LITMIR.BIZ

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feeling the pinch.

      “You don’t understand pumpkin festivals,” she said darkly.

      I yawned again and flipped up my hood, orange and black for Halloween.

      Ray, a gamer who usually staked out one of Pie Town’s corner tables, waved from beneath a festival booth’s green awning. “Hey, Val! Hi, Charlene.”

      We ambled to his booth, one of dozens lining the middle of the street.

      “Nice socks,” he said.

      Charlene pointed the toe of one of her high-tops, modeling the striped purple and black socks. They nipped at the hems of her matching purple leggings. “Thanks. I got ’em on sale.”

      I eyed the comic art hanging against the green canvas walls. “You drew these?” I asked, impressed.

      Ray’s round face flushed. His freckles darkened. “Well—”

      His girlfriend, Henrietta, popped up from behind a stack of boxes. “They’re all his. Isn’t he amazing?” She tugged down her shapeless army-green sweatshirt. It matched the color of the knit cap flattening her sandy hair. “I told him he should work as an artist for a gaming company, but he’s set on being an engineer.”

      Charlene squinted at a cartoon woman in a chain-mail bikini. “Looks uncomfortable. If I was going into battle, I’d want a lot more covered than those two—”

      “It all looks great,” I interrupted. Age had dulled Charlene’s verbal restraint. If my friend had ever had any.

      “And don’t worry,” Ray said. “I’ll be sure to send customers into Pie Town.”

      Charlene laughed hollowly. “I don’t think that will be a problem. This is my fiftieth pumpkin festival. They’re wolves, I tell you. Wolves!”

      Henrietta’s eyes twinkled. “Werewolves?”

      “Don’t encourage her.” I groaned, knowing it was too late. Charlene was convinced a local pastor was a werewolf. She also believed Bigfoot roamed the woods, ghost jaguars stalked the streets, and UFOs buzzed the California coast.

      “I was speaking metaphorically,” Charlene said, surprising me. “I meant the festivalgoers act like wolves. Though if I were you, I’d keep an eye on Pastor Hiller around the full moon. Not that he can help himself, poor man. Once you’ve been bitten, it’s all over.”

      And there it was. “It was great seeing you two,” I said. “We’re going to check out those giant pumpkins, and then I’m going back to work.” We’d left my staff slaving in the kitchen while Charlene and I scoped out the massive gourds. I wasn’t sure how much pie we’d sell today, during the prefestival, but I didn’t want to take any risks.

      “Speak for yourself,” Charlene said. “I’ve already completed my piecrust quota. See ya, Ray. Bye, Henrietta.”

      We ambled two booths down, and I stopped in front of another green awning. A sign hanging from the top read HEIDI’S HEALTH AND FITNESS. Directly beneath it: SUGAR KILLS.

      I sighed. “Seriously? At a pumpkin festival?” The gym had moved in next to Pie Town earlier this year. Its owner and I had a loathe-hate relationship.

      Heidi turned to me, and her blond brows drew downward. “Sugar kills every day of the year.”

      “So does life,” Charlene said.

      Heidi tossed her ponytail. “Your life might be longer and more fulfilling if it included better diet and exercise.”

      “I’m fit as a fiddle.” Charlene thumped her chest and coughed alarmingly. “I eat what I want, and I stop when I’m full. And I have a drink every night for my heart. It’s the French way.”

      Heidi’s lip curled. “We’re offering blood pressure and other fitness testing. You should stop by.” She eyed me critically. “Especially you.”

      My eyes narrowed. I was not overweight.

      She smoothed the front of her sleek and sporty Heidi’s Health and Fitness microfiber jacket. “You’re going to have some competition at the pie-making contest.”

      “I’m not competing, I’m a judge.” Not that judging didn’t have its own pressures. My boyfriend, Gordon Carmichael, had entered the pie contest. He was a good cook, and it was a blind tasting, but still. And then there was old Mrs. Thistleblossom. She won every year, and I was supercurious about her pumpkin pie. What was her secret? I’d never met the woman, but I’d heard she was over a hundred.

      “I don’t think it’s fair for a professional baker to be in the contest,” Heidi said.

      I pulled my mouth into a tight smile. “Which is why I’m not in it. I’m a judge.”

      “Well, I am entering a sugar-free pumpkin pie,” Heidi said. “It’s low-fat and low calorie.”

      What was the point? But I decided to be the better woman and refrained from comment.

      Charlene had no such compunction. “And low taste?” She squinted at my hips. “Though some of us could stand to lose a little weight.”

      “There’s nothing wrong with my weight,” I said to Charlene. And to Heidi, “And don’t tell me anything more. This is a blind tasting.”

      “Most of the calories are in the crust anyway,” Heidi said, “so it will be crust-free.”

      “What!” Charlene flared. “Then it will definitely be taste-free.”

      “But now,” I ground out, “I can’t judge your pie, because it won’t be a blind tasting.” And I was going to have to report this to the head judge. San Nicholas took its pie contest deadly serious.

      “Your style of pies is on its way out,” Heidi said. “Tastes are changing. Most Californians find all that sweet food gross.”

      “Enjoy the festival,” I caroled and walked on, hoping Charlene would follow. My pies on the way out. As if ! Had she even met a Silicon Valley engineer?

      In the stall beside Heidi’s, a handsome, harried-looking man unpacked boxes of reading glasses. White earbud cords dangled from his ears and faded to invisibility against his white lab coat.

      Charlene nodded to the man in the optometry stall. “Morning, Tristan.”

      He looked up and tugged an earbud free. “Oh. Hi!”

      “What are you listening to?” Charlene asked.

      He blushed. “Oklahoma!” he said in a sultry Southern drawl. I might be a one-man gal, but I could listen to him talk all day.

      Charlene chuckled benignly. “You and your show tunes.”

      “Have you seen Kara—I mean, Dr. Levant?” he asked.

      We shook our heads.

      “Why?” Charlene asked.

      “She was going to help me set up for the prefestival.” He motioned around the half-built stall. “I guess she got hung up at the haunted house.”

      “What’s she doing there?” Charlene asked.

      “Her husband, Elon, is volunteering there today.”

      “If we see her,” I said, “we’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

      Charlene and I continued on.

      “I hear Heidi broke up with that fellow who left you at the altar,” she said in a casual tone.

      “Mark didn’t leave me—Wait, really?” I had been dumped, though not at the altar. We’d been months away from the wedding. But Mark had done me a favor. Now I had a new and improved boyfriend, Detective Gordon Carmichael of the SNPD. My chest tingled at the thought.

      I glanced over my shoulder. The booths and Pie Town

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