Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  Cranking down my window, I pulled up to a squawk box and pushed the yellow button.

  After a moment, Marla’s voice trilled over the intercom. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Hi, Marla. It’s Val Harris from Pie Town.”

  “Yes?” she asked, her voice several degrees chillier.

  I shifted beneath my seat belt. The gate was a problem. I’d figured I’d be able to walk up to her front door and keep Marla busy there, not have to talk my way through a barricade. “I’ve discovered something in the course of our investigation, and I wanted to talk it over with you.”

  She laughed. “You mean you want to know what I know. Forget it. You and Charlene are going to have to do your own work.”

  My muscles relaxed. If she’d discovered Charlene, she’d have mentioned it by now. “I’m worried about Charlene,” I said. “She’s getting older, you know, and she’s been behaving a little . . . um, erratically. You’ve known her for such a long . . . um, longer than I have.” I made a face and sent a mental apology Charlene’s way.

  “Oh, she’s definitely gotten crazier.”

  “I’d really like your advice.” I waited, biting my bottom lip.

  The intercom buzzed, and the iron gate swung open.

  My shoulders sagged. I’d done it!

  I inched the VW down the steep, winding driveway, my foot heavy on the brake.

  At the base of the drive, I parked in front of a storybook-style house with gabled slate roofs and an actual turret. Lights glowed through diamond-paned windows. I imagined Charlene shimmying through them like an aged Rapunzel and shook my head. The place was no mansion, but it was big. It had to have tons of escape hatches and hiding places. I gnawed my bottom lip. How had Charlene gotten trapped?

  I walked to the front door, intricately carved in a peacock design. An all-seeing eye had been cut over the peep hole. I guess it was meant to be a visual pun, but my flesh pebbled.

  I knocked. Waited.

  In the darkness below, the ocean waves crashed dully. To my left was another iron gate, protecting a swimming pool lit Mediterranean blue.

  I tapped my foot.

  A seagull fluttered onto the Spanish tile roof and squawked.

  I rubbed my arms beneath my hoodie. What was taking so long? Had Charlene gotten caught before I’d had a chance to—

  The door swung open, and Marla looked down at me with a self-satisfied smile. She adjusted the collar of her long-sleeved blue turtleneck. In her wide-legged white pants, she looked like she was ready for a spin on her yacht.

  “So, you’re worried about Charlene,” she said. “Poor dear. She’s had such a difficult life. Come inside.” She stepped aside, and I walked into a tiled foyer. A chandelier glittered from the arched, high ceiling. An air conditioner hummed, and I shivered.

  “What a lovely home,” I said, glancing at the curving staircase leading to the second floor. Was that where Charlene was trapped?

  “I knew I’d return to San Nicholas someday, and I’d always wanted this house. Fortunately, when I did come back, the owners had just put it up for sale.”

  “You returned to San Nicholas? From where?”

  Her laughter tinkled. She turned and walked through a wide archway and into a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean.

  White lines of foam crept across its dark surface, and in spite of the tension twisting my gut, my heart hitched with joy. The ocean always had that effect on me.

  “It’s a lovely retirement community,” she said, “but San Nicholas is not the sort of place one stays. There’s simply nothing here. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “My pie shop’s kept me too busy to think about it.”

  “Oh, yes. Pie Town.” Her lips curled, and she sat in a fat white chair facing the archway and the staircase. She pulled down the hems of her sleeves to cover her knuckles. “And poor Charlene is breaking her back in the kitchen. At her age, she should be retired and on a cruise.”

  A soft, high-pitched wail floated from the upstairs, and my neck muscles bunched.

  Frowning, Marla sat forward.

  “Yes, about Charlene,” I said quickly, and sat opposite her on a cream-colored divan. “She’s gotten more obsessed than usual about this case at the Bar X. Do you have any idea why that might be?”

  “Why doesn’t matter. It never matters.”

  “Motive kind of does in a murder investigation. Not that Charlene’s—”

  “That’s wrong thinking.” She tossed her well-coiffed hair. “People are always looking for excuses. Why, why, why. My mother was mean to me, so I can’t help it if I stuff my face with candy every day. My father was distant, so it’s not my fault if I can’t maintain a decent relationship. It’s enough to know you’ve got the habit to break it.”

