Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  A piebald horse snorted.

  Charlene shrugged. “I worked as a bartender once. Not that I ever underpoured. But a bartender can siphon off a lot of money that way.”

  “I suspect he was embezzling in other ways too,” Larry said darkly. “I told Ewan, but I don’t know if he did anything about it.”

  Ewan hadn’t mentioned embezzlement or underpouring. Why? Had the suspicions been unfounded? Or was something else going on?

  “That old VW parked down by the saloon,” Larry said. “Does that belong to either of you?”

  Charlene rolled her eyes. “Do you think I’d be caught dead driving that beater?”

  “It’s mine.” I frowned at her.

  He reached into his suit pocket and handed me a card. “If you ever want to trade it in, I can set you up with a great deal.”

  “Thanks.” But I planned to drive that Bug until it couldn’t drive anymore. It was one of the few relics of my pre-San Nicholas life. I had fond memories of that VW.

  We said our good-byes, and Larry strode from the rear carriage house doors.

  “So, that’s the mysterious Larry,” Charlene said.

  “If he’d been at the ranch on the day of the murder,” I said, “he would have made a nice suspect. Assuming he had a motive.”

  “It’s down to Moe or Curly. Unless we’ve got the time of death wrong. Then maybe Marla did do it. She killed the bartender, and then somehow set up a later shot to give herself an alibi.”

  We strolled out the doors Larry had exited through and watched him walk inside the distant corral.

  “We should get back to Pie Town.” I pointed left, toward the ghost town, with my thumb.

  But Charlene turned right, toward the winding road leading up to Ewan’s yellow Victorian.

  “Wait. Charlene?” I hurried after her. Where was she going?

  “If Marla’s the killer,” she said. “I’m not leaving Ewan alone with that woman.”

  I trotted after my piecrust maker. “If the timing was messed with, that puts Ewan in the frame too.”

  “Ewan couldn’t have done it.”

  “Why not? And why didn’t he mention anything about Devon underpouring?”

  “Maybe Larry was wrong. Ewan’s good people. He’s not a suspect.”

  And sometimes good people got pushed too far and did not-so-good things. “Does Marla know anything about guns?”

  “She’s probably a member of some elite gun club,” Charlene said, morose. “I took a class once. My husband insisted when I got my peashooter.”

  “You have a peashooter?”

  “And since I took a class at the local range, she probably hired a military sniper to give her lessons. Did I tell you about the time my husband and I bought our little boat?”

  “I think you did mention a boat.” We huffed to the top of the rise. A breeze ruffled the tall, dried grasses beside the dirt track. The corral spread below us.

  Larry paced inside the corral, his head lowered. He squatted and picked something up, pocketed it.

  “Marla sailed into the harbor two months later,” Charlene said, “on a yacht, courtesy of husband number three. Nearly swamped us.”

  “Marla’s not going to solve this case.”

  Charlene stared at her wrinkled hands. “She’s beaten me at everything else.”

  “We can’t watch her constantly.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what you think.”

  Chapter Seven

  I hunkered down on Charlene’s floral-print couch. A glass of Charlene’s signature drink, root beer and Kahlua, chilled my fingers. Stargate credits rolled down the flickering TV screen, which provided the room’s only illumination. I’d managed to talk my crusty piecrust maker out of a showdown with Marla at the house. Now, I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

  During Stargate, she hadn’t cracked lewd jokes about sexy aliens. She hadn’t made zzzt zzzt noises when a weapon was fired. She hadn’t thrown popcorn at the buzzkill bureaucrats who plotted to shut down Earth’s only defense against invasion. And she hadn’t made more suggestions about risqué lingerie. Instead, Charlene had sat slumped on the couch, her expression glazed, her chin sunk to her chest.

  “So, what’s next?” I asked, full of false cheer. If the sci-fi show hadn’t lifted her spirits, maybe detecting work would.

  “Episode thirteen.”

  “No, I meant for our case.”

