The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery (6 page)

That alligator hiding in the swamp of memory stuck his nose out again and I got a better look at him in the light of day. After that I knew what I needed to do, but was feeling unenthusiastic. I have reasons for not calling my mom— maybe not good reasons— but they seem adequate most days to get me off the hook. I meet her for lunch on Mondays and this quite frankly is penance enough. But this wasn’t just any day. Though my gut was reluctant to phone my mom now that gossip had had a chance to make the rounds, I screwed up my courage and made the call.

Mom isn’t thrilled with my job. Nor was she thrilled at how much time my dad and I had spent together over the last few days moving pumpkins and such. But Mom does love to show off and she was pleased that she could tell me all about Deborah Burns, though she had been a couple years behind Mom in high school. Her elephantine memory for things personal and genealogical provided me not only the name of Deborah’s closest friend from school but also where she lived.

I had my first clue and subject to interview— Amelia Adler, formerly Amy Brewer (yearbook staff, glee club and tennis— I come by memory for detail honestly).

The rain and wind had worsened, but Blue didn’t mind since she had a rain poncho. Bicycling keeps me warm and I had on a slicker as well, so I made a short detour by the Burns Mansion for another look, in case I had missed anything in the dark. The gates were closed, locked and wrapped with yellow crime scene tape, but through the dead vines roping the iron fence I could see the side of the house and the fountain I had nearly fallen into last night. And also when I was a kid. The windblown nymph at the center of the fountain was so plastered with wet leaves that her nudity was no longer obvious. I was actually a little surprised that she had survived all these years. Elijah Burns hadn’t been the kind of man to enjoy whimsy. The fountain must have been built by a more free-thinking ancestor.

We passed by the courthouse park and I saw that the pumpkin thief had struck again. My jack-o-lantern was missing. That was okay since I had planned on disposing of it now that Halloween was over. That should have been the end of the pumpkin thefts. Apparently it was not. If something wasn’t done by Thanksgiving week, gardeners might turn vigilante and begin organizing themselves into neighborhood watch groups. I didn’t like the idea of citizens defending their holiday squash with pitchforks and shotguns. It was an accident waiting to happen.

 I was lucky to catch Amelia Adler at home. She had been on the verge of going out when Blue and I arrived on her doorstep, but she was easily persuaded to give us some time.

At first glance she was a bit overwhelming; tall, smelling of smoke, chemically and violently redheaded, and wearing a plunging purple satin shirt that would have been obscene except her cleavage was braless and also plunging and therefore reasonably hidden. For a moment I thought of telling her about the amazing selection of foundation garments they have at
What Lies Beneath
, but decided that she might not be the kind of person to readily accept the depths to which the ravages of time had plummeted. She struck me as the kind of woman who has always believed that quantity is more important than quality or even proper placement of those secondary female sexual characteristics we are blessed with to one degree or another. And who was I to pull off her rose colored glasses and point out that she wasn’t eighteen anymore?

Repellant she might be, but this was Deborah Burn’s best friend from high school, so I made myself smile and be friendly.

It turns out that she was also a dog-loving gossip and heaven help me, the gossip was great. I got a real ripsnorter over coffee and what I think were oatmeal cookies. I tried slipping one to Blue but she wouldn’t take it. I’m an excellent baker and my dog has standards.

Remember Dad mentioned that girls’ school where Deborah was supposedly sent to after her brother’s accident? It wasn’t a school at all but instead a home for unwed mothers; Fulbright Home for Wayward Girls, run by Elijah’s church. Deborah had given birth there and been forced to give the kid up for adoption. Boy or girl, Amelia didn’t know and neither did Deborah. They had knocked her out for the delivery and when she woke up, the baby was gone.

“That must have upset Alonzo,” I said, trying not to cough. I couldn’t very well ask Amelia not to smoke in her own home, though I wanted to. It was making Blue sneeze.

“Sure— but the kid wasn’t his. And what could they do with it anyway?”

My jaw dropped and I left it there.

“Not Alonzo’s? Then who…?”

