The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery Page 4

  “Chloe, want to tell me about your hot date?” he said first thing. Alex knows I don’t like being out late but will make an exception if I have a date.

  “Well, you know how it is. The streets are strewn with the bodies of my victims. I can hardly count them all.”

  “Really. Are you seeing someone? Cause it would be okay. I just want to know.” Alex sounded a bit jealous. We had never discussed exclusivity, so the argument could be made that such feelings were out of line, but when were feelings ever that tidy? I tend toward the virtuous, but find my moral fiber unraveling when he is near. Perhaps he thought I was that way with everyone.

  I sighed to myself. “My charms, though enormous, have their limits. I haven’t managed to seduce anyone since we talked on Wednesday. I can get to work on that though if it’s what you expect.”

  There was a brief silence and then a sigh, this one out loud.

  “Okay, I’m an idiot,” Alex said. “I hate this long distance love thing.”

  He might hate it, but he wasn’t doing anything to change it.

  Then he told me all about trick-or-treating with his six year old nephew and I told him all about our murder, wishing he were here so he could hold me and make me warm. I am a feminist, but I have to admit that it is sometimes nice to cuddle up with a man and let him be protective. And it is doubly a pleasure to find my head pressed against his heart rather than his belt buckle. A lot of men are too tall. Alex was perfect that way. Also, he would distract me from the hamster wheel my brain was stuck in. Though exhausted, my mind chafed at the lack of information about the murdered man. I was getting a blister on my brain and knew I might not sleep well.

  I went to bed after we hung up. It probably isn’t surprising that when I finally fell asleep that I dreamed that night of the scariest thing that happened to me when I was a child.

  No snow on the ground but winter was early and the earth was frozen solid and would cut right through your mittens and bruise your knees if you fell on it. On days like that my mother would sometimes let me wear pants instead of a skirt and tights.

  Unlike my cousins, I always tried to follow Dad's instructions about being home-or at least past the old cemetery by the Burns House-by sunset. This was because it was sensible advice and not because I was a particularly obedient child. After all, everyone knew that something bad lived in the cemetery by the old apple orchard. Not a ghost, everyone agreed. But something. And it was terrible and ate children.

  Of course, no one could actually recall when a child had last been eaten. It was long ago and always at night, they all agreed. Like when their grandparents were young and sometimes had to be out late rounding up sheep, or whatever it was farm kids did way back then before they had streetlights and proper roads. Thanks to Cousin Todd, the thing we all knew about monsters who live in cemeteries and eat children is that they probably didn't grow old and die like they should. Monsters that live in cemeteries and eat children live forever. Probably.

  All us kids scoffed aloud at these spooky tales during the day when it was easy to be brave. Sometimes kids even went into the cemetery, pushing their way through the honeysuckle hedge and cedars at the place where the old iron fence had rusted and fallen down. Some snuck in to see the Burns House too. But they never went alone and never at night, or even at sunset. Never. We didn't even walk past the graveyard once the sun was down. Just in case.

  But as can sometimes happen, one day there came an exception to the rule and faced with two evils, I chose what I thought was the lesser one. My parents had a law, a rule of the house. If you weren't there when it was time to sit down to supper, then you got no supper. This wasn't bad on Tuesdays which were always fish-sticks night, but Monday was meatloaf with mashed potatoes and apple pie for dessert. I loved meatloaf. Though I had an excellent excuse for being late- Mrs. Irvington, my third grade teacher, had asked me to stay after and help put up the Halloween bulletin board- I knew that I wouldn't get an exception. So, faced with a long walk through the far side of town and over Hobbs Creek and around Briar Farmstead, I chose to take Cemetery Lane and run all the way home.

  Dark came on fast that afternoon, the sky getting darker as I watched, looking up from the broken sidewalk as often as I dared (which wasn't too often because I was galloping. Galloping is good. You go almost as fast as a run but you don't look like a fraidy cat if anyone sees you). I had almost reached the safety of Twilight Street when I heard the sound of a whimpering puppy.

