The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery Read online

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, freeing Blue from durance vile and grabbing the three sandwiches and an apple juice.

  “Hi, sweetie. What brings you out this way?” The smile took some effort to produce, fighting its way slowly out of the growing jowls and wrinkles. I felt funny knowing that my dad was getting old. Mom had only been twenty-three when she had me and still seemed young, but maybe because Dad worked outdoors a lot, he just seemed a lot more aged.

  “Lunch.” I pulled up a chair, one from the breakfast nook that had somehow had the back broken. It was that or perch on the half sheet of plywood resting on two battered sawhorses.

  Dad chuckled as he poured some coffee. Experience told me it would be old and tarry, so I declined a cup.

  “It occurs to me that we are two pretty shabby specimens to be the upholders of law and order we imagine ourselves to be.”

  I reached up and felt my hair. I had forgotten to wear a hat and knew it was looking a little wild. I would have to do something about that before I saw Alex.

  As we ate, one sandwich for each of us, I filled Dad in on events— both the murder and the pumpkin thefts. I didn’t miss the clenching hands as I described the zombie’s warning, but unlike Mom, he didn’t tell me to be careful or to give up the case. Dad knew that I always calculated things carefully and didn’t insult me by urging me to do the obvious, intelligent thing.

  “The path seems fairly clear,” he said at last.

  I nodded.

  “Alex is here. I’m going to ask him to help with a computer search. I want to find this Ryan Endicott as soon as possible.” I finished my sandwich. “He could be in danger,” I added fair-mindedly. “If he’s still alive.”

  “And he could be dangerous.”

  I nodded again.

  “Your Internet connection working okay?” I had given in and hooked up to the information highway. You can’t date a computer nerd and remain a flat-earther. Dad was expressing concern because my small appliances tended to give up the ghost at regular intervals. Fortunately, they were almost always still under warranty when they died. My answering machine had been replaced three times. I have often wondered if it is because of the malevolence I feel towards it. I read somewhere that certain people have strong electro-magnetic fields around them and I thought maybe I was electrocuting the machines when I got annoyed. This theory seemed at least possible since the other appliance that died regularly was my alarm clock.

  “Blue and I need to get going. Alex is meeting me downtown and I’m giving him a key to my place.”

  I felt a little funny saying this to my father, but he just nodded. He probably figured that Mom would give me plenty of grief for both of them. Or maybe he was thinking I just wanted Alex to work out of my apartment while investigating the whereabouts of Ryan Endicott.

  Or maybe he had accepted that I was all grown up and would do as I pleased.

  “Say hello for me. If you have time, why don’t you both come to dinner on Wednesday— if you’re free.”

  “Okay.” I recalled my Thanksgiving plans. “Dad, I’m having Thanksgiving this year. Mr. Jackman is cooking and Mrs. Graves is coming too. And maybe Alex. Mom is bringing green beans and creamed onions.” That pretty well covered it. “We’ll be having a Caesar turkey, too, since Mr. Jackman is cooking.”

  “Sounds good, sweetie. See you Wednesday.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  Chapter 11

  Alex found me on Washington Street. I gave him a spare key and he gave me a big kiss. Which was nice because my hair was looking kind of crazy and most men would have been frightened. Blue was torn between remaining with me and going off with Alex, but in the end I won.

  After work I stopped off for a pizza at Cyrano’s and then hurried home. I wanted to have some time with Alex before going to my writers group. I considered ditching the meeting but I hated to stand up the Lit Wits when Mrs. Smith was reading. People tended to fall asleep during her presentations and forgot to ask relevant questions during Q and A.

  We turned on the news while we gathered up plates and napkins. The lead story was again about Hector’s murder. The reporter was standing outside the Burns mansion and I have to admit it looked creepy.

  “She’s all but masturbating that microphone in her excitement to deliver bad news,” Alex muttered under his breath and this startled a laugh out of me, even though I didn’t consider the subject humorous. I had to agree that the reporter seemed more excited than horrified or saddened. She wasn’t local. A neighbor would have shown more tact.

