Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  Watching Marla from the corner of my eye, I rang up a customer.

  Abril dinged the bell in the kitchen window, and I whisked two breakfast pies—aka quiche—to a table. On an aromatic cloud of cheesy-bacon goodness, I returned to the register. “What’s Marla really doing here?” I asked Charlene. “Because it feels like we’re being surveilled.”

  “Yup.” Charlene slurped her coffee and slid off her stool. “I guess I’ll take one for the team and lead her away. Don’t worry. If you never hear from me again, point the cops in Marla’s direction. The ocean currents are strong around her house, but I hear CSI can figure out where bodies were dumped, even if there isn’t much left of the corpses. Water does terrible things to a body. I’ll bet Carmichael could tell you all about it.” She wandered out of the restaurant.

  A few moments later, Marla followed.

  Figuring Marla was in more danger from Charlene than vice versa, I repressed my instincts to follow them both. Besides, I had a pie shop to run.

  The customers kept me hopping. I swished between counting change at the register and delivering mini potpies to the tables.

  Marla had been every bit as nasty as Charlene had warned, but I wondered about the relationship between the two. That sort of intense rivalry didn’t just happen. Something had gone down between the women. Did I want to know what it was?

  Who was I kidding? I was dying to know.

  Ray limped into the restaurant on crutches. He tossed a wobbly wave in my direction and swung into the corner gamers’ booth.

  I waved back and wondered how to show him my appreciation for saving me from that Prius. Free pies for life would induce coronaries in us both.

  The lunch crowd faded, and I switched to worrying about the murders and dreaming about a giant pink pie-delivery van. It could be like the Mystery Machine. With pies. And let’s face it—pretty much everything is better with pie. And bacon.

  Gordon walked into Pie Town. He approached the register, his expression wary.

  “Afternoon, Detective Carmichael,” I said, warming. I hoped he hadn’t heard about our misadventure in garbage collecting. “What can I get for you?”

  “Got any more of those mini cauliflower pies—the ones with the blue cheese?”

  “Yep. How many, and for here or to go?”

  “One. For here.”

  My skin tingled. I wasn’t sure what was going on in our relationship—or even if we actually had one—but it was a good sign if he wanted to eat in.

  I rang him up and handed him one of our plastic number tents.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn, then strode to an empty corner table and sat facing the door, presumably in case Pie Town was attacked by marauders. Or by Marla.

  I leaned through the kitchen window. “Cauliflower and Blue pie.”

  Abril nodded, plated a pie with greens, and handed it through the window. “This is the last of them.”

  “Since it’s past noon, that’s okay.” Our savory pies and quiches were doing well. We even had a low-cal, goat cheese, spinach, and zucchini quiche for the waistline-watching crowd. It didn’t taste at all healthy, which was probably why it was so popular.

  I crossed the CAULIFLOWER AND BLUE CHEESE PIE off the chalkboard menu behind the counter and carried the plate to Gordon’s table.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Have you got a minute?”

  “Sure.” Smiling like an idiot, I slid onto the bench opposite.

  “There’s a rumor going around town that you and Charlene were caught dumpster diving.” He wrapped one strong hand around his coffee cup and took a sip.

  “Dumpster?” I laughed. The sound had a raw, hysterical edge.

  Outside, Heidi stopped to look in the window. She caught my eye and smirked, then moved on. I could guess who’d ratted me out to Gordon. But who had Heidi heard the story from? “Ick. No way.”

  “Mm. So it’s not true?”

  “I have never removed trash from a dumpster.” That, at least, was true. Curly owned plastic bins.

  “Good. I’d hate to think you were still investigating these murders. San Nicholas is weird enough without you crawling through garbage.”

  “Yeah.” I propped my chin on my fist and struggled for a change of subject. “It’s strange, when I first moved to San Nicholas, I only thought it was a cute beach town.”

  “And now?”

