Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  I gasped. There I was, leaning inside the Jeep for the pies. Was my butt that big? Maybe I really had put on a few pounds.

  I shook my head. Focus. Because on the same image, a man walked into the passage between the saloon and the bath house next door. “There’s someone by the saloon—a man—but I can’t make him out.”

  “You can zoom with these cameras.” She snatched it from me and pressed another button. The image of the man enlarged.

  “Larry,” we said simultaneously.

  “He lied,” I said. “He told us he was nowhere near the saloon that day. Are you sure these were taken the day of the murder?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” she said. “There’s a time stamp. Plus, look, the picture right before it is of me and Ewan, and then the picture afterward is of Ewan in the carriage houses.”

  “Larry lied,” I repeated.

  “Well, he is a used car salesman. What do you expect?”

  “I expect . . . we need to talk to him tomorrow and get the truth.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Master of avoidance, I shilly-shallyed on the sidewalk outside Heidi’s gym.

  A Monday morning of freedom stretched before me. Pie Town was closed today, and normally, I’d spend Monday running errands and/or sprawled in my Adirondack chair. But I had to talk to Heidi, because someone had decided to use her dumpster without permission.

  Bracing myself, I walked past the SUGAR KILLS sign and into the gym.

  A smiling twentysomething in a green HEIDI’S HEALTH AND FITNESS golf shirt looked up. She splayed her hands on the frosted-glass counter. “Hi! Welcome to Heidi’s Health and Fitness! Would you like to learn about a gym membership?”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. The clerks asked me this every time I came in here. Not that I came in that often. “No, thanks. Is Heidi here? It’s about the dumpsters.”

  The woman’s expression soured, her lips pinching. “I’ll check.” She whisked through a door behind the counter and into a back room.

  A few minutes later, Heidi emerged. “Yes?”

  My heartbeat grew loud in my ears. “Morning, Heidi. How’s it going?”

  Her blond ponytail twitched. “I’m teaching a yoga class in ten minutes.”

  “Okay. I’ll get right to it then.” I shuffled my feet. “So, it seems I have to apologize. It turns out that someone on my staff did use your dumpster without permission.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t think that’s important.”

  “Was it that batty Charlene?”

  I gripped the counter. “The point is, I’ve spoken to the staff, and it won’t happen again.”

  “And how are you going to compensate me?”

  “Compensate?” Did she want me to pay her by the square foot? Had she weighed and measured the felonious garbage?

  “Compensate.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think she’d accept a pie. “I . . . what exactly were you thinking?”

  She leaned closer, her blue eyes narrowing. “Fifty.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Pushups.”

  I looked at the green-carpeted floor and brushed a loose hank of my hair over one ear. “You want me to do fifty pushups?”

  “Are you deaf and out of shape?”

  “I’m not doing pushups.”

  “Scared?”

  “I’m not scared.” I regularly lugged around fifty-pound sacks of flour, though I lived for the day I could hire someone to do that for me. “I’m just . . . This is ridiculous. It’s a silly . . .” I puffed out my cheeks. “Look, I’m sorry about the dumpster. It won’t happen again.”

  She walked around the counter. “And how will you compensate me?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Your employee jammed my dumpster full of tree limbs, and I had to pay to get them carted away.”

  “How much did it cost? Of course, I’ll repay you.”

  “I don’t care about the money. I want fifty, or I call the cops on Charlene.”

  “You wouldn’t.” What Charlene had done was annoying and wrong, but the cops?

  “Try me.”

  “Fine.” I huffed. “I’ll do the pushups, but only if you promise that the next time you’ve got an issue with Pie Town, you come to me before the police.”

  She sneered. “Done.”

  Maybe Heidi had a sense of humor after all. Pushups wouldn’t be so bad. It had been a while since I’d done any, but I had great muscle tone.

  “Drop and give me fifty!” she bellowed.

  “What? Here?”

  “Move it!”

  “Can’t we do this later? Don’t you have a yoga class to get to? I wouldn’t want to—”

  “Shall I just call Detective Carmichael now about the dumpsters?”