  I shrank into the soft cushions. My father had been so distant, I hadn’t seen him since I was three. Was that why . . . ?

  I got a grip on myself. “And you think that applies to Charlene?” I had to get Marla’s focus away from the foyer stairs. Rising, I edged to the window overlooking the ocean. A trail of moonlight lit a path to Marla’s porch. Pots of geraniums sprouted from the wooden deck. “What a great view. Oh, hey, is that a whale?”

  She didn’t take the bait, sticking like a barnacle to her seat. “You have good eyes if you can see one at night, but it’s possible. It’s the right time of year.”

  “Sorry, it’s a pod of dolphins,” I lied, my voice strained. “Wow. It’s huge. There must be hundreds.”

  “That’s the ocean, dear. Now I believe you had a point in coming here?”

  “Right, yeah. I was asking about Charlene.”

  “Oh, Charlene! Where to start?”

  “It might be easier if we started with the relationships at the Bar X,” I said.

  She wagged a bejeweled and bedazzling finger at me. “If you’re trying to get me to divulge my investigation findings, naughty, naughty.”

  “I’m only trying to understand why Charlene is so passionate about this case.”

  She sniffed. “Well, there’s that silly ghost story. She’s always been gullible when it comes to the paranormal.”

  The stairs creaked.

  Her expression sharpened, and she turned toward the sound.

  My heartbeat accelerated. “I wouldn’t exactly say she’s gullible.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” She relaxed in her chair and again tugged down the sleeves of her navy turtleneck. “But if you want to know about the Bar X, I suppose her obsession boils down to, well, me. We’ve always been rivals, and I’ve always beaten her, and it drives her crazy. What am I supposed to do? Not live up to my full potential to make Charlene feel better? It isn’t my fault her life is pathetic.”

  I scrunched my face, hoping Charlene wasn’t listening. “Would you mind if we go out on your deck? It’s such a gorgeous night.” I touched the brushed-nickel latch on the glass door.

  “A little cold, if you ask me.”

  “You think?” I asked, desperate. What would it take to peel the woman away from her staircase view?

  “About Charlene,” she said, “do you really believe she’s gone senile?”

  “Well . . . uh . . . mm,” I stammered. The only thing that interested the woman was dissing Charlene. Charlene, who at this moment was creeping down the curved stairs. Charlene, Charlene. I pointed at the cliffs. “Oh, my God! Is that someone on the cliffs?” I pressed my face to the cool glass. “It looks like Charlene!”

  Marla leapt from her chair and hurried to join me. “Where? Where?”

  “On the left and up, in that strip of moonlight.” I tugged on the lock. Why wouldn’t the stupid handle budge? “It’s hard to see from this angle.” Finally, the lock flipped up, and I slid open the glass door. A draft of cool, salty air flooded the living room, and I strode onto the wooden deck. I leaned over the railing and pointed. “See? Over there?” There was no one on the cliffs, but if I looked stupid, so be it. If Charlene was where I thought she was,
sneaking into the foyer, it shouldn’t take long for her to reach the front door.

  Marla squinted. “Oh, my goodness, yes. Is that Charlene?”

  Brow furrowing, I pulled slightly away and glanced at her, then at the cliffs. I didn’t see anyone. “Yes! By that cypress with the exposed roots sticking out of the cliffs. Am I imagining a person there?”

  “Goodness, no. We should call the police. I can’t believe Charlene would be so—”

  From behind us came a thunk, a crash, a howl.

  Her eyes widened. “What on earth?” She raced inside.

  Dreading what I’d find, I raced after her.

  Charlene lay sprawled in the foyer rubbing her ankle. By the closed front door, Frederick arched his back, his snowy fur standing on end. He yowled.

  Marla grasped her wrist and cowered against the wall. “That cat! Get that animal out of here!”

