Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Some fathers aren’t worth knowing.” Charlene’s gaze cut to me. “How do you know this?”

  “People tell me things,” Marla said.

  Bridget emerged from the photo shack and ambled toward us. “What’s going on? I thought Dad was giving you both a stagecoach ride?”

  “He was,” Marla said, “but the coach left without us.”

  Bridget touched the base of her slim neck. “What?”

  “Runaway coach,” Charlene said. “Nearly ran down Val, then took off down the street.”

  “Oh, my God! The horses!” Bridget raced after the dust trail.

  This was probably a perfectly sensible reaction. I was okay, and the horses were out of sight. But I couldn’t help feeling annoyed. I’d nearly been smashed to a pulp.

  “Of course,” Marla mused, “I didn’t actually see Ewan tie the coach up. Did you?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Charlene’s jaw jutted forward.

  She shrugged. “So, you didn’t see him tie it up either?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” Charlene said, “but I’m sure he did. He’s no tenderfoot.”

  Marla tapped her cheek, her diamonds flashing in the sunlight. “I suppose it could have been an accident. It’s strange the Bar X has had so many disasters of late.”

  I shifted, uneasy. And this had been the second time I’d been the target of a near miss.

  Chapter Six

  Ewan led the stagecoach down the dirt road. The black horses’ flanks gleamed with sweat; their heads tossed.

  Gordon and Bridget walked beside him. When they reached us, Gordon halted and stripped off his navy jacket. Ewan and Bridget continued on, walking the horses toward the carriage house.

  Gordon turned to me. “Got a minute, Val?”

  I glanced at Charlene and Marla.

  Charlene made a shooing motion.

  Marla smirked.

  “Uh, sure,” I said, uncomfortably conscious of their scrutiny.

  He jerked his head toward the saloon, and I followed him, stopping beside his police car.

  “What are you doing here?” he rapped out.

  I stiffened, disconcerted by his tone. “Charlene and I met with Ewan and finalized our deal with the Bar X. He said we could look around. I didn’t get much chance the last time I was here.”

  “That’s great news about the pie contract.” His shoulders relaxed. “Congratulations.”

  My ex had only sniped and complained when I’d started Pie Town. Gordon had been supportive since I’d opened the pie shop, and he’d barely known me then. But that was Gordon—he’d joined the police force to help people, and that commitment bled into his personal life. It was one of the reasons I admired him, even when he was asking me hard questions.

  “It’s more of a handshake than a contract,” I said. “But thanks. This is a big win.”

  “You’ve worked hard. You deserve it.” He paused, eyeing me. “What happened with the stagecoach?”

  I glanced down at my filthy T-shirt and jeans. “I didn’t notice anything wrong until the stage was nearly on top of me.”

  “Was anyone else on the street?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I saw.”

  “Me neither. I spoke to Ewan. He swears he tied up the horses and set the brake on the coach.”

  My pulse accelerated. I took a step closer to him before realizing I’d done it. “So, for that stage to get loose, someone would have had to both release the brake and untie the horses.”

  “Not only that,” Gordon said. “Someone or something also would have had to startle those horses. We’ve been looking at this case as if Devon was the intended victim. Now I’m starting to wonder if you were.”

  “M—me?” I stuttered. “That’s . . . that’s ridiculous. I own a pie shop. I’ve got no money, no heirs, no one hates me.” Okay, Heidi didn’t love me, but it was a big jump from putting a SUGAR KILLS sign in the window to attempted murder.

  “What about your ex? Seen him lately?”

  I grimaced. I couldn’t help but see my ex-fiancé. Mark was a realtor, and his grinning mug was plastered on FOR SALE signs across San Nicholas. “Not really. I mean, he works out at the gym next door, but we don’t say much to each other besides ‘hello.’ But Mark can’t even kill spiders. He’s gone New Age, which I guess is old age now, since it started in the nineteen-sixties. He does yoga!” I clawed my hands through my hair, remembering too late I was wearing my usual chignon. A twist of hair fell loose against my neck.

  Gordon shook his head. “You never know what’s going on inside people.”

  “I don’t see how he could have snuck onto the Bar X, twice, to try to hurt me. There are better places for murder. My house is isolated. And I’m at work by five to start prepping. Someone could pick me off in the alley before sunrise.” My hair blew into my mouth. Impatiently, I ripped it free. My how-to-kill-Val exercise was not making me feel better. “The point is, I’m pretty sure Mark’s afraid of horses. And guns. I doubt he even knows how to shoot.”

  “It’s not that hard. And figuring out that coach’s braking system wouldn’t take a genius either.”

  “If someone wanted me dead, wouldn’t I know why?” Or was I falling into a blame-the-victim mentality as well? Had Devon known someone wanted him dead?

  A black cat slunk down the empty street and vanished behind a rain barrel.

  Gordon brushed the loose hair off my neck, and I shivered. His eyes glittered like emeralds. We stood close enough for me to smell his woodsy cologne.

  The breeze dropped, the rustling trees falling silent. Time seemed to stop.

  I swayed toward him. My lips parted.

  “Stay away from the Bar X, Val.”

