Town in a Pumpkin Bash (5 page)

And there was probably a good reason why—the pumpkin patch was a beautiful place to
hang out, especially on a seasonably brisk autumn morning. The vines, grasses, and
wildflowers that had grown up across the low, hammocklike field during the summer
were fading toward winter, though they’d glimmered with a touch of frost that morning.
Beyond the field, the colors were not quite as spectacular as they’d been a week ago,
since the trees here along the Maine coast were just past peak. Spots of vibrant golds,
reds, and oranges lingered, but the foliage was inexorably darkening into rusts and
ambers and mustard yellows, eventually to wither away in the annual fall ritual.

“Don’t you just love this time of year?” quipped an elderly woman as she handed her
ticket to Candy. “The air is so crisp and clear, and the fall colors this year have
been absolutely stunning.”

“They certainly have,” Candy replied. “Are you from around here?”

“We drove up from Virginia,” the woman said, indicating her traveling companion, a
quiet, gray-haired gentleman who had already climbed up into the wagon, “though we
have lovely color there as well, especially along Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge
Parkway. But we’ve never been to Maine before, so we thought we’d come up for a visit
this year, and it’s been just lovely.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re here,” Candy said amiably as she helped the woman up.

The last few passengers were climbing aboard when Candy heard the sound of a car pulling
into the parking lot. Thinking Sebastian J. Quinn had finally arrived, she looked
to her left.

A silver sedan was just coming to a stop beside a bushy fringe of deep red chokeberry.
Candy could see only a single passenger inside.
This could be him,
she thought.
This could be Sebastian
. And she turned and signaled to Maggie, who nodded. She also had spotted the vehicle
from her perch up in the wagon.

The car’s engine shut off and a few moments later the driver’s side door swung open.
The man who emerged was lean and tall, with thick sandy-colored hair and the rugged,
athletic, educated look of someone who had played multiple sports at some Ivy League
college, though he was well past college age—in his early to mid-forties, Candy guessed.
His brown jacket and slacks looked comfortable yet stylish, and expensive, though
in an understated way.

He slid his hands into his pockets and studied his surroundings in a casual yet seasoned
way, his stance shifting fluidly as his gaze swept across the flora and fields before
settling on Candy. He tilted his head, smiled, and nodded in greeting.

Candy nodded back, uncertain of who he was. Obviously not the bearded, bearlike Sebastian
J. Quinn.

As the newcomer started across the parking lot toward them, Candy looked back at Maggie
and shook her head.
It’s not Sebastian,
her gesture said.

Maggie had seen what she’d seen, and her right eyebrow rose questioningly.
Who is he?
she mouthed. But Candy just shrugged and shook her head.

Maggie glanced a final time toward the approaching stranger, and then, as if she’d
been given a signal, turned back to her passengers. “Now that everyone’s on board,”
she began in a rousing tone, “we’d like to welcome you all to the Pumpkin Hollow Haunted
Hayride!”

The passengers broke into an enthusiastic applause as Candy kicked aside the wooden
step behind the wagon and reached for the back slat, which she hefted up off the ground
and dropped into place as Maggie launched into her rehearsed presentation.

“In just a few moments,” she told the passengers, “we’re going to take a spooky sojourn
back through Pumpkin Hollow’s haunted history. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but strange
events have occurred on this isolated plot of land for centuries. Some folks say there’s
an old Indian burial
ground somewhere nearby, dating back to before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock,
and that the souls buried there become restless after dark. Others believe a British
force from Augusta massacred a settlement of French squatters somewhere around here
in the late seventeen hundreds, and that their ghosts still appear on dark nights
when the mists roll in from the sea. What makes these fields so fertile yet so deadly?
No one knows for sure, but whatever happened here, both good and malevolent spirits
linger, and they seem to become particularly active as we get closer to Halloween.
So keep your eyes open, because we just might see a few of them today!”

Several of the children simultaneously giggled and shivered in anticipation, and the
adults chuckled.

As Maggie continued addressing the passengers, Candy made her way around the wagon
toward the tractor, but stopped halfway there as the newcomer approached her.

“Hello!” he called out as he made his way along a path between the chaotic pumpkin
vines.

The day had brightened briefly as the sun broke through an opening in the overcast
sky, and she held up a hand to shade her eyes. “Hi,” she said as he drew closer, “can
I help you?”

He flashed an easy smile as a strong gust of wind tussled his hair, which curled around
the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t happen to know someone named Candy Holliday, would
you?” he asked.

“I would,” she said after hesitating only a moment, uncertain of why this handsome
stranger would have driven out here to the pumpkin patch on a Saturday morning looking
for her. “And who’d be looking for me?”

He laughed, easily as well. “Hi, Candy, I’m T.J., and I wonder if I could ask you
a few questions about the haunted house. You know, the one where the woman was murdered?
I’ve heard you know something about that place.”

If anyone else had approached her with such an odd opening line, she might have reacted
differently. But this inquisitive newcomer who called himself T.J. had such a casual
attitude and a disarming way about him that she could only laugh as she let her guard
down. “Well, T.J., I just might be able to help you out,” she said, instantly feeling
at ease in his presence, “but what makes you think Sapphire’s old place is haunted?”

“Sapphire? You mean the woman who was murdered there?” He gave her a quick shrug and
stared off into the distant field. “I’ve heard the stories around town, just like
everybody else,” he responded vaguely.

