Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies' Detective Club Book 1), page 8
“And tell them what?” Ruth replied with characteristic sarcasm. “That we think someone might be following us while we trespass on private property investigating produce theft? I’m sure Jack will drop everything to assign us a protective detail.”
“Which, to be fair, might be accurate,” Mona admitted. “But I’m starting to think our amateur detective work has attracted more attention than we bargained for.”
They drove in thoughtful silence for several minutes, each woman processing the implications of being under surveillance. The rural landscape that had seemed so peaceful earlier now felt full of potential threats.
“Well,” Ida said eventually, “paranoid or not, we still need to get those tire photos from Gertrude Hartwell. We can’t let a possible tail derail our investigation now.”
“Assuming Gertrude will cooperate,” Ruth said dubiously. “She wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat during our first visit. More like rolling out the barbed wire.”
“She’ll have to cooperate,” Mona declared, and the others recognized the tone that meant she was preparing to deploy “the look” if necessary. “We need those photographs for comparison analysis, and she’s the only other suspect with a tractor.”
Ruth checked her rearview mirror one more time, then suddenly gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Hold on, ladies. Time for some evasive maneuvers.”
“Ruth, what are you—” Helen began, but her words were cut off as Ruth yanked the wheel hard to the right, sending the massive Oldsmobile careening down a narrow side road with all the grace of a wayward shopping cart.
“Look out!” Ida shrieked from the back seat as they narrowly missed a stop sign, the car’s undercarriage scraping ominously against the pavement.
“Ruth!” Mona yelled, white-knuckling the dashboard as Ruth took another sharp turn without slowing down. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Losing our tail!” Ruth announced cheerfully, executing what could generously be called a turn but looked more like a controlled collision with the corner. “I saw this move on that detective show last week!”
The Oldsmobile’s tires squealed in protest as Ruth whipped around another bend, sending a flock of startled chickens scattering from someone’s front yard.
“Don’t run over that mailbox!” Helen screamed, pointing at the rapidly approaching wooden post that Ruth seemed determined to use as a slalom marker.
“I see it, I see it!” Ruth swerved at the last possible second, clipping the mailbox just enough to send it spinning like a pinwheel. “Barely touched it!”
“That’s Mrs. Peterson’s mailbox!” Ida wailed, twisting around to watch the carnage in their wake. “She’s going to call the police!”
“She won’t recognize the car at this speed,” Ruth replied with questionable logic, taking yet another turn that had Mona sliding across the bench seat like a hockey puck.
“Ruth, please!” Helen gasped, clutching her purse to her chest as if it might provide some protection against the laws of physics. “This is not how professional surveillance evasion works!”
“How would you know?” Ruth shot back, narrowly avoiding a fire hydrant that seemed to jump into their path. “When was the last time you were in a high-speed chase?”
“Never, and I’d like to keep it that way!”
The Oldsmobile bounced over what might have been a speed bump or possibly a small woodland creature—it was impossible to tell at their current velocity. Ruth yanked the wheel left, then right, weaving through a residential area with the determination of someone who had clearly watched too many action movies.
“There’s a dog!” Mona shrieked as a golden retriever bounded into the street, apparently under the impression that the giant blue car was some sort of interactive toy.
“I see him!” Ruth swerved around the confused animal, who seemed more excited than alarmed by their automotive ballet. “Good reflexes for an old girl, don’t you think?”
“The dog or the car?” Ida demanded, but her question was lost as Ruth took another corner on what felt like two wheels.
“Stop sign! Stop sign!” Helen pointed frantically at the intersection ahead.
“That’s more of a suggestion than a requirement,” Ruth replied, slowing down just enough to constitute what traffic court might generously call a “rolling stop.”
A trash can materialized in their path like a stubborn obstacle course marker. Ruth swerved around it, sending the metal container rolling across someone’s driveway with a tremendous clatter.
“Ruth! You can’t just—” Mona began.
“Watch me!” Ruth executed another turn that would have made a Nascar driver weep with either admiration or terror. “Besides, we’re losing them! Look behind us!”
Ida twisted around, peering through the rear window with the dedication of a submarine periscope operator. “I don’t see the sedan anymore, but I do see about three homeowners standing in their driveways looking very confused!”
“Mission accomplished!” Ruth declared triumphantly, though she was still driving as if pursued by agents of international espionage.
She took two more seemingly random turns down increasingly narrow country roads, doubled back through a residential area where concerned residents peered from behind curtains, then executed what could only be described as a strategic retreat through a church parking lot.
“Ruth,” Helen said in the carefully controlled voice of someone trying to remain calm, “why are we driving through Sacred Heart’s parking lot?”
“Shortcut!” Ruth replied, navigating between the neat rows of sensibly parked sedans with the confidence of someone who clearly considered this a reasonable life choice. “Plus, it’s consecrated ground. They can’t follow us here.”
“That’s vampires, Ruth!” Ida yelled. “Vampires can’t cross consecrated ground! Not stalkers!”
“Same principle!” Ruth emerged from the parking lot and merged back onto their original route with all the nonchalance of someone who hadn’t just treated the local neighborhood like a personal obstacle course.
