Murder at the Pumpkin Patch

Sunni Taylor's sisters, through their power of sisterly persuasion, have convinced her to host a Halloween costume party at Cider Ridge Inn. She's a little reluctant about the whole event and rightly worried about the actual ghost, who will, no doubt, be in attendance, but she decides to just relax and enjoy it. Of course, you can't have a spooky Halloween party without toothy-grinned Jack-o'-lanterns.

Sunni talks Jackson into spending their day off at a local pumpkin patch. The Riggle Family Farm is famous for its sprawling pumpkin patch and mind-boggling corn maize. Sunni and Jackson look forward to a day in the autumn breeze sipping cider, nibbling on candy corn and choosing the best pumpkins for the party. But when one of the Riggles is murdered, the day off turns into a murder investigation. And once again, Sunni has a front seat to the chaos.

Book 12 of the Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery series

"This voice, whose voice is this?" Edward asked as he tilted his ear toward my laptop.

"That is Stevie Nicks, one of the greatest rock and roll voices of all time." My sister had assigned me the job of cutting out hundreds of orange, red and black tissue squares for some Halloween themed gothic roses, and I'd decided to blast a few good tunes to get me through the task. After all, it was Friday night. (Boy, how far my social life had fallen once I left behind my twenties.)

"So, it is a man then?" Edward said confidently. "I thought as much. Although, I must say I was slightly more intrigued when, for a moment, I considered that the deep, raspy tone was coming from a woman. That was a ludicrous assumption."

My resident ghost and, if I had to admit, good friend and always entertaining houseguest had been cringing through Tom Petty and The Counting Crows, almost as if the music strumming around the kitchen pained him. Now, his expression had smoothed out of the scrunched, annoyed look. If I didn't know any better (and I didn't because I'd never actually seen Edward dance) I would say the dashing, incorporeal British man in my kitchen was gently swaying to the music.

I put down the squares of tissue. "Edward Beckett, are you dancing?"

His image shook and vanished slightly before returning sharp and crisp and annoyed. "Of course I'm not dancing. Apparently, you don't know what an actual dance looks like. I was merely moving with the rhythm. It is not entirely loathsome, as opposed to everything else that comes out of that metal box."

I stood up from the table and swayed to the music. "In my book, merely moving to the rhythm qualifies as dancing." I twirled and glided around him. At least, in my mind, it was gliding. It was probably more of a clumsy trot, but for the time being I was going to picture myself gliding.

Edward stood as still as he could, considering his vaporous state, as I circled around him. "What are you doing?" he asked wryly.

"Just thought I'd dance with you. Oh, and by the way, Stevie Nicks is a woman."

"Impossible. A woman with the name Stevie? And with a baritone sound, no less. You are wrong," he insisted.

"Nope." I stopped my twirling. Not because it was irritating him but because it was making me dizzy. Once again, age reached out its ugly, gnarled hand, reminding me I was no youngster. "Stevie Nicks is the lead singer of Fleetwood Mac." I walked over to my laptop and pulled up an old photo of Stevie with her long, layered hair and bangs over her eyes. "This is Stevie Nicks." The song, "Gypsy", had ended, and an old Led Zeppelin song started. Edward cringed at the sound, so I played Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide". He instantly relaxed again. In fact, I would even go past using the word relaxed. He was enjoying it. It seemed Fleetwood Mac had a new fan. Or, possibly, just Stevie Nicks. Edward stared at the photo I'd pulled up on my screen, and there was something indescribable in his expression. It definitely fell on the side of admiration and not revulsion.

"This woman, here, on the metal box, this is the same woman singing?" He straightened with a loud huff. "You're wrong. That can't be."

I sighed loudly. "I will find a video of her singing." I scrambled through YouTube and found the official video for "Gypsy". It had been filmed to look like the late twenties, gritty and shades of gray. I moved over so Edward could watch the whole thing without my head in the way. I circled the table quietly back to my squares of tissue and peeked occasionally across the table at Edward. The video and song had him all but mesmerized. His image was always in motion, fading in and out, but it was sharp and clear and moving in rhythm with the song. I picked up my phone and sent a text to Jackson.