  “We don’t get much murder here. Maybe she can’t help herself.”

  Alex grunted and switched off the television.

  We had both put away a couple slices of ham and pineapple with extra cheese when Alex took a long breath and relaxed against the sofa. I’ve seen this before when he’s been traveling, a delay in unwinding. The tenseness was understandable, I also hate flying and all the security at airports.

  I got up to get the cookie tin and some more ice tea.

  “So tell me about Roosevelt. It sounds odd and there isn’t much information online beyond the incorporation date.” He didn’t mean the zombie. I had already told him about that prank. And also about Thanksgiving, which he hadn’t committed to definitely but seemed inclined to favor. I knew it was a hard decision when he had family in Silicon Valley that would blackmail him.

  I rejoined Alex on the sofa and thought about how to describe my visit.

  “Roosevelt is as much a state of mind as an actual location, though for tax purposes they do have boundaries. The county administrates just about everything— police, fire, visiting nurses, that kind of thing. It’s too small to have these services on its own.”

  “Go on. What state of mind do Rooseveltians have?” he asked. “What made Ryan Endicott such a rebel?”

  “It’s xenophobic. Insular.” I liked that word and had been looking for a place to use it. “It’s always foggy there— something about the river meeting up with the hot springs. It’s very steep. Isolated. Small. No one passes through because it’s at the end of the road. It makes me feel claustrophobic. Blue doesn’t like it either. Anyone with any initiative leaves the moment they turn eighteen. Another twenty years and it will be a ghost town.”

  “Sounds like a great place to be from.” Alex reached behind his head and scratched Aphrodite under the chin. He didn’t seem to mind the cats breathing down the back of his neck as they stalked his pizza crusts. “I’ll start looking for Endicott while you’re out. The county may have his juvenile records online.”

  “But those are sealed, aren’t they?” I asked.

  “Only theoretically. We aren’t trying to make a court case, just find out something about the guy. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Really? Well, thanks for doing it. I appreciate this so much.”

  “No problem. I’ve gotten curious about this case.”

  “Is that why you came?” I asked.

  “In part. But mostly I wanted to see you.”

  I smiled happily. I mostly take Alex at his word when he says stuff like that. It’s easier that way.

  “You’ll be okay while I’m at my writers group?”

  “I have pizza. I have company,” he said, giving Blue’s head a rub. “We’ll all be fine.”

  “Then I had best be off. I wouldn’t put it past Tara Lee to lock me out if I’m late.”

  “Hurry back,” he said, but his eyes had already shifted to the portable computer he’d brought with him.

  * * *

  The Lit Wits meet at the public library in the New and Notable section which is conveniently located near the restroom and outlets for the coffee maker.

  I waved at Mrs. Grady, the librarian, and then went to the refreshment table to help Mrs. Everett and Mrs. Graves set up. Usually Mrs. Smith would help too, but she was reading that night and there is an unwritten rule that you don’t do hostess chores on nights when you read. Mrs. Smith is Hope Falls foremost expert of Elvis
trivia. Tonight she was covering the Hollywood years. She was clearly excited. My own inspirational fires were banked down for the time being. Real life was more compelling than fiction.

  “Our pumpkin thief has struck again,” Mrs. Graves said in a low voice as she handed me some napkins. We never leave them in a pile. Napkins have to be fanned out in eye-catching half circles. The cookies are also attractively arranged into pyramids.

  What Mrs. Graves and everyone else really wanted to know about was progress on the murder case, but they wouldn’t ask outright because they know I am in a tricky situation at work. Agartha Graves, Mrs. Everett and Mrs. Smith might suspect my involvement in the investigation, but outside of Mr. Jackman, no one knew for sure that I was doing anything these days besides writing parking tickets.

  “I got hit this morning— one Baby Boo lost,” I shared. “And Mrs. Adams got it on Monday. He took two Jack-Be-Nimbles from her. I actually saw him, tried to follow but he ran down into the creek.”

