Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  Marla turned to stare down at her. “Why on earth would I have a key?”

  “It’s not breaking and entering if you have a key,” Charlene said.

  Marla strode out the door and onto the fog-shrouded sidewalk. “Is that how you justified breaking into my home?”

  “I told you,” Charlene said, “I didn’t break in.”

  “You did steal my property.”

  “Semantics.” Beads of moisture glittered on Charlene’s white hair. “And you were in my house too, don’t forget.”

  Marla’s nostrils flared, and she paused beneath a street lamp. “You have no proof—”

  “So, what’s the plan for Curly’s house?” I asked, before the argument could go nuclear.

  “We will not be breaking in,” Marla said. “Private detectives aren’t allowed to break the law, you know.”

  Business cards or not, Marla couldn’t possibly have gotten her PI license this quickly.

  “Then what are we talking about?” I asked. “Surveillance?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Marla said.

  My eyes narrowed. “In what manner of speaking, exactly?”

  “He’s got a big yard,” Marla said. “It backs onto the creek.”

  “And?” Charlene asked.

  “And he’s got a mother-in-law cottage that he doesn’t rent out.”

  Charlene stopped on the brick sidewalk. “Are you sure?”

  “I did say I was surveilling him,” Marla said.

  “That is fishy.” Charlene rubbed her chin. “A cottage would be hot property in this market. Maybe he turned it into a temple for his occult rites.”

  “Or maybe,” I said, “he stores equipment in it. Or uses it as an artist’s studio.” I’d been down Charlene’s supernatural mazes before—Bigfoot hunts and ghosts and UFOs. The UFO hunt was the worst, because they may actually exist. I don’t care what people say about the impossibility of interstellar travel. Just because we haven’t figured out how to zip to other planets, doesn’t mean a more intelligent race bent on experimenting on hapless humans hasn’t. I shivered in the fog.

  Marla stopped beside a green Mercedes roadster. “We’ll take my car.”

  “We’ll follow you,” I said.

  “This is a small town,” Marla said. “People will notice a caravan. And I wouldn’t be caught dead in either of your jalopies.”

  “She’s right,” Charlene said. “One car’s better. Besides, Curly’s place isn’t far.” She sneered at Marla. “I’ve been investigating too.”

  I crammed into the backseat of the sports car. Knees to my chest, I muttered a prayer of supplication, and we rocketed down the dark street.

  The two women bickered up front, and I watched Main Street speed past. We veered east, past the nineteenth-century jail. Marla turned the Mercedes into a residential area of looming trees, white picket fences, and tumbled gardens.

  She parked in front of a low, white-painted adobe with a tiled roof. A cinderblock wall enclosed it, the only entrance either over the wall or through its iron gate. A trellis tangled with heavy-scented jasmine arched above the gate, and a bell dangled from its apex. In the nighttime fog, the house looked like a haunted Spanish prison.

  “Is there a basement?” I whispered.

  “In California?” Marla asked. “We don’t do basements. Why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering where the dungeon was.”

  Marla creaked open the iron gate and stepped through. “All right,” she whispered. “You two go around the left. That’s where he keeps the garbage. Grab the bags and take them to my car.”

  “What?” Charlene hissed, striding into the yard. A dim light above the front door made crags of her face.

  “Garbage duty,” I whispered. “So that’s why you wanted us to come along.” Closing the gate behind me, I followed them into a neat garden of brick paths and lavender bushes. The night turned their stems and blossoms the silver of dull knives. A fountain in the center of the garden trickled spookily, and I repressed a shiver. “I’m not dumpster diving so you can keep your hands clean.”

  Marla raised her nose. “It’s basic private detecting. If you think you’re too good for it—”

  “We’ll do it,” Charlene growled.

  “Good.” Marla nodded toward the adobe house. “I’ll circle around the right side and check out the mother-in-law cottage.”

  “No, you won’t,” Charlene said. “I’m going with you.”

  “We need to move fast,” Marla said. “And that means two people on the garbage. Besides, this is my operation. I invited you along. You wouldn’t even know Curly thought he was a vampire if it hadn’t been for me.”

