to know how to get people talking.”
“Good plan,” Mona said, writing “Book Club Cover Story” next to Gertrude’s name. “We’ll need to make it convincing.”
Ida looked up from her apple turnover, a calculating gleam in her eye. “We should bring pastries. Nothing loosens tongues like good baked goods.”
“That’s actually brilliant,” Helen agreed. “Gertrude has a terrible sweet tooth. Show up with the right treats, and she’ll talk your ear off.”
“In that case,” Mona said, capping her marker, “first stop—the Cup and Cake. We’ll need ammunition.”
Twenty minutes later, they were clustered around the familiar glass display case at Lexy’s bakery, studying the morning’s selection like generals planning a military campaign.
“What do you think would work best on a competitive pumpkin grower?” Ruth asked, eyeing a tray of chocolate chip cookies.
“Something impressive,” Helen mused. “Gertrude appreciates quality. Maybe those lemon bars with the powdered sugar?”
