LITMIR.BIZ

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you two.” Shaw whirled to face us. “Get out of here.”

      The newcomer’s face flushed red. “And it’s cracked! It’s ruined! Those rats!”

      “What rats?” Shaw asked.

      “San Adrian,” he said. “They told me I’d regret it if I didn’t bring my pumpkin to their festival. But how could I? I live here, and I had a real shot at winning . . .” He trailed off, finally noticing the body beneath. The blood drained from his face.

      “San Nicholas’s first chance in a decade for its own prizewinner.” Shaw rubbed his angular chin.

      I raised my hand. “Uh, do you really think San Adrian would kill a woman just to get back at you for not entering their stupid contest?”

      “It’s not stupid,” Charlene said. “It’s killing our festival.”

      “You don’t understand pumpkin festivals,” Shaw said. “They make people nuts.”

      I really wished people would stop telling me I didn’t understand pumpkin festivals. What was there to understand?

      Two more police cars rolled to a halt beside Shaw’s.

      “Is she . . . ?” Petros swallowed. “Oh my God. There’s got to be something we can do.”

      Shaw clapped his hand on the farmer’s shoulder and squeezed. “Your pumpkin’s a murder weapon, Petros. A little less indignation and a little more information is in order.”

      The farmer shot us a pleading look. “Will you tell Petronella—”

      “What are you two still doing here?” Shaw roared at us. “Get gone before I arrest you!”

      “With pleasure.” Charlene raised her chin and stalked into the swirling fog.

      I scurried after her, down Main Street. Murder. Gordon in trouble. Petros’s pumpkin as a murder weapon. This was awful.

      “We’re in big trouble if Shaw takes over the case,” Charlene said. “And you know he’s going to. He and Dr. Levant’s husband are golfing buddies. You know how he protects his friends.”

      Actually, I didn’t. But I also knew Shaw wasn’t the best investigator. “You don’t think he’ll protect Mr. Levant? This is murder.”

      “I think he’ll see what he wants to see,” Charlene said. “And that this will be too high profile for Shaw to resist.”

      “Dr. Levant is high profile?”

      “No, but murder by pumpkin will be national news.” Charlene’s lips whitened. “It’s sacrilege.”

      I understood what she meant. There was something contemptuous in crushing a person beneath a pumpkin. The act had been . . . wicked, depraved, profane. The nausea returned to clutch at my throat. Who could have done this?

      “It’s the age-old battle between politics and competence,” she continued. “Gordon doesn’t stand a chance. With him gone, this murder investigation will be the loser.”

      She was right, of course. But I was less worried about Gordon not running the case than him becoming a suspect. He was related to the Scalas, and Chief Shaw seemed to have a grudge.

      “You do know why your detective left the San Francisco PD?” she asked.

      “To be closer to his aging parents.”

      “Because he stinks at playing the political game. Here in San Nicholas, Gordon’s always been able to move investigations forward behind the scenes. But what if he can’t this time?”

      He had to. There was a killer loose in San Nicholas. “I’m calling Gordon,” I said.

      He picked up on the first ring. “Val.”

      “Gordon, are you all right? I can’t believe this.”

      “I was the first investigating officer on the scene. But instead of solving a murder, I’m about to explain to a spoiled tech billionaire for the eighth time that he bought a home with public access to the beach, and the public includes surfers.”

      I scrubbed a hand across my face. “Oh, Gordon . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

      He blew out his breath. “It’s good to hear your voice. And I’m fine.”

      Liar. “There’s something you should know,” I said. “The pumpkin, it belonged to your uncle.”

      Gordon swore long and colorfully. “Shaw’s going to have a field day.”

      “The crack disqualifies Petros from the contest,” I said. “That’s an incentive not to use his own pumpkin as a murder weapon.”

      He muttered another curse. His voice was muffled but faint. “Put that surfboard down!”

      “Gordon?”

      “Sorry,” he said, “can I call you later?”

      “Of co—”

      He hung up.

      “Everything all right?” Charlene jammed the newspaper beneath one arm.

      “I don’t think so,” I said. “But Shaw can’t really believe this pumpkin business was all a way to sabotage the San Nicholas festival, or that Gordon might kill someone over a pie contest.”

      “Can’t he?” Charlene’s voice deepened. “Can’t he? San Nicholas has two things over the new San Adrian festival.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Point one: history. Point two: a bigger prize for the winning pumpkin.”

      “What is the prize?”

      “Forty thousand dollars.”

      Whoa. That was serious money and enough to inspire murder. Though I didn’t believe a crazed pumpkin farmer was behind the murder, my stomach butter-churned. “This is awful. Gordon’s off the case. Shaw’s either going to go in the wrong direction and blame San Adrian, or he’ll arrest Petros, because it was his pumpkin.” That would destroy Petronella. Arresting Gordon would destroy me, but I couldn’t believe Shaw was serious about the pie contest as a motive. “We’ve got to do something.”

      “Ha. You know what we’ve got to do.”

      I sighed. Yeah. I had to prep for the pumpkin festival, judge a bake-off, manage Pie Town through the busiest weekend of the year . . . and solve a murder.

      Chapter Three

      Charlene paced Pie Town’s gleaming kitchen, pleasantly warm from the giant pie oven. “And then he had the nerve to tell me to shoo!”

      My goth assistant manager, Petronella, turned a shade paler. “You’re sure it was my father’s pumpkin?” She reached behind her and untied her apron strings. “Val, can I—?”

      “Of course,” I said. “Go. Your dad was talking to Chief Shaw by the giant pumpkins when we left.” I knew the helpless worry for a parent all too well.

      Whipping off her gloves and hairnet, her black, spiky hair standing on end, Petronella hurried from the kitchen.

      My assistant, Abril, paused beside the dough flattener. She clutched a round of dough in her hands, her brown eyes serious. “You don’t think Mr. Scala is in trouble, do you?” Her thick, inky hair strained her hairnet. She looked a little like a mushroom, willowy at the base with a puff of white on top.

      “I think whoever wrecked his prize pumpkin is in for it,” Charlene said. “That was his baby. You know how nutty those pumpkin growers get.”

      “Chief Shaw seemed to be treating him as a witness,” I said cautiously, “not a suspect.” So far.

      Abril’s slim shoulders relaxed. “That’s a relief.”

      We returned

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