Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies' Detective Club Book 1), page 4
CHAPTER SIX
The autumn sun was just setting as they trudged across Brenda’s back field, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would have been beautiful under other circumstances. The four ladies picked their way carefully through the uneven ground, following the clear impressions left by heavy tractor tires in the soft earth.
“These tracks are as clear as day,” Ruth observed, consulting her phone’s flashlight as the light began to fade. “Someone definitely brought equipment through here.”
“And recently too,” Helen added, crouching to examine the deep grooves. “You can see where the treads pressed into the mud from the rain.”
The trail led them past several patches of pumpkins in various stages of growth. Some were the size of basketballs, their orange shells gleaming in the fading light, while others were still green and small. Ida paused beside a particularly impressive specimen that had to weigh at least a hundred pounds.
“Maybe you have an even bigger one hiding out here,” she suggested hopefully, patting the pumpkin like it was a prize-winning pet.
Brenda shook her head emphatically. “No, that’s nowhere near the size of the one I was nurturing. Not even close.” Her voice carried the pain of someone discussing a lost child.
They continued following the tire tracks as darkness settled over the field like a heavy blanket. One by one, phone flashlights came out, creating bobbing circles of white light that turned their investigation into something resembling a very slow-moving light show.
“I still don’t understand how someone could have driven all the way to your barn without you noticing,” Mona said, sweeping her light across the trail. “Wouldn’t you have heard a tractor?”
Brenda gestured back toward her farmhouse, which now looked like a distant lighthouse in the gathering darkness. “The barn’s far from the house. And I sleep with a white noise machine—doctor’s orders after my neighbor got those roosters. I wouldn’t hear a marching band if it set up in my front yard.”
“Convenient for thieves,” Ruth muttered.
As they approached the back edge of Brenda’s property, the tire tracks became even more pronounced in the beams of their flashlights. The ground here was softer, and the impressions were deep enough that Ida could have used them as footrests.
“Where exactly is Knowles’ land?” Ida asked, playing her light across what appeared to be a fence line ahead.
“See that barbed wire fence?” Brenda pointed toward a rusty fence that stretched into the darkness in both directions. “That’s it. His property runs right along this edge of mine.”
Mona stopped walking and turned to face Brenda, her expression thoughtful in the phone light. “Do you two get along? You and Tom Knowles?”
Brenda was quiet for a moment, considering the question. “Well... not really. He’s always complaining about something. My pesticide use, my farming methods, the way I trim the hedge between our properties. Last month he accused me of letting my irrigation runoff flood his organic lettuce beds.”
“And you never considered that it might have been Knowles who took your pumpkin?” Mona asked quietly.
The group fell silent except for the distant sound of crickets and the soft whisper of wind through the dry cornstalks in a nearby field. Brenda’s face was pale in the glow of four phone flashlights.
“I... I just assumed it was Gertrude,” Brenda admitted. “She’s my main competition, after all. She’s the one with the most to gain if my pumpkin disappeared.”
Ruth had been following the tire tracks with her light, and now she looked up with a frown. “These tracks are getting harder to follow. The ground’s more solid here, and...” She paused, sweeping her beam back and forth. “They seem to be washing out.”
They gathered around the spot where Ruth was standing. The tire impressions that had been so clear near the barn were indeed fading as they approached the fence line. The combination of harder soil and several days of weather had blurred the edges until it was impossible to tell exactly where the tracks were heading.
“Can you tell if they go toward the road or toward Knowles’ farm?” Helen asked, crouching down for a closer look.
Ruth played her light systematically across the ground, but the evidence was inconclusive. “They could go either way. Or both. There might have been multiple trips, or...”
“Or what?” Brenda asked.
“Or whoever did this was smart enough to cover their tracks,” Mona said grimly. “The question is, how well do you really know your neighbor?”
Brenda stared across the fence line toward Tom Knowles’ property, where a single light glowed in what appeared to be a distant farmhouse window. In the darkness, it looked isolated and somehow ominous.
“I know he signed that petition Laura Jenkins was circulating,” Brenda said slowly. “And I know he’s been angry about the pesticide runoff for years. But steal my pumpkin?” She shook her head. “That seems pretty extreme, even for Tom.”
“Extreme situations call for extreme measures,” Ida observed, re-wrapping a piece of pumpkin spice scone she’d somehow produced despite the darkness. “And a man who’s been fighting chemical contamination for years might see stealing one pumpkin as justifiable revenge.”
“Plus,” Ruth added, “he’d have all the right equipment. Tractors, trailers, knowledge of the local roads and field access points.”
“And,” Helen said quietly, “he’d know your routines better than anyone. When you sleep, when you’re away from the farm, and where you keep your prize pumpkin.”
The implications settled over them like the October chill. What had seemed like a straightforward case of competition theft was looking more complicated by the minute.
“So what do we do now?” Brenda asked, her voice smaller than it had been an hour ago.
Mona looked back toward the barn, then across the fence toward Tom Knowles’ property, then at the washed-out tire tracks that could tell them everything or nothing. The darkness was settling in earnest now, and the temperature was dropping with the sun.