  Phooey. I pulled away, my breath quickening with embarrassment.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to go take Mrs. Van Helsing’s statement.”

  I snorted. Van Helsing.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . . Van Helsing!”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “The vampire hunter from Dracula?”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with Charlene.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The Baker Street Bakers had better not be on this case.”

  “We’re not . . .” Oh. Right. We were. My face heated.

  Mouth clamped shut, I followed him to the carriage house. The coach stood outside. In the stalls, Ewan and Bridget rubbed down the horses, now freed from their harnesses. Marla and Charlene leaned over the stalls, watching.

  Gordon said something to Marla in a low voice and drew her from the carriage house.

  Ewan shook his head. “I’m sorry about this, Val. That coach shouldn’t have gotten loose. It’s a miracle you weren’t hurt.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m fine. A little dusty, that’s all.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said.

  The doors on both ends of the carriage house were open, creating a breezeway that tickled the back of my neck.

  “How did the coach get loose?” I asked.

  “I can’t explain it,” he said. “I swear I had the horses tied and the brake on. I must have forgotten one or the other.”

  “You didn’t,” Bridget said. “No one’s more careful with the horses than you.”

  “Obviously I wasn’t careful enough.” He scrubbed a broad hand across his face. “Val, how can I make this up to you?”

  Bridget shot him a sharp look.

  “How about a stagecoach ride at a date to be determined?” Charlene said, stroking Frederick, limp over her shoulder. “The quickest way for her to get over the trauma is to get right back in the saddle.”

  Since I hadn’t been in the saddle in the first place, I wasn’t sure the saying applied. But it gave us an excuse to return, so I smiled brightly.

  He patted the horse’s gleaming flank and closed the animal inside th
e stall. “It’s the least I can do. What time do you want to come by?”

  Watching us carefully, Bridget finished up. She stepped from the stall and closed its door.

  “Same time tomorrow?” Charlene asked. “Late afternoons are slow at Pie Town.”

  He nodded. “I’ve got a wedding tomorrow night, but if you’re here by three o’clock, it should work.”

  I checked my watch. Afternoons might be slow at Pie Town, but I needed to get back. “Thanks, Ewan. I’m glad the horses are okay.”

  We said our good-byes, and Ewan and Bridget exited from the opposite carriage house door.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Charlene walked with me to my VW.

  I flipped through my keys. “So. I talked to Gordon.” For some reason, the admission made my heart flutter.

  Charlene sighed. “I suppose he warned you off playing detective?”

  I winced. “He warned me off the Bar X. He thinks . . . One possible theory is that I might have been the target all along, and Devon was collateral damage.”

  Making herself comfortable on the hood of my car, she adjusted Frederick over her shoulder. “That pie shooting did seem kind of odd.”

  I opened the car door, hoping she’d take the hint and get inside. “I don’t think he’s right,” I said, chilled in spite of the hot air flowing from the VW’s interior. “No one wants to kill me.”

  “No one except Heidi, but she has an alibi. She was at her gym teaching an aerobics class when you were shot at. I checked.”

  Charlene had considered Heidi a real suspect? I leaned against the VW, and my gaze lost its focus. “Do you think Heidi hates me that much?”

  “It depends on how crazy she is.”

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “It wasn’t much of a question. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You’re not telling me something. Out with it.”

  “Gordon asked me if Mark might hold a grudge,” I said reluctantly.

  “Mark?” She burst out laughing.

  Frederick slid from her shoulder and she caught him before he could slide to the ground.

  The cat raised his head and hissed at me.

  Charlene’s laughter morphed into a coughing fit. “Mark Jeffreys thinks Frederick is his power animal.” She wiped her eyes. “He has the killer instincts of Barney Fife and the same amount of bullets in his gun, if you know what I mean. Do you seriously believe he could have crept onto the Bar X at high noon, shot at you, killed Devon—”

  “By accident. This isn’t my theory. It’s Gordon’s, and it’s only a theory.” One I now felt guilty about revealing.

  “And then returned to set a stagecoach on you? I don’t think so.” She angled her head. “He might have hired a hit man though. I hear they’re not that expensive. And considering the results, it would be just like Mark to hire an incompetent.”

  My neck stiffened. “I’m just telling you what Gordon said.”

  “For someone to aim a runaway stagecoach at you, they had to know horses. And that means someone at the Bar X.”

  “They do all seem to know horses.” I draped my arm over the open car door. “Moe and Curly are trick riders, and they were both at the Bar X. Bridget and Ewan take care of the horses too.”

  “Ewan couldn’t have done it,” she said. “He was with me and Marla when Devon was killed.”

  “Are we sure we know when Devon was killed? Maybe someone shot at me just to set the time of death. What if someone somehow rigged a gun to go off after Devon was killed? That would explain why I was shot at. Maybe the bullet wasn’t meant to hit anyone.” I wished I could ask Gordon, but I knew he couldn’t tell.

  Charlene’s eyes widened. “That would explain how Marla could have pulled it off. Or maybe she had an accomplice. A second shooter, like the grassy knoll.”

  We always came back to that grassy knoll. “I guess an accomplice does make more sense than someone rigging up a gun to go off at random.” I shifted, impatient to go. “When did Bridget say she last saw Devon?”