  “Oh. That. I suppose we sit back and let Marla figure it out. She’s like Stargate’s Captain Carter to our Rodney McKay. He thinks he’s a genius, but he’s nothing compared to the captain.”

  It was mildly depressing that I understood the McKay/ Carter reference. “So far, Marla hasn’t done any outstanding detective work.”

  “That you know of.”

  “And you’re no Rodney McKay.”

  “I am. And that would make you his loser sidekick, Dr. Zelenka.”

  “I am so not the sidekick.”

  “Whatever.”

  I sat forward and set the root beer cocktail on the coffee table. “I don’t understand you. There’s no way Marla can jump in and solve this case. Why are you worried about her?”

  “She’s got business cards.”

  “We can get business cards.” I rose and flipped on the lights, turned off Charlene’s TV.

  “That would make us copycats.”

  “Charlene . . .”

  She sighed. “You don’t understand. You’ve never had a rival that beats you at everything.”

  “Aren’t you the best piecrust maker in northern California?”

  “Only because Marla’s too high and mighty to get flour on her diamonds.”

  “You’re worth ten of Marla.”

  “Not in financial terms.”

  My smile wavered. “Why don’t we look at that résumé Ewan gave you?”

  Charlene wandered off to another room and returned with a manila folder. “There’s nothing in it. Devon’s last job was in Truckee. If there’s any dirt on him from his prior gig, I don’t see how it can affect what happened here.”

  I scanned the résumé. Devon had bartended all over the country. Six months seemed to be his max in any one place. He’d quit his last job three months ago, after his usual six-month stint. If he had been ripping off the bars he worked at, was that why he never stayed in any one place too long? Was he leaving before he could get caught? And what would Ewan have done if he’d caught Devon stealing?

  “There’s nothing there,” Charlene said. “And why bother looking? Marla will probably use one of her high-flying contacts and get all his travel records.”

  “I can’t believe you’re rolling over for her. Did I give up when Heidi moved in next door with her SUGAR KILLS sign? Did I give up when someone dropped dead in Pie Town, and all of San Nicholas thought it was food poisoning? Did I give up when I had to tell everyone my wedding was off? Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

  “Getting dumped at the altar must have smarted.”

  “It was mutual! And the reason I didn’t give up, was because you and I were a team. You didn’t let me quit.”

  “Maybe I should have.”

  I heaved myself off the couch. “Fine. I’m solving this case with or without you. And if it’s without you, then that makes you the sidekick. Have a nice night, Zelenka.”

  She sank deeper into the sofa cushions.

  I hesitated, my hand on the front door. Shaking my head, I walked outside and down the steps to my VW, parked on the dark street.

  Mist sheened its windows. I flicked on the wipers and pulled away from the curb. The dash clock read eleven o’clock, and, automatically, I yawned. Bakers need their beauty sleep.

  I turned left onto Main Street. With the exception of Heidi’s gym, all the windows along the road were black. For once, I was glad to have the gym next to Pie Town, even if it was owned by someone who despised me. People worked out there at all hours, making burglarizing my pie shop less attractive. Not that I wo
rried about that sort of thing in San Nicholas.

  My hands twisted on the wheel. There had to be more to this rivalry with Marla than Charlene was letting on.

  A sedan slid into place behind me, its headlights blinding.

  Adjusting my rearview mirror, I made a left past the fire station. Before me, the low, rolling hills were dark masses in the mist and moonlight.

  The car behind me turned and followed.

  I shifted in my seat, my palms growing damp on the wheel.

  A white rabbit hopped across my path, and I braked, watching it disappear into the tall grasses along the roadside.

  Driving more slowly, I continued on, winding up the one-lane road. The car behind me flicked its high beams, no doubt annoyed by my slow pace. But there was nowhere for me to pull over so the car could pass. Finally, I reached a driveway and pulled aside to let him go by.

  The car behind me drifted to a halt.

  I rolled down the window and motioned for him to drive on.

