The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery by Melanie Jackson

wrong, but Blue ran past me to the gate, her backside wagging furiously as she woo-wooed. Looking around I noticed that one of my pumpkins was missing. I had grown some white ones this year. My results were poor and I had had only three to arrange on the stoop in front of my cornstalks. One of them was gone.
    “Well damn.” I had been visited by the pumpkin thief, and Blue’s joyous woo-wooing and wagging backside was very interesting.

    I made three tuna sandwiches for lunch. During the summer, Dad would have spent Tuesday in the van paying house calls in Roosevelt and Potters Mill, but things were slower in the fall and I figured I would find him at home. I didn’t really need to see him about the case, but I think he was enjoying our working together, so I decided to take my lunch hour with him and tell him about the pumpkin thief and the zombie.
    At work, the chief again stopped to talk to me, which was flattering but also making the rest of the force increasingly uneasy.
    “Boston.” At least he wasn’t calling me Chloe. If he seemed even the tiniest bit affectionate, the lardhead would start telling people we were having an affair.
    “Yes, Chief?”
    “Are you familiar with the basic devious, criminal mind?”
    “I was engaged to David Cooper,” I answered.
    “Good point.” The chief frowned.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “I am going to have to do something about this pumpkin thief. I’ve just had an old woman shrieking at me about her Jack Mumbles being missing.”
    “Jack-Be-Nimble. They are miniature pumpkins and Mrs. Adams is missing two of them.”
    The chief stared.
    “I thought she was talking about a child. Or maybe a dog. Surely no one gets that upset over a missing vegetable.”
    “She called you personally?”
    “Yes. It seems she used to call your father when she had troubles and has decided to now honor me.”
    I nodded sympathetically.
    “Dad was usually available for people with problems.”
    “Hmph. For chasing down missing pumpkins?”
    “Or cats. He thought it good policy.”
    “I think I could rebuke that hypothesis.”
    “Probably not to Mrs. Adams. She is quite hard of hearing.”
    The chief shook his head and walked away. I’d seen the chief angry and he wasn’t that morning. I had the feeling that he had deliberately chosen to have this conversation out in the open where everyone could hear. It was as far from lover-like as any chat could be, and a supposed annoyance with my father’s business practices offered cover for future conversations we might have. It might also gain me some sympathy if the men thought the chief was always riding me for my dad’s failings. The chief was being subtle and clever, two things I never expected him to be.
    I almost gave it away by grinning.
    Having a few minutes before the morning briefing, I dropped Blue at my desk and then stopped by the break-room for coffee. Dale Gordon was there, looking blank until I came in and then he snapped into action, grabbing both chips and cookies from the vending machine and adding them to the two sodas on the table. He seemed very business like for sixty seconds or so, but then his actions exhausted him and he slumped down at the table and leaned into the chair, an amazing feat because the chairs have straight backs and are about as comfy as a church pew. I guess deciding between chips and cookies is exhausting for some people.
    He glared at me as he stuffed his face. His eyes kind of bulged in and out with each clenching of the jaw.
    The devil on my shoulder whispered in my ear and I succumbed.
    “Gordon,” I said pleasantly. “I know someone who wants to meet you. She’s a little shy, so I said I would talk to you first and make sure you were interested.”
    He paused in his chewing.
    “Who?”
    “Her name is Althea. She’s Doc Marley’s receptionist.” I always figured Althea worked for a dentist so she could get her fangs polished for free.
    “Is she built?” That would be Gordon’s main