  “The yoga instructor next door has declared war on my pies. Her boyfriend, my ex-fiancé, thinks Charlene’s cat is his power animal. And someone tried to run me over with a stagecoach in a not-haunted, fake ghost town. By comparison, the fantasy gaming going on in the corner is passé.” I nodded to the gamers. “What’s slaying a few imaginary trolls in the grand scheme of life?”

  He glanced at Ray and friends. “They’re the normal ones, aren’t they?”

  I steeled myself. In the interests of solving the crime, I’d promised myself I’d never withhold evidence from the police. “There is something I should tell you. It turns out Curly is a member of an alternative religion. Devon found out, and Curly doesn’t want anyone else to learn his secret. He said Devon wasn’t blackmailing him, just making his life uncomfortable. I’m not sure I believe him, not after what Bridget told me.”

  “That Devon was suing her for stalking?”

  “That he hinted he was Ewan’s illegitimate and unknown son. Bridget said he was applying some pressure, though no overt blackmail. I think she was trying to protect her father.”

  “I know. She admitted the same to me.”

  So, she’d taken my advice after all. That was a relief.

  Gordon frowned. “What’s Curly’s alternative religion?”

  “He’s a druid.”

  “A druid,” he said, face impassive. “And he confided in you because . . . ?”

  “He was seen flitting around the Bar X and other, er, places, in a suspicious robe.”

  “A suspicious robe?”

  “I meant, it was suspicious he was in a robe. Not a bathrobe. A cape.”

  “Sighted by whom?”

  My English-major heart warmed at his proper grammar usage. “A confidential informant.” I wasn’t going to give Marla the credit. Not after she’d left us holding the garbage bags.

  He buried his head in his hands.

  I winced. “And I should also mention that Marla had a romantic relationship with Devon.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Gordon?”

  “I’m having an aneurism. Pay no attention. And please stop playing detective without a license. I can’t date a jailbird.”

  I slithered from the booth and returned to my station behind the counter.

  Graham jerked his thick thumb toward Gordon. “What’s with Grumpy Cop?”

  “Oh,” I said vaguely, “you know. What have you heard about the murders? Any idea who did it?”

  The two elderly men glanced at each other, shrugged. “I heard the Phantom killed ’em.”

  Ugh. What was with this town’s obsession with the paranormal?

  I must have looked skeptical, because Wally continued. “Well, it’s got something to do with that ranch.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “There’s a lot of money in it.”

  “Is there?” I asked.

  Graham set his cab-driver’s cap on his head and adjusted the soft, checked fabric. “The price of Ewan’s land has skyrocketed. I heard some Silicon Valley tech billionaire made a multimillion-dollar offer.”

  “Multi?” I asked. “How multi?”

  Graham named a figure.

  I whistled. Now that was money worth killing for. “What did the tech guy want with it?”

  “Heard he wanted his own private cowboy ranch here on the coast. It would have put those sharpshooters out of a job—a lot of the other artisans who work there too.”

  “But Ewan said no?”

  “Ewan hasn’t said anything yet,” Wally said. “I hear the offer’s still on the table.”
>
  “I should talk to some of the other artisans,” I said, more to myself than to Graham. I hadn’t seen any around whenever I’d visited the Bar X. “They must come to the ranch just before the events start,” I muttered.

  Graham shifted his bulk. “You could try the gal who sells pottery. Most days she works out of the garden center on Main.”

  Wally rubbed his pink nose. “And that Indian feller who sells the whatchamacallits—dream catchers and sage and stuff. You can find him working the bar at the White Lady most nights.”

  “You don’t call ’em Indians anymore,” Graham said. “They’re indigenous peoples. Get with the times.”

  “The guy’s from New Delhi,” Wally said. “His last name’s Patel. I suppose you’d call someone from Ethiopia an African-American?”

  “No, I’d call him an Ethiopian.”

  I cleared my throat. I knew Arjun Patel well enough to say hello, but I hadn’t known he’d been moonlighting at the Bar X. “Anything else?”

  “Follow the money,” Graham said. “When it comes to murder, it’s usually jealousy, greed, or revenge. With all the money tied up in that ranch, I’m betting these murders were fueled by greed.”