  “Is it a boy?” Mrs. Everett asked.

  “No. At least not a young one. He’s tall. Old enough to know better.”

  “I’m missing a Lumina,” Mrs. Graves said. “It was purloined on Monday night right off of my porch. I was saving it for a harvest table.”

  “And my largest Autumn Gold went missing Sunday while I was at church. The thief just came into my backyard and got it out of the shed.” Mrs. Everett sighed. “It would have made a half dozen pies.”

  “The thief has eclectic taste,” I said. “I thought at first he was stealing big pumpkins so he could win the pumpkin carving contest, but now I wonder if he is trying to get seed from all the different varieties.” But before I could expand on this idea to a very interested audience, Tara Lee was calling us to order.

  Tara Lee says I’ll never be a great writer and that may be true, but as I would far rather be popular than great, this is okay. Her criticism that I lack imagination may also be correct but fortunately I have a job and friends that make thinking up wild plots unnecessary. I just wait a couple of weeks and something fantastical comes across my desk. I thought the whole pumpkin thief thing had great potential for a cozy mystery.

  I left the meeting as soon as I decently could, stopping only to ask Mr. Jackman if he could give Mrs. Smith a ride home and to tell Althea that Dale Gordon, dashing police officer, had asked for her number and might be calling her. Althea was too stunned to even grunt, so this time Gordon had the better manners.

  Fog was building in, the kind called pea soup, and a bit of it followed me through the front door before I shut it. In spite of the porch light, I hadn’t noticed the pumpkins were missing from the stoop until I saw them there in the hall. Alex had thoughtfully moved them in to save them from the pumpkin thief.

  I enjoyed coming home to my peaceful house that night. Alex had turned down the lights while he worked and the animals had obligingly opted to slumber. Of course, it doesn’t take much to get them to nap, but I took as a good sign that no one was up in arms.

  “Hi,” I said, joining him on the sofa. I rubbed my face against Alex’s slightly stubbly cheek, taking pleasure in his warmth.

  “Hi yourself,” he said and gave me a kiss. Then we cuddled up and enjoyed the rest of the night.

  * * *

  I awoke with a familiar head sharing my pillow. There was also one on the pillow beside me. Blue had joined us sometime in the night. Alex was still sleeping, but Blue’s eyes were open so I got up quietly and took her outside.

  Alex was awake when we came back in and he told me what he had found so far.

  Ryan Endicott had mainly gotten in trouble for being a fire bug. He didn’t favor matches though. He liked exploding things; fire-crackers, M-80’s, quarter sticks (dynamite for taking out tree stumps, which you need a license to buy, but farmers and ranchers always seem to have some around in unlocked sheds and barns).

  And motor homes? Did he like to blow those up too? I didn’t get a chance to pose this question before the phone rang. I am not fond of early morning phone calls, especially when I have company, but given the situation I decided to take it. Besides, my answering machine was on strike again.

  “Chloe!” It took a moment to place the voice. Mary Grady was upset and wanted to see me. Since she had been fine the night before, I knew that something had happened that morning. We agreed on where and when and she hung up without saying goodbye.

  Alex had one other bit of news he shared as I dressed. The Fulbright Home For Wayward Girls had had a break-in several years ago and a computer was smashed. The next night there was a fire in the business offices. Arson was the cause, but no one was ever arrested, though it was postulated that the vandal might also be the arsonist.

  * * *

  I met Mary Grady at Daddy’s Donuts just after eleven. We had both taken an early lunch so we could meet ahead of the crowds. Daddy’s isn’t the best lunching place. All they have are pastry and things get pretty picked over by late morning. But it was unlikely that we would run into David there so we often used it for meetings.

  Mary’s very guarded phone call to me early that morning had told me she was nervous, so I wasn’t surprised when she played things kind of cloak and dagger.

