Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies' Detective Club Book 1), page 5
The four ladies leaned forward with interest.
“Doris Cumberland?” Mona asked.
“She runs the pie stall at the fall festival,” Gertrude explained, warming to her subject. “At the bake sale last month, Brenda made some very nasty comments about Doris’s pies. Said she should puree them with canned pumpkin instead of her ‘shrivelly little gourds.’”
“Ouch,” Ida winced. “That’s harsh.”
“Doris was furious,” Gertrude continued. “She swore she’d get even. I heard her muttering something about ‘teaching Brenda about small gourds.’ Everyone at the contest heard it.”
Helen looked puzzled. “But isn’t a pumpkin technically a gourd?”
“Exactly!” Gertrude said triumphantly. “Doris knows her gourds. If anyone would know how to handle a giant pumpkin, it would be someone who works with them professionally.”
Ruth was already pulling out her iPad. “Doris Cumberland... pie stall... I need to look this up.”
“She’s got a small farm on the other side of town,” Gertrude added helpfully. “Grows all her own pumpkins and squash for the pies. Very proud of her traditional methods.”
Mona found herself believing the woman’s indignation about the theft, but more importantly, Gertrude had just handed them a new suspect with both motive and means.
“Have you seen anything suspicious around Brenda’s farm lately?” Helen asked. “Any unusual activity?”
Gertrude considered this. “Well, now that you mention it, I did see that environmental activist woman poking around the area last week. Laura something-or-other. She was quite agitated about Brenda’s pesticide use.”
“Laura Jenkins,” Ida supplied helpfully.
“That’s the one. And there was talk at the feed store about Tom Knowles being fed up with Brenda’s runoff problems. But honestly, if I were you, I’d look into Doris Cumberland first. Hell hath no fury like a pie baker scorned.”
As they prepared to leave, Gertrude walked them to the door with a thoughtful expression.
“I hope you find Brenda’s pumpkin,” she said, and she seemed to mean it. “Competition isn’t any fun when your opponent doesn’t show up to lose fairly.”
Back in Ruth’s car, they sat in contemplative silence for a moment.
“Well,” Mona said finally, “I believe her about not stealing the pumpkin.”
“So do I,” Helen agreed. “And she just gave us a new suspect with a very specific motive.”
“Doris Cumberland,” Ruth said, consulting her iPad. “And according to this, her farm is only about two miles from Brenda’s place.”
Ida unwrapped her cream cheese brownie and took a thoughtful bite. “A pie maker would definitely know how to handle pumpkins.”
“Plus,” Mona added, “public humiliation is a powerful motive. If Brenda embarrassed her in front of everyone at the fair…”
“But where do we find her and what excuse do we use to talk to her?” Ruth asked.
“Leave that to me,” Helen whipped out her iPad. “Meanwhile, let’s hustle over to the Knowles farm and see what he has to say for himself.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The drive to Knowles Organic Produce took them down a winding country road lined with weathered stone walls and maple trees showing off their autumn colors. Hand-painted signs along the way advertised “Farm Fresh Vegetables,” “No Pesticides,” and “Earth-Friendly Farming Since 1987” in cheerful green lettering.
“There it is,” Helen said, pointing to a rustic wooden sign that read “Knowles Organic Produce - Supporting Sustainable Agriculture.”
Ruth pulled into a gravel parking area beside what appeared to be a converted barn. The structure had been painted a cheerful sage green with white trim, and large windows displayed an abundance of fresh produce arranged in wicker baskets. Strings of dried corn and miniature gourds hung from the eaves, giving the whole place a festive harvest atmosphere.
“Very picturesque,” Ruth observed, surveying the scene. “Looks like they’ve put a lot of effort into the presentation.”
A hand-lettered chalkboard by the entrance proclaimed “Today’s Specials: Heirloom Tomatoes, Organic Squash, Chemical-Free Apples!” in flowing script, decorated with little drawings of vegetables around the borders.