But before he could continue, they heard a shrill whistle and turned to see Maggie
wagging an arm at them. “Hey, come on you two, let’s get on board!” she said, and
she tapped her watch. “We’re behind schedule. It’s time to get rolling!”

Candy looked back at T.J., an apologetic smile crossing
her face. “You heard the woman,” she said, and pointed to the wagon. “She can be quite
a taskmaster. I wouldn’t cross her. Why don’t you climb aboard? I’m sure she can find
you a spot to sit.”

His eyes flicked uncertainly toward the wagon. “It looks full.” He thought about it
a moment or two, and finally took a few steps back. “Maybe I’ll just wait here ’til
you get back.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You might as well ride along.” And taking him by the arm, Candy
led him around to the back of the wagon and pointed up at the rear slat, which she’d
put in place to make sure none of the passengers tumbled out over the rougher terrain.
“Up you go.”

He nodded and took a few steps toward the wagon, as if to climb aboard, but then he
looked over at her. “You’re not coming with me?”

She pointed toward the tractor. “I’m driving.”

“Oh.” He glanced in the direction she’d pointed before looking back at her, an eyebrow
rising.

She wasn’t quite sure how to take his reaction. “I’m a blueberry farmer,” she said
reassuringly. “I know how to handle that thing. I’ll get you there and back safely.”

The look in his gray eyes told her she’d misread him. “No, it’s not that,” he said
with a mild shake of his head. “I’m aware you’re a farmer—I’ve read your columns.
All of them. It’s just that I was hoping we could ride together, so we could talk
along the way.”

“Together? In the wagon?”

“If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.” He pointed up at Maggie. “Maybe your friend
could drive this time, so you and I could talk? It’ll help speed things along, you
know.” He flashed his grin at her again, and in the brightening light she saw a swirl
of lavender specks in his eyes.

Candy was caught in those eyes for a few moments. To break the spell she cleared her
throat, several times. “Umm, give me a minute.”

In a quick, easy motion, she climbed over the wagon’s
back rail and made her way past the seated passengers, apologizing as she went. “Sorry.
Short delay. This’ll just take a minute. Sorry.” She picked her way along quickly
but cautiously, careful not to step on anyone’s toes or fingers.

When she reached Maggie, her friend hissed, “What’s the matter? We’ve got to get going.”

“Switch with me,” Candy said.

Maggie gave her a quizzical look. “What?”

“Switch with me. You drive the tractor this time. I’ll do the narration.”

“But I thought you didn’t like doing the narration.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Do you remember how it goes?”

“I’ll fake it.”

Maggie’s eyes widened, and she glanced around Candy toward T.J., who had climbed aboard
and was coming toward them. “Who’s your friend?”

“His name is T.J.”

Maggie instantly grasped what was going on. She smiled craftily, patted Candy’s wrist,
and winked. “I’ve got you covered, honey.” With that, she walked around Candy and
waved. “Hi, T.J., I’m Maggie. Why don’t you sit up there at the front of the wagon,
beside Candy, and I’ll go fire up that tractor.”

Turning to the passengers, she added, “Folks, we’ve made a slight adjustment to the
program this morning. I’ll have the honor of shepherding you around with the iron
beast, and the famed Candy Holliday herself is going to provide the narration for
you. And boy, are you in for a treat, because no one knows the inside story of Cape
Willington’s mysterious, murderous past better than Candy Holliday herself!”

A few minutes later, Maggie started up the tractor, and with a jerk and a lurch, the
hay wagon rattled forward, to scattered cheers and applause from the passengers.

Their route would take them along a narrow dirt track through the center of the pumpkin
patch to the south side, where they’d follow a spiral pattern to the left, looping
around the front of the patch along the parking lot, then angling off to the left
again, along the northern edge of the field, before journeying into High Field, where
they’d set up several Halloween displays.

Candy perched on a bale of hay at the front of the wagon and cleared her throat one
more time, suddenly aware of all the pairs of eyes gazing expectantly at her.

“Well, as my friend Maggie said, we welcome all of you to our haunted hayride,” she
began, doing her best to recall the narrative script for the tour, which she’d helped
Maggie research and write a few weeks ago. “My name’s Candy, and usually I’m the one
who’s driving the tractor, and Maggie
serves as your host. But due to a last-minute request, we’ve switched places for this
trip, so I hope you’ll excuse me if my delivery’s a little rusty.” She glanced at
T.J., who was sitting nearby, watching her with a bemused expression on his face.

“So, let’s see.” She paused, collecting her thoughts, and then decided to just say
whatever came to her mind, and launched right into it, sweeping her arm out toward
the pumpkin patch. “Maggie mentioned some of the strange happenings that have taken
place in and around these fields we’re traveling through, and we’ll talk about those
in a few minutes. But Cape Willington isn’t the only town in Maine with a mysterious
past. The entire Down East coastline has a spooky history all its own, dating back
hundreds of years. This was one of the first areas of the continent explored by the
Europeans, who brought all their old superstitions with them. Of course, the Native
Americans had already been here for thousands of years, and they had their own myths
and legends, which helped fuel the imaginations of the early settlers. It wasn’t hard
for them to see ghosts and phantoms and strange creatures in these dark, unexplored
woods. A little later on, pirates roamed the islands and coves of Maine, and supposedly
left some treasure behind, probably not too far from here, along with a few haunted
caves and curses. And just like Salem, Massachusetts, Maine has its own witch stories….”