Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  Ewan’s brow creased. “What are you thinking? An exorcism?”

  Bridget scraped her chair away from the table. “Val, do you want to show me how to warm that pie?”

  “Right,” I said, reluctant to leave. I’d need to head this exorcism business off at the pass. Charlene’s occult escapades had gotten me into more trouble than I wanted to admit. It’s all fun and games until someone nearly wanders over a cliff while hunting UFOs.

  I followed Bridget into the kitchen, which was one hundred percent modern. Its metal countertops would have fit right in at Pie Town.

  “So . . . three-fifty?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “The oven temperature for the pie.”

  “Oh,” I said, “right. Yeah.”

  She pushed buttons on the stove then lifted the pie out of its pink and white box and set it on the counter.

  “Is the Bar X in as much trouble as your dad thinks?” I asked.

  She slumped against the counter. “We’ve had five cancellations this week. At least we get to keep the deposits, but if people stop wanting to come here . . . This will kill my dad. He put everything he had into the Bar X. This is his retirement.”

  And Charlene would do everything in her power to save him. Worried, I rubbed my hands on my jeans. “Then the sooner we figure out who killed Devon and Larry, the sooner the Bar X can move forward.”

  She gnawed her bottom lip. “I get that, but I don’t know anything that might help.”

  “You know the truth about Devon’s lawsuit.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” she said, her voice low and intent.

  “Then tell me what the lawsuit was really about, so we can focus on other things.”

  “You’re not the police. Why tell you, when I can tell them?”

  My neck stiffened. Telling the police did make more sense. At least she’d sort of let slip there was more to the story than she’d admitted. “You should tell the police. But Charlene wants to clear the Bar X, and so do I.”

  “You don’t understand.” She blew out her breath. “I wasn’t stalking stalking him.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She flushed. “I was sort of checking him out.”

  “Checking him out? Why?”

  The oven beeped, and she slid the pie inside. “How long does it heat for?”

  I fought my rising impatience. “Fifteen minutes.”

  She set the timer. “I think we’ve left Charlene and my dad alone long enough.”

  “Bridget, why check Devon out? This is important.”

  “Don’t you see it’s embarrassing?”

  I crossed my heart. “What’s said in the kitchen, stays in the kitchen.”

  Her lips quirked. “Devon said . . .” She stared at the glass-fronted cupboards. “Well, he hinted . . . I thought he might be my half brother,” she blurted.

  My stomach capsized, sank. “Oh.” Did Ewan know? Did Charlene know? “That must have been a shock.”

  She laughed hollowly. “You have no idea. My dad’s made no secret of the kind of man he was when he was young. He was stationed in San Diego and had a slew of girls. And that’s when and where Devon was born.”

  “What exactly did Devon tell you?”

  “That he wasn’t at the Bar X by accident,” she said. “That it was fate he’d heard about the Bar X when he was working at a bar in the Sierras.”

  “How did he hear about it?” I asked.

  She massaged her forehead. “That’s the weird thing. He said . . . well, he seemed to think I’d sent him a newspaper article about us.”

  “You? Why would he think that?”

  “Someone anonymously mailed him a newspaper clipping from San Benedetto.”

  “He told you this?”

  “He smirked about it, thought I was trying to lure back my big brother.”

  “But . . . if he knew that you knew he was your brother, why would you stalk him? I mean, can you stalk a relative?”

  “According to my lawyer, yes, you can. Anyway, he was curious about the clipping—who wouldn’t be? When he looked into it, he read about my family. And then he started telling me about his family—about his single mother who’d gotten knocked up and abandoned by a sailor in San Diego. About how hard their lives had been, while mine had been so easy. He kept drawing parallels without coming out and saying he was my father’s son. Their names are even similar—Ewan and Devon. He brought that up too.”

  Stranger and stranger. “Who else could have known that Devon was Ewan’s son?”

  She laughed harshly. “I didn’t even know it until he turned up.”

  “And so, you started digging.”

  “And he caught me.”