  The car didn’t move.

  Hair prickled on my scalp. I was being followed.

  My heart pounded, erratic. I scrabbled in my bag for my phone. No sooner was it in my sweaty hands when it rang. Gordon!

  “Gordon. I’m driving home, and someone’s following me.”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders slumped with relief. “Why?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t.” I cringed. How obvious was that lie?

  “I’m going to get out of my car now.”

  Anxious, I watched the mirror.

  He exited his car and strode to my open window.

  I craned my neck out. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I saw you driving through town. It was late, and with everything that’s been going on, I thought I’d see you home. I know you don’t have an earpiece, so I didn’t want to call while you were driving and distract you. I flipped my high beams at you a few times, but I guess you didn’t notice it was my car.”

  “Um. No.” At night, one set of headlights looks pretty much like another. I blew out my breath, unsure if I should be annoyed or pleased that he cared. “Well, thanks. I’m almost home now.”

  “Mind if I follow you the rest of the way?”

  “Sure. I mean, no, I don’t mind.” My jaw clenched. I was acting as nervous as a girl on a first date.

  I waited while he returned to his car, then I drove on, making a right at a narrow track compressed by tall eucalyptus trees. The VW bumped and wound up the dirt road. A sagebrush scraped the car’s side, and I winced.

  The road dead-ended at a clearing and the rectangular silhouette that was my rental. I pulled up beside the picnic table, and the automatic light came on by my front door, reflecting off the wide windows facing the ocean. Thin lines of foam, mercury in the moonlight, chugged toward the invisible shore.

  Gordon parked and unfolded himself from the sedan. He squinted at the converted shipping container. “How do you live in that tiny thing?”

  “It’s bigger than it looks. Want to come in for a cup of coffee?” I bit my cheek, unsure where I expected this to lead.

  “I’m not sure I’d fit.” But he followed me inside.

  I flipped on the light, illuminating the polished wood floor, the soft white walls, and the kitchenette anchoring the center of the tiny house. At the other end of the container, a wooden bookshelf shielded a sleeping area.

  He pulled out a chair in the dining nook beside the kitchen, and sat, hunching his back and shoulders.

  “It’s not that small.” I laughed.

  “It feels small.”

  “It’s better during the day, when you can see out the windows.”

  “Yeah,” he said, wistful, “you must have a helluva view.”

  I brewed coffee in my French press and set two mugs on the small, square table. There was no reason to feel nervous. He was only here for coffee. This was definitely not a date, but my stomach butterflied.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” I took the chair across from him. “How’s the investigation going?”

  He barked a laugh. “Right to the point.”

  My face heated. “It’s been on my mind.”

  “Mine too.”

  “A better question would have been how are you doing?”

  “This is Shaw’s first big case as chief. He’s very . . .”

  “Involved?” I turned the warm mug in my hands.

  “Interested.”

  “And it’s your first big case as a detective in San Nicholas.”

  “It shouldn’t matter—I was a detective before, in San Francisco. And I dealt with homicides there more than I wanted to. Coming home, it’s a different kind of pressure.”

  “Because your parents are watching?” Gordon’s parents were aging poorly, and when he’d returned here, he’d initially accepted a lower rank to be closer to them.

  “The whole town’s watching. There’s no anonymity here.” He sipped his coffee. “Is Charlene okay? She seemed tense.”

  And that was another reason I liked Gordon. He paid attention to the details. “I’m not sure,” I said. It wasn’t my place to tell him about the Charlene-Marla rivalry. “We’ve got a theory that Devon wasn’t killed when we think he was killed. Maybe someone shot him earlier, and then rigged a gun to go off later to give the killer an alibi. And my pie got in the way.”

  Over his mug, Gordon’s gaze bored into me. “You and Charlene have a theory?”

  “I sort of have a theory. More of a hypothesis. Kind of an idea we’ve been spitballing.”

  He set down his coffee. “Can I be straight with you?” His tone was coolly disapproving.

