LITMIR.BIZ

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I guess.” Uneasy, I slid a pie into the oven’s rotating racks.

      Thirty minutes later, Charlene stormed into the kitchen. Her white ringlets trembled with indignation. “Shaw’s an idiot. He accused me, me, of being behind murders in San Nicholas going back to Prohibition. I wasn’t even alive then!”

      “If he’s focused on us,” I said, “he’s never going to figure out who really killed—was it Dr. Levant?”

      “It was,” she said heavily.

      Abril gasped. “She’s my little brother’s eye doctor.”

      “Shaw was none too happy when he realized he’d let that slip,” Charlene said. “And with your detective off the case, you know what this means.”

      I nodded, glum. The Baker Street Bakers really were back in business.

      Charlene and I had inherited an armchair detecting club. And since Charlene was involved, we spent less time in armchairs and more on actual footwork. But I thought we were getting pretty good at it. We’d helped solve several murder cases. Gordon was even pushing me to get a private investigator’s license and make it legal. But there was no way I could study for a license. I was too busy building the best pie shop on the NorCal coast.

      “Let’s get started.” Charlene bustled from the kitchen.

      “Wait, I can’t—” I said to the swinging door, and rubbed my arms. “Don’t worry,” I told Abril. “I’m not leaving you alone again today.” Especially since Petronella still hadn’t returned. I hoped she was okay.

      I hurried into the dining area. The Friday morning kaffeeklatsch had dragged the center tables together. The ladies sat gossiping, their aging faces beaming with good humor. My other elderly regulars lined the counter. An elfin, white-haired lady in a flowered gray dress sat alone in a corner booth nursing a cup of coffee. She adjusted her spectacles and squinted into the cup, her nose wrinkling.

      I hadn’t seen her in Pie Town before. Was she all right alone? I shook myself. Don’t assume senior citizens are charity cases. My piecrust specialist had disabused me of that notion quickly enough.

      From behind the counter, Charlene glowered at her archnemesis, Marla Van Helsing.

      Marla, dressed like a Dynasty villain in a red silk blouse and black slacks, smiled. She turned up the collar of her black sequined jacket. “I hear you’ve found another body, Charlene.” The elderly platinum blonde curled her lips and waved a negligent hand. Diamonds flashed, glittering beneath the pendant lamps. “You’re like a rat to garbage when it comes to corpses.”

      Charlene glanced toward the front windows. “What are you doing out of your coffin, Marla? It’s past sunrise.”

      “Just checking out my so-called competition for the pumpkin race.”

      Uh-oh. I hadn’t known Charlene planned to enter the pumpkin race. This could be trouble.

      “So, it’s true?” Tally-Wally braced a long arm on the counter and rubbed his drink-reddened nose.

      “Yes,” Charlene said. “Marla is a vampire.”

      “I am not!”

      I squinted. In her red and black outfit, Marla did look like a sequined Countess Dracula.

      “I meant,” he said, “was Dr. Levant really killed?”

      “It looks that way,” I said. “Did you know her?”

      Tally-Wally pulled a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his stained jacket. “She did my glasses.”

      “And my cataracts,” his best friend, Graham, said from beside him. Graham was as round as Tally-Wally was tall. He crumpled his checked cap in his fist. “Terrible. Must have been the spouse.”

      “Or the business partner,” Tally-Wally said. “I never liked that Cannon fellow.”

      “The killer could have been anyone who knew Dr. Levant,” Marla said. “She was not an easy woman.”

      “Don’t be catty,” Charlene said. “Just because she refused to get you those fancy, colored contact lenses—”

      Marla’s grip tightened on her mug. “I needed them for my show.” Marla ran a lifestyle channel on YouTube. It was a bone of contention, since all Charlene had was Twitter. Marla fluffed her hair and sighed. “But she said my eyes were too delicate.”

      “Too—”

      “Charlene,” I said warningly, and she subsided, grumbling.

      “I suppose your ridiculous detecting club will be snooping again,” Marla said.

      “We’ve solved plenty of cases,” Charlene snapped.

      Marla rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes. The Case of the Missing Moose Head? The Case of the Missing Surfboard?”

      “Murders too,” Charlene said. “And I’m going to win that pumpkin race.”

      “Doubtful. My entry is solar powered.”

      Charlene paled. “They’re supposed to be gravity powered.”

      “Not this year,” Marla said. “This is Silicon Valley, haven’t you heard? You did read the new rules, didn’t you? Oh, I forgot, you’re going blind as a bat in your old age.”

      Charlene’s nostrils flared. “Better blind as a bat than a vampire bat.”

      Petronella strode into the restaurant, her motorcycle boots loud on the checkerboard floor. “Sorry I took so long.”

      “It’s fine,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

      “My dad’s convinced San Adrian’s responsible for destroying his pumpkin,” Petronella said.

      Customers gasped. “No!”

      “Not his pumpkin!”

      “San Nicholas finally had a chance to win our own prize.” Graham’s bushy gray brows drew downward. “I knew it would come to this.”

      “I warned everyone,” Marla said. “San Nicholas has been resting on its laurels for too long. And now that we’ve stepped up our game, San Adrian is taking steps.”

      “What’d they do to the pumpkin?” Graham asked. “Poison?”

      “They dropped it on top of Dr. Levant,” Petronella said. “The fall cracked its shell.”

      Silence fell.

      “Well,” Tally-Wally said, “that’ll do the trick.”

      I cleared my throat. “Isn’t it more likely Dr. Levant was the intended victim, and the pumpkin an unintended casualty?”

      There was another long silence. Customers cocked their heads and considered.

      Marla blew on her coffee. “Really, Val, you don’t understand a thing about pumpkin festivals.”

      Chapter Four

      I walked to the front of the dining area and gazed through the glass at the foggy street.

      In the street, Ray handed a piece of comic art to a customer from his green booth. He caught my eye and waved.

      I waved back half-heartedly.

      In the optometry booth, Tristan Cannon stood motionless, arms limp at his sides. The poor man looked stunned. Had he been questioned by Shaw yet?

      My skin prickled, as if someone was watching me. I turned.

      The elderly, pixielike woman in the booth quickly looked away.

      Hmm. I’d introduce myself to her later. Right now, it looked like Dr. Cannon had the greater need.

      “Petronella,” I said,

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