Page 7 of Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies’ Detective Club #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains of Mona’s apartment as the four ladies gathered once again around the mahogany dining table. The whiteboard stood at attention like a military aide waiting for orders, yesterday’s suspect list still visible in red marker.

Ida had already arranged a fresh selection of pastries on Mona’s good china plates—apple turnovers, blueberry muffins, and what appeared to be enough cinnamon rolls to feed a small army.

The coffeepot percolated cheerfully in the kitchen, filling the apartment with the aroma of serious business about commencing.

“All right, ladies,” Mona said, positioning herself in front of the whiteboard with a fresh marker. “Today’s plan of attack.”

She wrote “Today’s Agenda” across the top of the board in bold letters, then turned back to face the group.

“First priority—Gertrude Hartwell,” she announced, writing her name under the agenda. “We need to hear her side of the story and see if she has an alibi.”

“Oh, I know!” Helen said, sitting up straighter in her chair with the excitement of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “She’s in my book club. I can tell her I’m there on official book club business.”

“What kind of official business?” Ruth asked suspiciously.

“I’ll think of something. Emergency book selection, maybe. Or a scheduling conflict with our next meeting.” Helen waved her hand dismissively. “Trust me, I’ve been a journalist long enough to know how to get people talking.”

“Good plan,” Mona said, writing “Book Club Cover Story” next to Gertrude’s name. “We’ll need to make it convincing.”

Ida looked up from her apple turnover, a calculating gleam in her eye. “We should bring pastries. Nothing loosens tongues like good baked goods.”

“That’s actually brilliant,” Helen agreed. “Gertrude has a terrible sweet tooth. Show up with the right treats, and she’ll talk your ear off.”

“In that case,” Mona said, capping her marker, “first stop—the Cup and Cake. We’ll need ammunition.”

Twenty minutes later, they were clustered around the familiar glass display case at Lexy’s bakery, studying the morning’s selection like generals planning a military campaign.

“What do you think would work best on a competitive pumpkin grower?” Ruth asked, eyeing a tray of chocolate chip cookies.

“Something impressive,” Helen mused. “Gertrude appreciates quality. Maybe those lemon bars with the powdered sugar?”

“Ooh, or the cream cheese brownies,” Ida suggested, already pointing to the rich, marbled squares. “They look expensive.”

Lexy appeared behind the counter, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. “Morning, Nans. Let me guess—you need interrogation supplies?”

“Investigation supplies,” Mona corrected with dignity. “Interrogation sounds so harsh.”

“Of course.” Lexy’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “What can I get you?”

“A dozen of those lemon bars,” Helen decided. “And maybe some of the pumpkin cookies for good measure.”

Mona watched Lexy carefully arrange the pastries in a white bakery box. “Any word from Jack about a missing pumpkin report?”

“Nothing yet,” Lexy said. “Still no official police involvement.”

“Which strikes me as odd,” Ruth added. “You’d think someone would have filed a report by now.”

Lexy tied the box with pink striped ribbon and handed it across the counter. “Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’s you four. Just... try not to get arrested for trespassing or anything.”

“We’re paragons of legal behavior,” Ida said solemnly, then pointed at the display case. “Oh, I’ll take one of those cream cheese brownies for the road.”

“Ida!” Helen protested.

“What? It’s a long drive to Gertrude’s place. I need sustenance.” Ida wrapped the brownie in a napkin and tucked it into her purse with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d perfected portable pastry storage.

The drive to Gertrude Hartwell’s farm took them deeper into the countryside, where sprawling fields gave way to older, more established properties. Gertrude’s house sat at the end of a tree-lined drive, a weathered colonial that had clearly been standing since the area was first settled.

“Built in the 1600s,” Helen said as they approached the house. “One of the oldest continuously occupied homes in the county. Gertrude’s very proud of the historical significance.”

The house looked its age—weathered clapboard siding, small windows with diamond-shaped panes, and a massive stone chimney that dominated one end of the structure.

