Page 56 of The Pumpkin Pie Book Nook

“Sure. Makes sense to me,” Tyler said.

They started there, pulling out reel after reel, scrolling through day after day of newspapers, looking for any mention of pumpkin pies. Headlines blurred past—local harvests, school announcements, PTA bake sales, the occasional wedding photo—until the October issues gave way to November and still nothing looked promising.

By the time they hit late November, Emma was officially done.

“I thought you said this was going to be fun,” she said, slumping in her chair and swinging her feet. “All you guys are doing is staring at a very tiny screen. Don’t your eyes hurt? That would make my eyes hurt. You’re sitting awfully close to it. Remember, Dad, you said you need to take a brain break every now and then?”

She kept going, a steady stream of commentary. Tyler looked like he was about to apologize for her, but Robyn smiled.

“She’s not wrong,” Robyn admitted, sitting back from the machine and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “And honestly, I’m a little surprised we haven’t found anything.”

“I know.” Tyler frowned at the spinning reel. “You’d think it’d be easy to find the annual pumpkin pie winner in a small-town newspaper.”

A familiar voice drifted around the end of the aisle. “Any luck?”

Mrs. C. appeared out of nowhere, like librarians tended to do in Robyn’s experience. They were sneaky, those ones. Officially retired, Mrs. C. still volunteered a few afternoons a week, keeping the shelves—and the patrons—on their toes. She adjusted her glasses and peered at the microfilm machine.

“I finished my homework,” Emma said quickly, seizing the opportunity. “And I can do my minute math in less than a minute. I timed myself, so I know.”

Mrs. C.’s mouth twitched. “Outstanding.”

“Unfortunately, no luck on the pie front,” Robyn said. “We started with the October first issue and we’re all the way up to November twentieth. Still nothing.”

“Well, of course you didn’t find anything,” Mrs. C. said, in the tone of someone announcing that water was wet. “You started too late in the year. Didn’t the mayor tell you? Back then, the pie contest was part of the county fair—which everybody knows takes place the first week of August. Has since the fair was founded in 1854.”

She looked between them, clearly expecting this to be obvious.

For two relative newcomers who had maybe two combined years of Maple Falls residency between them, it… wasn’t.

“First week of August,” Mrs. C. repeated pointedly.

“Got it,” Tyler said, already on his feet, moving to the cabinet to hunt down the correct reel.

They worked together to swap it out—Tyler handling the reel, Robyn lining it up—and within a few minutes, they were scrolling through sun-bleached headlines about Ferris wheels, livestock shows, and prize-winning jams.

And then Robyn saw it.

“Wait—go back,” she said, leaning in.

Tyler reversed the dial, and there it was: a grainy black-and-white photo of three women standing behind a long table, each with a pie in front of her. The headline read: County Fair Crowns Pumpkin Pie Champion.

Great-Grandma Isabel stood in the center, younger but unmistakable, a ribbon pinned to her dress, her shoulders back with pride. It reminded Robyn of the photo her mother had snapped of her when she’d won the high school science fair.

Robyn let out a disbelieving laugh. “She won the pie contest that year?”

“Looks that way,” Tyler said, leaning closer, shoulder brushing hers.

The caption listed the names. Isabel was front and center, the words First Place right beside her name.

Robyn stared at her great-grandmother’s face for a long moment, shaking her head at the perfect audacity of it all. Of course Isabel had won. Of course she had left them chasing down her victory decades later.

“Does this mean we can go home now?” Emma asked, dragging out the last word in a way that made all three adults chuckle.

“Almost,” Tyler said. “We still need to print this out.”

Once they had the article copied, Tyler turned back to Robyn. “So… where would Isabel’s recipe be?”

“There’s only one place I can think of,” Robyn said slowly, grateful that her grandparents had gotten back into town last night. “My grandparents’ place.”