  “Did you tell him why you were looking into his background?”

  Head bowed, she turned to the stove and fiddled with the digital timer. “How could I? But I think he knew. He had to know. And then he brought that damned lawsuit. I think he was taunting me, trying to force me to ask my dad if it was possible Devon was his son.”

  “You mean your dad still doesn’t know?” I asked, appalled.

  She shook her head, her long, blond braid swinging against her back. “And you can’t tell him. If he found out, especially now that Devon’s dead, it would kill him.”

  “Are you sure Devon didn’t say anything to your father?”

  “If he had, my dad would have told me.”

  “Why do you think Devon didn’t ask your father? Why harass you?”

  “I don’t know.” A muscle jumped in her jaw. “I think he wanted money.”

  That would explain why Devon had filed a lawsuit rather than going to the cops about the stalking. My stomach burned. “Did he ask you for money?”

  “Not in so many words. It was all innuendo.” Lightly, she grasped my wrist. “Please, don’t tell my dad.”

  “I won’t, but Bridget, I think you need to tell him.”

  “Why? Devon’s dead. It doesn’t matter anymore. And my dad didn’t kill him. If he had any idea who did, he’d tell the police. He’s got no reason to hide anything.”

  Unless he did know and feared his daughter had committed the crime.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In my empty restaurant, I swept the dining area. The glass cases, empty of pie, sparkled. The checkerboard floor gleamed. My neon TURN YOUR FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AT PIE TOWN sign glowed pink above the window to the kitchen.

  On the not-so-good side, Charlene had once again avoided me all day. Now suspicion wormed in my gut that she was up to something I wouldn’t like.

  Last night, when we’d driven home from dinner at the Bar X, I’d told her about Bridget’s confession and the mysterious clipping that had brought Devon to the Bar X. My piecrust specialist had looked thoughtful but remained uncharacteristically silent. When I’d dropped her off at her Victorian, she hadn’t quite banged the door in my face, but it had been a close call. She hadn’t been happy that I’d interrogated Bridget.

  I leaned on my broom. The restaurant seemed almost too clean. Without customers, it was empty to the point of void. I shook myself.

  Of course, it was empty; we were closed for the evening, and I was wrung out. But things were looking up. Ray was on crutches but in good humor. Wally and Graham had been in fine form, cracking jokes and chowing down on discounted hand pies. And a fraternity had stopped by and bought out all of our banana-butterscotch cream pies. I assumed they planned on eating them, but you never knew what went on in frat houses. Life was good.

  I knit my lip. But a killer was still out there. Was it possible Ewan hadn’t known about Devon’s claim he was his son? Who at the Bar X could have known about the possible connection between the two men aside from Bridget and Ewan? Could Bridget have killed Devon to protect her father? Was Ewan protecting her now? And why the heck hadn’t Charlene known about the Bar X Phantom earlier? She lived for the weird and paranormal. She should have told Curly about that bit of San Nicholas trivia, rather than the other way aro
und.

  I stuffed my hands into my apron pockets. Something was rotten in the town of San Nicholas.

  There was a metallic clank from the kitchen. I whipped toward the noise.

  Gripping the broom, I crept toward the kitchen door, sidling past the register. My heart thumped unevenly.

  The swinging door banged open, and I leapt away, banging my hip on the counter.

  Charlene stormed into the restaurant. In lieu of Frederick, she’d wrapped a fuzzy violet scarf around the neck of her lime-green tunic. “Get your coat. We’ve got a mission, and the fog’s in.”

  My broom clattered to the linoleum. “Charlene!”

  “What? Better not leave that broom laying on the floor. Someone might trip.”

  “What mission?” I smiled. We were co-detectives again.

  “Marla.”

  My smile turned upside down. “She’s going to sue you for stalking if you’re not careful.”

  “We know she was doing the jaguar with Devon.”

  “Will you stop calling it that?” I asked. “I used to like jaguars.”

  “It’s time to confront her over her crimes.”

