Page 7 of Pumpkin Patch Peril
CHAPTER FOUR
Ruth’s Oldsmobile rumbled down the winding country road like a gentle giant navigating a maze designed for smaller creatures. The autumn afternoon had settled into that perfect October sweetness—crisp air carrying the scent of wood smoke and dying leaves, golden sunlight slanting through bare branches, and the kind of blue sky that made even the most dedicated indoors person want to take a walk.
“Turn left at the red mailbox,” Mona instructed, consulting the directions Brenda had scribbled on a napkin. “Should be just past the stone wall.”
“That red mailbox?” Ruth asked, pointing to a structure that had clearly seen better decades. The mailbox listed to one side like a tired old man, its red paint faded to the color of dried roses, and what appeared to be bullet holes decorating its surface.
“Rural decoration,” Helen observed diplomatically. “Very... authentic.”
“Looks like someone’s been using it for target practice,” Ida said, pressing her face to the window. “Good thing the mail carrier’s got decent reflexes.”
They turned onto a gravel driveway that crunched under the Oldsmobile’s tires, announcing their arrival to every creature within a quarter mile. Mossberry Farm spread before them like a postcard from a more innocent era—if that postcard had been left in someone’s pocket and run through the washing machine a few times.
The farmhouse sat at the end of the drive, a two-story white clapboard structure with green shutters and a wraparound porch that had clearly been added as an afterthought. The porch sagged slightly on one end, giving the house a jaunty, lopsided charm. Flower boxes under the windows overflowed with late-season mums and ornamental kale, their orange and purple blooms a defiant splash of color against the weathered siding.
“No car in the driveway,” Ruth observed, parking next to a rusty farm gate. “Looks like Brenda’s not home.”
“Perfect,” Mona said, gathering her purse. “She said we could inspect the barn anytime, and I’d rather do it without her hovering over us asking if we’ve found anything yet.”
The farmyard stretched beyond the house in a patchwork of well-worn earth, scattered hay, and the kind of organized chaos that comes from decades of practical use. A red barn dominated the landscape, its paint faded but solid, with a gambrel roof and white trim around the massive double doors. Weather vanes and lightning rods crowned the structure like a rustic tiara.
To the right of the barn, a chicken coop buzzed with activity. Two dozen Rhode Island Reds pecked and scratched in their enclosed run, occasionally erupting into brief squabbles over choice bits of whatever chickens found irresistible. Their russet feathers gleamed in the late afternoon sun, and their beady eyes tracked the approaching visitors with the calculating gaze of creatures who’d learned that humans sometimes carried treats.
“Oh, how lovely,” Helen said, approaching the chicken wire fence. “I had chickens when I was a little girl. Friendliest creatures you could imagine.”
She reached through the wire to pet one of the hens, which immediately took offense at this presumption and launched into a flurry of indignant squawking. The sound triggered a chain reaction—twenty-three other chickens decided this was clearly an emergency requiring their immediate and vocal participation.
“Friendly,” Ruth said dryly, backing away from the fence as the entire flock converged on Helen’s general location. “Very friendly.”
“They just need to get to know me,” Helen insisted, though she withdrew her hand with considerably more speed than she’d extended it.
“BAWK BAWK BAWK!” The chickens had reached full battle stations now, heads thrust forward, wings partially spread in what could only be described as aggressive posturing.
“I think they know you just fine,” Ida said, pulling a wrapped cinnamon roll from her purse. “Maybe this will calm them down.”
“Don’t feed the—” Mona started, but it was too late.
Ida tossed a piece of cinnamon roll through the wire, and the effect was immediate and catastrophic. The chickens abandoned all pretense of civilized pecking order and descended into what could only be called a poultry riot. Feathers flew, beaks clashed, and the volume of squawking reached levels that probably violated several noise ordinances.
“Run for the barn!” Ruth shouted, though the chickens were safely contained behind their fence and posed no actual threat to anyone taller than eighteen inches.
They hurried across the farmyard, Ida looking back at the chicken chaos with what appeared to be scientific interest.“I had no idea chickens were so competitive. That’s valuable information for future reference.”
“Let’s hope there is no future reference,” Mona muttered, approaching the barn’s weathered double doors.
The barn doors stood slightly ajar, just wide enough for a person to slip through sideways. The gap revealed tantalizing glimpses of the dim interior—the golden gleam of hay bales, the metallic glint of tools, and shadows that could hide anything from farm equipment to giant pumpkins.
“Well,” Helen said, brushing a chicken feather from her jacket, “this is it. The scene of the crime.”
The barn enveloped them in the timeless scent of hay, old wood, and motor oil—a combination that spoke of honest work and practical living.
The interior was a testament to decades of agricultural life. Hay bales stacked to the rafters created golden walls and cozy alcoves. Farm tools hung from pegs along the walls—rakes, hoes, pitchforks, and implements whose purposes were mysterious to anyone who’d never worked a farm. A red tractor squatted in one corner like a sleeping giant, its paint worn smooth by countless hours of fieldwork.
“Big space,” Ida observed, her voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged barn. “You could hide a five hundred pound pumpkin just about anywhere in here.”
“Or several five hundred pound pumpkins,” Helen added, already exploring the shadowy recesses behind the hay bales.
Ruth pointed at the floor. “Look here—scuff marks in the dirt. Something heavy was definitely moved recently.”