  “David has another file in his office. I found it when I came in early,” she said out of the side of her mouth as she pretended to examine the wilting bear-claws. I didn’t think she could see anything with sunglasses on. “I think he doesn’t trust me.” This obviously offended her even though David has cause. She slipped me a folded paper. “I think the police need to know about this but I can’t…”

  “It’s okay. I have a private eye on the case. I can imply it came from him if I need to show it to anyone.” Neither of us said which case. There was only one.

  “Is Alex in town?” She looked me in the face for the first time. There were two of me reflected in her sunglasses and both looked grumpy.

  “Yep. He got in yesterday.”

  “Oh good. I’ve been afraid that you might find something bad while poking around.”

  “Afraid why?” Wasn’t I supposed to find out things? That was usually the point of poking around.

  “Afraid that it would be something dangerous.” I began to wonder what in the bloody blue blazes she had found in David’s other file that could make her so nervous. “I’ll have a cinnamon roll,” she said to Daddy in a normal voice. “And an orange juice.”

  “Raised glazed for me,” I added. “Mary, this is my treat.”

  “Thanks. Well, I best be going,” she said as she accepted the white bag and plastic bottle from Daddy. “Talk to you soon. Be careful now.”

  “You know it.”

  I paid Daddy, took my bag back to the cart, and then—unable to resist any longer—I opened the paper Mary had given me. It was a listing of assets in the Burns estate.

  I whistled and this made Blue whine.

  “Sorry,” I said. No wonder the town and David were in no hurry to find the heir. Even at the lousy interest rates banks were paying, the interest on almost two million dollars would be nice. And you could bet that both the town and David were charging the estate hefty fees for maintaining the accounts as well.

  “Come on, Blue. We’re going home for lunch.” Blue sniffed at the bag and then wagged her tail.

  * * *

  “I have a bona-fide suspect,” I started to say as I came bursting in the door. But Alex got there first: “I’ve found Ryan Endicott. He’s a radio personality in San Francisco. Goes by the name of Ryan E. He’s kind of a shock jock.”

  “I’ve found the motive too,” I finally said. “There were assets besides the property—”

  “A million-six in assets.”

  “A million-eight,” I corrected. “Plus the house.”

  “There’s a problem with the scenario though,” Alex cautioned and my brain slipped into what I call Analytico. It’s a kind of logic tree that my brain draws when it wants to hunt down several possibilities at once. Mr. Jackman says
in that way my mind is very like a computer. I arrived at a correct question without my usual muttering and then had to reengage the speaking part of my brain since I forget how to talk to people when I’m thinking hard. “He was on the air Halloween night?”

  “Seems so. And his program can be downloaded from the internet.”

  “But that could be faked— pre-recorded?”

  “Yes, but not without effort. There was at least one viewer phone-in on the part I listened to. That would mean collusion, or editing in something from a previous show.”

  “But he could know how to do that. He works in radio.”

  “He could know.”

  “We need to talk to the chief,” I said. “I think it’s time to go to San Francisco.”

  “What about lunch first?”

  “Here, I brought you a donut.” I handed him the bag with a smile. I didn’t want a stale donut anyway. I know Alex, when he’s missed a meal he is inclined to take a dim view of the world. Sugar and salt rock his world. “I’ll bake for you tonight. My espresso chip cookies.”

  Alex sighed.

  “Okay, let’s go get our asses kicked by the chief.”

  “No, he’ll be happy about this,” I said, though I was beginning to have some doubts. “Actually, maybe you better stay here. There will be less talk if I go see the chief alone. If you’re there it’ll make for gossip.”

  “Okay,” Alex agreed readily. The chief had been a little scary last time Alex met him.

  “Want me to keep Blue?” he offered. I think Alex covets my dog.

  “No, best if things look normal. Even if it annoys the chief.”

  “Okay. It’s your funeral.” I frowned at this unfortunate turn of phrase.

  * * *

  I found the chief having lunch at his desk. He looked unenthused about his sandwich so I didn’t feel bad for interrupting. The station was bustling and I doubted that we could be overheard, but I was careful to lower my voice since I didn’t want to close the door. A closed door would cause more speculation than anything I might say.