The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery by Melanie Jackson

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