“Yeah.” Bridget tore her gaze from Charlene. “He wasn’t here long, but we’ll still miss him. I can’t believe this has happened. Devon was sweet.”
Curly plucked the deck of cards from Bridget’s hands. “Are we playing or not?”
“It had to have been an accident.” Bridget leaned across the green felt table. “Murder doesn’t make sense. Devon hadn’t been here long, not long enough to make enemies. There was no reason for anyone to kill him. We never got any complaints. He was a good person.”
“If he was so sweet,” Curly said, “why did someone shoot him? People don’t get killed for no good reason.”
“That’s not fair.” Bridget’s nostrils flared. “You’re blaming the victim!”
“Did he have any family?” I asked.
She gazed at the pretzels piled in the center of the table. “No. He told me his mother died six months ago. And now he’s gone too.”
“Maybe it’s for the best his mother wasn’t around to see this,” Curly said. “There’s nothing worse than losing a child.”
Bridget gnawed her bottom lip. “No. No, I guess there isn’t. I’m sorry. I can’t . . .” She scraped back her chair and hurried from the saloon. The batwing doors flapped, stirring a breeze.
Curly’s mouth twisted with disgust. He dropped the deck on the table. “Do you have to be so damned nosy?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset her. Should I go after her?”
“Her mom died when she was young,” he said. “She’s a little sensitive about it. Not your fault. Best to leave her alone.” He gave Charlene a hard look. “About everything.”
“Someone killed that bartender,” Charlene said. “And that someone may still be here, at the Bar X. Things aren’t going to be right for her or for anyone else until this murder is solved.”
“Well,” Curly said, “I didn’t do it, so you can stop looking at me.” He dealt us each a hand.
“You’re right,” I said. “Having a murder hanging over you isn’t a good feeling.” I knew that sense of creeping unease, of wondering who around you wasn’t who or what they seemed. I pushed my chair from the table. “I’m going to find Bridget.”
The saloon doors swung open, and Marla swanned in on Moe’s arm. Her diamond-spangled fingers tightened on his plaid shirtsleeve.
Charlene bolted upright in her chair. On her shoulder, Frederick rose on all fours. He hissed, his back arched.
“Well, well, well.” Marla smoothed the front of her denim shirt. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Chapter Five
Charlene’s lips pinched. “Marla.”
Settling back onto her shoulder, Frederick growled, his blue eyes narrowing.
Marla released Moe and turned up the collar of her blue shirt. The gesture had a dual effect: flashing her rings and exposing her massive turquoise necklace. The sawdust floor muffled the sound of her high-heeled cowboy boots, tucked discreetly beneath her white-denim slacks.
The woman had style.
Curly raised his cards higher, shielding his face. He scrunched, making tires of his neck and stomach.
Marla drew a business card from her breast pocket and handed it to me with two fingers. “My card.”
I glanced at it. Thick white paper stock. Matte. Elegant black print: MARLA VAN HELSING, DISCREET INQUIRIES. I choked. Van Helsing? Like the vampire hunter? And how did she get the cards produced so quickly?
Marla dropped another card on the table in front of Charlene. “I’m here to solve the crime,” she said.
Charlene purpled.
“Did you know she was once on TV?” Moe grinned and smoothed his slicked, too-dark hair.
Curly peered at Marla over his cards.
“That psychic who investigated the White Lady has been thoroughly discredited,” Charlene said. “She’s a fraud and a charlatan, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in the same city with her, much less the same TV show.”
“The televised séance was awfully fun,” Marla said. “And I got sooo much fan mail.”
“Marla,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
“Oh.” Marla tapped her turquoise necklace, and her rings glittered beneath the saloon’s stained-glass lamps. “I forgot you’re only a pie seller, dear. I’ll break down the vocabulary. ‘Discreet inquiries’ means I conduct personal investigations for only the best caliber of client.”
I folded my arms. “I was an English major.”
“Of course you were, dear. So good of you to give Charlene a job in her golden years.”
