The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery by Melanie Jackson Page A

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