Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies' Detective Club Book 1), page 10
Mona held up one finger. Then two. Then three.
She yanked the door open with dramatic flair, teapot raised in a threatening arc, ready to deliver justice with fine bone china.
“Freeze! We’re armed and—oh.”
Standing on the doormat was a small, round woman in her sixties, flour-dusted hands clutching a large wicker basket, her eyes wide with terror as she stared at the arsenal of domestic weapons pointed in her direction. She wore a cardigan covered in appliqué pumpkins and had the expression of someone who’d just realized she might have made a serious tactical error.
“Please don’t hit me with the teapot!” Doris squeaked, raising her hands in surrender while trying not to drop her basket. “I just came to confess!”
The four ladies slowly lowered their makeshift weapons, staring in complete shock.
“Doris?” Mona practically shrieked, nearly dropping her teapot. “You’re our stalker?!”
“What? No!” Doris protested, waving her hands frantically while backing away. “I mean, yes, I was following you, but stalker sounds so... criminal!”
Ruth pointed her umbrella stand accusingly. “You’ve been the one in that creepy sedan! Following us around town like some kind of... of...”
“Amateur spy!” Helen finished, brandishing the poker. “We thought you were a professional! Or a foreign agent!”
“Or one of Ruth’s sketchy ex-boyfriends!” Ida added helpfully, still clutching her crystal bowl.
“Ladies!” Doris squeaked, looking genuinely terrified. “Please! I can explain everything! I learned surveillance from YouTube!”
“You learned surveillance from YouTube?” Ida asked incredulously, abandoning her battle station behind the dining table.
Doris looked slightly proud despite her nervousness. “Quite educational, actually. Though most of the tutorials assume you’re investigating cheating spouses, not amateur detectives with mathematical analysis skills. I even borrowed my nephew’s car because it’s a dark sedan. They say that’s the best kind of car.”
Helen lowered the poker but kept it in sight. “Why were you following us?”
“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.
“We’re making progress,” Mona said carefully. “We’ve eliminated several suspects—”
“Eliminated?” Brenda’s voice cracked. “I don’t need suspects eliminated, I need my pumpkin found! Do you realize what this is going to do to my standing in the community? I’ve been bragging about this entry for months!”
After Brenda hung up, the room fell into uncomfortable silence.
“One more day,” Ruth said quietly. “Thirty-six hours.”
“We’ve failed her,” Helen said, looking around at their evidence-covered dining table. “All this investigation, and we’re no closer to finding that pumpkin than when we started.”
After Doris left, the four ladies sat in contemplative silence, processing the unexpected resolution to their stalker mystery.
“Well,” Ruth said finally, “that was convenient.”
“Too convenient?” Helen asked, her journalist instincts kicking in.
Mona looked up from gathering their evidence. “You don’t believe her?”
“I want to believe her,” Helen said carefully. “But think about it—she shows up right after we’re discussing having no suspects left, provides a perfect explanation for her suspicious behavior, and conveniently eliminates herself from consideration.”
“Plus,” Ruth added, “she could be lying about the Blue Hubbard. Maybe she doesn’t have one. Maybe she made up the whole story after stealing Brenda’s pumpkin.”
Ida looked up from her calculations with interest. “That’s actually statistically possible. Guilty parties often volunteer information to appear helpful while misdirecting investigations.”
“But how would she move a five hundred and twenty pound pumpkin?” Mona asked. “She’s not exactly built for heavy lifting.”
“She probably knows someone with a tractor. Half the county has them,” Helen pointed out.
Ruth was already pulling out her iPad. “What if her car got damaged trying to transport something that size? That would explain why she needed to borrow another vehicle for surveillance.”
“Or,” Ida said thoughtfully, “maybe she had help. Accomplices we don’t know about.”
Mona studied their evidence spread across the table. “So do we believe her story about the Blue Hubbard revenge plan, or do we think she’s a very clever thief trying to throw us off her trail?”
