“Honestly officer, we were going to call nine-one-one as soon as the show was over,” said the young woman.

“We didn’t want all the people here to be alarmed,” said the man.

“The band was already playing. It was very loud.”

“No—they weren’t playing, that drummer was the one who found him—”

“They were basically just starting. Whoever killed him must have been long gone by then.”

“I’m glad someone called you. We weren’t sure what to do.”

“The body’s safe, we put it upstairs.”

“It’s so sad this keeps happening at shows.”

“Guess that’s why they call this the ‘murder capital.’ Right?”

The police officers stared down at the two earnest young promoters, who gazed imploringly back from the doorway of their home—probably a punk house, judging by the state it was in.

“Body?” asked one of the cops. “We got a call from a guy about all his pumpkins getting stolen."

“Yes, well, whoever did it, they took the band’s pumpkins too.” The girl must have noted the officer’s skeptical look, because she added, “It was their merch. Was it their drummer who called you? He found the body. I think he was pretty spooked.”

The officer who’d spoken looked at her partner, who returned an exhausted eyebrow raise and said, "Yeah, he was a drummer. I remember because I thought, 'Why would you bother telling me you're a drummer?'"

“Get the names of everyone here,” she told the couple. “Then tell them the party’s over. Don’t let the band leave. I want to talk to them before they go, about their… pumpkins. And this dead body, obviously.”

The girl disappeared obediently into the living room. The policewoman took the organizers' names from the young man and got a brief account of what he knew about the incident, which was very little. He showed them the table where the body had been found, explained how they'd carried it upstairs out of the way, and endured a brief lecture about tampering with a crime scene. The second officer called the police station to set the investigation procedure in motion.

“Ok.” The female officer looked sternly at the man. “Show us where the body is.”

He nodded and led them to the stairase just as another young couple skidded down it and tumbled out the door, their faces blank with terror.

“Um, I guess they found it,” said the young man sheepishly. “But in our defense, it’s not great etiquette to hook up in other people’s rooms at a house concert, just saying…” The cops gave him their most unimpressed stares and followed him up to the second floor.

***

With the performance complete, Jo packed her Jaguar into its case and went to look for the free drinks their host had mentioned. She found a few mixed cases of craft beer in the porch, as promised. She leaned down and selected a pale ale, then rose and gave a small start—a tall, broad-shouldered man was watching her. He immediately stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Great set! Sorry to startle you. You’re very skilled.”

“Thanks. Thank you,” she replied. She braced herself for the familiar awkwardness of post-show encounters; for some reason she always felt scattered after playing, like the hour she'd spent in front of a crowd had depleted her social skills and she needed either time or alcohol to replenish them. She twisted the cap off her beer.

"Did you used to play with The Ballet Llama? Eight or ten years ago?" he asked, and Jo laughed in surprise.

"Yeah, when I was, like, eighteen," she said. “Wow, someone remembers that band?"

He grinned. “You guys were the best! My friends and I used to go to your shows and mosh. I barely remember it, just that it was so much fun. We were totally messed up, of course.”

“Yeah, us too,” said Jo, trying not to sound nostalgic.

“Yeah, I know. One show I was at, your bass player’s strap came off, and he was too fucked up to get it back on—he ended up cross-legged on his amp like he was meditating!”

“Yup, sounds like Jake. He fell off near the end, right?”

“Yes! His leg fell asleep or something. He played the last however many songs lying on his back on the floor!”

“Those were the days,” Jo deadpanned.

“Whatever happened to that band?”

“Drifted apart. Our singer got a government job in arts admin—”

“Seriously? That guy was wild! I’m glad to know he lived past twenty.”

“—and I think Jake’s in med school. Those guys got it all out of their system, I guess.”

“But not you?”

“Not me. But my punk rock days are done, at least.”

“Indie suits you. Your skills would be wasted in punk. Not that there's anything wrong with power chords."

Jo looked the man up and down. He had a nice face and a neat goatee. He wore smart-looking black-rimmed glasses and an unpretentious button-down shirt. He was taller than her, which she always found appealing, though she reminded herself that height is no indicator of character.

He must have noticed her looking, because he suddenly seemed unsure what to say. Jo was used to this. Most musicians are very awkward people, but musicians have a special skill unrelated to music; they are able to make any non-musician they're speaking to feel as though the awkwardness is somehow their fault—that it is them and not the musician who is being awkward.

“I’m Lucas,” he said, recovering.

“Jo.”

“I write a blog about shows in the city. If you guys don’t mind, I’d like to tell my readers about you. All six of them.” He laughed. "I'm not into critical reviews, I keep it totally positive—not that I'd have negative things to say anyway, of course! It's...you know. We just need more people out at shows these days."

“Do what you need to do. Get your six readers out here.”

“Actually, it might be a few more than six.”

“The more the merrier.”

“Shows are more dangerous now, obviously. Since last winter. I guess this is the—what, the fifth show? Where someone has been killed? I mean, of course you already know that. It’s just, there are a lot of people who still want to keep coming out. We want the music to keep happening.”