  Mentally cursing Charlene, I scrambled to the carpet and got on all fours.

  “Get off your knees!” she shouted. “What are you? A girl?”

  A cluster of well-clad gym rats gathered in the entrance to the weight room and stared.

  “ONE!” she roared.

  I did a pushup.

  “What is that?” she asked. “Your arms should be at a ninety-degree angle! TWO!”

  I dipped.

  “Get your ass out of the air! THREE!”

  I panted, my stomach going rock hard. Cripes! Apparently, pie lifting didn’t build pushup muscles. By number fifteen, I was panting. My movements slowed, but I closed my eyes and kept going.

  “TWENTY-FIVE!”

  My arms trembled. I blinked sweat from my eyes.

  “FORTY-FOUR, FORTY-FIVE, LOWER!”

  A group of weightlifters cheered. “You can do it!” someone shouted.

  Heidi spun on her expensive exercise shoes and glared at the offender. My cheerleader cringed and drifted into the weight room.

  “Forty-seven,” I gasped.

  “Forty-six,” Heidi said.

  Hells bells. I lowered myself toward the ground. Forty-seven!

  It was only fifty pushups. No problem-o. But the carpet looked soft, inviting. It smelled good too. They’d recently vacuumed it and must have used one of those lavender-scented powders. All I wanted to do was drop and stay down.

  “Forty-eight,” she said, “forty-nine . . . forty-nine . . . forty-nine . . . I said a ninety-degree angle!”

  “Come on,” I muttered, and forced myself lower. And up.

  “Fifty,” she said reluctantly.

  I collapsed onto the carpet.

  There was a smattering of applause.

  “So,” I panted. “We’re good?”

  Her mouth twisted. “For now.”

  I staggered outside and leaned against Pie Town’s cool, brick wall. My knees buckled, and I bumped to the sidewalk. Spent, my arms flopped to my sides.

  “You look like something the cat dragged in.” Charlene strode down the sidewalk, Frederick draped over her shoulder. She wore a violet tunic, brown leggings, and matching violet sneakers. “What are you doing on the ground?”

  “Resting.”

  “Why do you need rest? You never do anything that works up a sweat.”

  I compressed my mouth. Ignore it. Ignore it. “Are you ready?” Charlene’s theft of the memory card and my discovery of Devon’s lawsuit had finally given our case direction. At least today, I could investigate without stressing over Pie Town.

  “My car’s around the corner.”

  Stumbling to my feet, I followed her to the sunshine-yellow Jeep and got inside.

  We drove down Main Street and turned onto the One.

  I braced my rubbery arm on the Jeep’s open window, adjusted my sunglasses, and inhaled. Eucalyptus and ocean and a cool breeze on my damp skin. Heaven.

  We dropped by Larry’s car lot and met a wall. His nephew informed us that Larry’d taken the morning off to go riding at the Bar X.

  So, there we headed in Charlene’s Jeep. She tore down the winding track. California poppies clustered along the side of the dirt road, their petals tossing in our
wake.

  The Jeep roared through the open gates to the Bar X. In my lap, Frederick’s ears twitched, his eyes firmly closed.

  “How’d you break into Marla’s house anyway?” I asked.

  She accelerated over a pothole, and I bounced in my seat.

  Frederick dug his claws into my thighs.

  Wincing, I disentangled them from the fabric of my jeans.

  “I told you, breaking in would be illegal,” she said. “I found her spare key under a rock.”

  I imagined Marla’s front yard. There’d been a lot of rocks. And flower pots. “How did you find the right rock?”

  “When I realized her key wasn’t under the doormat or any of the flower pots, I used the hose.” She cut a tight turn, hurling me against the side door.

  “The hose,” I repeated. Was that a code?

  “It was on one of those wheely things. I pulled the hose straight out until it reached a rock and checked beneath it. Sure enough, that was the rock with the key. People use the hose so they can remember where they’ve hidden their spare.” Her lip curled. “Marla may know my freezer trick, but I’ve got her number.”