"I think Edward has a crush on Stevie Nicks." I glanced at Edward again. His eyes were nearly cobalt blue. I had to admit there was a twinge of jealousy.

"At least he has good taste," Jackson texted back. "Do you think we could find a way to ship him off to her house? I'm sure it's a very nice place."

"Think we're stuck with him," I wrote back. "See you later." I put the phone down and picked up my scissors. Edward was still entranced by the music video. I couldn't blame him. It was a fun one, back from the time when they put a lot of thought and production value into music videos.

He was so quiet and still while watching the screen, I suddenly felt like the mother of a young child, thrilled and also slightly tinged with guilt that I'd set my toddler down to watch a movie so I could reap the reward of some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, unlike a Disney movie, the music video only lasted as long as the song.

The second it turned off, Edward's irritated expression shot my direction. "It's gone. The woman with the mountains of hair and baritone voice is gone."

A laugh shot from my mouth. "I've never heard it described as mountains of hair, but I suppose she does have quite a lot of it. And the video ended because the song ended."

Edward looked sorely disappointed that it was over.

"I can play it again if you like, but I'll carry the laptop into the dining room. As much as I like the song 'Gypsy', I don't think I can listen to it over and over again. I'll never get it out of my head."

"Did you say 'Gypsy'? The name of the song is 'Gypsy'?" he asked with astonishment in his voice.

"Yes, I suppose that's not a term used too widely anymore. Romani people is a more correct term."

"Yes, I know who they are, and I can tell you we had many other terms for them back in my day. Much harsher terms, regretfully." It was rare for him to sound contrite or less snobby but something about the topic had sent him off into one of his thoughtful, melancholy daydreams. I knew the faraway look well. Edward was back in his time, when he was very much alive, very much flesh and blood.

I let him float through his past while I finished the tissue squares. Somehow, I'd allowed my sisters to talk me into hosting a Halloween party at the inn. It was the perfect haunted backdrop for a spooky costume party, they'd noted more than once as part of their persuasion campaign. I let them know that referring to the inn as a spooky backdrop was not scoring them brownie points. Spooky was not exactly the ambience I was going for, ghost or no ghost. And speaking of ghosts, mine was still off on some wonderful mental adventure, one I was now curious to learn about.

"Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Beckett," I chirruped as my scissors sailed through the thin tissue.

My request popped him out of his state of reverie. "I was just thinking about a time, back in England, when a young traveler saved me from certain death. Never mind. It wouldn't be of interest to you." He faded off.

"Wait. What? You can't put out a cliffhanger like that and then just erase yourself. Get back here this instant, Edward. I want to hear about your brush with death." I stood in the empty kitchen, with only Newman's snoring to keep beat with the hum of the refrigerator. "Please," I said into the air.

Edward reappeared. "Very well, if you're going to beg and plead about it."

I shrugged. "Wouldn't call it begging or pleading, but never mind that. Go on. You nearly died?"

His smooth, dark brow arched. "It seems you're quite delighted about the prospect that I nearly died."

"No, no, I mean, no, there's no delight. You're mistaking my enthusiasm for hearing a good story for delight." I pulled down the corners of my mouth. "There. Do I look properly concerned and aghast now?"

Edward spun away from me. "Now you're mocking me."

"Yes, yes I am, but I still want to hear the story. Please? I'll add in a little begging and pleading for good measure."

"I suppose, if you're so desperate to hear it."

I was about to correct him on the desperation comment but then this whole back and forth would go on like an everlasting game of ping pong, and my sisters were due any minute.

"It all happened when I was a lad of sixteen. Although my father constantly reminded me that he was already running the family estate at the age of fifteen. But that's not necessarily a detail that adds weight to my story."

"Yep, skip the extra tangents and the father and son turmoil riddled relationship. You mentioned something about a traveler?"