  “Of course.”

  “Earlier this year, when you and Charlene helped solve those murders . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You do know the only reason you solved it was because you irritated the murderer into trying to kill you.”

  “That’s not . . .” Was that how we’d done it? But we’d figured out the motive and the lead suspect and everything.

  “And these other so-called cases of yours are a far cry from a murder investigation. If you want to chase lost cats, that’s one thing—”

  “It might not have been the kind of cat burglar the police are interested in, but someone stole a prize-winning cat. You have no idea how banana-pants crazy people can get at cat shows. We diffused an ugly hostage situation.”

  “I read the report. I’m sure Mr. Sprinkles was grateful.”

  Frederick hadn’t been. Charlene’s cat and Mr. Sprinkles had not hit it off. The fight was the most active I’d seen Frederick since . . . ever.

  “If I find out you two are investigating this murder,” he said, “I will arrest you for interfering in an investigation.”

  I banged down my mug. A few drops of coffee splashed the slick tabletop. “I can tell you’re serious by the lack of contractions in that sentence.” Who said English majors couldn’t make good detectives?

  “I am serious.”

  Okay, I’d actually researched interfering with an investigation for just this reason. The police couldn’t arrest us for asking questions—only for doing stuff like withholding evidence or messing with crime scenes. I was pretty sure. Mostly.

  “Who says we’re investigating?” I sputtered. “We were delivering pies to the Bar X, and someone nearly killed me. Of course, everyone is talking about the murder. And in the interests of not withholding evidence, we . . . I, was chatting with Larry the farrier today. He couldn’t figure out why Curly’s horse mysteriously threw a shoe right around the time of the murder.”

  “I’ve also spoken with Larry the farrier.”

  “You have?”

  “Of course, I have. I spoke with everyone at the Bar X on the day of the murder.”

  “What?” Larry had told me he hadn’t been there. Why had he lied? “You mean he was at the Bar X when I was shot at
?”

  A look of annoyance crossed his chiseled face. “I thought you’d spotted him that day.”

  “No. I was too preoccupied with the exploding pie.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” He rose, his movements jerky. “Look, I like you. I think you’re a good person, and you look great in crinolines. But stay out of this case. I mean it, Val.”

  “Mm.”

  He rested his hand on the doorknob. “Val?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not hearing you promise to stay out of the case.”

  “How can I? The rules are so vague. What if I happen to talk to one of the suspects in the course of doing business? And what if he or she happens to let drop some interesting information? Am I interfering? Because I’ll tell you if I hear anything interesting.”

  He growled. “Val.”

  “I promise not to interfere.” And my fingers weren’t even crossed, because asking questions wasn’t interfering.

  Gordon released his breath. “Thanks. And thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you around.” He strode out the door.

  Dissatisfied, I watched the taillights of his sedan vanish behind the tree line. Larry had been near the crime scene, and he was an ex-trick shooter. The field of suspects had just expanded.

  Chapter Eight

  I tried to relax into the Zen of pie making. The morning sunlight streamed through the skylight. It glinted off the industrial ovens and metal countertops and sinks. My blue antique pie safe sat opposite the door to the flour-work room. A thick, three-ring binder filled with our recipes lay atop it. Standing at the butcher-block work island, I crimped crusts and passed pie tins to our new assistant pie maker and wannabe poet, Abril.

  Her long, black hair neat beneath her paper hat, Abril filled the crusts with sweet and savory mixtures. Her sensible white shoes squeaked on the rubber floor mat. The scent of baking pies filled the industrial kitchen.

  But today, the work rhythm failed to calm me. The glory of pie couldn’t make me forget the sight of Devon’s lifeless body.

  I’d called the financial planning company in San Francisco and asked about the fight in the Bar X saloon. The three financial advisors who’d been involved were currently on a company trip to Mykonos and had been gone for the past five days. At least I could cross vengeful financial advisors off the suspect list.