Page 43 of The Pumpkin Pie Book Nook

“Yes, ma’am,” the mayor replied. “What year are we looking for?”

“Valid question.” Robyn thought for a moment, recalling the photo Edith had found that led to clue number two. “They buried the time capsule in 1955, so probably around then?”

“Alright then, I’ll see what I can do,” the mayor replied confidently.

“In case there wasn’t a competition then, the rest of us need to look into family cookbooks, old recipe boxes. Anything passed down you can think of,” Robyn continued.

Emily’s brow furrowed. “My great-grandmother… I know she got the recipe I use from someone else. I just can’t remember who.”

Mrs. C. nodded decisively. “We find out who made the best pumpkin pie in Maple Falls when Isabel wrote this. Then we’ll find the recipe card that points us to the last installment.”

Elsie lifted her phone again, grinning. “And I will be documenting the entire process.”

Robyn’s stomach tightened at the reminder of Elsie’s viral post and the ticking clock, but Tyler’s knee brushed hers lightly under the table, and Robyn forced herself to breathe.

She wanted to believe everything would be okay, but the perfectionist voice inside her head would not be silenced. She desperately wanted to believe they could pull the event off, for her great-grandmother’s sake, and for the future of the bookstore…

TWENTY

TYLER

The pumpkin pie book nook was crowded and full of voices, but Robyn had gone strangely still beside him. Tyler noticed it immediately. By now, he knew the difference between her usual stress, all quick words and nervous energy, and this quieter kind of strain that seemed to pull her inward whenever the book club read another piece of Isabel’s story. This was deeper, quieter, like something was tugging at her from underneath the surface.

Isabel’s manuscript had hit a nerve. Tyler wasn’t sure if it was because it was her great-grandmother’s words, or because of the upcoming event, Midnight in Maple Falls. Whatever it was, it made Robyn uncomfortable.

Elsie, of course, was selling the personal, family connection angle with the kind of bravado that made Tyler suspect she could market a pothole as a tourist attraction.

But every time the conversation circled back to Robyn’s family, Robyn’s body language gave her away.

Her fingers tightened around her pen. Her smile thinned. Her shoulders held too still. He thought she was bracing for something. What, he had no idea.

He didn’t mean to study her. But couldn’t help it. He was tuned to her.

It took a while for her to relax. But eventually, as the conversation dove deeper into the story, and then on to planning how to discover the final missing section of the manuscript, Robyn was calmer and back in charge.

Tyler hovered at the edge of the conversation so Robyn could come into the center. He’d always preferred quieter roles anyway, like editing behind the scenes, making sure the details held so the rest of the story could shine. Watching Robyn take charge was a different kind of satisfying. She didn’t boss people around; she simply organized the room with the calm authority of someone who had chaired academic panels and managed fifty-question Q&As without breaking a sweat.

By the time she finished, everyone had a direction to search for the best pumpkin pie in Maple Falls back in Isabel’s day, as if they were a team of seasoned detectives rather than a group of book lovers who had just eaten their combined body weight in fall-themed comfort food.

And then, inevitably, the debate began again. Robyn had tried to hold it off once, but that only lasted for so long.

Mrs. C. started it, just as everyone was packing up. “If you recall,” she announced, lifting her chin, “I won the Fall Festival pie contest three years in a row.”

“That’s only because I didn’t enter,” Mrs. Bishop shot back, offended on principle.

Edith waved a dismissive hand, as if she couldn’t believe they were even arguing. “Nonsense. Everyone knows my pumpkin pie is the best this side of the Atlantic,” she declared. “It was my Scottish grandmother’s recipe, after all, and she was the finest baker in six generations.”

Tyler watched it the same way he watched a tennis match—head turning back and forth. Robyn didn’t even blink. She stepped forward, between the ladies, interrupting.

“Could your grandmother’s recipe be the one we’re looking for?” she asked Edith.

Edith’s expression softened into something almost apologetic. “Oh, I wish. But we didn’t move to Maple Falls until I was in my teens. I’m afraid we’re a generation off for Isabel’s time.”

Robyn nodded once, already filing it away, and then she turned and made her way back to Tyler, who had retreated behind the front counter, watching the scene unfold from afar.

“Well, that was productive,” Tyler said when she joined him.

Robyn nodded her head in an amused sort of way.