“Someone’s artistic,” Ida noted, admiring the chalkboard work. “And passionate about the organic lifestyle.”
They approached the farm stand, where a middle-aged man with graying hair and work-worn hands was arranging butternut squash in a wooden crate. He wore a faded flannel shirt and jeans that had clearly seen plenty of honest labor.
“Morning, ladies,” he said with a friendly smile, though his eyes held a hint of wariness. “Beautiful day for a drive, isn’t it? What can I help you with?”
“Are you Tom Knowles?” Mona asked, stepping forward with what she hoped was a disarming smile.
“That’s me,” he confirmed, straightening up from his squash arrangement. “These your first time visiting our stand?”
“It is,” Helen said, looking around at the impressive display of produce. “We heard wonderful things about your organic vegetables.”
“Well, I appreciate that. We work hard to maintain our certification.” There was pride in his voice, but also something that sounded like defensiveness. “Everything here is grown without chemicals, pesticides, or artificial fertilizers.”
“That must be challenging,” Ruth said, examining a display of pristine carrots. “Especially with neighbors who use conventional farming methods.”
Tom’s expression darkened slightly. “You could say that. Some folks don’t care about the impact their practices have on the environment. Or on their neighbors’ operations.”
“Oh, my!” a cheerful voice called from inside the stand. “Do we have customers?”
A woman emerged from behind the counter, wiping her hands on an apron decorated with sunflowers. She was shorter than Tom, with curly brown hair streaked with silver and the kind of warm smile that made people feel immediately welcome.
“This is my wife, Ivy,” Tom said, his demeanor softening as she approached.
“Welcome to Knowles Organic!” Ivy beamed at them. “I was just arranging our new environmentally friendly merchandise. We’ve expanded beyond just produce this season.”
She gestured toward a display table that hadn’t been visible from the parking area. It was arranged with an eclectic mix of eco-friendly products: canvas tote bags printed with “Save the Earth” messages, all-natural bug spray bottles, wooden signs with environmental slogans, and cute pot holders with leaves embroidered on them.
“How lovely,” Helen said, moving closer to examine the merchandise. “Very thoughtful selection.”
Tom stepped closer to his wife, his expression becoming more guarded. “Ivy, these ladies were asking about our farming practices. Specifically about neighbors who use conventional methods.”
“Oh.” Ivy’s smile faltered slightly as she picked up on her husband’s tone. “Well, we try to focus on our own practices rather than criticizing others.”
“Even when those others’ practices directly affect your land?” Ruth asked pointedly.
Tom’s jaw tightened. “If you’re referring to the Mossberry farm, yes, we’ve had some... challenges with chemical runoff. But I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”
“We’re helping Brenda with a problem,” Mona explained. “Her prize pumpkin went missing Sunday night, and we’re trying to figure out what happened to it.”
“Missing?” Ivy looked genuinely surprised. “You mean someone stole it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Helen said. “Tom, you signed Laura Jenkins’ petition about pesticide use, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Tom said firmly. “Those chemicals don’t stay on Brenda’s property. They run off into the groundwater, they contaminate my soil, and they kill beneficial insects that our ecosystem depends on.”
“That must be frustrating,” Mona observed. “Especially when you work so hard to maintain organic certification.”
“Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it,” Tom said, his voice rising slightly. “Do you know what it costs to get land re-certified organic if it’s been contaminated? Years of work, thousands of dollars, and that’s assuming the contamination hasn’t done permanent damage.”
Ivy placed a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. “Tom, honey, you’re getting worked up again.”
“Sorry,” he said, taking a deep breath. “It’s just... we’ve been fighting this battle for years, and sometimes it feels like nobody understands the stakes.”
“We understand more than you might think,” Ida said sympathetically. “But stealing someone’s prize pumpkin seems like a pretty extreme form of protest.”
Tom’s eyes flashed with anger. “Are you accusing me of theft?”
“We’re just trying to understand what happened,” Ruth said diplomatically. “Your property borders Mason Road, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Tom said.
