Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies' Detective Club Book 1), page 9
Lexy appeared at their table with the coffeepot, taking in the spread of evidence with obvious curiosity. “Ladies, you look like you’re planning a bank heist or solving a murder. What’s with all the spy stuff?”
“Scientific analysis,” Ida said importantly, adjusting one of her magnifying glasses. “We’re conducting comparative measurements using geometric principles and statistical modeling.”
Lexy poured coffee into their cups while studying the tire tread photos with interest. “Okay, but why do you all look like you’re expecting the FBI to kick down the door any minute?”
The four women exchanged glances. Ruth finally spoke up, keeping her voice low. “Someone’s been following us. Same car, three different locations. We think it might be connected to... well, to what we’re working on.”
“Following you?” Lexy’s voice rose with concern. “Should I call Jack?”
“We’re not sure it’s that serious yet,” Mona said quickly. “Could be a coincidence.”
“Three-location convergence probability indicates less than eight percent chance of coincidence,” Ida added, pulling out a calculator. “But we need more data points for a definitive statistical conclusion.”
Lexy looked around the café, taking in the few other customers. “Well, you picked a good spot. I can see everything from behind the counter, and Cassie’s in the kitchen if you need backup. What are you working on that’s got people following you around?”
Helen cleared her throat diplomatically. “We’re looking into something that went missing from a friend’s property. Agricultural theft.”
“That pumpkin theft you asked about earlier?” Lexy asked, intrigued.
Mona nodded.
“I didn’t realize that would get so serious.” Lexy glanced out the window. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for suspicious cars. You ladies want your usual pastries while you do your... agricultural investigation?”
“Please,” Mona said gratefully. “And maybe keep those coffee cups full. This might take a while.”
As Lexy headed back to the counter, returning moments later with a generous assortment of pastries on a large plate, Ida was already deep into her analysis, using a ruler to measure tire tread patterns in the photographs with impressive precision.
Ida immediately claimed a pumpkin spice cookie from the selection, placing it squarely on her plate, then discreetly wrapped a cinnamon scone in a napkin and tucked it into her purse. “Emergency snack,” she explained matter-of-factly when Helen raised an eyebrow. “Mathematical analysis requires sustained energy levels.”
“First comparison,” she announced, placing Tom Knowles’s tire tread photos next to the crime scene evidence from Brenda’s farm. “Tread width: Tom’s tractor tires measure 18.3 centimeters between major grooves. Crime scene tire tracks measure 21.7 centimeters.”
Ruth kept one eye on the parking lot while Ida worked. A blue pickup truck pulled in, but it was just old Mr. Jenkins from the hardware store. A red sedan drove past on the street, but it didn’t slow down or seem to be watching them.
“Tread pattern analysis,” Ida continued, adjusting her magnifying glass. “Tom’s tires show a standard agricultural pattern—straight parallel grooves with minimal cross-hatching. The crime scene photos show a more complex pattern with diagonal elements and deeper channeling.”
“What does that mean?” Helen asked, though she was also monitoring the entrance.
“It means,” Ida said with obvious satisfaction, “that Tom Knowles’s tractor did not make the tire tracks at Brenda’s farm. The mathematics are conclusive.”
Mona looked up from watching the street. “So Tom’s not our pumpkin thief?”
“Not based on tire evidence,” Ida confirmed, already moving on to the next set of photos. “Now let’s examine Gertrude Hartwell’s tractor treads.”
She spread out the photos they’d managed to take during their reconnaissance mission at Gertrude’s farm, positioning them carefully next to the crime scene evidence.
“Gertrude’s tires,” Ida began, measuring carefully, “show a width of 19.8 centimeters between major grooves. Still not a match for the 21.7-centimeter crime scene measurement.”
Ruth spotted a dark car turning onto their street and tensed, but it was just a family heading to the grocery store next door.
“Pattern analysis for Gertrude’s tires,” Ida continued, consulting her charts. “Standard farm implement treads, designed for soil traction rather than road use. The crime scene pattern shows characteristics more consistent with mixed-use agricultural equipment.”
“Another elimination?” Mona asked.
“Another elimination,” Ida confirmed, sitting back with obvious disappointment. “Neither Tom nor Gertrude’s tractors match the tire evidence from the crime scene.”
The reality of what this meant began to sink in around the table. Their two prime suspects—the ones with obvious motives and clear means—had been ruled out by scientific evidence.
“So we’re back to Laura Jenkins and Doris Cumberland,” Helen said thoughtfully.
“Neither of whom seemed physically capable of moving a five hundred and twenty pound pumpkin,” Ruth pointed out, still scanning the parking lot.
“Unless they had help,” Mona suggested. “Or equipment we don’t know about.”
Ida was already packing up her tire tread analysis materials, though she kept glancing at her calculations as if hoping the numbers would change. “The mathematics don’t lie. Whatever vehicle was used at Brenda’s farm, it wasn’t Tom’s or Gertrude’s tractor.”
“Ladies,” Helen said quietly, her voice tight with tension. “Don’t look obvious about it, but there’s a dark sedan parked across the street. Same profile as the car that’s been following us.”