  A man shouted, and I glanced toward the carriage house.

  “About thirty minutes before his body was found,” she said. “But there were shots from the sharpshooters going off regularly. You’re right. Devon could have been shot right after he stepped out of the saloon, and it took us thirty minutes to find him.”

  “Which leads us back to who shot at me? And why?”

  “It could have been Marla,” Charlene said. “She’s just the type to cook up a plot that byzantine. And how does she know so much about that bartender’s father? There was more between those two than she’s admitting.”

  “Ewan did leave the carriage house when we did, didn’t he?” I asked, squinting in the bright afternoon light.

  “Today you mean? Yes, why?”

  “Because it sounds like two men are arguing over there.”

  Raised voices drifted from the carriage house.

  Charlene’s shoulders slumped. “I’m going as deaf as Frederick.” She stomped toward the carriage house.

  “Wait.” I lurched from the car. We needed to return to work. Or, at least, I did. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  Charlene kept walking.

  I trotted after her.

  The shouts grew louder as we approached. We paused inside the wide, open carriage house doors. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.

  “I reckon you didn’t since the shoe came loose.” Curly’s wide face twisted in a scowl. He folded his muscular arms across his chest.

  “The other three shoes are fine.” The other man clenched his fists. His wild gray hair receded, leaving a high, domed forehead over a hooked nose. Of average height and weight, he looked fit in his gray business suit. He could only be Larry. He looked exactly like his Three Stooges namesake.

  “That’s what you say,” Curly said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I say. I said it to you, and I said it to the police. I’m getting tired of saying it. And I told you I’d repair it free of charge. What more do you want? Blood?”

  In their stalls, the horses stamped, restless.

  “You’re scaring the horses,” Curly said.

  “Me?!”

  I coughed. “Larry?”

  They whipped around. “What?” they asked in unison, then glanced at each other.

  Curly’s broad shoulders slackened. “Oh. Hi. Were you looking for me?”

  “Nope. For Larry,” Charlene said.

  “Well, you found him.” Curly strode through the open doors on the far side of the carriage house. We watched him make his way into the corral.

  “I suppose your horse lost a shoe too?” Larry asked.

  “I don’t have any horses,” I said. They’d always scared me, an emotion amplified by my recent near miss.

  He snapped his fingers. “You’re the little lady who nearly got run down by the stagecoach.”

  “Word gets around fast,” I said.

  He scowled. “Curly practically accused me of releasing the brake on the stage.”

  Had he tampered with the coach? I stepped forward and shook his hand. “I’m Val Harris. This is my colleague, Charlene McCree.”

  “Of Pie Town?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, pleased and surprised. “You’ve heard of us?”

  He pointed at my stomach, and I glanced down at my Pie Town T-shirt covered in dust. My cheeks warmed. Maybe we should invite Larry to join the Baker Street Bakers.

  “So how does a used-car salesman end up working part-time as a farrier?” Charlene asked.

  He drew himself up. “Because I’m not a salesman. I’m the owner, and I’m semiretired. So, I do what I want.”

  “Like trick shooting?” I asked.

  His expression grew wistful. “There’s something about cold, blue steel. At least I get to shoot on my commercials.” He mimed a fast draw. “Have you seen them?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t gotten around to installin
g cable yet—maybe next year when Pie Town brought in a steadier income.

  “Too bad,” he said. “Anyway, without a live audience, it’s not the same. But Ewan still lets me carriage house my horse here.” He angled his head toward a tall white horse in its stall.

  “Is that why you stopped by?” Charlene asked.

  “That, and Ewan called me about Prince’s lost shoe.”

  “Prince?” I asked.

  “Curly’s horse.”

  “When did you last shoe Prince?” I asked.

  “About a month back,” he said.

  “So, it’s unusual that the shoe would come loose?” I asked.

  His face pinked. “I care about horses, and I’m careful with my work. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Was there anything weird about it?” I asked.

  “Weird?” He goggled at us. “What do you mean by weird?”

  “She means, was it tampered with?” Charlene said.

  “Tampered with?” He rubbed his chin. “Who would want to do that?”

  “Let’s worry about the who later,” Charlene said. “Could the shoe have been messed with?”

  “I checked the hoof,” he said, “and I didn’t see any signs of tampering.”

  “What would the signs of tampering be?” I asked.

  A fluff of hay drifted down from the loft, and he gazed at the wood-beamed ceiling. “Since I’ve never seen any, I couldn’t tell you. Look, a horse can be injured when it throws a shoe. It could damage the hoof wall.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, as if I understood what he meant.

  “No one who loves horses would intentionally loosen a shoe or do anything else that might hurt the animal,” he said.

  “If you carriage house your horse here, you must stop by often,” I said. “Were you here the day of the murder?”

  “No.”

  “I heard you and Devon had words last week,” I said.

  “You think I killed him?” he yelped.

  “Well, did you?” Charlene asked.

  He rubbed his balding dome. “That bartender was underpouring.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s when the bartender pours the customers less alcohol than he’s supposed to,” Charlene said. “Then he sells the excess alcohol and pockets the money.”