“Have you noticed any other tractors coming through that area recently?” Mona asked. “Maybe from the roadside rather than from Brenda’s property?”
Tom and Ivy exchanged glances, both thinking carefully.
“We’re not here all the time,” Ivy said slowly. “We spend a lot of time at the farmers market on weekends, and Tom’s often in the far fields during the day.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed anything unusual,” Tom said. “Though I did hear Brenda’s tractor around midnight Sunday. She runs it at all hours, though I have no idea what she is doing in the middle of the night.”
“And you’re sure it was Brenda’s tractor?” Helen asked.
“Sure. I know the sound of that old John Deere. She’s been running the same machine for fifteen years—it has a distinctive engine knock.”
“You have the equipment to move something as heavy as a five hundred pound pumpkin?” Ruth pressed.
“Of course I do. Any farmer would. But why would I steal Brenda’s pumpkin?” Tom’s voice was getting defensive again. “And honestly? Even if I wanted to get back at her for the contamination, I wouldn’t touch anything that’s been doused in pesticides. The whole point of organic farming is avoiding that poison.”
“That’s true,” Ivy nodded emphatically. “Tom won’t even handle conventionally grown produce when we’re shopping. He says you never know what chemicals might transfer to your skin.”
“Plus,” Tom continued, “where would I put a giant pumpkin? You can’t exactly hide something that size. My customers would notice a five hundred and twenty pound pumpkin sitting around, and they’d start asking questions.”
This stopped the conversation cold. The four ladies looked at each other as the implications of Tom’s words sank in.
“That’s... actually a very good point,” Mona said slowly. “Where would someone put a stolen pumpkin that size?”
“Not in a barn,” Ruth said thoughtfully. “Too obvious.”
“Not in a house,” Helen added. “Too big.”
“You’d need somewhere secure but not too visible,” Ida mused. “Somewhere the thief could access it easily, but others couldn’t stumble across it.”
Tom was watching this exchange with growing interest. “You ladies really don’t know where this pumpkin is, do you?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Mona admitted.
“Well,” Tom said, “whoever took it either has a very specific plan for it, or they’re stuck with a five hundred and twenty pound problem they can’t solve.”
“What do you mean?” Helen asked.
“Think about it,” Tom said, warming to the subject despite his earlier hostility. “A pumpkin that size isn’t like stealing a bicycle. You can’t just ride it away and forget about it. It needs to be kept cool and dry, or it’ll start rotting. It’s too heavy to move without equipment. And it’s so distinctive that you can’t exactly take it to market and sell it.”
Ivy nodded in agreement.
“So what would someone do with it?” Mona asked, genuinely curious now.
Tom shrugged. “If it were me—and it’s not—I’d say whoever took it either destroyed it to keep Brenda from competing, or they’re planning to return it at the last minute to create some kind of chaos at the festival.”
As they prepared to leave, Tom followed them toward the parking area.
“Look,” he said, “I know I seem like an obvious suspect because of my problems with Brenda’s farming practices. But stealing her pumpkin wouldn’t solve anything. The contamination would still be there, and I’d be facing criminal charges on top of it.”
“Where were you Sunday night?” Ruth asked directly.
“Here with Ivy. We watched a movie and went to bed early. I had to be up at five Monday morning to harvest lettuce for the Tuesday market.”
“Anyone who can verify that?” Mona pressed.
Tom and Ivy looked at each other. “Just each other,” Ivy said apologetically. “We don’t really have neighbors close enough to notice our lights or anything.”
As they drove away from the farm stand, the four ladies sat in thoughtful silence for several minutes.
“Well,” Ruth said finally, “he makes some good points about the logistics of pumpkin theft.”
“And about where someone would hide a pumpkin that size,” Helen added. “It’s not exactly easy to conceal.”
“I believe him about not wanting to touch anything covered in pesticides,” Ida said. “He seemed genuinely disgusted by the idea.”