  “When she figures out where her camera’s memory card went, she’ll have yours.”

  “You want evidence, don’t you?”

  I gripped the seat belt. What I wanted was an ejection seat with a parachute attached.

  We screeched into the ghost town. The street was empty, the buildings shuttered.

  “Don’t be such a worry wart,” she said.

  “Whenever you tell me not to worry, is exactly the time I should be.”

  “Worrying is a waste of time. Marla won’t notice the card’s gone for a while. Those cameras have internal memory, you know.”

  She pulled up beside the cutesy wooden chapel and parked. Our dust cloud settled around the Jeep.

  Resolutely, I turned my head away from the narrow, clapboard church. “I thought we were meeting Ewan at his house?” I stepped from the Jeep. A warm breeze blew the dust into my face. Faintly, the church bell clanged.

  “That coach ride is only an excuse.” She slammed her door. “It’s Larry we want.”

  “And Bridget,” I said. Charlene might not want to hear it, but Ewan’s daughter remained a suspect.

  She adjusted the collar of her violet tunic. “I don’t care what the court website said. She’s no stalker, and she had nothing to do with that bartender’s death.”

  “Maybe.” I walked toward the carriage house. Its doors hung open, so presumably Larry was inside. “But Devon accused her of stalking, and we need to know why.”

  “Just don’t say anything in front of Ewan.”

  “I won’t.” If Bridget was keeping the lawsuit quiet, I wouldn’t blow the whistle. But I didn’t see how she could keep the secret from her father . . . short of killing Devon. I twisted my watch, its band damp against my skin.

  We strolled inside the carriage house. The scents of warm hay and fresh manure twined around us, and I sneezed. Horses whickered in their stalls. The coach sat in its place, but the carriage house was otherwise empty.

  Returning outside, I stared down the dirt road. The door to the photography shack stood open.

  “What?” Charlene asked.

  “I’m going to talk to Bridget.”

  She lowered her head and stared at me, her voice hardening. “Bridget is no stalker. And she’s not a killer either.”

  “Then she won’t mind answering some questions.”

  “We’ll talk to Bridget together.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Fine.”

  I strode down the road.

  Charlene speed walked, edging ahead of me.

  I sped up.

  She quickened her pace.

  “What are we doing?” I asked, passing a stand of eucalyptus trees.

  “I’m going to talk to her first.”

  I panted. “Seriously? We’re doing this?”

  We lurched through the photography shop’s open door. Our shoulders collided in the narrow entry.

  Bridget raised her head from an old-timey camera on a tripod. She squinted, deepening the lines around her eyes. “Hello?”

  I smoothed my Pie Town T-shirt: WHEN IN DOUBT, EAT PIE! “Hi, Bridget. How’s—”

  “What’s with the lawsuit?” Charlene said, and glared at me.

  Flushing, Bridget drew her hands through her loose, blond hair. “I don’t . . . you . . . How did you find out?”

  “Nosy Nancy here found Devon’s suit on a court website.” Charlene jerked her thumb at me.

  Someone knocked on the door, and we turned to look.

  Marla glowered in the open doorway, hands on her slim hips, diamond rings flashing. “Where is it?”

  Charlene’s eyes widened, innocent. “Where’s what?”

  “You know what!”

  Charlene smirked. “And I know what’s on it too, so you’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, little Miss Jaguar.”

  “You . . . you . . . ,” Marla spluttered.

  “What’s going on?” Bridget’s gaze ping-ponged between the two older women.

  “Dementia, I suspect.” I angled my head toward the door. “Have you got a minute?”

  We walked outside, leaving Marla and Charlene to argue about memory cards and criminal behavior.

  “Are they okay?” Bridget edged into the shade of the eucalyptus trees.

  “It depends on how you define ‘okay.’ I don’t think they’ll break anything or each other, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  She folded her arms over her white blouse. “So. What did you want to talk about?”

  “The lawsuit.”

