Page 36 of Pumpkin Patch Peril
“Because I panicked,” Doris admitted. “After that horrible scene with Brenda at the pie contest, everyone knows we had words. When her pumpkin went missing, I realized how guilty that would make me look.”
“So you decided to monitor our investigation?” Mona asked.
“I thought if I knew what evidence you had, I could prepare some kind of defense. Though I wasn’t sure what kind—my experience with criminal procedure comes entirely from watching Matlock reruns.”
“But you said you were using your own pumpkins for all that baking,” Mona said slowly.
“Every last one of them,” Doris confirmed with growing confidence. “I deliberately used up my entire pumpkin harvest because I was planning to teach Brenda Henderson a lesson about insulting my gourds.”
The ladies leaned forward with interest.
“What kind of lesson?” Ruth asked.
Doris reached into her basket and pulled out a photograph of an impressive blue-gray squash that looked substantial enough to feed a small army.
“This kind of lesson,” she said proudly. “Blue Hubbard winter squash. Twenty-three pounds of dense, sweet flesh that makes Brenda’s watery giant pumpkin look like amateur hour.”
“That’s beautiful,” Helen said admiringly.
“After Brenda called my gourds ‘shrivelly little things’ and suggested I should use canned pumpkin,” Doris continued, her voice growing stronger, “I decided to show her what real expertise looks like. This Blue Hubbard will win the specialty squash category while demonstrating that culinary excellence matters more than raw size.”
“So you’re not competing against Brenda directly,” Ida observed.
“I’m competing against her philosophy,” Doris said firmly. “Quality over quantity. Traditional methods over flashy spectacle. When my Blue Hubbard takes the ribbon while her stolen pumpkin sits empty-handed, everyone will understand which approach produces superior results.”
Ruth looked up from studying the photograph. “Wait—you said ‘stolen pumpkin.’ You don’t think she’ll recover it?”
Doris’s confident expression faltered. “Well, I assumed... I mean, it’s been missing for days...”
“Doris,” Mona said carefully, “do you have any idea who might have actually taken it?”
“I’ve been so worried about looking guilty myself, I haven’t really considered other possibilities,” Doris admitted. “Though Laura Jenkins has been quite vocal about Brenda’s pesticide use. And there was talk at the feed store about Tom Knowles having contamination problems.”
“We eliminated both of them,” Helen said. “Tire tread evidence.”
“Tire treads?” Doris looked impressed. “No wonder I was terrified of your investigation. That’s remarkably thorough for amateur detectives.”
“Ida’s mathematical analysis,” Ruth explained proudly. “Neither Tom nor Gertrude’s tractors match the crime scene evidence.”
“So we’re back to square one,” Mona said with frustration. “No viable suspects, and the competition is this weekend.”
Doris looked around at their evidence-covered dining table with genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry I wasted your time with all the surveillance drama. I should have just come forward and explained about the Blue Hubbard from the beginning.”
“No harm done,” Helen said diplomatically. “Though next time, maybe call ahead instead of mysterious surveillance?”
“Definitely,” Doris agreed. “My nerves aren’t built for espionage work. Mr. Whiskers is much better at covert operations than I am.”
“Mr. Whiskers?” Ruth asked.
“My alpha cat. He’s got excellent reconnaissance skills, though his intelligence reports are primarily food-related.” Doris stood up, gathering her basket. “I should let you get back to your investigation. I hope you find Brenda’s pumpkin—competition isn’t nearly as satisfying without a proper opponent.”
As Doris prepared to leave, Mona’s phone rang. The caller ID showed Brenda’s name.
“Brenda?” Mona answered, putting it on speaker.
“Ladies, please tell me you have good news,” Brenda’s voice was strained, nearly desperate. “The competition is the day after tomorrow. I’m supposed to deliver my entry to the pavilion for pre-judging by eight AM, and I have nothing to show them. People keep asking me about my pumpkin, and I’m running out of excuses.”
The four ladies exchanged worried glances. They could hear the panic in Brenda’s voice.