“Both scenarios are plausible,” Ruth admitted. “Though I have to say, the Blue Hubbard explanation felt genuine. Her passion for traditional baking methods seemed real.”
“Criminals can be passionate about their cover stories,” Helen pointed out.
“True,” Mona said. “But if she is lying, and she’s not the thief, that leaves us with...”
“Laura Jenkins,” Ida finished. “Our last remaining suspect.”
“The scarecrow-armed environmental activist,” Ruth said skeptically. “She seems even less capable of pumpkin theft than Doris.”
“Unless she had help too,” Helen suggested. “Environmental groups can be surprisingly organized when they’re motivated.”
“True. And she does have that charm bracelet,” Mona added. “Maybe she has access to machinery through her bee conservation work.”
Ida was already making notes. “We need to investigate Laura Jenkins more thoroughly. Interview her directly instead of just observing from a distance.”
“Assuming Doris is telling the truth,” Ruth said. “If she’s not, we’re wasting time chasing the wrong suspect while the real thief—possibly Doris herself—gets away with it.”
“So what’s our next move?” Helen asked.
Mona looked around at her friends with determination. “We approach Laura Jenkins, but we keep Doris on our radar. If her story about the Blue Hubbard doesn’t check out, we’ll know she’s playing us.”
“And if Laura Jenkins seems innocent too?” Ruth asked.
“Then we’re back to square one with a much bigger mystery than we thought,” Mona said grimly. “But at least we’ll know we’ve eliminated our obvious suspects through proper investigation.”
“Tomorrow we talk to Jenkins,” Helen declared. “Time to find out if our last suspect is innocent, guilty, or just another red herring.”
“And hope that somewhere in all this, we actually find Brenda’s pumpkin,” Ida added practically.
“Before the competition,” Ruth reminded them. “Because if we don’t solve this by Saturday, Brenda’s chances of winning are finished regardless of who took it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning, Mona was standing in her apartment, staring at their whiteboard with its crossed-out suspects and dwindling leads, when her phone rang.
“Ruth?” she answered.
“Emergency!” Ruth’s voice was tight with panic. “Get down to the lobby. Now!”
“What’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”
“Worse. It’s Ida. She’s... just get down here!”
Mona hurried to the elevator, her mind racing through possibilities. Had Ida fallen? Had another resident complained about her “borrowing” things? Had she finally gotten caught sneaking pastries out of the dining room?
The elevator doors opened to reveal what could only be described as an academic conference gone rogue.
Ida had commandeered three coffee tables in the lobby, spreading them with hand-drawn charts, probability matrices, and what appeared to be a detailed statistical analysis of bingo calling patterns dating back six months. She stood at the center like a professor delivering a crucial lecture, using a wooden coffee stirrer as a pointer.
“As you can see,” Ida was saying to her rapt audience of twelve senior citizens, “Mrs. Henderson’s calling pattern shows a 23% bias toward numbers ending in seven during evening sessions.”
“But what about the B column frequency?” Harold called out from the back, frantically scribbling notes on a napkin.
“Excellent question, Harold! If you’ll direct your attention to Chart C...” Ida flipped to another diagram with the confidence of someone presenting to the Nobel Committee.
Ruth appeared at Mona’s elbow, looking frazzled. “She started with one person asking about her bingo success. Now she’s got a cult following.”
“This is why we can’t leave her unsupervised,” Mona muttered, watching as Beatrice Oswald raised her hand like an eager student.
“Ida, dear,” Beatrice called out, “what about when they use the automatic ball machine versus hand-drawing?”
“Ah!” Ida’s eyes lit up. “That’s where my correlation analysis really shines...”
Helen appeared on Mona’s other side, looking equally mortified. “She’s been at this for twenty minutes. The activities director is hiding in her office.”
“Someone needs to shut this down before she starts charging tuition,” Ruth said grimly.
That’s when things got heated.