  “Crimes? We don’t know—”

  “Marla’s on the verge of snapping. She’s at the Main Street Bar now. We strike while she’s drinking, in vino veritas.”

  “I prefer cogita ante salis,” I said. Determined Charlene was a welcome improvement over depressed Charlene, but this did not seem like a good idea.

  “Look before you leap? We’re going to a bar. What can go wrong?”

  Alarm bells rioted in my mind. What couldn’t go wrong? But I couldn’t let Charlene tackle Marla on her own. There needed to be at least one adult in the room. “I’ll get my coat.”

  I locked up, and we walked down Main Street. Baskets of impatiens, their moss and wire baskets glistening with dampness, hung from iron street lamps, which lit the fog with a beery glow.

  “Have you been tailing Marla?” I asked.

  “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  Dangerously obsessed. Delightfully looney. Devilishly erratic. “I think you’re on a case.”

  “You think Bridget and Ewan are involved in the murders. I know Marla is.”

  “Without evidence, we don’t know anything.”

  “We’ll see who’s right.”

  If we don’t get arrested for stalking first.

  We walked into the bar. It was surprisingly crowded for early Wednesday night. A baseball game flickered on the three small TV screens. The Giants’ batter struck out, and moans of despair echoed across the dark, wooden walls and the sticky floor.

  Charlene pointed at the bar. Rows of bottles lined its mirrored shelves. “There she is, cozying up to that young bartender. It’s a pattern.”

  “Or she wants a drink.”

  Charlene wedged between Marla and a beefy guy in an orange and black jacket. “So.”

  “You.” Marla’s silvery brows slashed downward. “I know you took my camera’s memory card. Give it back, before I call the police.”

  Charlene sneered. “Do you really think the police are going to bother with a memory card worth only a few bucks?”

  I pursed my lips. They might. Gordon had gotten called out over a suspicious quarter, and he was a hotshot detective with a badge on his belt.

  “What do you want?” Marla asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Marla rolled her eyes. “Fine. I was having an affair with the bartender. Happy?”

  “I already knew that,” Charlene said. “A picture is worth a thousand innuendoes.”

  A man bumped me from behind. “Sorry,” he said.

  I nodded and smiled and tried to edge closer to Charlene and Marla. But there was no more wedge room.

  “What else can I tell you?” Marla smirked.

  “Why Devon?” I asked. “What kind of person was he? You were having an affair. You must have learned something about the man.”

  Marla’s smile broadened, coy. “Nothing that could go in a police report.”

  Ugh. She hadn’t told us anything, and we’d already wandered into the TMI zone.

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time around the Bar X,” Charlene said, “and that started before the murders. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. I have a passion for the Old West. Is that a crime?” She ran her fingers along a pineapple-topped swizzle stick.

  “We’ll figure out what you’re up to,” Charlene said.

  “I’ve already told you what I’m up to. I intend to solve the crime.”

  “Fat chance of that,” Charlene said.

  “I do know things,” Marla said. “Things you’d like to know.”

  I was getting flashbacks to high school. “Marla, if you know anything important, tell the police.”

  She arched a brow. “I suppose you’re handing the handsome Detective Gordon Carmichael everything you learn?”

  “I am.” Mostly.

  “Of course, we could always help each other out,” she said. “Pool our resources?”

  Charlene snorted.

  “How?” I trusted Marla even less than I trusted Charlene, but I was curious.

  “No,” Charlene said. “No way. She’s trying to trick us into giving her information. That’s not the way blackmail works, Marla. We’ve got the goods. You tell us what you know.”

  “Blackmail?” Marla’s lip curled. “Is that what you’re attempting? Darling, for blackmail to work, you’d have to have something over me I wanted kept secret. As far as I care, you can post those photos on your ridiculous Twitter feed.”

  “I have ten thousand followers!”

  “Of course, you do.”

  “I do! It’s right there on my—”

  I touched Charlene’s arm. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

  Marla swiveled on her barstool and faced me. “Curly.”