  Charlene’s nostrils flared.

  “We’re going to get caught if we don’t move fast,” I said, wanting to get this over with. I’ve watched crime TV. Searching garbage was a legitimate PI technique, even if it was gross.

  “Fine,” Charlene huffed, and headed left.

  I scuttled after her.

  On the left side of the house stretched a narrow gravel path. Bins for garbage, recycling, and yard clippings sat against the adobe wall. The stench of rotting things coiled around us. She pointed to a large, plastic box. “Compost,” she whispered, her nose crinkling.

  “I’m not touching that,” I said in a low voice.

  She nodded, jerking her chin toward the garbage bin.

  Tiptoeing across the gravel, I lifted the green lid and tried not to gag. Most of the garbage was contained in plastic bags. Most. Not all.

  Making a face, I brushed past a damp and stained cloth and grabbed a bag. I walked it out to Marla’s car. What were we even looking for? Plastic fangs? Empty bags of blood?

  But I was impressed Marla was willing to put the garbage in her sleek sports car. Maybe she really was serious about this investigation.

  Wiping my hands on my jeans, I leaned the bag against the rear wheel and trotted back to Charlene.

  She handed me another bag, and I delivered it to the Mercedes.

  I dropped off a bag of recycling and again crept inside the gate, edging toward the left side of the house.

  Something metallic crashed.

  I raced around the corner.

  Charlene stared, openmouthed, down the narrow gravel path. “Marla!” she whispered.

  A side door to the house crashed open. The unmistakable clack-clack of a racking shotgun froze me in place.

  A flashlight beam blinded me. My heart rolled over, played dead.

  “You two!” Curly roared. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Charlene slowly raised her hands. “Mar . . . we . . .”

  “Citizens recycling police,” I said, thinking fast.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “You put paper towels in your garbage bin,” I said. “They belong in the recycling bin. We won’t fine you this time, but—”

  He lowered the flashlight, and I blinked. Slowly, my vision returned.

  Curly stood barefoot on the red, concrete step, a shotgun in one hand aimed squarely at me. A pair of suspenders dangled from his broad hips. His jowls quivered with indignation. “Recycling police? We don’t have that San Francisco nonsense here. Now, what are you really doing? Talk quick before I call the cops, because you’re both trespassing.”

  A Mercedes engine started and roared down the street.

  I ground my teeth. Marla.

  Charlene dropped her hands and glared at me. “And I’m no garbage snitch. We know you’ve been prancing around the Bar X in a cape, and you’ve been spotted on the cliffs performing occult rituals. Spill it, Curly.”

  I gaped. We only had Marla’s word for any of that, and her clues were worthless.

  He lowered the shotgun.

  No longer staring down its double barrels, I sagged against the recycling bin and started breathing again.

  “So what?” he asked. “You think that gives you the right to dig through my garbage for evidence?”

  “Exactly,
” Charlene said. “Now, what’s going on, Curly?”

  His mouth compressed. “Come inside. And wipe your feet on the mat. You two stink. I don’t want you tracking trash inside my house.”

  We followed him inside to a circa 1972 kitchen: green linoleum floor, dark wood cabinets, and a white linoleum countertop flecked with bits of gray and gold. He set the flashlight on the green stove and ran his hand over his buzz cut.

  With his bare foot, he nudged aside a chair at a round, wooden kitchen table and sat. “Talk.”

  I took a chair.

  Arms folded, Charlene sat across from me. “Certain ignorant people think you’re one of those modern-day vampires. I, however, think you’re an occultist. Which is it?”

  He sat between us. “And so, you went through my garbage?”

  “I imagine neither rumor will do your reputation a bit of good,” Charlene said. “You being a rootin’ tootin’ gunslinger.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” He leaned the shotgun against the table.

  “Does Ewan know you’ve been sneaking onto his property at night?” Charlene asked.

  He blew out his breath. “Yes, he does.”