“You’re a year older than I am,” Charlene told her.
Marla tapped her silvery head. “Age is all in the mind. It’s just a number.”
“And what’s your number?” I asked Marla. In Charlene’s job application, she’d listed her age as forty-two. I’d doubled that number, subtracted ten, and not asked any questions. Now I might finally get an answer.
Marla wagged a finger at me. “It’s not polite to ask a lady her age.”
Charlene flipped the business card over and scowled. “You’ve got an office?”
“I always have an office. You mean you don’t? Where do you meet your clients? In the pie shop?” Marla laughed, the sound of breaking glass.
“Our procedures are none of your beeswax,” Charlene said.
I plucked a fallen ace of spades from the sawdust. Apparently, we hadn’t been playing with a full deck, which seemed somehow appropriate. “Um, Moe? Curly told us that his horse had thrown a shoe, and he had to walk it back to the carriage house around the time of the murder.” I slid the card onto the green felt table.
He glared at Curly, his black eyes beady. “Yeah?”
“Is that what you remember?” I asked.
“I remember him walking the horse from the corral. I didn’t examine the shoe, if that’s what you’re asking, but the horse was hobbling like the shoe was loose.”
“And what were you doing when Curly was in the carriage house?” I asked.
He crossed his arms across his broad chest. “The police have asked me, Marla’s asked me . . . I’m done answering questions.”
“Why?” Charlene asked. “Talking about a murder in your own backyard can’t be that boring.”
He glared at me. “You were there when Devon was killed. You tell me what happened.”
“I’m not sure what I saw,” I said slowly. Had I seen anything? I wracked my brains. Had there been a sound? A smell? Anything? If there was some clue buried in my subconscious, it eluded me. “Maybe you can help me figure it out.”
“I’ve got better things to do,” Moe said. “What do I get out of answering your questions over and over?”
Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
Moe blinked. “Huh?”
“You like potpie?” Charlene asked.
His eyes narrowed, as if it was a trick question. “Who doesn’t?”
“Come to Pie Town tomorrow for lunch,” Charlene said. “I’ll set you up with a potpie on the house, and you answer our questions.”
“Whatever.” He stormed out.
Marla smiled. “He already answered my questions.”
“Whatever!” Charlene stalked from the saloon.
“I’m not only a pie maker, you know.”
Marla shrugged. “Whatever.”
* * *
I walked down the dusty street to the Bar X photography studio, a small, wooden building with a false front. In the wide, square window stood a display of two mannequins in western garb and an antique camera on a tripod.
I imagined Gordon in a cowboy hat and smiled. Confession time: I’ve always had a thing for cowboys. Not that I encountered many in California. But Ewan’s private ghost town was the sort of cockeyed fantasy I could get behind. No wonder Charlene liked him.
I rapped on the door, and it swung open beneath my fist.
Gulp. That was rarely a good sign.
I leaned into the room. “Hello?” The photo st
udio had been rearranged since I’d been inside yesterday. A dusty, oriental carpet lined the floor. Two ornate, wooden chairs and a small table sat before a changing screen with scarves draped over the top. A red velvet chaise longue pressed against one wall.
Something metallic crashed behind the screen, and it wobbled. The fringed scarf slipped to the carpet, and there was a feminine curse.
“Bridget?” I asked, hoarse. Please let it be the photographer and not a murderer, marauder, or horse thief. “Need some help back there?”
She emerged from behind the screen, her pale face taut. “No,” she said, voice clipped. “Did you need something?”
“To apologize.”
She tilted her head. A whorl of gray-blond hair looped across one shoulder of her T-shirt. “Oh.”
“You probably heard someone died in Pie Town earlier this year,” I continued, “and it turned out to be murder. The man who died . . .” I blinked rapidly, my eyes burning. “He was a good person. The investigation was rough for a lot of reasons.”
She dropped onto the chaise longue. “I know. I heard.”