  “The sharpshooter?” I asked. “What about him?”

  “I have reason to believe he’s a vampire,” Marla said.

  Charlene folded her arms. “A vampire,” she said. “What do you know about vampires?”

  “Devon, no doubt, learned the truth,” Marla said, “and he had to be done away with.”

  I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it.

  Charlene frowned. “I’ll bite. Why do you think he is a vampire?”

  I laughed even harder.

  “Because unlike you,” Marla said, “I’ve been following actual suspects.”

  “And you saw Curly doing what?” I wiped my eyes. “Wearing a satin cape and flapping around the Bar X?” I laid my palm on the wooden bar, and it came away wet. Surreptitiously, I dried it on my jeans.

  “I saw him going into the woods above the tide pools wearing dark robes,” Marla said. “At night. I’ve seen him in that weird cape at the Bar X at night too.”

  “So, of course, he’s an immortal creature of darkness,” I said, an overdose of sarcasm in my voice. “What other possible explanation could there be?”

  Marla tapped her swizzle stick on the cocktail glass. “He’s not a real vampire. He’s one of those weirdos who thinks he’s a vampire.”

  Charlene gnawed her bottom lip. “She could be on to something, Val.”

  Moe had said Devon might have been holding something over Curly. Could this possibly be it? Still, I trusted Marla about as far as I could shot put her. I jerked my head toward the ladies’ room. “A word?”

  I pushed through the crowd, and Charlene followed me to a dark corner by the juke box. “We need to follow up on this,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “We don’t. Vampires aren’t real.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Duh. Even Marla admitted that. If Curly is holding occult ceremonies in the woods—”

  “Who said anything about occult ceremonies?”

  “Everyone knows the woods above the tide pools are used for secret rituals.”

  “What? I walk that trail all the time!” I wasn’t sure which
was more startling—that Charlene didn’t believe in vampires or that there might be occultists in the woods. Sure, the rows of dark cypress trees with their weird orange growth could be eerie, but it was a short, easy hike along the ocean cliff. “Everyone uses that trail!”

  She raised her brows. “Exactly. Don’t you see? That could explain the tulpa.”

  “The tul . . . what? How?” I sputtered.

  “It makes sense,” Charlene said. “It takes a lot of psychic energy to create a thought form like a tulpa. I figured the phantom had come into existence because so many visitors believed in it. If an occultist at the Bar X was involved, then it wasn’t my—” She coughed. “My goodness. We should check this out.”

  “There’s no tulpa in the woods.”

  “Of course not.” She rolled her eyes. “The tulpa’s at the Bar X.”

  “Forget the phantom. Marla’s playing you. She knows you’re interested in the paranormal. She’s admitted she reads your Twitter feed. She’s trying to trick you into helping her.”

  “Why would she?” Charlene asked. “She doesn’t want me . . . I mean us, to solve this crime. Besides, she thinks she’s the bee’s knees when it comes to crime solving.”

  “Do bees even have knees?”

  “The only reason she’d ask us for help is if she was really stuck. The paranormal is my field of expertise. Little wonder she needs my assistance.”

  I wrinkled my brow. Why would Marla even hint she couldn’t do something as well as Charlene? “This doesn’t smell right.”

  “That’s just Rick.” She motioned toward a skinny man slumped beside the juke box. Beer dribbled from the glass he held loosely atop his thigh. “He only bathes on Sundays.”

  “How do you even know that?”

  “There are strange doings at the Bar X. We need to follow every lead, including Curly’s occult trips into the woods.”

  “Maybe he’s role playing a wizard, or—”

  Ignoring me, my piecrust maker strode to Marla and tapped her shoulder. “All right. We’re in.”

  Marla slid off the barstool. Dropping some bills on the bar, she slung her Chanel bag over her shoulder. “No time like the present. Let’s go.”

  “Go?” I yelped. “Go where?”

  “To Curly’s house, of course,” Marla said.

  “Do you have a key?” Charlene asked excitedly.