"Yes, that was one of the nicer terms we used for the Roma. I suppose Lavinia changed my opinion about them for good. I can still see her wide brown eyes peering out from under the brightly colored scarf." For a moment, he was lost again.

I glanced out to the front drive and was relieved to see that Lana and Emily were fashionably late. I was extremely interested in the story of Lavinia and Edward's brush with death. It wasn't often he pulled up stories from his younger years in England, when he was still the rich, spoiled son of a wealthy landowner. This particular recollection seemed to be clear and relevant.

I needed to prod him along or risk never hearing the ending to the story. Once Lana and Emily arrived, I'd have to shut down the whole thing. The topic would switch to decorations, food and costumes (of which Jackson and I were still in the debate stage).

"So, Lavinia was a traveler who . . ." I left the rest blank hoping for him to fill in the details.

"It was one of the many times when my father had told me I was worthless and an embarrassment to the family. I left for several days, staying heavy in drink and gambling away my money, thus proving my father's point."

I hadn't expected the story to go so darkly south but then I had to remind myself that his stories were rarely light and airy. I waited, quietly, for him to continue. There was nothing I could say to ease the pain from his past. I'd discovered that early on. It was there, lodged in the bleak centuries that were long gone.

"Somehow, even in my state of inebriation, I managed to hire a coach home. It was held up by a ruthless highwayman. They infested the roads back then, waiting to ambush traveling coaches. Arrogant, drunken buck that I was, rather than give him my gold pocket watch, I attempted to fight him off. Needless to say, my efforts were neither valiant nor successful. I was beaten senseless and left for dead in the muddy ditch left behind by the carriage wheel."

"My gosh, Edward. That is terrible."

"Yes, I agree but I brought it on myself."

It was another rare moment of remorse for my resident spirit, but they were moments he was experiencing more and more. It seemed that his years stuck in the spirit world were making him more humble, less pretentious, more human, ironically enough. Of course, I was under no illusion that his usual arrogance and mega-ego wouldn't return without warning. And sooner rather than later.

"It was sweet, barefoot Lavinia who discovered me, beaten and bloodied in the mud. She took me to their camp, nursed me back to health and even taught me some of their dances. Barbaric as they were, I had to admit, I enjoyed my few weeks with Lavinia and her family." An ethereal twinkle sparkled in his eyes.

"You fell in love with her, didn't you?" I teased. "I can see it right there." I squinted and pointed at his eye. "It's a love twinkle."

He brushed away and swept over to his perch on the hearth. "Don't be ridiculous. We were from entirely different worlds."

"Yes, but those two worlds collided for a brief moment. Suddenly, you were Romeo and Juliet."

"Good lord, you spend far too much time reading fluffy novels that have no purpose except to excite women and raise their expectations of men to unachievable heights."

"Huh," I said with a light laugh. "That is pretty insightful. It's also a confession. You've been reading my books."

Edward glanced toward the window. "Nothing else to do in this flowery prison. And now your sisters have arrived, so I will take myself upstairs to avoid the hen cackling and incessant laughter that is sure to follow."

I put my hands on my hips. "For a second, Edward Beckett was almost considerate and enlightened. Poof, just like that he obliterates the new mystique by tossing out one of his male chauvinist insults. Women do not cackle like hens. We laugh and talk and enjoy each other's company. Still, I'm going to remember these last few minutes because it gives me hope that you will yet become enlightened."

Edward was staring at me as I spoke. I could almost see all my well-constructed observations going right through his vaporous head. "You're right. That just now was not cackling. It was more like the long, ceaseless—"

The front door opened. I waved my hand. "You'll have to save your final insult for another time. Go away."

"Those fake spider webs are too messy," Lana was telling Emily on their way down the hallway. "And they're impossible to get rid of. Sunni will be pulling threads off her furniture at Christmas."

"I'd like to weigh in on this debate," I said. "I don't want to be pulling threads off my furniture at Christmas."