A shot cracked. The top box flew from beneath my chin. It exploded in a burst of pink cardboard and piecrust and cherry filling.
I shrieked, the boxes swaying.
I slapped my hand on the top box, and they steadied. Okay. Okay. I was alive. But what-the-hell? Another shot rang out, louder.
Heart banging against my ribs, I scrambled for cover behind a horse trough. My tennis shoes skidded in the loose dirt, and I half fell against the trough. I clutched the remaining boxes to my chest. Someone. Some stupid person . . .
My fingers dented the pink cardboard. Probably some kids, or hunters, or a random idiot. The trick shooters couldn’t have been this careless.
I forced my breathing to calm. “Hello?” I shouted. “Hold your fire!”
No one answered.
Still clinging to my pies, I squirmed about and peered over the trough. Since I hadn’t been hit, the bullet that had taken out my pie must have come from an angle, from my side rather than my front or rear.
The eucalyptus trees across the street shivered. They would have made a good hiding place for a shooter.
Hiding place? The shot had to have been an accident, but suddenly all I wanted was to get out of here.
I hunched over my remaining pie boxes and speed walked toward the saloon, the nearest shelter. It now seemed light years away. Its front doors were shuttered closed.
I scooted up its porch steps and set my pies by the door, rattled the heavy wood shutters.
Locked. I gave a small whimper.
Abandoning my pies, I ducked into the alley between the saloon and a bath house. Panting, I peeked into the main street.
I was probably safe here. I’d probably been safe behind the watering trough. This was twenty-first century California, not the Wild West. But cold sweat trickled down my neck. I backed deeper into the shade of the alley.
My heel bumped something. I staggered and braced my hands against the rough, wood-planked wall. Legs wobbly, I exhaled, turned.
A man lay sprawled on the dirt, his plaid shirt soaked with blood. Mouth open, he stared sightlessly at the cloudless sky.
Chapter Two
I gaped at the dead man. And, I’m sorry to say, I’ve seen enough dead bodies to be certain he was dead. There was too much blood pooling in the dirt, soaking his button-up, plaid shirt. His eyes were dull, unmoving. A breeze ruffled the man’s brown hair, exposing his receding hairline.
“No,” I moaned.
My brain turned to mush. I shook my head, shut my gaping pie hole. I needed to call the police. And my cell phone was in Charlene’s Jeep.
I pressed my back against the wall and ducked my head out, glancing up and down the road. It was empty.
The sniper could be waiting for me to make a run for it so he could pick me off.
Or he could be circling around the building to shoot me.
I cursed softly, so the hypothetical mad gunman wouldn’t hear.
Gritting my teeth, I raced across the exposed street to the Jeep and yanked open the driver’s door. I grabbed my phone from the cup holder.
My chin jerked up. I’d left the body. You shouldn’t leave the body. The police frowned on that sort of thing.
I raced back to the alley. No murderer bent over the corpse, muddling the crime scene. No detective prowled the narrow alley, searching for clues. Hands shaking, I crouched in the shade and dialed nine-one-one.
A side door to the saloon flew open and banged against the wall.
I jumped and swore.
A forty something woman in jeans and the ubiquitous plaid shirt stepped into the shaded alley. A long braid of blond hair flecked with gray cascaded over her shoulder. “Devon? Where the . . . ?” Her mouth slackened. “Is that . . . ?”
The phone squawked. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“Uh—”
The woman gasped and spun toward me. “Oh, my God! You killed him!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the ghost town.
“I didn’t! I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“What is your emergency?” the dispatcher repeated.
“You’re covered in his blood!” She clapped a hand to her mouth and sagged against the saloon’s rough wooden wall. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“What? I never touched him.” Maybe I should have. What if he wasn’t dead?
Shaken, I glanced at the body.
No, he was definitely, definitively, indubitably dead.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” the dispatcher asked.
“Uh, yeah. This is Val Harris. I’m at the Bar X. Someone’s been shot. He’s dead.”
“Who’s dead? Who’s been shot?”