They all tried to glance casually toward the window while maintaining a normal conversation. Sure enough, a dark sedan was positioned across the street with a clear view of the café entrance.
“That’s definitely our tail,” Ruth said grimly. “Third sighting today.”
“Should we confront them?” Mona asked, her journalist instincts kicking in. “March over there and demand to know who they are and what they want?”
“Absolutely,” Ruth said, starting to stand up. “I’m tired of being followed around like some kind of criminal.”
But Ida grabbed her arm. “Wait. Let’s observe first. The scientific method applies to surveillance situations too. We should gather data before taking action.”
They spent the next several minutes trying to act natural while stealing glances at the mysterious vehicle. The windows were tinted dark enough that they couldn’t see the driver, but the car remained motionless, clearly watching the café.
“This is ridiculous,” Ruth finally declared, pushing back her chair. “I’m going over there.”
“We’ll come with you,” Helen said, standing up as well.
But as they gathered their courage and prepared to march across the street for a confrontation, the sedan’s engine started. By the time they made it to the café door, the mysterious vehicle was already pulling away, disappearing around the corner with practiced ease.
“Cowards,” Ruth muttered, staring after the departed car.
“Professional cowards,” Ida corrected, consulting her watch. “They maintained surveillance for exactly eleven minutes, then departed when we showed signs of direct engagement. That’s not amateur behavior.”
Back at their table, the mood had shifted from scientific excitement to genuine unease. The tire tread analysis had eliminated their prime suspects, and their mysterious followers were becoming increasingly difficult to dismiss as coincidence.
“So where does this leave us?” Helen asked as they prepared to leave the café.
“With two suspects who don’t seem physically capable of the crime,” Mona summarized.
“And professional surveillance of unknown origin,” Ruth added darkly.
“But also with definitive scientific evidence about what didn’t happen,” Ida said, trying to maintain some optimism. “We can rule out Tom and Gertrude completely. That narrows our focus to Doris Cumberland and Laura Jenkins.”
“Don’t forget, we still haven’t found the pumpkin,” Ruth said.
“Unless, it’s not a pumpkin anymore.” Ida bit into a pumpkin molasses cookie.
Ruth frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What if someone cut it up and used it. Like for baked goods?” Ida said.
“Doris Cumberland did have a lot of pumpkin dishes at her booth,” Helen sipped her coffee.
“We need to get back to the whiteboard,” Ruth declared. “Reassess everything we know with Tom and Gertrude eliminated.”
Mona’s phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at the screen, her mouth tightening.
Brenda: Only one more day! Please tell me you have something
The four women exchanged uneasy looks.
“Absolutely,” Mona agreed. “This changes our whole suspect matrix.”
“And of course we’ll need proper sustenance for strategic planning,” Ida added practically.
They all turned toward the café counter in unison.
“Lexy!” Helen called out. “A box of assorted to go, please!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Back at Mona’s apartment, they spread their evidence across the mahogany dining table like seasoned detectives, though the delicate rose-painted teacups and lace doilies somewhat undermined the serious crime-solving atmosphere.
“All right, ladies,” Mona said, settling into her chair with the authority of someone who’d watched too many police procedurals. “Let’s face facts. We’ve eliminated our two best suspects with cold, hard mathematics.”
Ida looked up from her tire tread calculations with obvious pride, despite their disappointing results. “Tom Knowles and Gertrude Hartwell are definitively cleared. The numbers don’t lie.”
“Which leaves us with Laura Jenkins, the scarecrow-armed bee enthusiast, and Doris Cumberland, the vengeful pie maker,” Ruth summarized, consulting her iPad.
Helen abandoned her post at the window long enough to rejoin the group. “I keep thinking about that car following us. Three separate sightings isn’t coincidence—it’s surveillance.”
“Professional surveillance,” Ruth corrected grimly. “They knew exactly when to back off, when to disappear. That’s not amateur hour.”
Mona frowned. “But who conducts professional surveillance over a stolen pumpkin? It’s not exactly organized crime.”
“Maybe it’s not about the pumpkin,” Helen said, returning to peek through the curtains. “Maybe investigating it led us somewhere we weren’t supposed to go.”
Ida set down her magnifying glass with uncharacteristic hesitation. “What if my calculations were wrong? What if I eliminated Tom and Gertrude by mistake, and we’re chasing the wrong suspects while the real thief gets away?”
“Ida, you measured those tire treads more thoroughly than a forensics team,” Ruth said firmly. “Your methodology was bulletproof.”
“But mathematical principles are only as good as their application,” Ida worried, recalculating measurements for the dozenth time. “Human error could have compromised everything.”
Ruth closed her iPad with a decisive snap. “Maybe we should call Jack. I know this isn’t his case—nobody died, nobody got hurt—but surveillance suggests this is bigger than we thought.”
“And tell him what?” Mona asked. “That we think someone might be following us while we investigate produce theft? He’ll laugh us right out of the station.”
“It’s up to us to find justice,” Ruth muttered, though she sounded less convinced than usual.
Mona stood up and moved to their makeshift evidence board with renewed determination. “We’re not giving up now. We’re close—I can feel it.”