  The noise brought me up short and I broke the strap on my maryjanes which was held on by a small button and a bit of elastic. That was bad, you couldn't get up to a proper gallop with your right shoe flopping. I didn't want to stop at the cemetery. Just wanted to trot on as best I could with my ruined shoe until I got on a proper street with lights and cars and houses, but the noise came again, a sound so pathetic, so cold and so miserable that I had to at least pause long enough to call out to the lost puppy. So many animals had disappeared in our neighborhood that many families had given up having pets, or else kept their animals inside all the time.

  "Here puppy-puppy." My voice was tentative and frightened, barely louder than the wind that shook the dead honeysuckle that went up twice as high as my head. The Burnses liked their privacy and rarely trimmed their shrubs. They were so unfriendly that it never occurred to me to walk up to the door and ask permission to look for the puppy.

  I listened intently. There was no more whimpering, but I could hear a rustling in the shrubbery on the other side of the hedge, it was low down, like something was trying to burrow through it.

  Past experience- as a witness to my cousin's foolishness when playing with his friends— told me where the break in the iron fence was located. All I had to do was go on a few more feet to the statue of the lion and then push aside the honeysuckle and crawl through the short tunnel of vines. That was all. Mr. Burns would never know I had been there.

  But I couldn't do it. There were spiders in the honeysuckle. Big ones. And I would get my dress very dirty, which would be double trouble because I already broke my shoe and would probably be late for dinner.

  And there was the monster.

  I scolded myself for being stupid. Monsters weren't real. And if they were it wasn't dark yet- not quite. And I wouldn't get that dirty crawling through dried vines and leaves. And didn't spiders hibernate in the winter? So there was no excuse for leaving a puppy out there in the cold. Especially if it was hurt and maybe even hungrier than I was.

  Rustle, rustle went the vines.

  Using some of the words my dad said that time he slammed his hand in the car door, I forced myself a few more steps up the uneven sidewalk and squatted down at the fence.

  "Puppy-puppy," I called again, my voice still barely above a whisper. "Come here, puppy."

  There was more movement, like something dragging through the shrubs. Unable to stand the vision of an injured dog I did what I had never done, or even thought of doing before. I pushed into the brittle bushes and crawled into the yard. Nasty sticks poked through my mittens but I didn't stop to inspect the damage. My shoe tried its best to come off my foot when it caught a vine, but I curled my toes hard and wiggled until it came loose. I think that I would have managed to get it through, but I scraped my ankle against the broken iron and a pike caught my shoe. I jerked when the tines scraped my leg and the shoe flipped back out onto the sidewalk.

  "Crud." I wanted my shoe, but there was no way that I was wasting any more of what little light remained hunting for an already broken shoe. My feet would be protected by my heavy woolen socks as long as I walked carefully. And I would be walking carefully.

  "Here, puppy-puppy." My voice, which appeared before me in a white cloud of condensation, was softer than ever. Fear had constricted my throat and would let only the smallest of noises escape. I felt like I was playing Marco Polo, only not with my friends.

  I got to my feet but remained in a timid half-crouch as I shuffled forward. The air was so cold that it hurt to
breathe but fear-sweat was running down my back. Usually I like crunching through dead leaves, but the sounds of those rotting twigs and branches snapping underfoot made me very nervous. Also there were some broken bottles mixed with the twigs and leaves and being brown, the fragments were hard to see. I was shocked. Someone had been brave enough to come here and drink beer and then had thoughtlessly smashed the bottles on the fountain in the courtyard. Who would do that? I was too scared to swallow my own spit, let alone drink. It never occurred to me that it might have been Mr. Burns himself who did it.

  Nor did I care for the smell that filled the freezing air. It was like skunk and cat poop. For the first time I began to wonder if the puppy might be very hurt- too hurt for me to move. If I went home to get my dad would he come back with me once it was dark? Surely he would, even if he would be angry about me trespassing and making him do it too.