“I’m sorry for what you’re going through. And I’m sorry if I was insensitive earlier in the saloon.”
She stared at the oriental rug. “It isn’t right that people are trying to make this Devon’s fault. He was the victim.”
“People?”
“Curly and Moe. They’re both acting like he must have done something to deserve getting shot. Even my father . . .” She clasped her hands between her knees. “It’s like . . . If it’s Devon’s fault, then they’re safe, you know? They didn’t do anything wrong, so no one will hurt them. But it’s not true. They’re just slandering his name, so they can delude themselves into thinking this could never happen to them.”
“Why do they think Devon brought this on himself?”
She sagged against the arm of the chaise. “Moe’s been insinuating that Devon was killed over a girl. Curly thinks it’s because he worked as a bartender. Maybe someone got drunk, didn’t like getting turfed out by Devon, and came back for revenge.”
“Is that likely?”
“No!” She grimaced. “I don’t know. Devon was good-looking. I think he flirted for tips, and he might have gone home with some of the women. If my father found out . . .” She looked out the paned window.
“What?” I prompted gently.
She met my gaze. “He would have fired him. Maybe I should have told Dad, but the women were all of age. If anything, Devon tended to like the older women.”
Did Bridget fall into the “older woman” category? A filmy scarf slipped from the screen. It fluttered, wraithlike, to the oriental rug. And even though there’s no such thing as ghosts, I shivered.
I shook myself. “Any women in particular?”
“I didn’t keep track. If I was in the saloon, I was there to work.”
“Does everyone do double duty at the Bar X?” I sat opposite her on a rickety, wooden chair.
“Pretty much. Curly and Moe both work as dealers for poker and twenty-one. My dad drives the stagecoach. I’m the official photographer, but I help out wherever I’m needed.”
“Who takes care of the horses?”
“We all help out,” she said, “but Larry’s our farrier.” A shadow of uncertainty crossed her face.
“Larry . . . ?”
“Of Larry, Curly, and Moe.”
“What’s his connection to Devon?” I asked.
Her head jerked up. “Why do you think he has one?”
“He spent time at the Bar X. It’s a small ghost town.”
She gnawed her bottom lip. “Larry’s a good person.”
“But?”
She sighed. “I saw him arguing with Devon last week.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
She shook her head.
“Larry shoes the horses?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it’s not even a part-time job. Which is a good thing, because he and Curly can’t stand each other anymore.”
“Why not?” I asked.
She picked at a throw pillow’s loose thread and didn’t meet my gaze. “I don’t know what happened.”
I didn’t believe her. “Where can I find Larry?”
“He owns a used-car dealership down the coast.”
“I don’t suppose he was here the day Devon was killed?”
Her blond brows furrowed. “He might have been. He’s a real horse lover, stops by whenever he gets the urge, and no one except Curly cares. But even Curly admits he’s good with the animals.”
If he was such a great farrier, why had Curly’s horse thrown a shoe? And conveniently around the time Devon had been killed? I didn’t know if that meant anything, but it was another reason to chat with Larry.
“Was anyone else at the Bar X when Devon was killed?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It was still early. The event didn’t start for hours. Our extra help hadn’t arrived yet. So, the killer had to have been a hunter, or maybe a random shooter. Nobody here would hurt a fly.”
I guess I had a darker view of human nature, but I didn’t argue. Bridget seemed less depressed, so my apology mission was accomplished. Not knowing what else to ask, I said good-bye and left.
The street outside was deserted, though a police car sat parked in front of the saloon. I guessed Charlene was out detecting or had gone up to the house to keep an eye on Marla and Ewan.
At the far end of the road, the carriage house’s tall doors hung open, a gaping maw. In front of the building, two black horses stamped, hitched to the stagecoach.
Even if it was a fake ghost town, the quiet was unnerving. Not even the eucalyptus leaves rustled. Unsettled, I tugged down the hem of my T-shirt and continued down the road. I peered through the windows of the pottery shop, rattled the door to the bath house. In front of the little wooden chapel, my steps slowed.