But everything was impeccably maintained, from the perfectly painted shutters to the carefully tended flower beds that bordered the front walk.

“Impressive,” Ruth observed, parking beside a late-model pickup truck. “This is serious old money.”

They approached the front door, Helen carrying the bakery box like a diplomatic offering. Before they could knock, the door swung open to reveal a tall, angular woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun.

“Helen?” Gertrude Hartwell blinked in surprise, taking in the group assembled on her front step. “What brings you here? Is everything all right with the book club?”

Helen’s journalist training kicked in smoothly. “Oh, Gertrude, I’m so sorry to bother you at home. It’s just such a beautiful day, and we had some urgent book club business that couldn’t wait for our next meeting.”

“We brought pastries!” Ida announced cheerfully, apparently deciding that subtlety was overrated.

Gertrude’s stern expression softened slightly at the sight of the bakery box. “Well... I suppose you’d better come in then. Though I can’t imagine what could be so urgent.”

They followed her into a living room that looked like a museum exhibit on colonial life—low-beamed ceilings, wide-plank floors, and furniture that probably predated the Revolutionary War. Everything was perfectly preserved and intimidatingly clean.

“Tea?” Gertrude offered, gesturing for them to sit on what appeared to be a genuine Pilgrim-era settle.

“That would be lovely,” Helen said, settling carefully onto the antique furniture. “We hate to impose, but this really couldn’t wait.”

As Gertrude bustled off to prepare tea, Mona caught Helen’s eye and mouthed, “What’s the urgent business?”

Helen shrugged and mouthed back, “I’ll think of something.”

When Gertrude returned with a silver tea service that probably belonged in the Smithsonian, Mona decided to cut to the chase.

“Gertrude,” she said, accepting a delicate china cup, “we’re actually here about something else. We’re helping Brenda Mossberry with a... situation.”

Gertrude’s eyebrows rose. “Brenda? What kind of situation?”

“Her giant pumpkin has gone missing,” Ruth said bluntly. “Stolen from her barn sometime Sunday night.”

The teacup rattled slightly in Gertrude’s hands. “Stolen? That’s... that’s ridiculous. Who would steal a pumpkin?”

“Someone who didn’t want her to win the competition again this year,” Ida suggested, eyeing the lemon bars meaningfully.

Gertrude set down her teacup with a sharp clink. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with this alleged theft?”

“Not suggesting,” Mona said carefully. “Just asking. You’ve come in second to Brenda five years running. That has to be frustrating.”

“Frustrating?” Gertrude laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Why would I steal her pumpkin when I was going to beat her fair and square this year?”

The four ladies exchanged glances.

“You think you have a bigger pumpkin than Brenda’s?” Helen asked.

“I don’t think—I know.” Gertrude’s pride was evident in every word.

“Five hundred and eighteen and a half pounds as of last week’s weighing, and she’s still growing strong.

Brenda’s been bragging about her five hundred and twenty pounder all season, trying to psych me out, but she doesn’t know what I’ve got back here. ”

“I can show you if you don’t believe me,” Gertrude said, standing up with sudden enthusiasm. “Come on, it’s just out back.”

She led them through a back door and into what could only be described as a pumpkin paradise. Rows upon rows of orange globes in various sizes dotted the landscape, from tiny pie pumpkins to massive specimens that looked like they belonged in fairy tales.

“This way,” Gertrude said, weaving through the rows with the confidence of someone who knew every plant personally. “She’s in the prime spot—best soil, perfect drainage, maximum sun exposure.”

Ruth paused to examine one of the pumpkin plants, her eyes widening at the sight. “Good heavens, look at the size of these stalks. They’re thick as tree branches.”

“That’s what it takes to support a champion,” Gertrude said proudly. “You can’t grow a record-breaker on a weak foundation.”

They reached the end of the patch, where a single enormous pumpkin sat like an orange throne. Beside it stood what appeared to be a professional-grade scale, the kind used at farmer’s markets for weighing large produce.

