Page 17 of Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies’ Detective Club #1)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Back at Mona’s apartment, they spread their evidence across the mahogany dining table like seasoned detectives, though the delicate rose-painted teacups and lace doilies somewhat undermined the serious crime-solving atmosphere.

“All right, ladies,” Mona said, settling into her chair with the authority of someone who’d watched too many police procedurals. “Let’s face facts. We’ve eliminated our two best suspects with cold, hard mathematics.”

Ida looked up from her tire tread calculations with obvious pride, despite their disappointing results. “Tom Knowles and Gertrude Hartwell are definitively cleared. The numbers don’t lie.”

“Which leaves us with Laura Jenkins, the scarecrow-armed bee enthusiast, and Doris Cumberland, the vengeful pie maker,” Ruth summarized, consulting her iPad.

Helen abandoned her post at the window long enough to rejoin the group. “I keep thinking about that car following us. Three separate sightings isn’t coincidence—it’s surveillance.”

“Professional surveillance,” Ruth corrected grimly. “They knew exactly when to back off, when to disappear. That’s not amateur hour.”

Mona frowned. “But who conducts professional surveillance over a stolen pumpkin? It’s not exactly organized crime.”

“Maybe it’s not about the pumpkin,” Helen said, returning to peek through the curtains. “Maybe investigating it led us somewhere we weren’t supposed to go.”

Ida set down her magnifying glass with uncharacteristic hesitation. “What if my calculations were wrong? What if I eliminated Tom and Gertrude by mistake, and we’re chasing the wrong suspects while the real thief gets away?”

“Ida, you measured those tire treads more thoroughly than a forensics team,” Ruth said firmly. “Your methodology was bulletproof.”

“But mathematical principles are only as good as their application,” Ida worried, recalculating measurements for the dozenth time. “Human error could have compromised everything.”

Ruth closed her iPad with a decisive snap. “Maybe we should call Jack. I know this isn’t his case—nobody died, nobody got hurt—but surveillance suggests this is bigger than we thought.”

“And tell him what?” Mona asked. “That we think someone might be following us while we investigate produce theft? He’ll laugh us right out of the station.”

“It’s up to us to find justice,” Ruth muttered, though she sounded less convinced than usual.

Mona stood up and moved to their makeshift evidence board with renewed determination. “We’re not giving up now. We’re close—I can feel it.”

“Close to what?” Ruth asked skeptically. “We have two suspects who couldn’t lift a pumpkin if their lives depended on it, and mysterious followers who seem more qualified for this investigation than we are.”

“Which means we’re on the right track,” Mona insisted. “Someone thinks we matter enough to watch. That’s not random—that’s reactive.”

For the next hour, they brainstormed approaches to their remaining suspects, trying to balance investigation with safety.

“I could attend one of Laura Jenkins’s bee conservation workshops,” Helen suggested. “Natural cover story—research for the garden club.”

“And I could legitimately ask Doris Cumberland about her pie recipes for the senior center cookbook project,” Ida added, warming to the idea.

Helen returned to her surveillance post, systematically scanning the street. “That white van by the corner market wasn’t there when we arrived. Could be nothing, could be our watchers adapting.”

The frustration was building like steam in a pressure cooker.

“I hate feeling watched,” Ruth muttered.

“I hate having suspects who seem physically incapable of the crime,” Mona added.

“I hate second-guessing my mathematics,” Ida said, reviewing her calculations again.

“And I hate not knowing who’s out there,” Helen concluded from the window.

As the afternoon wore on, their speculation grew increasingly wild.

“Maybe it’s one of our suspects,” Helen suggested. “Laura or Doris, monitoring our investigation.”

“Or someone we haven’t considered yet,” Ida mused.

Ruth looked up with sudden concern. “Or maybe it’s personal. I’ve dated some pretty sketchy guys over the years.”

“Ruth!” Helen exclaimed.

“What? There’s Derek, who turned out to be married to three different women.

And Brad, who might have been running an illegal turtle racing operation.

And don’t get me started on Mike, who claimed he was a landscape architect, but I’m pretty sure he was actually smuggling garden gnomes across state lines. ”

“Garden gnome smuggling?” Mona asked incredulously.

“It’s a thing! They have different regulations in different states. Mike was very passionate about gnome freedom.”

Ida looked up from her charts. “Actually, personal connections would explain the surveillance timing better than random criminal interest.”

“Or,” Helen said thoughtfully, “maybe it’s connected to Ida’s CIA background. Some old case resurfacing.”

“My CIA work was decades ago,” Ida protested. “Mostly statistical analysis and pattern recognition. Nothing that should attract current attention.”

“Unless someone’s worried about exactly those skills,” Helen pointed out. “Your ability to find patterns others miss.”

“Like what? The secret conspiracy behind competitive pumpkin growing?” Ruth asked sarcastically.

“Stranger things have happened,” Mona said. “Remember the ferret case.”

“The ferret was living in the church organ,” Ida reminded her. “That’s not exactly international espionage.”

“No, but it taught us that innocent situations can hide complicated truths,” Mona replied.

By late afternoon, they’d exhausted their theories and energy. Their stalker could be anyone—suspects, ex-boyfriends, foreign agents, or completely unknown entities with interests they couldn’t begin to fathom.

“This is incredibly helpful,” Ruth said dryly. “Really narrows it down to everyone we’ve ever met plus some people we haven’t.”

“At least we know they’re professionals,” Helen added from her window post. “Amateur surveillance would be more obvious.”

“Which brings us back to why professionals would care about four amateur detectives investigating produce theft,” Ida said with obvious frustration.

The silence that followed was heavy with unanswered questions. They were no closer to solving Brenda’s case, but they’d somehow attracted attention that far exceeded anything a stolen pumpkin should warrant.

“Maybe,” Mona said quietly, “the pumpkin was never the real target. Maybe stealing it was meant to trigger exactly this kind of investigation.”

“That’s terrifying,” Helen said.

“Or maybe we stumbled into something we were never meant to find,” Ruth added pessimistically, “and now we’re in way over our heads.”

Just as the weight of their situation was settling over them like a suffocating blanket, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. Precise, deliberate, official-sounding.

The four women froze around the dining table, their evidence spread before them like an accusation.

Ruth grabbed her purse, checking for her phone. Mona gathered their most incriminating notes. Ida clutched her mathematical calculations protectively.

The knocking came again. Three raps, pause, three more. Patient but insistent.

Mona glanced out the window to see that the sedan’s driver seat was empty.

“Oh no!” she whispered, voice tight with panic. “It’s our stalker!”