  I'm not too sure what happened then. The shadows were very deep and I was amazed that my breath was fogging the air before me. And then I realized that it wasn't just my breath; there really was an ice fog moving into the yard.

  "Puppy-puppy!" Frantic, I forced my voice to be louder as I began picking my way between huddled shrubs.

  The puppy didn't answer but I heard another rustle off to my right where there was another clump of dead shrubbery. I turned toward it and took a single step when the bushes snapped loudly, like several branches had been broken off. And the noise came from high up. Squeaking with fear, I turned toward where the gap in the hedge was supposed to be and ran toward it.

  I got lost in the fog. Instead of finding the hedgerow I ran into the side of a building. I barely had time to get an arm up before I hit it. The arm saved my teeth, but I still hit my head and then bounced backward where I tripped on a rock and then fell on something hard that dug into my back.

  A thing loomed over me then. It wasn't looking down, so maybe it hadn't seen me. I don't know what it was. Not an animal. Not a person- at least I don't think it could have been a person. People don't have long pointy teeth and clawed hands. Nor did normal people make sly, whimpering noises that sound like an injured dog.

  The creature's hairy foot nudged me. It wore work boots. Screeching again, I rolled onto my knees and scuttled around the corner of the shed that had flattened me. I knew that a game of hide-and-seek wouldn't last long, but I absolutely could not stay still.

  I jack-knifed my body around the corner but my shoeless foot got caught in some old roots and the creature was able to grab my leg. Its nails were sharp and it felt like they punched right through my socks and into my skin. I rolled onto my back, trying to kick free, but it was no use. All I did was hurt myself worse.

  I believed- with all my child’s heart- that I would have died then if my father hadn't started shouting my name.

  The monster considered me. Then it turned its rubbery head toward the voice. It sniffed and then snarled something that was muffled and unintelligible. And then it was gone. It just jumped into the bushes and disappeared.

  I found my voice then and managed a small scream. My dad was there in an instant, helping me up, and a moment later my Cousin Todd was there too. He was holding the shoe I had lost out on the sidewalk. Todd looked as scared as I was.

  It turned out that my teacher had realized how late it was and called my parents so they wouldn't be worried. Knowing that the most direct route home was by the cemetery and that I was probably nervous, my dad had rounded up my cousin (who was always the one who led me into trouble and who happened to be staying to dinner) and had gone out to find me.

  Before, when I recalled this event, the monster had always looked like a monster. In my dream, for a moment, he looked like Mr. Burns.

  I had Saturday and Sunday off that week, but Blue and I climbed on my bike— well, me on the bike and Blue in the sidecar— and set off for headquarters just after eight. I wanted to know what had been discovered over night and a little rain wasn’t going to deter me. I did have my hair bundled under a knit hat. Without some sort of confinement in windy weather, I ended up rocking a Bride of Frankenstein hairdo which makes me look taller but more ridiculous.

  There were bound to be tons of people at the station giving useless statements, but though pressed for personnel I knew that no one would ask me to help. I’d be lucky if anyone even read the statement I was about to prepare regarding my own actions last night. I had won the chief over, but a lot of the cops were aligned with my nemesis, Dale Gordon, and they had closed ranks against me.

  My friend, Jeffrey Little, was on duty that day and getting ready to start his rounds. He asked me what I knew about last night and I told him everything in a voice that no one would have to strain to overhear. I don’t believe in false modesty. Not at work. Around my mom is another thing, but at work I can’t afford to hide my light under a bushel because someone else always takes credit if I don’t do it right away.

  Of course, I can’t indulge in too much of what Tara Lee calls braggadocio either. In Hope Falls, police work is still considered part of the man’s world and will likely remain so until I can figure out how to lift that hundred pound sandbag. As one of three women in the department, I had to walk softly.