“I don’t know who he is,” I said. “Please send the police.”
The middle-aged blonde bolted through the saloon’s side door. The lock snicked shut.
Footsteps pounded in the dirt, and Ewan and Charlene rounded the corner.
I lowered the phone to my side.
Charlene skidded to a halt, her purple tunic flapping in the breeze. “Val! Where were you hit?”
“I wasn’t.” I rubbed my temple.
“We heard a scream.” Ewan glanced down and his ruddy face paled. “Devon?”
Charlene, who only had eyes for me, raised her palm. “Hold up. Is that cherry?”
“What are you talking about?” I motioned toward the body. “A man’s been—”
Charlene swiped a gnarled finger across my cheek. “It is cherry. Did someone decide pie throwing would be more fun than pie eating?”
“Forget the pie.” I swiped a hand across my chin, and it came away sticky. “Someone shot the pie, and I guess the same person shot . . . whoever that is.” I turned to Ewan.
Looking flattened, the big man braced his hand against a wall.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Frith,” I said. “Did he work here?”
Charlene tore her gaze from me, looked down the alley, and her eyes widened. She staggered sideways, one hand clutched to her chest. “What the . . . ?”
Ewan swallowed. “We have to call the police.”
“I already have.” And whoops, I hadn’t ended the call. Tentative, I lifted the phone and whispered into the receiver. “Are you still there?”
“What’s happening?” the dispatcher asked. “Are you in a safe place?”
“More people have arrived. And yes, I’m safe.”
“If it’s too late to administer first aid,” she said, “keep everyone away from the body. I’ve dispatched units to the scene. They should arrive in a few minutes.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I hung up, swallowed. “The police are on their way. We’re not supposed to go near the body.”
Marla rounded the corner, her silk top and loose slacks rustling. “Who screamed?” The older woman stopped dead, her gaze bouncing from me to Charlene to the man’s body. She clapped her hands to her silver hair. “It’s not possible. He was just . . . He’s dead! You killed him! You’re covered in his blood.” She pressed a hand to her forehead.
“What is that on you?” Ewan asked. “Cherry tart?”
“No, it’s pie,” I said. “Cherry pie.”
Marla moaned. “I feel faint.”
Ewan hustled to her and cradled her in his arms. “Come sit on the porch. It’s all right.”
“Blood. So much blood.” She slumped against his broad chest.
He half dragged her around the corner, presumably to the saloon’s porch. His voice drifted around the side of the building. “Head between your knees.”
Charlene whipped toward me. “Quick. Before the cops show up. What happened?”
“I didn’t kill him!”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course, you didn’t kill him. Now what did you see? Who shot the pie?”
“I don’t know. The pie exploded in my hands, and then there was a second shot.”
“A second shooter. It’s the grassy knoll all over again.”
“I don’t think someone could have hit that pie from the hills,�
� I said, scanning them through the gap between the buildings.
“The grassy knoll. JFK. Lee Harvey Oswald. Keep up!”
Oh, that grassy knoll. I didn’t respond, determined not to be pulled into another of Charlene’s conspiracy theories. “At first, I thought the shooter was in the trees near your Jeep, so I took shelter in the alley. And then I saw the body.”
“Where was the pie shot?”
“In the street. You can still see the remains.” I gestured vaguely toward the broken pie box.
“Okay, that should help us figure out the trajectory.”
“Us?”
“It’s a case!”
My chest caved. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Charlene, we can’t.” Our so-called cases tended toward missing surfboards and suspicious lurkers. The first and last time we’d been involved in a murder, we’d almost been killed. “This is too big for us. The police will be here any minute—”
“Too big? We busted open the biggest crime syndicate San Nicholas has seen since Prohibition.”
“I wouldn’t call it a syndicate—”
“And we’re here, on the scene. Someone shot a man, and you could have been killed.” She tapped my chest with a crooked finger and lowered her voice. “This, my girl, is personal.”
A siren wailed in the distance.
I prayed for sanity. “Charlene. Someone didn’t just shoot a pie. They shot an actual person. This is serious.”