“Her old man,” Amelia said with the satisfaction of someone who had the world’s best punch-line. “He was a filthy lecher. It’s why she ran away.”

I was so stunned that I couldn’t even think. Could this be true? I am pretty good— I believe— at reading people and Amelia seemed sincere, if rather more smug than saddened at the vile story she told with such relish. And it isn’t like this kind of thing never happened.

“Was it ever reported?” I asked. But of course it hadn’t been. My dad would have stomped the ever loving hell out of Elijah Burns before arresting him (which is another reason that it is better that my father is not involved in police work).

“Nope. She told her mom and Alonzo— and later me. Her mom didn’t do anything except cry and pray. And Alonzo quit school and ran off with her. I guess I could have said something, but she was in San Francisco by then and what was the point?”

“Why are you telling me now?” I asked.

Amelia thought about this.

“Well, they’re saying it was Deborah and Alonzo’s kid that died last night.” Technically he had probably died yesterday afternoon and been discovered last night, but I didn’t quibble. “He’s the last person who might have cared about this. I don’t see why I should keep quiet anymore.”

I nodded, but Amelia wasn’t completely correct. This sad story might be very important to the child Deborah had had taken away, though it wasn’t the kind of genealogical news that anyone would want to hear. Certainly I was not anxious to deliver it if the child was ever found.

And maybe the kid wouldn’t care. After all, he had never known his birth mother. I tried to tell myself that this made things better.

Back on my bike and peddling into the wind, I decided that I would tell Dad and the chief what I had learned, but this wasn’t going in any written report. After all, Amelia could be wrong. Or lying. Either was bad but maybe way better than the story she had related. Incest. I knew it happened all the time. I just didn’t know it had ever happened in Hope Falls.

True or false, I couldn’t chance this rumor getting out. After all, what if the adoption was local? Just because I didn’t know about the home for unwed mothers didn’t mean that other people— like the adoptive parents—didn’t. No one needed to hear news like this in the newspaper or the donut shop.

“Hey, Blue. Want to go see Dad?”

Blue woofed approvingly. She really has an enormous vocabulary.

The farmer’s market closes the first of October, but the Kiwanis Club has an open air flea market out at the fair grounds that runs until first snow. On rainy days, they move it into the stables. It isn’t my kind of thing, but I knew Dad would be there with the van and sharpening knives and scissors for drop-ins. I wanted his take on Amelia’s story before I went to the chief.

But I would talk to the chief eventually, I promised myself. If I was lucky he would still be too shocked by events to remember that he was— technically— supposed to order me off the case.

Chapter 6

Rummage sales are not my thing, unless I am looking for something very particular, but I don’t mind the open air market on a rainy day because of the stables. The warm wood and low ceilings always make me feel safe.

Leaves lay heavily on the ground, too wet now to crunch as I walked through them. I had parked under the overhang of one of the outbuildings to keep the bike dry and we had a way to walk. Blue was happy in spite of the drizzle. The market offers fresh donuts and cider and sometimes roasted corn on the cob and she was sniffing heavily, no doubt selecting what she would like from the wind-borne menu.

Crowds were thin so there were only a few takers for Dad’s services. I wandered about while I waited for him to be free, examining the things people no longer wanted in their lives. Like Blue, my nose was also scenting things. The stables were empty. The rodeo was gone, the county fair a dim memory and it was months before the Celtic Faire and joust would come to town, but there lingered on the friendly ghosts of animals who had stayed in the barns. I like the smell of fresh hay and most farm animals, excepting only some pigs and a few particularly smelly goats. People don’t think of goats as smelling evil, but I had pet one at the fair last year and ended up with a stink on my hands that wouldn’t wash away for days. The cats shunned me. Blue whimpered. My leather jacket had to be sent for cleaning, and after three attempts to remove the smell I gave it away. Those malevolent yellow eyes and the beast’s relative isolation should have warned me to keep my hands to myself, though in all other respects he was a lovely animal.

When Dad well-wished his last customer, Blue and I joined him on the hay bale he’d pulled from the back of the van. Well, I was on the hay, Blue was on the floor.