My dream of marrying Mark Jeffreys had died, a stake driven through its heart, when he’d started dating my work neighbor, Healthy Heidi. I’d gotten over our failed engagement. It was crystal clear now, that my ex and I had never been right for each other. What I couldn’t fathom was why I hadn’t seen it when I’d been with him. Something cold—a combination of fear, insecurity, and mistrust—quivered inside my chest. I’d tried too hard to make that doomed relationship work. How could I be sure I wouldn’t make the same mistake again?
I stood rooted, gazing at the chapel. My mother would have loved it for my wedding. It was adorable, small enough to hide the fact that I didn’t have any relatives to fill it with. Cancer had taken my mother over a year ago, but the realization of her death hit hard at random moments, spaced further and further apart, but no less painful. I briefly closed my eyes, the pain of that loss washing over me with a suddenness that left me breathless.
Shaking myself, I walked on.
Near the carriage house, I stopped in the street and looked around. A tumbleweed blew across the road and came to rest against the police car.
I rubbed my bare arms. Ewan had done almost too good a job creating the ghost town. It really was starting to feel haunted.
I pushed aside my dark thoughts for more prosaic ones. Firstly, what was up with the tumbleweed? They weren’t native to the northern California coast. Here, blowing sand and fog ruled the day. Did Ewan import the dried scrubs? What was the police car doing here? And most importantly, where was Charlene?
There was a shout, a rumble.
I turned.
The stagecoach bore down at me, the black horses galloping, driverless.
“Val!”
I froze, my brain refusing to process the data. The horses thundered closer, their nostrils flaring.
A blur of motion. Someone knocked into me, driving me sideways, and I cried out. I hit the ground hard. Something sharp dug into my hip and elbow.
The stagecoach rattled past. Dust billowed, coating my face and throat.
Gordon raised his head and coughed.
I stared, disoriented. What was he doing here?
Fine particles of earth drifted to the ground and covered his dark hair and blue suit. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Trembling, I rolled off the rock pinching into my side. “Yeah.” It was the only word I could force past my lips. I gaped, stunned, after the clattering stagecoach.
He clambered to his feet.
To my shame, a faint stab of regret pierced my chest now that he was no longer pressed against me. So, I guess I wasn’t in that much shock.
Gordon brushed his hands off on his suit jacket, knocking loose clouds of dirt. “Next time, look both ways before crossing.” Extending his hand, he helped me rise.
“You’re a scream.” It wasn’t funny, but I started laughing anyway, hilarity tinged with hysteria. Legs wobbly, I brushed the dirt off my Pie Town T-shirt. “I didn’t think . . . What are you doing here?”
“Work. What else?”
“Val!” Charlene trotted toward us, Ewan and Marla at her heels.
Ewan continued past and shouted after the departing horses.
“I hope you closed the front gate when you arrived,” Charlene said to Gordon. “Otherwise, those horses will be halfway to San Nicholas before Ewan catches them.”
“Of course, I . . .” His green eyes widened. “Oh, damn.” He took off after Ewan and the stagecoach.
“You shouldn’t fool around with horses if you don’t know what you’re doing,” Marla told me and examined her manicure.
“I didn’t—”
“It’s not Val’s fault those horses got loose.” Charlene jammed her hands on her hips, rumpling her tunic.
“Well,” Marla said, “that carriage didn’t get loose on its own. Unless you’re suggesting the phantom did it.”
“Val didn’t release the carriage brake, did you, Val?”
“I don’t even know where it is,” I said, knocking another cloud of dust off my jeans.
“Well,” Marla said, “someone else could have been hurt. Bad enough about that poor bartender.” She sighed dramatically. “Such a tragic life.”
“Life?” I asked. “Not his death?”
Marla brushed a wisp of silvery hair from her eyes. “I meant what I said. The poor man never knew his father, and he resented it terribly. It gnawed at him like poison.”
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