“In his office mostly, but there are gaps of time when no one can confirm his whereabouts,” Serrano said, reluctantly. “When we tried to interview him, he refused to answer any questions without his lawyer present. Sniveling and whining the whole time. Pathetic.”
“You see? Guilty!” I cleared my throat. “Um, do you think you could take a look at the file on the recluse, Sophie Rosenthal? There’s some talk that she may have been murdered, too.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you have anything substantial to back this up?”
“Not exactly, but you know how lazy Ramsbottom was. It’s unlikely he conducted a thorough investigation.” The detective that Serrano had replaced was not only slipshod, but had in fact been suspended for questionable activities.
Serrano pulled up in front of Sometimes a Great Notion. As he hoisted my bike out of the trunk and attached the wheel again, I asked, “Why are you gunning so hard for Birch Kunes? Why are you so convinced he’s the guilty party?”
“Just have a real problem with guys who cheat. Long story. There’s something else,” he said, lowering his voice, “and this is just between you and me, Daisy. We’ve discovered a sizeable payment from Birch Kunes into Marybeth Skelton’s bank account. I gotta wonder if this guy’s some kind of serial cheater, or what?”
“Maybe he felt guilty over how his wife treated her younger sister, and he’s trying to make amends.”
Serrano’s expression was grim. “Or maybe it’s payment for a job well done.”
• • •
The next morning, before I even got out of bed, I knew I’d be paying the price for yesterday’s adventure. I moved slowly, stretching muscles that were determined to punish me for the unaccustomed vigorous exercise.
I took Jasper for a walk, wincing as he pulled on the leash and my back cried out in protest. Piles of leaves lined the sidewalks and he dove, burying his head underneath and then coming up for air, shaking them off like so many water droplets. After the oppressive humidity of summer, he’d found renewed vigor in the crisp fall.
The tree in front of the one-room schoolhouse had exploded into a fiery burst of burnt peach, smoky lemon, and spicy lime. Halloween decorations were already up on some of the houses, and I admired the arrays of mini pumpkins and mums lining the doorsteps. Ghosts made of white scarves swung from the eaves of porches, and the dried stalks and pods of summer flowers made a spooky display. We passed one place with plastic gravestones planted in the yard, and Jasper gave a startled bark as a motion detector set off an eerie chuckle of laughter.
At Sweet Mabel’s, pumpkin ice cream was the special of the day, and a sign invited customers to COME IN AND SIT FOR A SPELL.
I hoped Serrano had taken me seriously about reviewing Sophie Rosenthal’s file. Maybe a clue had been overlooked. Some small detail or photo that would give a hint as to the real cause of her death.
We walked past the Browns’ house, and I slowed down, enchanted at the sight of the giant pumpkin. Like a scene from a fairy tale in the foggy quiet of the morning. It was far bigger than the other two now. I could picture mice turning into coachmen and vines swirling up around it to make carriage wheels.
In spite of the early hour, Sam was already working in the patch, pulling up weeds.
“Georgia seems like she grows every time I see her,” I said.
“Oh, yes, giant punkins are incredible when they get going. They can grow thirty to forty pounds in a day.”
We both stared at it, and I fancied I could see the pale monstrous fruit swelling before my eyes.
“The right seed is the key,” Sam said as he came over to me. “This year I crossed a 1472 Meklin with a 1323 Ames. Walter Ames won last year with a fifteen hundred pounder. I don’t expect to equal the real heavy hitters, but I would like to get above a thousand pounds before I die.”