  “That’s a good point,” I said, thoughtful, and went to clear a table.

  If Devon really was the blackmailing type, could he have squeezed Ewan to keep their secret from Bridget? And assuming Devon really was Ewan’s long-lost son, his appearance would cut into Bridget’s inheritance.

  Absently, I dried my already dry hands in my apron. Had she been protecting her father? Or herself?

  Chapter Twenty

  The downside of being a baker? Feet.

  I still hadn’t found a pair of truly comfortable shoes. By the end of the day, my dogs were barking.

  After closing, and in spite of my swollen toes, I forced myself to walk down Main Street toward the Garden Shop. Let no one say San Nicholas is subtle with its business names.

  I crossed the bridge, pausing at the center to lean on the concrete railing and watch the creek trickle past. It was after six o’clock. The summer sun was a white disk behind the fog, which hovered over the town in a cooling embrace.

  Straightening off the concrete balustrade, I zipped my Pie Town hoodie to the collar and jammed my hands in its pockets. I strolled across the bridge and stopped in front of a barnlike building surrounded by a tumble of flowers. A CLOSED sign hung from the Garden Shop’s rolling wooden doors.

  I made a face. Of course, the nursery was closed. Aside from restaurants and Heidi’s torture gymnasium, most shops on Main Street closed at five or six.

  Turning, I made my way back to my VW, parked in the alley behind Pie Town. I squeezed inside, and in a fit of paranoia, locked the doors before I dug out my cell phone and called Charlene.

  “It’s about time you called,” she said. “Marla’s still skulking behind me. I could have been dead!”

  “I’ve got a new lead. Do you think you can lose Marla and join me?”

  She chuckled. “I’ve lost her twice already. Now she’s parked outside my house.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Inside my house, but she didn’t follow me here. She must have figured this was where I’d end up. I lost her at the beach, and I can do it again. Trust me.”

  “The bartender at the White Lady sells Native American crafts at the Bar X. He wasn’t around at the time of the murders, but—”

  “Who? Patel? He might have some good dirt. I’ll meet you at the White Lady. Without Marla.”

  I drove to the two-story restaurant and bar built into the cliffs. Fog drifted above the Spanish tiles lining its slanted roof. A sign in its white, adobe wall proclaimed it a historic landmark. During Prohibition, smugglers had hauled booze up from their boats and into the restaurant and speakeasy. I couldn’t imagine lugging a crate of alcohol up the steep cliffs, but the profits must have been ginormous.

  It wasn’t the history that made the White Lady Charlene’s favorite hangout. The restaurant was also the source of a ghost story. Since the nineteen-thirties, a spectral lady dressed in white had been seen in the restaurant and wailing along the cliffs. One of those ghost hunter reality TV shows had even done a special on the restaurant.

  I found Charlene in the bar on the top floor, sipping a hot cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps. Her brown, knit jacket bunched around the hips of her burnt-red tunic.

  A youngish, dark-skinned man in a white apron polished a glass behind the bar. Couples sat at tables scattered throughout the bar area. In the restaurant, a crowd of diners ate a late dinner, their voices a gentle murmur. Through the windows, the setting sun turned fog and ocean into an impressionist painting of blurred pinks and blues. And this was why the White Lady was also one of my favorite spots, though I usually sat on the breezy patio below.

  “Hi, Arjun,” I said.

  “Hey, Val. What can I get you?”

  “Whatever Charlene’s having.”

  “Sure thing.” He grabbed a mug off a hook and got busy.

  “Looks like you managed to shake Marla,” I said to Charlene.

  She snorted. “That wasn’t hard. She’s got as much chance of tailing someone as Frederick.”

  Her cat was absent his usual spot over Charlene’s shoulder. The White Lady didn’t allow animals inside. This was why we usually wound up on the outside patio.

  “Have you asked him yet about the Bar X?” I nodded toward Patel, spraying whipped cream into my mug.

  She straightened on her barstool. “You think I’d investigate without you?”

  I smiled, pleased and a little guilty. “No, but I confess I did some investigating without you. Graham and Wally were in Pie Town today—”

  “They’re in Pie Town every day.”