“Now,” she said, checking her watch, “we call it a day. It’s getting too dark to investigate properly, and we need to think through what we’ve learned.”
“Plus I’m starving,” Ida announced, as if this was crucial evidence. “All this detective work makes me hungry.”
Ruth was already turning back toward the farmhouse, her phone light bobbing across the uneven ground. “She’s right. We can add Tom Knowles to our suspect list and pay him a visit tomorrow morning when we can actually see what we’re doing.”
“Good plan,” Helen agreed, falling into step beside her. “Fresh eyes and daylight make everything clearer.”
As they picked their way back across the field, Ida’s voice drifted through the darkness: “So where should we go for dinner? Somewhere with good portions—all this outdoor investigating works up an appetite.”
“How about Murphy’s Diner?” Ruth suggested. “They have a pot roast special on Tuesdays.”
“Ooh, and pie,” Helen added. “I could go for a nice slice of apple pie after tramping around in the dirt all afternoon.”
Mona smiled in the darkness. Tomorrow they’d tackle Tom Knowles and see what their suspicious neighbor had to say. But tonight, they’d fuel up for whatever revelations awaited them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains of Mona’s apartment as the four ladies gathered once again around the mahogany dining table. The whiteboard stood at attention like a military aide waiting for orders, yesterday’s suspect list still visible in red marker.
Ida had already arranged a fresh selection of pastries on Mona’s good china plates—apple turnovers, blueberry muffins, and what appeared to be enough cinnamon rolls to feed a small army. The coffeepot percolated cheerfully in the kitchen, filling the apartment with the aroma of serious business about commencing.
“All right, ladies,” Mona said, positioning herself in front of the whiteboard with a fresh marker. “Today’s plan of attack.”
She wrote “Today’s Agenda” across the top of the board in bold letters, then turned back to face the group.
“First priority—Gertrude Hartwell,” she announced, writing her name under the agenda. “We need to hear her side of the story and see if she has an alibi.”
“Oh, I know!” Helen said, sitting up straighter in her chair with the excitement of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “She’s in my book club. I can tell her I’m there on official book club business.”
“What kind of official business?” Ruth asked suspiciously.
“I’ll think of something. Emergency book selection, maybe. Or a scheduling conflict with our next meeting.” Helen waved her hand dismissively. “Trust me, I’ve been a journalist long enough to know how to get people talking.”
“Good plan,” Mona said, writing “Book Club Cover Story” next to Gertrude’s name. “We’ll need to make it convincing.”
Ida looked up from her apple turnover, a calculating gleam in her eye. “We should bring pastries. Nothing loosens tongues like good baked goods.”
“That’s actually brilliant,” Helen agreed. “Gertrude has a terrible sweet tooth. Show up with the right treats, and she’ll talk your ear off.”
“In that case,” Mona said, capping her marker, “first stop—the Cup and Cake. We’ll need ammunition.”
Twenty minutes later, they were clustered around the familiar glass display case at Lexy’s bakery, studying the morning’s selection like generals planning a military campaign.
“What do you think would work best on a competitive pumpkin grower?” Ruth asked, eyeing a tray of chocolate chip cookies.
“Something impressive,” Helen mused. “Gertrude appreciates quality. Maybe those lemon bars with the powdered sugar?”
“Ooh, or the cream cheese brownies,” Ida suggested, already pointing to the rich, marbled squares. “They look expensive.”
Lexy appeared behind the counter, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. “Morning, Nans. Let me guess—you need interrogation supplies?”
“Investigation supplies,” Mona corrected with dignity. “Interrogation sounds so harsh.”
“Of course.” Lexy’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “What can I get you?”
“A dozen of those lemon bars,” Helen decided. “And maybe some of the pumpkin cookies for good measure.”
Mona watched Lexy carefully arrange the pastries in a white bakery box. “Any word from Jack about a missing pumpkin report?”
“Nothing yet,” Lexy said. “Still no official police involvement.”
“Which strikes me as odd,” Ruth added. “You’d think someone would have filed a report by now.”
Lexy tied the box with pink striped ribbon and handed it across the counter. “Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’s you four. Just... try not to get arrested for trespassing or anything.”
“We’re paragons of legal behavior,” Ida said solemnly, then pointed at the display case. “Oh, I’ll take one of those cream cheese brownies for the road.”
“Ida!” Helen protested.
“What? It’s a long drive to Gertrude’s place. I need sustenance.” Ida wrapped the brownie in a napkin and tucked it into her purse with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d perfected portable pastry storage.
The drive to Gertrude Hartwell’s farm took them deeper into the countryside, where sprawling fields gave way to older, more established properties. Gertrude’s house sat at the end of a tree-lined drive, a weathered colonial that had clearly been standing since the area was first settled.
“Built in the 1600s,” Helen said as they approached the house. “One of the oldest continuously occupied homes in the county. Gertrude’s very proud of the historical significance.”
The house looked its age—weathered clapboard siding, small windows with diamond-shaped panes, and a massive stone chimney that dominated one end of the structure. But everything was impeccably maintained, from the perfectly painted shutters to the carefully tended flower beds that bordered the front walk.