  “Look, it was a mistake.” She jammed her hands into the rear pockets of her jeans. “I wasn’t stalking anyone. I mean, Devon and I worked together, so we saw each other a lot, and he somehow got the wrong impression.”

  Why didn’t I believe that? I had a hard time picturing Bridget as a stalker, but I didn’t know any stalkers to compare her to. “How would Devon get that idea?”

  “I don’t know. He was just weird.”

  “How was he weird?”

  “I don’t know.” She motioned helplessly. “He just was!”

  Her denials were less and less convincing. “I’m surprised he stuck around the Bar X if he thought you were harassing him.”

  “He said he didn’t want to lose a good job. And like I said, I wasn’t harassing him.”

  A crow settled on a branch above us. A eucalyptus leaf drifted from the swaying branch and landed on Bridget’s shoulder.

  “Did your father know about the lawsuit?” If he had, could Ewan have given Devon a pass on his shenanigans with the liquor as a way to soften Devon’s attitude toward the family, and maybe drop the lawsuit?

  “No!” Her face paled. “You can’t say anything. Look, if you found out about the suit, I’m sure the police know as well. There’s no reason to tell anyone, especially not my dad. It would only upset him.”

  “How do you know Devon didn’t say anything to your father?”

  She bit her lower lip. “Because he . . . He wouldn’t. It would make working together even more uncomfortable.”

  “It sounds like you weren’t very worried about the lawsuit.”

  “No one likes being sued. But I talked it over with Devon, and we cleared the air. He was going to drop the complaint. And then he died.”

  How convenient for Bridget. “Did he have conflicts with anyone else?”

  A shot cracked, and I flinched. Bridget didn’t respond to the sound, so I figured Curly or Moe was practicing.

  “Other stalking lawsuits you mean?” Her pale brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I guess you could find out about others the same place you found out about mine.”

  “I did check and didn’t find any other suits he’d filed.”

  Marla stormed from the photography studio and headed down the dirt road. She disappeared behind the carriage house. A minute late
r, she reemerged on the hillside road to Ewan’s house.

  Charlene banged open the door to the photography studio and glowered at me.

  What had I done?

  Bridget shrugged. “Well, there you go. He didn’t have any other lawsuits. Listen, I’ve got to get back to work. Okay?” She walked into the photography studio.

  Harumph. She was so lying.

  “Marla is impossible,” Charlene said. “You would not believe what she had the gall to say to me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said . . .” She breathed heavily. “Never mind what she said!”

  “Did you return her memory card?”

  “Can you believe she wanted my fingerprints?”

  I wandered toward the carriage house. “She knows you broke into her house.”

  “That’s not the point, and I didn’t break in. I told you, I had a key. What did Bridget say?”

  “That Devon was crazy, and there was no basis for the lawsuit.”

  “See? I told you it was nothing.”

  “I don’t think she was telling the truth.” A trickle of sweat dripped down my back. It was going to be another hot one, and I looked forward to San Nicholas’s natural AC—the ocean fog—kicking in.

  “If she said he was nuts,” Charlene said, “then he was nuts.”

  “She also said that if I’d found out about the lawsuit, then the cops must know too. She’s right. And she’s going to need a better answer for them than she gave me.”

  A breeze rustled the treetops, scenting the air with eucalyptus.

  Charlene’s forehead creased. “She wouldn’t stalk someone. She’s a good girl.”

  “She’s no more a girl than I am.” Bridget had to be fifteen or so years older than me.

  The carriage house doors stood open, and I detoured inside. Something clunked, metallic.

  “Hello?” I called. “Larry, is that you?”

  Moe backed from an empty horse stall, his checked shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his face pink with sweat.

  “Oh, hi.” I edged past the coach. “I heard Larry was going riding today. I thought he might be here.”

  “Answer an argument for us,” Charlene said. “Was Devon the nutty sort who might think a girl was obsessed with him when she wasn’t?”

  He blinked. Rubbing his hand over his head, he knocked his cowboy hat to the straw-covered floor. “What?”