“There she is,” Gertrude announced, gesturing to her prize with the air of a museum curator unveiling a masterpiece.

The pumpkin was indeed massive—easily the size of a small bathtub, with a perfect round shape and deep orange color that seemed to glow in the morning sunlight.

“May I?” Gertrude asked, though she was already positioning herself beside the scale. With surprising strength for someone her age, she managed to roll the pumpkin onto the platform.

The digital display flickered for a moment, then settled on a number that made Gertrude gasp with delight.

“Five hundred and nineteen pounds!” she exclaimed. “A growth spurt! She gained a half pound since last week, and there’s still three days to go!”

“That’s... that’s enormous,” Ida said, momentarily forgetting about her cream cheese brownie as she stared at the giant gourd.

“And I’ll keep her growing as long as possible,” Gertrude said, carefully rolling the pumpkin back to its resting spot. “Every day counts when you’re trying to break records.”

She turned to face them with a triumphant smile. “See? I will win this year. Fair and square.”

“So why are you suspecting me?” Gertrude continued, her voice rising with indignation as they walked back toward the house. “I know I have the larger pumpkin, but what about Doris Cumberland? Now there’s someone with a real axe to grind.”

The four ladies leaned forward with interest.

“Doris Cumberland?” Mona asked.

“She runs the pie stall at the fall festival,” Gertrude explained, warming to her subject. “At the bake sale last month, Brenda made some very nasty comments about Doris’s pies. Said she should puree them with canned pumpkin instead of her ‘shrivelly little gourds.’”

“Ouch,” Ida winced. “That’s harsh.”

“Doris was furious,” Gertrude continued. “She swore she’d get even. I heard her muttering something about ‘teaching Brenda about small gourds.’ Everyone at the contest heard it.”

Helen looked puzzled. “But isn’t a pumpkin technically a gourd?”

“Exactly!” Gertrude said triumphantly. “Doris knows her gourds. If anyone would know how to handle a giant pumpkin, it would be someone who works with them professionally.”

Ruth was already pulling out her iPad. “Doris Cumberland... pie stall... I need to look this up.”

“She’s got a small farm on the other side of town,” Gertrude added helpfully. “Grows all her own pumpkins and squash for the pies. Very proud of her traditional methods.”

Mona found herself believing the woman’s indignation about the theft, but more importantly, Gertrude had just handed them a new suspect with both motive and means.

“Have you seen anything suspicious around Brenda’s farm lately?” Helen asked. “Any unusual activity?”

Gertrude considered this. “Well, now that you mention it, I did see that environmental activist woman poking around the area last week. Laura something-or-other. She was quite agitated about Brenda’s pesticide use.”

“Laura Jenkins,” Ida supplied helpfully.

“That’s the one. And there was talk at the feed store about Tom Knowles being fed up with Brenda’s runoff problems. But honestly, if I were you, I’d look into Doris Cumberland first. Hell hath no fury like a pie baker scorned.”

As they prepared to leave, Gertrude walked them to the door with a thoughtful expression.

“I hope you find Brenda’s pumpkin,” she said, and she seemed to mean it. “Competition isn’t any fun when your opponent doesn’t show up to lose fairly.”

Back in Ruth’s car, they sat in contemplative silence for a moment.

“Well,” Mona said finally, “I believe her about not stealing the pumpkin.”

“So do I,” Helen agreed. “And she just gave us a new suspect with a very specific motive.”

“Doris Cumberland,” Ruth said, consulting her iPad. “And according to this, her farm is only about two miles from Brenda’s place.”

Ida unwrapped her cream cheese brownie and took a thoughtful bite. “A pie maker would definitely know how to handle pumpkins.”

“Plus,” Mona added, “public humiliation is a powerful motive. If Brenda embarrassed her in front of everyone at the fair…”

“But where do we find her and what excuse do we use to talk to her?” Ruth asked.

“Leave that to me,” Helen whipped out her iPad. “Meanwhile, let’s hustle over to the Knowles farm and see what he has to say for himself.”