“The Bar X is going to need our help.” She drew a leather-bound notebook from her pocket. “Think of what last spring’s murder in Pie Town did to your business. It nearly wiped us out.”
“The killer nearly wiped us out. He literally, nearly wiped us out.”
“Do you want that to happen to the Bar X? For Ewan to lose his business because of a crime he had nothing to do with?”
“How do you know—?”
The siren stopped, and I fell silent.
Ewan shouted, “Over here!”
“The real question,” she said, “is why did they shoot the pie? Was it a diversion?”
I counted to ten. “Forget the pie. It’s not about the pie.”
“Maybe you were the target. What if the killer meant to kill you and accidentally shot this Devon fellow instead?”
“Who would want to kill me?”
She shot me a dark look. “You know who.”
Except I didn’t. “Who—?”
Gordon walked into the alley, and the tension I didn’t realize I’d been holding, released.
He halted, staring. “Val?” In spite of the heat, he wore a blue suit jacket, and I almost smiled. He’d worked hard to become a detective again after transferring to San Nicholas, and he was determined to dress the part. He looked like a TV detective, tall and square jawed, dark haired and handsome.
“Detective Carmichael,” Charlene said. “The body’s here. The killer shot a pie right out of Val’s hands. Cherry.” She shook her head. “Real mess.” She departed the alley for parts unknown. Probably to keep an eye on Marla and Ewan.
He blinked, his eyes hardening to jade, and strode forward. “What happened?” He knelt beside the body and checked for a pulse.
“I was walking across the street, and someone shot a pie out of my hands. I thought the shooter was in the trees, by the pottery shed and Charlene’s Jeep, and I ran into the alley. That’s when I saw him.”
“Who is he?” Rising, Gordon pulled a notebook from his breast pocket.
“Mr. Frith called him Devon,” I said. “I’ve never seen him before. Oh, and there was a blond woman. She came out of the side door to the saloon, saw the dead man, and me covered in cherry filling, and panicked.”
He ran me through a series of brusque questions. Why was I at the Bar X? When had I arrived? When had I met Ewan and Marla? When did I hear the shots?
EMTs arrived. More police. A firetruck.
Finally, the interrogation ended, and he closed his notebook. “There goes our date,” he said under his breath.
So, it was a date. I wasn’t feeling super romantic about it with a corpse nearby, but ha! Take that Char . . . wait. “What?”
He scrubbed a hand across his chiseled face. “We’ll have to cancel.”
“Because you’ll be busy investigating on Friday?”
“Because, by virtue of discovering the body, you’re a suspect. Again.”
“What? No! I’m not. It’s only cherry.” I peeled the T-shirt away from my skin. The filling had soaked through and was starting to feel icky.
“And you look delicious.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “I know you didn’t kill the man, but I have to follow procedure. And if a woman saw you standing over the body covered in blood—”
“Cherry filling!”
“That she thought was blood. I’m going to have to include you in the field of suspects, even if it is only on a technicality. And I can’t date a suspect.”
And San Nicholas only had one detective. And this would be his first homicide case here. And he wouldn’t give this case up to an outside investigator from another town. I smiled weakly. “It’s fine. I get it.” I did not get it.
“It’s only a delay,” he said. “Once this is cleared up—”
“Grumpy Cop!” A voice boomed from behind us, and Gordon’s fist clenched, crumpling the notebook. Our new chief of police, hawk nosed, narrow faced, and skinny as a scarecrow, strode down the alley. His steps slowed, and his brown eyes widened. “Val Harris? You’re the last person I expected to see at a murder scene.” His voice was hearty.
“Hello, Chief Shaw,” I said, glum. I knew he loved it when people called him “chief.” His position was new too. Shaw had moved up from detective to chief, and Grumpy . . . I mean, Gordon, had taken his spot as San Nicholas’s lone detective. It was a good change for the town, but Shaw was, well . . . Shaw.