  “He . . . what?” I asked. Was Curly actually admitting this? “What’s with the cape?”

  “I’m a druid. Ewan knows. Moe doesn’t.” He glowered. “And he’d better not find out, either.”

  “You worship trees?” I asked, bemused.

  “I revere all nature, and people are a part of nature, even if they do act like horse’s behinds most of the time. I had nothing to do with Devon’s death.”

  “Did Devon know about your, er, practices?” I asked.

  He grimaced. “Yeah. He followed me one night. Thought I was the phantom, and he was going to catch me.”

  “Followed you where?” Charlene asked.

  Curly smiled. “Ewan’s got an amazing oak tree on his property. I’ve never seen an oak that big, and some of its branches twist low to the ground. It’s like Mother Earth’s temple. I like to go there to meditate.”

  “In a robe,” Charlene said, voice thick with disbelief. “At night.”

  He colored. “It’s quieter at night.”

  “And the robe?” Charlene asked. “You must have known people would think you were the phantom.”

  “Why? The phantom’s not known for floating around in a robe. It opens doors, makes weird sounds, moves stuff around.”

  “And the robe?” Charlene insisted.

  “I know it seems silly,” he said. “And sometimes it feels silly, but that’s the point. Sometimes you’ve got to get out of your comfort zone, make the ritual a bigger risk, to really feel the magic you’re doing.”

  “Wait a minute,” Charlene said. “Don’t druids run in gangs? Who else is in your club?”

  “No one,” he said. “I’m a solo practitioner.”

  She harrumphed. “That’s it? That’s your big secret?”

  “If Moe and the other guys in the Brotherhood of Blue Steel found out,” he said, “they’d laugh me out of the society.”

  “All right,” I said. “So, Devon knew your secret. What was he threatening to do with it?”

  Curly shifted in his wooden chair. “Aside from give me a hard time? Nothing.”

  “He gave you a hard time?” I asked. “What did he do?”

  “You know, called me a tree hugger. Told druid jokes in mixed company—”

  “There are druid jokes?” Charlene asked.

  He sighed. “What do you get when you cross a Zen Buddhist and a druid?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “Someone who worships a tree that’s not there.”

  “This is fascinating,” Charlene said. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t get us any closer to figuring out who killed Devon and your ex-partner, or what’s behind the Bar X Phantom.”

  “I can answer the last question,” Curly said. “It’s a tulpa.”

  Charlene bolted upright in her wooden chair. “That’s what I said! Did you generate its spectral form in a magical ceremony?”

  “Nope,” Curly said. “Wasn’t me.”

  “Rats.” Her shoulders slumped.

  “But a tulpa’s the only answer that makes sense,” Curly said. “There’s no history of anyone dying at the Bar X.” His expression darkened. “Until now.”

  Right. Sure. Tulpa. “Larry must have known or seen something,” I said. “He was near the saloon when Devon was killed. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t tell anyone what he’d seen.” Unless he was protecting someone. Someone he cared for. Someone like the Friths.

  “So, that’s it?” Charlene said. “You’re a druid?”

  “Well, there is one other thing.” Curly’s broad face turned the color of a brick.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “So . . . about Marla.”

  I tensed and glanced at Charlene.

  She clamped her lips together. Whatever else she might be, Charlene was no snitch. Even on Marla.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “You three are friends.” He shifted in his seat and blushed more furiously. “Has she said anything about me?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I opened the big oven, and a blast of heat scorched my face. A turkey potpie glided into view, and I slid it from the oven with a long, wooden paddle. We had a fan and the AC humming, but there was only so much I could do to keep cool in the kitchen on a San Nicholas summer day.

  A bead of sweat trickled down my spine. I loaded potpies onto the cooling rack and checked the clock above the window to the dining area. It was nearly noon.

  I didn’t know what to make of Curly’s admission. With San Nicholas being not that far from freewheeling San Francisco, I doubted nature worship would make Curly an outcast. But he was of a different generation and worked in a macho, gunslinging culture. Had Devon really stopped at druid jokes? Or had he tried to blackmail Curly, pushing him too far?