After several more minutes of checking mirrors, scanning side roads, and looking for signs of their mysterious followers, Ruth finally began to slow down to something resembling legal speeds.
“Lost them,” she announced with obvious pride, patting the Oldsmobile’s dashboard affectionately. “Nothing like a little creative navigation to shake off unwanted company.”
“Creative navigation?” Helen gasped, still clutching her purse with both hands. “Is that what we’re calling your attempt to take out half the county’s infrastructure?”
“Hey, we’re here in one piece, aren’t we?” Ruth replied defensively. “And no more tail. Plus, I barely scratched that mailbox.”
“You turned Mrs. Peterson’s mailbox into a weather vane!” Ida protested.
“It’ll probably improve her mail delivery,” Ruth said optimistically. “More aerodynamic now.”
Mona was checking her pulse with the dedication of someone who wasn’t entirely convinced her heart was still beating properly. “Ruth, dear, I think we need to have a discussion about the difference between evasive driving and vehicular mayhem.”
“Did it work?” Ruth asked simply.
They all looked around. The country road stretched peacefully ahead of them, with no sign of the dark sedan or any other suspicious vehicles. Birds sang in the trees, completely unaware of the automotive chaos that had just swept through their peaceful rural neighborhood.
“Well,” Helen admitted grudgingly, “it did work.”
“Then I call it a success,” Ruth declared with satisfaction. “Now, shall we go see Gertrude about those tire photographs?”
As they turned onto the road leading to the Hartwell farm, they all breathed a collective sigh of relief. The dark sedan was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Hartwell property looked exactly as unwelcoming as it had during their previous visit. The farmhouse needed paint, the fence posts were crooked, and the entire place had an air of defensive hostility. Gertrude’s prized vegetable garden stretched along the front yard, each plant marked with small signs warning against trespassing.
“There she is,” Ruth said, spotting Gertrude working among her prize-winning pumpkin vines. “And judging by her body language, she’s about as thrilled to see us as a fox in a henhouse.”
Gertrude Hartwell straightened up from her gardening with the slow, deliberate movements of someone preparing for confrontation. She wiped her hands on her overalls and walked toward their car with obvious reluctance.
“What do you ladies want now?” Gertrude called out before they’d even finished parking. “I thought I made it clear yesterday that I don’t appreciate being accused of theft by a bunch of amateur busybodies.”
Mona climbed out of the car and fixed Gertrude with the look that had cowed three generations of family members and countless retirement center staff. “Gertrude, we are not busybodies. We are conducting a legitimate investigation into a serious crime, and your cooperation would be appreciated.”
Helen stepped forward with her most professional demeanor. “Gertrude, as I mentioned, I have a background in journalism. I’ve covered enough crime stories to know that the best way to clear your name is through documented evidence. May I ask you a few questions about your whereabouts on Sunday evening?”
“My whereabouts?” Gertrude’s voice rose defensively. “I was right here on my own property, tending to my own business, unlike some people I could mention.”
“Can anyone verify that?” Helen continued smoothly, pulling out a small notebook with practiced ease. “Family members, neighbors who might have seen you?”
“I don’t need anyone to verify anything,” Gertrude snapped. “I showed you my pumpkin yesterday. It’s bigger than Brenda’s ever was. Why would I steal a smaller pumpkin when I’ve got a prize-winner right here?”
“That’s exactly why we need your help,” Helen said, switching tactics with the skill of someone who’d interviewed reluctant sources for decades. “If you’re innocent—and we certainly hope you are—then helping us document that benefits everyone involved.”
Gertrude crossed her arms, her weathered face skeptical. “How do you figure that?”
“Well,” Ida said, approaching with her phone ready for photography, “someone stole Brenda’s pumpkin using a tractor. We’ve photographed tire treads from the crime scene. If we can photograph your tractor tires and prove they don’t match, then you’re completely cleared of suspicion.”
“Scientific evidence,” Mona added with authority. “No more speculation, no more accusations, no more visits from us asking uncomfortable questions.”
Ruth leaned against the car door with studied casualness. “Unless of course you have some reason to avoid having your tires photographed. In which case, I suppose we’d have to wonder what you’re hiding.”
Gertrude glared at Ruth, then at the others, clearly torn between indignation and pragmatism. “You’re saying these photos would prove I didn’t do it?”
“Exactly,” Helen confirmed in her most reassuring interviewer voice. “Think of it as clearing your good name through documentary evidence. Once we establish your innocence, we can focus our investigation elsewhere.”
Mona stepped closer, giving Gertrude the full weight of her most commanding presence. “The choice is yours, Gertrude. Cooperate now and put this matter to rest, or continue to be a suspect in an ongoing investigation. Which would you prefer?”
Gertrude held Mona’s gaze for a long moment, and the others could practically see her will crumbling under the force of that legendary look.
“Well,” Gertrude said finally, her resistance deflating, “I suppose if it gets you ladies to stop suspecting me of pumpkin theft, it might be worth the trouble. But I want it on record that I’m not happy about any of this nonsense.”