“We’ll keep the music happening, Lucas.”

“Good. It was nice talking to you, Jo.”

***

The young promoter found Jaymie near the stage, wrapping the cord of his sustain pedal, effortlessly engaged in conversations with three different audience members at once.

“That’s our newest song, glad you liked it… Yes, that really is my last name… No, I don’t consider myself a nihilist…”

“The police want to talk to you. It’s about the stolen pumpkins,” she told him.

“Oh shit. Time to bail,” said Jaymie, misunderstanding her. He hastily fitted his synth into its case, and then turned back to her. "Did we make anything at the door?"

"Over two hundred!" she replied happily. "Thank you so much for playing. We'll etransfer you the cash. The security answer will be... Bukowski. Sorry that someone died at your show."

"Such are the risks of living and of leaving the house," said Jaymie, smiling wistfully. "I'm sorry as well, of course. Thank you for hosting." He winked at her, and she blushed and moved away to begin clearing out the other guests.

Aaron was disassembling his drumkit and watching him in disbelief. Jaymie braced himself.

“Are you crazy?” Aaron hissed as soon as she was out of earshot. “There’s a dead body in the house, and you want to run away? We just stole a shit-ton of pumpkins!”

“Stole? Our pumpkins are covered in Bukowski logos. They look nothing like the ones that poor man lost!”

“Jaymie!”

“Not to mention the fact that our pumpkins seem to have conveniently walked off. Karma’s a bitch, but what can you do?”

“Jaymie, I swear to god—”

“Okay, you’re right, it might look suspicious,” Jaymie conceded. “Well, I’ve talked my way out of tighter situations than this. For instance, I once had to convince a particularly gorilla-like bouncer that I was good friends with Burton Cummings of the Guess Who, even though the age difference between us is quite significant—”

“Yes, and you met the whole fucking band—I know the whole dumb story, Jay, so will you just fucking go and—”

“Hey! Guys!” Sasha broke in. She’d been standing beside the PA for sometime without anyone noticing. “Good show, as always. Did you rob Colin? He says you robbed him. He called the cops.”

“Shit, he’s here? Great. That’s just fucking perfect. Jaymie, you said he was at a show!” Aaron was clearly getting worked up again, and Jaymie sensed that it would be best for him and everyone in his vicinity if he were off the premises as soon as possible.

“Rexy! Can you and Aar finish loading? I have to talk to some cops real quick.”

Rex and their friends had enclosed themselves in an animated bubble of post-show euphoria, which they compliantly steered back toward the stage. Rex packed their things and directed Maggie and Red Toque Boy in teamwork-maneuvering the bass amp through the living room door. Sasha picked up Aaron's cymbal bag and muttered to Jaymie, "Good luck."

Jo had returned from the kitchen with a beer in hand in time to hear his request. She checked the clasps on her suitcase, then pointed at the ceiling and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

“Yeah, they’re up there,” he said resignedly.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, having likely guessed that her imposing presence would be comforting in a confrontation with the police.

“It’s about the pumpkins?” Rex asked quietly.

Jaymie realized with some relief that Aaron hadn't told them about the murder after all, and decided to let Rex enjoy their performance high without being plagued by the morbidity of the circumstances. "The pumpkins," he confirmed. "Don't worry about it."

They nodded. “It sure cleared out fast in here,” they said, looking around the living room.

The organizer had successfully expelled the audience from the house; she’d been telling them that Noble Pirogue, a particularly illustrious and well-loved local band, was playing a surprise show at a bar on Portage Avenue. By the time someone discredited the rumour, the party attendees would have spent fifteen minutes retrieving their footwear from the shoe-eating vortex of the front entrance and would likely go find somewhere else to drink.

Jaymie and Jo reached the stairs and ascended. They hesitated in the hallway a few paces behind the police officers, unsure whether to announce themselves or wait politely to be called upon. Their uncertainty lasted a moment too long; the young promoter glanced nervously at the cops and then opened the bedroom door, stepped inside, and turned on a dim lamp sitting on a bookcase.

The body had disappeared. Or rather, it had transformed. Surrounding the mattress in a neat semi-circle, the twenty-four pumpkins that remained intact stood keeping vigil. The other twelve had been eviscerated, their exoskeletons broken and reduced to blunt shards. The remains had been formed into the shape of a man, his body built from curved pumpkin slices, his lacerated vegetable flesh glinting in the low light. Barely contained within the fragments were the disgorged innards of the pumpkins, like fresh entrails that leaked from the many wounds. The carcass lay on a bedsheet that was shiny and wet with seed-laden juices.

Jaymie began backing away from the appalling sight, while Jo stood transfixed with horror. As he retreated, Jaymie bumped into Colin and let out a short yelp of surprise. Colin, who had followed them upstairs to officially accuse them of the theft, peered over Jaymie’s shoulder, took one look at the grisly scene, fled wordlessly back down the staircase.

“We have definitely not seen these pumpkins before,” said Jaymie. “Never in our lives.”