Page 27 of Pumpkin Patch Peril
“Yep,” Ruth turned from the window. “No pumpkin in there.”
Their shoulders slumped in disappointment.
“We still need those tire tread photographs,” Ida reminded them, ever focused on her mathematical approach to crime solving.
They made their way back outside, carefully closing the barn door behind them, and located some tractor tracks near an equipment shed. Ida immediately began photographing the tracks from multiple angles, paying particular attention to the distinctive tread patterns that would allow for comparison analysis.
“These are perfect,” she whispered excitedly, reviewing the images on her phone. “Clear detail, good lighting, multiple angles for mathematical analysis.”
“How long before we can compare them to the tracks at Brenda’s farm?” Ruth asked.
“I’ll need to review the photos we took yesterday and run some comparative measurements, but I should have preliminary results by this afternoon.”
Helen was serving as lookout, keeping watch for any sign of Tom’s return from the distant field. “We should go,” she urged. “He could finish that row any minute.”
The sound of a tractor engine growing closer sent them scrambling back toward the woods with their evidence safely photographed.
“Ladies,” Tom’s voice called out from somewhere behind them as they reached the tree line, “I see you trespassing. And I know what you’ve been doing.”
They didn’t stop to respond, crashing through the underbrush toward Ruth’s car with the ungraceful haste of people who’d been caught red-handed in activities they couldn’t explain to law enforcement.
“Did he really see us?” Helen panted as they reached the car.
“Does it matter?” Ruth replied, starting the engine with shaking hands. “We got what we came for.”
“Evidence,” Ida added triumphantly, clutching her phone with its precious cargo of tire tread photographs and crime scene documentation.
Ruth started the engine and pulled away from the Knowles property with perhaps more speed than was strictly necessary. “I think it’s safe to say Tom Knowles is not happy with our investigation.”
“The question is,” Mona said, checking the side mirror to make sure Tom wasn’t following them, “is he unhappy because we’re bothering him, or because we’re getting too close to the truth?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As they pulled away from Tom Knowles’s property, the adrenaline from their close call was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a mixture of triumph and concern. Ruth kept checking her rearview mirror every few seconds, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“The same car is definitely following us,” she announced quietly, trying not to alarm the others. “Dark sedan, maintaining about a hundred yards back.”
“You’re sure it’s the same one from this morning?” Helen asked, twisting in her seat to get a better look.
“Same everything. Same distance, same careful following pattern. Though I have to say, for professional surveillance, they’re not exactly subtle.”
Mona frowned, considering the implications. “Maybe we’re just being paranoid. Rural areas don’t have that many roads—it could be coincidental.”
“Three consecutive turns is not a coincidence,” Ida said firmly, consulting what appeared to be a hand-drawn map of their route. “The probability of random convergence drops to less than twelve percent after the third identical directional change.”
Helen’s voice carried a note of real worry. “This is the car I saw at bingo night. Same profile, same dark color. Someone’s been watching us since we started this investigation.”
“Maybe Brenda was right about this being dangerous,” Helen said.
The mood in the car had shifted from post-mission euphoria to genuine unease. What had started as an entertaining puzzle was beginning to feel more serious, more potentially dangerous.
“Should we call the police?” Helen asked, her journalist instincts kicking in. “We need to document this pattern of harassment.”
“And tell them what?” Ruth replied with characteristic sarcasm. “That we think someone might be following us while we trespass on private property investigating produce theft? I’m sure Jack will drop everything to assign us a protective detail.”
“Which, to be fair, might be accurate,” Mona admitted. “But I’m starting to think our amateur detective work has attracted more attention than we bargained for.”
They drove in thoughtful silence for several minutes, each woman processing the implications of being under surveillance. The rural landscape that had seemed so peaceful earlier now felt full of potential threats.
