Page 14 of Pumpkin Patch Peril
“Ooh, or the cream cheese brownies,” Ida suggested, already pointing to the rich, marbled squares. “They look expensive.”
Lexy appeared behind the counter, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. “Morning, Nans. Let me guess—you need interrogation supplies?”
“Investigation supplies,” Mona corrected with dignity. “Interrogation sounds so harsh.”
“Of course.” Lexy’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “What can I get you?”
“A dozen of those lemon bars,” Helen decided. “And maybe some of the pumpkin cookies for good measure.”
Mona watched Lexy carefully arrange the pastries in a white bakery box. “Any word from Jack about a missing pumpkin report?”
“Nothing yet,” Lexy said. “Still no official police involvement.”
“Which strikes me as odd,” Ruth added. “You’d think someone would have filed a report by now.”
Lexy tied the box with pink striped ribbon and handed it across the counter. “Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’s you four. Just... try not to get arrested for trespassing or anything.”
“We’re paragons of legal behavior,” Ida said solemnly, then pointed at the display case. “Oh, I’ll take one of those cream cheese brownies for the road.”
“Ida!” Helen protested.
“What? It’s a long drive to Gertrude’s place. I need sustenance.” Ida wrapped the brownie in a napkin and tucked it into her purse with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d perfected portable pastry storage.
The drive to Gertrude Hartwell’s farm took them deeper into the countryside, where sprawling fields gave way to older, more established properties. Gertrude’s house sat at the end of a tree-lined drive, a weathered colonial that had clearly been standing since the area was first settled.
“Built in the 1600s,” Helen said as they approached the house. “One of the oldest continuously occupied homes in the county. Gertrude’s very proud of the historical significance.”
The house looked its age—weathered clapboard siding, small windows with diamond-shaped panes, and a massivestone chimney that dominated one end of the structure. But everything was impeccably maintained, from the perfectly painted shutters to the carefully tended flower beds that bordered the front walk.
“Impressive,” Ruth observed, parking beside a late-model pickup truck. “This is serious old money.”
They approached the front door, Helen carrying the bakery box like a diplomatic offering. Before they could knock, the door swung open to reveal a tall, angular woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun.
“Helen?” Gertrude Hartwell blinked in surprise, taking in the group assembled on her front step. “What brings you here? Is everything all right with the book club?”
Helen’s journalist training kicked in smoothly. “Oh, Gertrude, I’m so sorry to bother you at home. It’s just such a beautiful day, and we had some urgent book club business that couldn’t wait for our next meeting.”
“We brought pastries!” Ida announced cheerfully, apparently deciding that subtlety was overrated.
Gertrude’s stern expression softened slightly at the sight of the bakery box. “Well... I suppose you’d better come in then. Though I can’t imagine what could be so urgent.”
They followed her into a living room that looked like a museum exhibit on colonial life—low-beamed ceilings, wide-plank floors, and furniture that probably predated the Revolutionary War. Everything was perfectly preserved and intimidatingly clean.
“Tea?” Gertrude offered, gesturing for them to sit on what appeared to be a genuine Pilgrim-era settle.
“That would be lovely,” Helen said, settling carefully onto the antique furniture. “We hate to impose, but this really couldn’t wait.”
As Gertrude bustled off to prepare tea, Mona caught Helen’s eye and mouthed, “What’s the urgent business?”
Helen shrugged and mouthed back, “I’ll think of something.”
When Gertrude returned with a silver tea service that probably belonged in the Smithsonian, Mona decided to cut to the chase.
“Gertrude,” she said, accepting a delicate china cup, “we’re actually here about something else. We’re helping Brenda Mossberry with a... situation.”
Gertrude’s eyebrows rose. “Brenda? What kind of situation?”
“Her giant pumpkin has gone missing,” Ruth said bluntly. “Stolen from her barn sometime Sunday night.”
