Gourd to Death. Kirsten Weiss
her jacket off the peg and followed, the bell above the door jingling.
“The Baker Street Bakers are on the case.” Marla’s voice floated, sardonic, through the slowly closing door.
“Marla’s solar-powered pumpkin will never work,” Charlene muttered. “They’ve always been gravity only. We just run them down a hill. It’s tradition.” She glanced at Ray, adjusting a drawing in his booth. Her eyes narrowed with cunning.
“Thanks for coming along,” I said.
“What? Oh, well, if someone’s going to save Tristan, it should be me. I know him better.”
Heidi scowled at us from her stall.
Ignoring the gym owner, we strode to the optometry stand.
“Tristan, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Charlene reached across the narrow table to take his hands.
He swayed slightly. His eyes were hazel, his gaze as misty as the coastal morning. “Thank you, Charlene,” he said in his light, Southern accent. He swallowed. “I don’t—This is so . . .” Beneath his white doctor’s coat, his broad shoulders folded inward. “What do you do in a situation like this?”
“The best you can,” I said gently. “It’s all anyone can do. How can we help?”
He rubbed his forehead, his pleasant, regular features crumpling in distress. “I’ve no idea. Kara and I were supposed to set up and work the booth today. Now . . .” He straightened. “I think I have to keep going. I don’t have any appointments at the office, and I’d just be . . .”
“Sitting around thinking about what you’ve lost,” Charlene finished for him. “Better to work and get your mind off the murder. What time was Dr. Levant supposed to be here this morning?”
Subtle. I shot her a look.
“At five,” he said, “like me. I was surprised when she was late, but I assumed something had come up.”
“Like what?” I asked.
He gnawed his bottom lip.
“Did she have any enemies?” Charlene asked.
“Enemies? No, of course . . .” Briefly, he shut his eyes. “Oh, damn. I should have told that policeman.”
“Chief Shaw?” The muscles between my shoulders loosened. Someone had already interviewed Tristan. So, maybe-possibly—we weren’t interfering in Shaw’s investigation?
“Shaw?” Tristan’s pale brow furrowed. “I think that’s what his name was.”
“Tell him what?” Charlene asked.
“We had to fire someone last week,” he said. “It got a little ugly.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Our receptionist, Alfreda. Alfreda Kuulik. But I can’t believe she would have done something like this. I don’t want to get her in trouble for nothing.”
“Are you sure it’s nothing?” Charlene asked.
“No,” he said. “I guess not. I have to report it. I should have told that policeman at once, but the news of Kara’s death . . .”
“You must have been horribly shocked,” I said. “No wonder you didn’t think of Alfreda right away. Why was she fired?”
He shifted a stack of brochures on the table. “Ah, I probably shouldn’t say. Labor laws, liability, you know.”
Phooey.
“Anyone else have an ax to grind with your partner?” Charlene asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“What about Kara’s husband?” I asked.
His eyes widened. “Elon?”
“Did they get along?” I folded my arms over my apron and suppressed a shiver.
“They seemed to. He was very supportive. The poor fellow must be devastated.”
Charlene’s eyes narrowed.
“Have you got lunch today?” I asked. “Can I bring you anything? Coffee now? A turkey pot pie later?”
“Thanks, Val,” he said, blinking rapidly, “but I couldn’t.”
“Take the pie,” Charlene said. “She doesn’t make that offer lightly, and you know you love them.”
“Then, thank you. I don’t have lunch organized. I assumed I’d be able to switch off with Kara and grab something.” The muscles jumped in his neck. “Kara . . .”
“I’ve got you covered,” I said, teeth chattering. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”
“Thank you.”
Charlene and I hurried toward Pie Town.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think he was somewhere on Main Street when Kara was killed,” I said, “and he was her business partner.”
“And that makes him a suspect.”
“Yes,” I said heavily. I liked Dr. Cannon. He’d always been friendly, and he provided free services to people who couldn’t pay.
“I’ll be a minute. You go on.” Charlene beelined for Ray’s stall.
Farther down the row of booths, a flash of orange caught my eye. As if my feet had a mind of their own, I found myself in front of an artist’s stall. Colorful paintings blazed in a modern, American-primitive style. Rolling hills and harvest moons and fields of pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins.
The artist, a woman with a kerchief over her hair, hooked a painting of hot-air balloons onto a metal rack.
I leaned closer, admiring a farm scene with a black cat sitting on a pumpkin. My heart twinged with desire and regret. The painting was 500 dollars and out of this year’s budget. But wow.
“I thought you were in a hurry to get back to Pie Town?” Charlene said in my ear, and I jumped.
“You’re right,” I said. “I got distracted.”
She rested one hand casually on her hip. “Well, you’d better get undistracted. You’re in Thistleblossom’s crosshairs now.”
“What?”
“She was in Pie Town. Didn’t you notice?”
“Wait. That woman in the corner booth?”
Charlene’s expression darkened. “You know how she’s made it over a hundred, don’t you?”
“Clean living?”
“Because the devil can’t die.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, exasperated. Charlene’s favorite explanations always veered toward the supernatural.
“It means she’s one hundred percent mean.” Charlene waggled her fingers. “She scares the whole town.”
“Oh, come on. That newspaper article said she was beloved.”
“Only because the editor’s terrified of the woman. Why do you think she was sitting alone? Anyone old enough to really know her avoids her.”
My hands fell to my sides. What a lonely existence. “That’s terrible.”
We turned toward Pie Town.
“That’s self-preservation,” Charlene said. “She wins that pie contest every year because she’s got the judges running scared. But now you’re a judge, and she hasn’t got anything on you. She’s in Pie Town looking for weaknesses to exploit.”
I shook my head.
She