“Impressive,” Ruth observed, parking beside a late-model pickup truck. “This is serious old money.”
They approached the front door, Helen carrying the bakery box like a diplomatic offering. Before they could knock, the door swung open to reveal a tall, angular woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun.
“Helen?” Gertrude Hartwell blinked in surprise, taking in the group assembled on her front step. “What brings you here? Is everything all right with the book club?”
Helen’s journalist training kicked in smoothly. “Oh, Gertrude, I’m so sorry to bother you at home. It’s just such a beautiful day, and we had some urgent book club business that couldn’t wait for our next meeting.”
“We brought pastries!” Ida announced cheerfully, apparently deciding that subtlety was overrated.
Gertrude’s stern expression softened slightly at the sight of the bakery box. “Well... I suppose you’d better come in then. Though I can’t imagine what could be so urgent.”
They followed her into a living room that looked like a museum exhibit on colonial life—low-beamed ceilings, wide-plank floors, and furniture that probably predated the Revolutionary War. Everything was perfectly preserved and intimidatingly clean.
“Tea?” Gertrude offered, gesturing for them to sit on what appeared to be a genuine Pilgrim-era settle.
“That would be lovely,” Helen said, settling carefully onto the antique furniture. “We hate to impose, but this really couldn’t wait.”
As Gertrude bustled off to prepare tea, Mona caught Helen’s eye and mouthed, “What’s the urgent business?”
Helen shrugged and mouthed back, “I’ll think of something.”
When Gertrude returned with a silver tea service that probably belonged in the Smithsonian, Mona decided to cut to the chase.
“Gertrude,” she said, accepting a delicate china cup, “we’re actually here about something else. We’re helping Brenda Mossberry with a... situation.”
Gertrude’s eyebrows rose. “Brenda? What kind of situation?”
“Her giant pumpkin has gone missing,” Ruth said bluntly. “Stolen from her barn sometime Sunday night.”
The teacup rattled slightly in Gertrude’s hands. “Stolen? That’s... that’s ridiculous. Who would steal a pumpkin?”
“Someone who didn’t want her to win the competition again this year,” Ida suggested, eyeing the lemon bars meaningfully.
Gertrude set down her teacup with a sharp clink. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with this alleged theft?”
“Not suggesting,” Mona said carefully. “Just asking. You’ve come in second to Brenda five years running. That has to be frustrating.”
“Frustrating?” Gertrude laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Why would I steal her pumpkin when I was going to beat her fair and square this year?”
The four ladies exchanged glances.
“You think you have a bigger pumpkin than Brenda’s?” Helen asked.
“I don’t think—I know.” Gertrude’s pride was evident in every word. “Five hundred and eighteen and a half pounds as of last week’s weighing, and she’s still growing strong. Brenda’s been bragging about her five hundred and twenty pounder all season, trying to psych me out, but she doesn’t know what I’ve got back here.”
“I can show you if you don’t believe me,” Gertrude said, standing up with sudden enthusiasm. “Come on, it’s just out back.”
She led them through a back door and into what could only be described as a pumpkin paradise. Rows upon rows of orange globes in various sizes dotted the landscape, from tiny pie pumpkins to massive specimens that looked like they belonged in fairy tales.
“This way,” Gertrude said, weaving through the rows with the confidence of someone who knew every plant personally. “She’s in the prime spot—best soil, perfect drainage, maximum sun exposure.”
Ruth paused to examine one of the pumpkin plants, her eyes widening at the sight. “Good heavens, look at the size of these stalks. They’re thick as tree branches.”
“That’s what it takes to support a champion,” Gertrude said proudly. “You can’t grow a record-breaker on a weak foundation.”
They reached the end of the patch, where a single enormous pumpkin sat like an orange throne. Beside it stood what appeared to be a professional-grade scale, the kind used at farmer’s markets for weighing large produce.
“There she is,” Gertrude announced, gesturing to her prize with the air of a museum curator unveiling a masterpiece.
The pumpkin was indeed massive—easily the size of a small bathtub, with a perfect round shape and deep orange color that seemed to glow in the morning sunlight.
“May I?” Gertrude asked, though she was already positioning herself beside the scale. With surprising strength for someone her age, she managed to roll the pumpkin onto the platform.
The digital display flickered for a moment, then settled on a number that made Gertrude gasp with delight.
“Five hundred and nineteen pounds!” she exclaimed. “A growth spurt! She gained a half pound since last week, and there’s still three days to go!”
“That’s... that’s enormous,” Ida said, momentarily forgetting about her cream cheese brownie as she stared at the giant gourd.
“And I’ll keep her growing as long as possible,” Gertrude said, carefully rolling the pumpkin back to its resting spot. “Every day counts when you’re trying to break records.”
She turned to face them with a triumphant smile. “See? I will win this year. Fair and square.”
“So why are you suspecting me?” Gertrude continued, her voice rising with indignation as they walked back toward the house. “I know I have the larger pumpkin, but what about Doris Cumberland? Now there’s someone with a real axe to grind.”