“You found something out this morning?” Dad asked. “Bad?”

I nodded.

“If it’s true, very bad.”  And I told him the story.

Dad said nothing, but I watched his hands carefully as I whispered the tale. Dad has learned to keep his face still, but his hands give him away. He was very angry and I knew a part of him was blaming himself for not guessing what was happening to Deborah.

“But it may not be true,” I ended. “He was a horrible man but maybe not that horrible.”

“The only way to prove it would be to test DNA,” he said at last.

“But… would anyone want to prove this? I know that one should tell the truth and everything but— well, is there any kindness in making people aware of this story? If you were in this adopted kid’s shoes, would you want to know?”

Dad grunted. I didn’t have an answer either. I am a curious person, but I could not say for certain that this is something I would ever want to be aware of.

“This would be a perfect motive for someone killing Elijah Burns. Or for Burns killing someone else who was blackmailing him. I just don’t see what it could have to do with Hector Sayers being murdered. At least not yet.”

“You going to tell your boss?” Dad asked.

“I think I have to. For sure he needs to know about the other child. Or, the city does. If the kid inherits—damn. I don’t know how all this works.”

“Bet you five to one that the chief sends you to interview David Cooper.” Dad’s smile was twisted. I had confessed a couple weeks after the event to what had happened when David kidnapped me. Dad had thoroughly approved of my out of character violence.

“I can’t take that bet. It’s Murphy’s Law. He’s going to make me talk to the pustule.” Blue heard me sigh and quickly stuffed her head under my hand. I pet her silky ears and felt some of the tension die off.

“Blue and I are going to share a corn on the cob. You want something?”

“Some cider would be nice,” Dad said as another customer approached. This was a teenage boy carrying a reproduction sword.

“You sharpen those things?” I asked, alarmed.

“With parental permission only,” Dad said. “And not if I don’t like the kid.”

Blue and I got Dad’s cider and an ear of roasted corn. I had to let it cool a bit, but then I snapped it in half and gave an end to Blue. She is a very tidy eater and Mr. Vaughn always gets a kick out of seeing her clean the cob.

Unable to put it off any longer, Blue and I loaded up in the bike and set off for the station. I could have called and asked for the chief, but with Gordon on the desk, there was every chance that he would hang up on me.

The chief was in his office and the door was open, so I let myself in. Blue was sitting under my desk being discrete. The chief looked at my face and said: “Close the door.”

I took a seat uninvited. Though I had no wish to, I repeated Amelia Adler’s allegations once again. The chief looked as grim as my father when I was done.

“You know what I want you to do?” the chief asked when I was through.

“You want me to talk to the pustu— I mean, David Cooper.”

“You really are almost psychic,” the chief said admiringly.

 “Not really, just very logical. But, chief, really it would be better to send someone else. David and I used to be engaged and we did not part amicably. He’ll stonewall me just for fun.”

“I understand, but I have no one. Bryce has his hands full and I don’t much trust the others to be discrete with a story like this. You’ve been itching to involve yourself in real police work. Well, here’s your chance.”

I glowered, but couldn’t think how to complain since what he said was true.

“I’ll call Mr. Cooper and ask him to meet you at his office. I will make it clear that you are collecting vital information about a homicide and that I expect his cooperation. Even on a Saturday.”

“Fine.” I got to my feet. “But he’s already at his office. Call him there.” I rattled off the number.

The chief blinked and again looked impressed. I didn’t explain that I knew David was at his office because he worked most Saturdays and I had seen his car in the parking lot on my way to the station. Let the chief think I was psychic.

*  *  *

David was as thrilled to see me as I was to see him, but since his secretary was watching we faked it. Though I would have liked the emotional support, I left Blue in the lobby while I followed the pustule to his office. David doesn’t care for dogs.

“The chief called?” I asked.

“Yes. This death complicates things. For the estate.” David leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He thought this made him look wise.

“You had already tracked down Hector Sayers?”

“Yes. We were going to meet Monday. I didn’t know that he was already here.” This last bit sounded defensive.