“But he also has the strongest motive,” Mona pointed out. “Years of contamination problems, legal battles over organic certification...”
“True,” Ruth agreed. “Though his wife seems genuinely convinced he wouldn’t do it.”
“The question is,” Mona said slowly, “if Tom Knowles didn’t take the pumpkin, and Gertrude Hartwell doesn’t need to take it because she’s got a bigger one, then who did? And more importantly—where is it?”
“Good questions,” Helen said. “I don’t have the answers to those, but I do have an answer to an earlier question. I know where we can find Doris Cumberland.”
Ruth glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Really?”
“Yep, turns out she’s over in Deerfield at the Apple Festival. She’s got a pie booth.”
“That’s perfect!” Ida said. “I could really use a piece of pie right now!”
CHAPTER NINE
The short drive to Millfield took them through rolling countryside dotted with farms and orchards. The neighboring town’s square had been transformed into an autumn festival, with white tents arranged in neat rows and bunting stretching between the trees.
“Oh my,” Helen breathed as they parked. “This is quite the production.”
They strolled between the booths, taking in the competing aromas of cinnamon, vanilla, and brown sugar. Families with children wandered from tent to tent, sampling goods and chatting with the bakers.
“There she is over there,” Ruth said, pointing toward a particularly busy booth. “She’s drawing quite a crowd.”
As they got closer to the display, the theme of Doris’s offerings became unmistakable. Everything was autumn-themed, with a heavy emphasis on one particular ingredient.
“Look at that pumpkin pie,” Ida said admiringly, eyeing a golden-crusted beauty that looked like it belonged in a magazine.
“The pumpkin bread looks divine,” Ruth added, pointing to perfectly formed loaves with a golden-brown crust.
Mona’s gaze fell on a tray of frosted cookies. “Those pumpkin cookies look professional quality.”
Ruth stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Doris, do you know that Brenda’s giant pumpkin was stolen?”
Doris frowned, her gaze darting around her booth full of pumpkin baked goods. Mona watched her carefully, wondering if she was worried they were on to her.
“Stolen?” Doris said, though she didn’t sound particularly surprised or concerned.
“Right from her barn Sunday night,” Ida added helpfully. “Five hundred and twenty pounds of prize-winning pumpkin, gone without a trace.”
Doris straightened up, her expression shifting to insulted outrage. “Are you accusing me of stealing it?”
“Now, dear, calm down,” Ruth said diplomatically. “We’re not accusing anyone of anything. But we do know you have a beef with her.”
“A beef?” Doris’s laugh was bitter. “That woman has been making life miserable for every baker in three counties for years. But stealing her pumpkin? That’s not my style.”
“How so?” Helen asked, genuinely curious now. “Has she done things to other people?”
“Too many to list,” Doris said, warming to her subject. “Sabotaged Patricia Miller’s apple pie recipe by telling her the wrong oven temperature. Spread rumors about Mary Wilton’s sanitation practices. ‘Accidentally’ bumped into Bill Fredericks cake display last year, ruining his entry.”
The four ladies leaned closer, their investigative instincts fully engaged.
“That sounds pretty serious,” Mona said carefully.
“Oh, it gets worse,” Doris continued, apparently relieved to finally find an audience for her grievances. She has borrowed recipes without giving credit, undercut the prices of other bakers at the farmer’s market, and even filed false complaints with the health department about competitors.
“And no one’s ever called her on it?” Ruth asked.
Doris snorted. “Who’s going to challenge the woman who wins every competition? Everyone’s afraid of what she might do to their businesses.” She gestured around her booth. “That’s why I started selling in other towns. At least here I don’t have to worry about her sabotaging my displays.”
“So you’re glad someone stole her pumpkin?” Ida asked bluntly.
“Honestly? Yes,” Doris said without hesitation. “It’s about time someone gave her a taste of her own medicine. Everyone knows that for Brenda, losing isn’t an option. She’d rather invent a win than admit a loss, so she does whatever she can to make sure she comes out a winner.”