“Close to what?” Ruth asked skeptically. “We have two suspects who couldn’t lift a pumpkin if their lives depended on it, and mysterious followers who seem more qualified for this investigation than we are.”
“Which means we’re on the right track,” Mona insisted. “Someone thinks we matter enough to watch. That’s not random—that’s reactive.”
For the next hour, they brainstormed approaches to their remaining suspects, trying to balance investigation with safety.
“I could attend one of Laura Jenkins’s bee conservation workshops,” Helen suggested. “Natural cover story—research for the garden club.”
“And I could legitimately ask Doris Cumberland about her pie recipes for the senior center cookbook project,” Ida added, warming to the idea.
Helen returned to her surveillance post, systematically scanning the street. “That white van by the corner market wasn’t there when we arrived. Could be nothing, could be our watchers adapting.”
The frustration was building like steam in a pressure cooker.
“I hate feeling watched,” Ruth muttered.
“I hate having suspects who seem physically incapable of the crime,” Mona added.
“I hate second-guessing my mathematics,” Ida said, reviewing her calculations again.
“And I hate not knowing who’s out there,” Helen concluded from the window.
As the afternoon wore on, their speculation grew increasingly wild.
“Maybe it’s one of our suspects,” Helen suggested. “Laura or Doris, monitoring our investigation.”
“Or someone we haven’t considered yet,” Ida mused.
Ruth looked up with sudden concern. “Or maybe it’s personal. I’ve dated some pretty sketchy guys over the years.”
“Ruth!” Helen exclaimed.
“What? There’s Derek, who turned out to be married to three different women. And Brad, who might have been running an illegal turtle racing operation. And don’t get me started on Mike, who claimed he was a landscape architect, but I’m pretty sure he was actually smuggling garden gnomes across state lines.”
“Garden gnome smuggling?” Mona asked incredulously.
“It’s a thing! They have different regulations in different states. Mike was very passionate about gnome freedom.”
Ida looked up from her charts. “Actually, personal connections would explain the surveillance timing better than random criminal interest.”
“Or,” Helen said thoughtfully, “maybe it’s connected to Ida’s CIA background. Some old case resurfacing.”
“My CIA work was decades ago,” Ida protested. “Mostly statistical analysis and pattern recognition. Nothing that should attract current attention.”
“Unless someone’s worried about exactly those skills,” Helen pointed out. “Your ability to find patterns others miss.”
“Like what? The secret conspiracy behind competitive pumpkin growing?” Ruth asked sarcastically.
“Stranger things have happened,” Mona said. “Remember the ferret case.”
“The ferret was living in the church organ,” Ida reminded her. “That’s not exactly international espionage.”
“No, but it taught us that innocent situations can hide complicated truths,” Mona replied.
By late afternoon, they’d exhausted their theories and energy. Their stalker could be anyone—suspects, ex-boyfriends, foreign agents, or completely unknown entities with interests they couldn’t begin to fathom.
“This is incredibly helpful,” Ruth said dryly. “Really narrows it down to everyone we’ve ever met plus some people we haven’t.”
“At least we know they’re professionals,” Helen added from her window post. “Amateur surveillance would be more obvious.”
“Which brings us back to why professionals would care about four amateur detectives investigating produce theft,” Ida said with obvious frustration.
The silence that followed was heavy with unanswered questions. They were no closer to solving Brenda’s case, but they’d somehow attracted attention that far exceeded anything a stolen pumpkin should warrant.
“Maybe,” Mona said quietly, “the pumpkin was never the real target. Maybe stealing it was meant to trigger exactly this kind of investigation.”
“That’s terrifying,” Helen said.
“Or maybe we stumbled into something we were never meant to find,” Ruth added pessimistically, “and now we’re in way over our heads.”
Just as the weight of their situation was settling over them like a suffocating blanket, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. Precise, deliberate, official-sounding.
The four women froze around the dining table, their evidence spread before them like an accusation.
Ruth grabbed her purse, checking for her phone. Mona gathered their most incriminating notes. Ida clutched her mathematical calculations protectively.
The knocking came again. Three raps, pause, three more. Patient but insistent.
Mona glanced out the window to see that the sedan’s driver seat was empty.
“Oh no!” she whispered, voice tight with panic. “It’s our stalker!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Helen grabbed the brass fireplace poker, testing its weight with the efficiency of someone who’d clearly given this scenario previous thought. Ruth snatched up Mona’s prized ceramic umbrella stand, a hefty Victorian piece that could definitely cause some damage. Ida, ever practical, selected the heavy crystal fruit bowl from the sideboard, dumping the decorative autumn gourds onto the carpet with a series of soft thuds.
Mona herself wielded the delicate rose-painted teapot from their earlier coffee service, raising it above her head like a floral weapon of mass destruction.
“On three,” she mouthed silently, positioning herself directly in front of the door.
Ruth and Helen flanked the entrance like a SWAT team, if SWAT teams typically carried umbrella stands and fireplace accessories. Ida crouched behind the dining table, crystal bowl at the ready, prepared to launch a devastating surprise attack.
The knocking came again. Three raps, pause, three more.