“We can’t be certain it was a murder at this point,” Gordon said. “Stray bullets were flying. One took out a pie Miss Harris was holding. It’s possible the death was accidental, though we can’t rule out—”
“Don’t tell me a cherry pie was heinously murdered during the perpetration of this crime?” Shaw’s gaze raked me.
“A few witnesses have mistaken it for blood,” Gordon said.
“I suppose Miss Harris could have murdered the man, and then covered herself in pie to obscure any bloodstains,” Shaw said. “Very Agatha Christie. Well played, Miss Harris.”
“I didn’t—”
“Right,” Shaw said. “I’m afraid we’ll need your clothes, Miss Harris.”
“What?!”
“It’s for the best, Miss Harris.” Gordon clapped me on the shoulder, as if there was nothing at all between us. The big faker. “You’ll get them back, and this way, there’ll be no doubt of your innocence.”
“Or guilt,” Shaw chimed in.
“My clothes?” I stepped backward, bumping against the bath house’s rough wooden wall. Of all the ways I’d fantasized about Gordon getting me out of my clothes, this wasn’t one of them. “But I’m wearing my clothes.”
Shaw rubbed his hands together. “Well, I’m here now. I may as well pitch in. Why don’t I tackle Mr. Frith?” Without waiting for an answer, he sped down the alley.
“Thanks,” Gordon said to his chief’s departing back. I knew what he was thinking—his big case had become a joint effort. I also knew that in the end, Gordon would be the one to figure out whodunit. And Shaw would take the credit. At least Gordon would have the satisfaction of knowing he’d solved the crime.
“My clothes?” I squeaked.
“Sorry, Val, but it needs to be done.”
A policewoman appeared and escorted me to the saloon’s bathroom. She swabbed my hands for gunpowder residue. Beneath her watchful gaze, I stripped off my T-shirt and jeans.
I handed them over, realized the problem. “I don’t have a change of clothes.”
She nodded. “Wait here. We’ll find something for you. Wor
st case scenario, I’ve got a blanket in my trunk.” She left me alone. Though it was warm outside, the blue tiles seemed to pull in cool air, and I shivered as I washed my torso free of cherry goo. I turned on the hand dryer and huddled in front of it for warmth.
Fifteen minutes later, Charlene hollered through the door. “Are you decent?”
“No!” And the hand dryer had stopped working. I might have blown the fuse.
“We found you something that might fit. Open the door.”
I cracked it open, and Charlene passed through a garment bag on a hanger. “Just to get you home. They want it back.”
Edging the door shut with my foot, I unzipped the bag and a tumble of crinolines cascaded from the gray plastic. “What is this?” My voice echoed weirdly off the slick tiles.
“One of the costumes from the photo shop.”
I eyed the striped satin skirt and corset. There didn’t seem to be any outerwear involved in this costume. “Couldn’t you have gotten me a miner’s costume?” Something with pants?
“Couldn’t find anything else in your size,” Charlene said. “Time to lay off the pie, my girl!”
“I have not gained weight.”
“That’s what they all say.” A door banged shut.
“Charlene? Wait!”
No answer.
Dang it all!
Annoyed, I rummaged through the bag. It contained some sort of chemise with short, puffed sleeves. I guessed it went under the red and black corset, which I would not be wearing. Steampunk might be hot, but this was a murder scene, and the dead deserved respect.
I slipped into the skirt. The satin was sheer and clingy, so I added the petticoats for modesty and buttoned up the chemise. The tiny mirror over the sink couldn’t capture the entire effect, but I’m sure my tennis shoes were the touch of elegance needed to pull the look together.
I jammed the corset into the garment bag and zipped it up, opened the door.
A flash blinded me.
Charlene lowered her phone and squinted at the screen. “That’s going on Twitter.”
I rubbed my eyes, and the saloon came into focus. Wooden floors thick with sawdust. A long, polished bar and, behind it, a mirror speckled with age. Green felt tables for gaming and plain wooden ones for eating. A player piano. “Please don’t post that on Twitter.”
Bleeding Tarts Page 2