  I rubbed my eyebrow. The bartender had certainly sent Bridget over the edge with that lawsuit.

  Charlene, perched on a stool by the industrial dishwasher, had her own ideas. “You never should have listened to Marla. Vampires!?” She smoothed her burnt-red tunic over her thighs. “What were you thinking?”

  “I shouldn’t have listened to her?” I wiped my hands on my apron.

  “I told you she couldn’t be trusted. She knocked over that pile of junk on purpose last night, so we’d get caught.”

  Marla had certainly made a racket, but she’d put herself in jeopardy as well. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she’ll do anything to get one over on me. Plus, look at the way she drove off and left us. She even took the garbage we’d collected!”

  “She’s welcome to it.”

  “She’ll probably try to talk us into digging through it for evidence,” Charlene said darkly.

  “Here’s a wacky thought. Let’s say no.” I replaced my flour-dusted apron with a fresh one and whisked through the swinging doors into the restaurant. Most of the tables were full. My Scrooge-like heart glowed, profits dancing in my head.

  Abril handed a plastic number tent to a customer, and he wandered to an empty table. She pushed a strand of dark hair over her ear and turned to me, a look of panic on her face. “Can you take over?”

  “Sure.” Abril was an introvert. She’d rather work in the kitchen than deal with customers, and I felt a twinge of guilt for asking her to work the register. But it was Petronella’s day off, and Charlene was piecrusts only. Besides, if Abril was going to read poetry in front of a crowd next month, she needed to step outside of her comfort zone.

  Abril scuttled through the swinging door, nearly colliding with Charlene.

  My crusty piecrust maker poured herself a mug of coffee from the urn and found a seat at the counter within earshot of the register.

  Beside her, Wally rose to top off his cup, his gait uneven. “I hear you went dumpster diving last night, Char. The ingredients in these pies had better
be fresh.”

  “We were set up,” she groused.

  His graying brows rose. “Set up to dumpster dive, or set up to get caught?”

  “Both. By that harridan—”

  Marla sailed into Pie Town, setting the bell over the door tinkling. She posed in the center of the checkerboard floor and fluffed her silver hair. Her diamonds flashed in the overhead light. She wore a navy, short-sleeved knit top and white jeans.

  Wally and Graham eyed her appreciatively.

  “There you are,” she said, shifting the purse over her shoulder. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Charlene. I thought your shift at Pie Town ended in the morning.”

  The plot curdled. Had Charlene been loitering in Pie Town to avoid her nemesis?

  Charlene sucked in her cheeks. “Go. Away.” She turned to face the kitchen window. Her jaw set, mulish.

  Marla minced toward us on high, white heels. She dropped her navy purse on the counter. “I see you weren’t arrested, even if you were caught stealing garbage like a homeless person. Did you play the pity card? In your shoes, I would have.” She glanced at Charlene’s sneakers. “Are you really wearing those?”

  “Since they are on my feet, yes, I am wearing them. What do you want?”

  “I’m here to gloat. Thanks to you two, I uncovered some fantastic leads.”

  “You found something in the garbage?” I asked.

  “I haven’t checked it yet, but when I was in the yard . . . Well, let’s say mysteries were revealed. This case will be sewn up in no time.” She raised a finger in the air and caught my eye. “Coffee?”

  I pointed to the urn. “Self-serve.”

  “How quaintly trusting.”

  “That’ll be a dollar in the coffee jar,” I growled.

  Wally held the oversized jar in his wrinkled hand and rattled it. “In it goes, or no java.”

  She rummaged in her purse. “Whoops. I don’t have any dollar bills.” She tossed in a fiver, and Wally carefully counted out her change. Marla poured a cup of coffee from the urn. “What about you two? Did you learn anything interesting?”

  “Forget it,” Charlene said. “The détente is over. You want clues, go excavate them yourself.”

  “So, you didn’t learn anything.” She sipped her coffee and shrugged. “Too bad. For you.” Flashing a wintery smile, she sidled to the end of the counter and took a seat.