  Frederick hissed and spat like he’d spotted the neighbor’s dog. Granted, Frederick had just gone ass over teakettle with Charlene—unsettling for any cat. But I’d seen him take worse and slide into a nap. He only went after people he had a real grudge against. And I didn’t believe for a second he was merely picking up on Charlene’s animosity.

  I looked from Marla to Frederick to Charlene, and the pieces clicked into place. All that business with the long sleeves now made sense.

  “Forget the cat.” Charlene grimaced, rocking on the tile floor. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

  Marla stared at my piecrust maker as if seeing her for the first time. “You. You! You’re like the mark of doom I can’t escape. Everywhere I go, everything I do, you’re there! I can’t catch a break! Is this payback for last night?”

  Bingo! “You were the one who broke into Charlene’s house last night,” I said.

  “And look what that animal did to me.” She jerked up her sleeve, exposing deep red scratches on the back of one hand. “What if I get cat scratch fever?”

  Charlene shook her finger. “I hope you do.”

  “I should sue! That animal belongs in the pound.”

  “I should sue you for twisting my ankle on your stupid staircase,” Charlene said. “It’s a hazard!”

  Marla sneered. “Do you really think your lawyer is better than mine?”

  A headache flared at the front of my skull. “Ladies, you each broke into each other’s houses. There will be no suing.”

  “Why not?” Marla said. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “Because you’ll both look ridiculous,” I said. “Do you think the press won’t pick up the story?” I was fairly certain they wouldn’t, but I was betting the two women were egotistical enough to assume they were newsworthy.

  Marla turned on Charlene. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “Looking for evidence, you dolt,” Charlene snarled.

  “Trying to steal my work?” Marla asked.

  “Your work? You killed that boy, and I’m going to prove it.” Charlene jut her chin forward.

  Marla’s face reddened. “I killed him? I killed him? You’re insane!”

  “Go ahead,” Charlene said. “Call the police. It will just give them an excuse to search this overblown bordello.”

  I helped Charlene stand and wrangled Frederick. He went limp in my arms, feigning sleep. “Okay, Charlene, why do you think Marla killed Devon?”

  She shot me a look of annoyance. Then her expression cleared, and she nodded. “Marla was with Ewan and I when Devon was presumably shot.” She grasped the wrought-iron bannister for balance. “Marla knows her way around a gun. She joined a fancy gun club and did a photo shoot for one of those gun magazines back in the seventies. She could have killed Devon earlier, then rigged a gun to go off at a later time, giving her an alibi.”

  Marla folded her arms. “And exactly where was this mythical rigged gun?”

  “After the gunshot,” Charlene said, “you didn’t follow Ewan and I right away to see what had happened. You lagged behind, because you already knew.”

  “Of course, I didn’t go after you two,” she said. “Only a complete idiot would run into a gunfight.”

  My cheeks warmed.

  “You went to get your rigged gun, and then hid it,” Charlene said.

  “I waited where you two abandoned me,” Marla said, “by the carriage house. That trick shooter, Curly, was leading his horse back, and we stopped to talk. You can ask him.”

  “How do we know he’s telling the truth?” Charlene hopped forward, using the bannister as a crutch. “He could be your accomplice. Maybe he loosened his horse’s shoe as an excuse to leave target practice.”

  “Which direction was he coming from?” I asked, determined to be the voice of cool reason.

  “How should I know?” Marla asked.

  “You’re a detective now, aren’t you?” Charlene said. “What was your relationship with Devon Blackett?”

  “I didn’t have a relationship with him,” she said.

  “Someone told us they saw you arguing,” Charlene said.

  Marla huffed. “That stupid bartender refused to infuse the mezcal with bacon fat. What sort of bartender at a western-themed event venue would refuse to do that? He said he didn’t know how, but all he had to do was go online to figure it out. I took it up with Ewan, and he said he’d infuse the mezcal himself. For me.” She stroked the hollow of her neck and smiled. “Problem solved.”

  “You can infuse alcohol with bacon fat?” I asked, intrigued. Nearly everything was better with bacon. But booze?

  Charlene’s fists clenched. “Why did you break into my house?”