“I disagree with your seven-bias theory!” declared Marvin Fletcher, waving his dentures case for emphasis. “I’ve been tracking my own patterns, and the statistical significance is clearly in the forty-to-fifty range during afternoon games!”
The lobby erupted in statistical warfare as Team Ida squared off against Team Marvin, with various residents choosing sides and brandishing their own hastily scribbled data sheets.
“This is a disaster,” Mona said, watching Ida beam with pride as her academic revolution consumed the retirement center’s morning coffee hour.
Just then, Marvin Fletcher waved his coffee cup in the air. “You know, Ida, all these patterns and mathematical relationships—it reminds me of what we see in nature!”
“Exactly right, Marvin!” Ida said, clearly delighted to expand her lecture. “Mathematics is everywhere—weather patterns, flower arrangements, even insect behavior follows predictable statistical models.”
“Oh yes!” piped up Merry Bellweather from her seat near the window. “Laura Jenkins explained that very thing to me just last week. She said bees are incredibly mathematical creatures—they calculate the most efficient flight paths, their honeycomb is built on perfect hexagonal geometry, and they even do little waggle dances that communicate precise mathematical directions to food sources!”
The bingo statisticians murmured with impressed appreciation.
“She knows so much about these things,” Merry continued enthusiastically. “The whole ecosystem is really just one big mathematical equation when you think about it. Pollination rates, population dynamics, seasonal variations—it’s all connected through numbers and patterns.”
“That does sound fascinating,” Harold admitted.
Merry’s expression grew more serious. “And that’s exactly why her environmental work is so important. All these mathematical relationships in nature are being disrupted by pesticides and chemicals. It’s destroying the natural mathematical balance.” She looked around the group hopefully. “I do hope everyone here has signed her petition about pesticide regulation?”
The residents suddenly found their coffee cups and charts extremely interesting, studying them with intense focus while avoiding eye contact.
“Oh,” Merry said, deflating slightly. “Well, if anyone hasn’t signed it yet, you can go right over to her house! She’s always happy to have visitors, and she loves explaining the science behind her environmental work. She’d be delighted to have you sign the petition.”
Mona’s eyes lit up as if she’d just solved a complex equation. “AHA!” she exclaimed, loud enough to make several residents jump. “That’s exactly how we can have an excuse to interrogate her!”
Ruth and Helen stared at her in alarm.
“I mean,” Mona said quickly, realizing she’d spoken out loud, “that’s exactly how we can... uh... show our support for environmental mathematics! Yes. Mathematical environmentalism. Very important cause.”
Merry beamed. “Oh wonderful! Laura will be so pleased. She lives just down Maple Street, in the yellow house with all the wildflower gardens.”
Ruth grabbed Mona’s arm before she could say anything else incriminating. “We should definitely go support that... mathematical... environmental... cause.”
“Right now,” Helen added firmly, beginning to steer Mona toward the door. “Before we say anything else we shouldn’t.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Twenty minutes later, they had pryed Ida away from her statistics lecture, and Ruth’s Oldsmobile was driving up the driveway to Laura Jenkins’s property, past a weathered mailbox decorated with hand-painted bees and butterflies.
The house was a charming old farmhouse, painted soft yellow with white trim that had seen better decades. But it was the outbuildings that caught their attention—a massive red barn that looked like it could house a small aircraft, and a potting shed that seemed larger than some people’s garages.
“Well,” Ida observed from the backseat, “she’s certainly got plenty of places to hide a giant pumpkin.”
The property was a riot of late-season color. Perennial gardens sprawled in organized chaos around the house and buildings, filled with native wildflowers, towering sunflowers, and what appeared to be every bee-friendly plant known to botany. The air hummed with the industrious buzzing of bees and the flutter of monarch butterflies preparing for their southern migration.
They found Laura kneeling in a flower bed near the potting shed, wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat that made her look like a character from a Victorian garden party. She was carefully dead-heading spent blooms when she spotted their approach, and her expression immediately shifted to cautious recognition.