  In exchange for my account of the night, I learned from Jeffrey that our dead man was the son of Deborah and Alonzo Sayer, that Jacky had had no trouble talking to Officer Bryce about the night before (Lawrence Bryce looks a lot like Santa Claus) and that Bryce was now out questioning people at Harley’s. I was glad of this. Bryce would ask intelligent questions without pissing people off. Unlike Lardhead Gordon, who was safely barricaded behind a desk taking statements from people who were more interested in scratching the itch of curiosity than in providing information (which they didn’t have). Gordon had been riding a desk since the Skate Park murder and would as long as the chief was in charge. He blamed me for this.

  I invited Jeffrey over for pie— pumpkin of course. I had a lot in my freezer— after work and he accepted. He left soon after to start bringing vehicular law and order to the weekend tourists and I sat down and typed up my statement. It was short and frill-free. The chief already knew the things I was speculating about and chances were no one else would read it. But if they did, I wanted it to look professional.

  That alligator hiding in the swamp of memory stuck his nose out again and I got a better look at him in the light of day. After that I knew what I needed to do, but was feeling unenthusiastic. I have reasons for not calling my mom— maybe not good reasons— but they seem adequate most days to get me off the hook. I meet her for lunch on Mondays and this quite frankly is penance enough. But this wasn’t just any day. Though my gut was reluctant to phone my mom now that gossip had had a chance to make the rounds, I screwed up my courage and made the call.

  Mom isn’t thrilled with my job. Nor was she thrilled at how much time my dad and I had spent together over the last few days moving pumpkins and such. But Mom does love to show off and she was pleased that she could tell me all about Deborah Burns, though she had been a couple years behind Mom in high school. Her elephantine memory for things personal and genealogical provided me not only the name of Deborah’s closest friend from school but also where she lived.

  I had my first clue and subject to interview— Amelia Adler, formerly Amy Brewer (yearbook staff, glee club and tennis— I come by memory for detail honestly).

  The rain and wind had worsened, but Blue didn’t mind since she had a rain poncho. Bicycling keeps me warm and I had on a slicker as well, so I made a short detour by the Burns Mansion for another look, in case I had missed anything in the dark. The gates were closed, locked and wrapped with yellow crime scene tape, but through the dead vines roping the iron fence I could see the side of the house and the fountain I had nearly fallen into last night. And also when I was a kid. The windblown nymph at the center of the fountain was so plastered with wet leaves that her nudity was no longer obvious. I was actually a little surprised that she had survived all these years. Elijah Burns hadn�
�t been the kind of man to enjoy whimsy. The fountain must have been built by a more free-thinking ancestor.

  We passed by the courthouse park and I saw that the pumpkin thief had struck again. My jack-o-lantern was missing. That was okay since I had planned on disposing of it now that Halloween was over. That should have been the end of the pumpkin thefts. Apparently it was not. If something wasn’t done by Thanksgiving week, gardeners might turn vigilante and begin organizing themselves into neighborhood watch groups. I didn’t like the idea of citizens defending their holiday squash with pitchforks and shotguns. It was an accident waiting to happen.

  I was lucky to catch Amelia Adler at home. She had been on the verge of going out when Blue and I arrived on her doorstep, but she was easily persuaded to give us some time.

  At first glance she was a bit overwhelming; tall, smelling of smoke, chemically and violently redheaded, and wearing a plunging purple satin shirt that would have been obscene except her cleavage was braless and also plunging and therefore reasonably hidden. For a moment I thought of telling her about the amazing selection of foundation garments they have at What Lies Beneath, but decided that she might not be the kind of person to readily accept the depths to which the ravages of time had plummeted. She struck me as the kind of woman who has always believed that quantity is more important than quality or even proper placement of those secondary female sexual characteristics we are blessed with to one degree or another. And who was I to pull off her rose colored glasses and point out that she wasn’t eighteen anymore?

  Repellant she might be, but this was Deborah Burn’s best friend from high school, so I made myself smile and be friendly.