  Marla clamped her lips together.

  “Tell me,” Charlene said, “or I will call the cops, consequences be damned.”

  Marla looked away. “I wanted to see your notebook.”

  “My casebook? You wanted a look at the notes on our investigation! You cheat!”

  “All’s fair in love and murder.”

  “But you didn’t find the book.” Charlene raised a self-satisfied eyebrow. “I keep it hidden.”

  “If it hadn’t been for that stupid cat, I would have. I knew it was in the freezer. That’s where you keep all your important documents.”

  Charlene’s face sagged, her mouth gaping. “It’s not . . . You don’t know anything!”

  “Okay.” I shifted Frederick over my shoulder. “This sounds like a simple misunderstanding. We’ll be laughing about it over drinks next year.”

  “Oh, no, we won’t,” Charlene said darkly.

  “If you think I’d slug down Moscow Mules with her,” Marla said, “you’ve got another think coming.”

  I tugged Charlene toward the arched front door. “This is a tempest in a teapot. Much ado about nothing. All’s well that ends well.” Bustling my limping piecrust maker outside, I closed the front door with my heel.

  I helped her into my VW, and we puttered up the driveway, the engine wheezing and straining.

  She plucked a snoring Frederick from my shoulder and draped him across hers.

  We crept toward the iron gate. Would Marla keep us locked inside? Call the police? But when we neared, the iron gate opened automatically. I pushed my back deeper into the car’s seat, flexing my hands on the wheel.

  On the street, I pulled in behind Charlene’s Jeep, a silhouette hunched on the side of the narrow road. “Charlene, what were you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking Marla’s a big fat liar.”

  “You can’t go breaking into people’s houses!”

  “It wasn’t a person’s house. It was Marla’s.”

  “She had every right to call the cops.”

  “I’m sure your Detective Carmichael would have smoothed things over.”

  My nostrils flared. “I’m not. Heidi complained to him that Pie Town was using her dumpster. He had to file a formal complaint.”

  “Meh.” One corner of her lips curled. “They’ll never prove it.”

  “What do you mean prove it? Charlene, did you use the g
ym’s dumpster?”

  “I had to get rid of my brush clippings somewhere. My cans were full.”

  “Charlene—”

  “Wait here.” Limp gone, she sprang from my VW and strode to her Jeep.

  Perfect. Just perfect. Now I had to apologize to Heidi the Horrible. I slammed my palm on the wheel and pain shot through my arm. “Ow.” I couldn’t even lose my temper without hurting myself.

  Opening the Jeep’s rear door, Charlene pulled out an expensive-looking camera and returned to my car.

  “Now I have to apologize to Heidi,” I complained.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because—”

  She pulled a camera memory card from the pocket of her black tunic.

  I groaned. “Don’t tell me you got that from Marla’s house.”

  “Stole it out of her camera. Don’t you remember? She was taking pictures the day of the murder. I’ll bet there’s something incriminating on here.”

  Charlene!!! I struggled for calm. “If Marla was the killer, she’d hardly take pictures of herself committing murder.” But I flipped on my overhead light for a better look. What was done was done. It would be silly to ignore potential evidence.

  She slipped the memory card out of her own camera and replaced it with Marla’s. “Right. Hers isn’t the sort of camera that works with a selfie stick. She may have captured other evidence from that morning.”

  Turning on her camera, Charlene leaned across the seat and held it so we could both view the small LCD screen. She flipped through the photos. The most recent ones were indeed from the ranch.

  I squinted. “If there’s anything here, it’s too small for me to see.”

  She pressed a button and another picture flickered onto the screen. Devon grinning from a bed. Thankfully, he was clothed.

  She laughed. “Hoo hoo! That’s Marla’s bed! I recognize the duvet.”

  “You went into her bedroom?”

  “How do you think I got trapped upstairs? This proves there was more between Marla and Devon than just a bad cocktail.”

  Unfortunately, it did. “Can I see the camera?”

  “Don’t accidentally delete anything,” she warned.

  I clicked through the pictures, returning to those from the ranch and a wide shot of its “main” street.