  “And they mentioned someone had made an offer on the Bar X.” I named the figure.

  Charlene whistled. “Tempting, even for Ewan. But I can’t imagine he’ll sell. He loves the place too much. Besides, the Bar X is his home. If he sold, where would he live?”

  “For the amount he was offered, he could go a lot of places.”

  “And build another Bar X?” She shook her head. “Never. They’ll be carrying him out of the Bar X feet first.” Her expression shifted. “Though I hope they don’t.”

  I slid onto the stool beside her. “But . . .” I trailed off. The money in the Bar X gave Bridget a motive. Ewan’s daughter might not like having her inheritance split two ways. But I knew how Charlene would react if I suggested Bridget could have killed Devon. “Graham and Wally also mentioned a potter.”

  Charlene nodded. “Sarah Onaka. She works part-time at the Garden Center. We can catch her there tomorrow.”

  Patel slid my mug across the damp, wooden bar. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Hey, I hear you sell Native American crafts at the Bar X.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why not? The dream catchers were a hobby, but Ewan convinced me I could make some money off them.”

  “How’d you get into that?” I asked.

  “An ex-girlfriend dragged me to a dream catcher workshop.” He leaned his elbows on the bar. “Making them relaxes me. Still, I needed more inventory for the Bar X Trading Post, so I’ve been buying turquoise jewelry and pottery from a guy I know in Arizona.”

  “When do you find the time to work two jobs?” Charlene asked.

  “It’s a portfolio economy now,” he said. “Haven’t you heard? Lots of little part-time jobs instead of full-time work. I’d rather have taken another bartending job at the Bar X, but Devon beat me out.” His skin darkened. “I wasn’t happy at the time, what with his reputation and all. Now I’m relieved I didn’t get the job.”

  “His reputation?” Charlene asked.

  “Devon overserves people. Sorry, served, past tense.”

  “I thought he underpoured,” I said, confused.

  “He might have been doing that too,” Patel said. “It’s possible to water down the drinks and still serve
too many. You can get in real trouble if the customer leaves drunk. Ewan knew about his reputation, but I guess he figured everyone needs a second chance. Ewan’s a good guy that way.”

  But Devon had done it again, getting a group of financial advisors drunk enough to brawl. And Ewan hadn’t fired him.

  “Was Ewan good to you?” Charlene asked.

  “Ewan did me a real favor,” he said, “and he doesn’t charge for me to sell at the Trading Post. Dream catchers and turquoise jewelry may not seem like much, but it beats being an unemployed lawyer.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” I asked.

  “I passed the bar exam and got my license, but there’s a glut of lawyers. Turns out I wasn’t the only one whose parents pushed them to go into law.” His mouth turned down. “It was either law or medicine, and I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Do friends ask you for legal advice often?” I asked.

  He wiped a damp rag across the bar. “You have no idea.”

  I swiveled toward Charlene. “Didn’t Bridget mention getting good advice from Patel?” It was a stab in the dark, but maybe Bridget had asked Patel for advice on the stalking lawsuit on behalf of “a friend.”

  His dark brows slashed downward. “Did she? I don’t—”

  “There you are!” Marla swanked into the bar. She tightened the belt on her trench coat and strode toward us.

  Charlene clutched the bar, her knuckles whitening. “I lost her. I swear I lost her.”

  “I thought we were partners.” Marla leaned an elbow against the bar. “And here you are, interviewing a suspect without me.”

  “Suspect?” Patel yelped.

  She thrust a finger at him, her diamonds blazing. “Where were you the morning Devon Blackett was murdered?”

  “I don’t know,” he sputtered. “At home, I guess. Probably making a dream catcher.”

  Marla sneered. “A dream catcher? Do you expect us to believe that? And I suppose you were alone.”

  “Come on, Marla,” I said, “he’s not a suspect. Take it easy.”

  “Take it easy?” She quivered, indignant. “Two men are dead. And this . . . bartender just stands there, polishing that beer glass like nothing’s happened.”