She led them toward a weathered barn, where her tractor sat parked beside various pieces of farm equipment. The machine looked well-maintained despite its age, with large agricultural tires that showed plenty of wear.
“There’s my tractor,” Gertrude announced with lingering indignation. “Take all the pictures you want. You’ll see these tires never set foot on Brenda Mossberry’s property.”
Ida immediately began photographing the tire treads and tracks from multiple angles, paying careful attention to the distinctive wear patterns and tread design. “These are perfect,” she murmured, checking each image for clarity and detail. “Clear definition, good lighting, excellent contrast for mathematical analysis.”
While Ida worked, Helen positioned herself to continue her interview. “Gertrude, in your experience, how long would it take to transport a large pumpkin by tractor from one farm to another?”
“Depends on the distance and terrain,” Gertrude replied, apparently warming to the technical discussion. “Cross-country through fields? Maybe twenty minutes if you know the routes. But you’d need proper equipment—a front loader or a trailer. You can’t just toss a five hundred pound pumpkin in your lap.”
“And someone would need to know the area well?” Helen pressed gently.
“Course they would. You can’t just go blundering around farmland in the dark. Too many fences, ditches, soft spots that’ll bog you down.”
Ruth was scanning the surrounding area when she noticed the dark sedan, now positioned with a clear line of sight to their location. “Ladies, our fan club is back. Same car, same careful distance.”
All four women turned to look where Ruth was pointing. The sedan was indeed clearly visible, no longer making any pretense of concealment.
“Fan club?” Gertrude asked sharply, following their gaze. “What are you talking about?”
“That dark sedan,” Mona said reluctantly. “It’s been following us all morning.”
“Following you?” Gertrude’s tone shifted from annoyance to alarm. “What did you ladies get yourselves mixed up in?”
“We’re not entirely sure,” Ruth said honestly. “But it seems this missing pumpkin might be more important than we originally thought.”
“A pumpkin?” Gertrude stared at them incredulously. “Someone’s following you over a missing pumpkin? If I were you ladies, I’d be careful. Some of your suspects might not be stable. Take Doris, for example.”
Mona frowned. “What about Doris?”
Gertrude glanced around, then hesitated. “Well, it’s not really for me to say, but let’s just say she’s made some very dark threats against people that cross her.”
“We’re almost finished anyway,” Ida assured her, taking the last few tire tread photographs. “These should give us everything we need for a comprehensive comparative analysis.”
“And when will you have results?” Gertrude asked, her tone suggesting she wanted this entire situation resolved immediately.
“I’ll need several hours to process the images and run the comparative measurements,” Ida replied with scientific precision. “But I should have preliminary findings by this afternoon, with full analysis complete by evening.”
Mona fixed Gertrude with another authoritative look. “The sooner we clear this up, the sooner everyone can get back to their normal routines without suspicious cars or unwanted visits.”
As they prepared to leave, the dark sedan began moving again, positioning itself to resume surveillance. The subtle cat-and-mouse game had evolved into an open monitoring operation.
“Gertrude,” Helen said, slipping into her professional mode one final time, “if you see anything else suspicious, or if anyone comes around asking questions about us or this investigation, would you contact Ruth immediately? This could be important for everyone’s safety.”
“I might,” Gertrude replied, though her tone had softened considerably under Mona’s continued influence. “Assuming you prove I had nothing to do with this pumpkin business.”
“We will,” Helen promised, though her attention was focused on documenting the sedan’s license plate number for her notes.
Ruth started the engine with characteristic directness. “Well, ladies, looks like our little agricultural investigation has graduated to the big leagues. Anyone else feeling like we might be in over our heads?”
As they pulled away from the Hartwell farm, their mysterious tail fell in behind them with almost professional precision. The game of amateur detection had suddenly become much more serious, and none of them were quite sure what they’d gotten themselves into.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ruth pulled into the Cup and Cake parking lot like a getaway driver, her eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirror. The sedan hadn’t appeared since they left Gertie’s, but that somehow made her more nervous, not less.
“Coast looks clear,” Mona said, though she was scanning the street just as intently as Ruth.
“For now,” Helen added grimly, clutching her purse with white knuckles.
Ida was practically bouncing in her seat, completely undeterred by their surveillance situation. “Perfect timing for the tire tread analysis! The lighting in here should be optimal for photographic comparison work.”
They made their way into the cozy café like a tactical unit, Ruth holding the door while the others filed in, everyone stealing glances over their shoulders. The familiar warmth and coffee-scented air of Cup and Cake should have been comforting, but their paranoia was running too high for complete relaxation.
“Corner table,” Ruth murmured, nodding toward a spot where they could watch both the entrance and the parking lot through the large front windows.
“Excellent defensive positioning,” Ida agreed, making her way toward the table with her purse full of investigation materials.
Once they were settled with their backs to the wall and clear sightlines to all potential threats, Ida began unpacking her supplies with the efficiency of a forensic investigator. She spread out printed photos of tire treads, mathematical charts covered in measurements and calculations, and several magnifying glasses of varying strengths.
