Page 3 of Pumpkin Patch Peril
Mona folded her arms, her investigative instincts starting to kick in despite the unusual nature of the case. “So you want us to keep it quiet, track it down, and deliver it back in time for judging?”
“Yes,” Brenda said, relief flooding her voice at Mona’s understanding. “I’ll pay whatever your fee is. I know you ladies have solved real mysteries before—murders and such. This might seem small compared to that, but?—”
“A crime is a crime,” Mona interrupted. “And pride is a powerful motive for all sorts of mischief.” She tapped her chin, stalling while she absorbed this unexpected turn. She’d solved murders, certainly. Thefts, fraud, and at least one memorable case involving a missing ferret that turned out to be living in the church organ. But produce theft was a new one, even for the Brook Ridge Falls Ladies Detective Club.
“Do you have any enemies?” Mona asked. “Anyone with a grudge against you or your farming practices?”
Brenda’s laugh was bitter. “Half the vendors at the farmer’s market think I’m too competitive. The other half think I’m too picky about quality. And don’t get me started on the Gertrude Hartwell. She’s practically foaming at the mouth to take the pumpkin contest win from me.”
From the café, Ida’s voice carried clearly: “Mona! Your cinnamon roll’s getting cold! And I’m not responsible for what happens to unattended pastry!”
Mona grimaced. “Step one of the investigation—guard my pastry from Ida. Step two—find your pumpkin.” She paused, studying Brenda’s desperate expression. “All right. We’ll take the case. We’ll need to check out your barn, of course.”
“I’ll leave it open for you.”
“We’ll be by later tonight. And if anyone asks, we’re just four ladies enjoying our seasonal treats and taking a nice autumn drive to admire the foliage.”
Brenda squeezed her hand, eyes shining with relief and gratitude. “Thank you. Just... please be careful. I may be paranoid, but I have the feeling whoever took it could be dangerous.”
Mona returned to the table, noting how three sets of eyes tracked her progress across the café. The others had clearly been speculating about her mysterious conference, probably inventing increasingly elaborate theories.
“Well?” Ruth demanded before Mona had even settled into her chair. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“She’s missing something,” Mona said, sitting down and immediately checking her cinnamon roll for signs of Ida interference.
“Her manners?” Helen guessed.
“Her mind?” Ida suggested hopefully. “Because that would explain the zucchini pricing.”
Mona shook her head and then leaned in and whispered, “Her pumpkin.”
They blinked at her in unison.
“Five hundred and twenty pounds,” Mona added for clarification.
Ida whistled low, a sound of genuine appreciation. “That’s a lot of pie. Or soup. You could probably make enough pumpkin bread to feed the entire retirement center.”
Ruth leaned forward, her practical mind already working. “Who steals a pumpkin that size? You’d need a truck, maybe a crane. It’s not exactly a crime of opportunity.”
“Someone who didn’t want Brenda to win the Giant Pumpkin Competition at the Harvest Festival.” Mona said. “And I already have our first suspect.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Cup and Cake’s door chimed behind them as the four ladies emerged into the crisp October air, Mona clutching a white bakery box tied with a cheerful orange ribbon. The box contained what Ida had deemed “investigation fuel”—an assortment of apple cider donuts, pumpkin muffins, and enough cinnamon rolls to keep them sharp through whatever the day might bring.
“Now where did I park?” Ruth muttered, fumbling in her oversized purse for her keys. The familiar jingle of metal was accompanied by the rustle of napkins, the crinkle of hard candy wrappers, and what sounded suspiciously like a set of measuring spoons.
Helen pointed toward the corner. “Over there. Next to that lovely flower bed.”
They approached Ruth’s vintage blue Oldsmobile, which sat like a gentle giant among the smaller cars. The vehicle had character—chrome bumpers that could double as small benches, tail fins that belonged in a museum, and a light blue paint job.
“Oh,” Ruth said, her voice climbing an octave. “Oh, dear.”
The “lovely flower bed” Helen had mentioned was now significantly less lovely. What had once been a neat row oflate-blooming mums and ornamental kale now looked like a botanical crime scene. Orange and purple petals were scattered across the sidewalk, and several plants lay flattened beneath the Oldsmobile’s considerable whitewall rear tire.
“MURDERER!”
The accusation rang out across the street with the force of a battle cry. A woman with a long brown braid and the posture of someone prepared to take on the world came marching toward them, clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. She wore a hemp jacket decorated with embroidered sunflowers and what appeared to be genuine disapproval.
