Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday morning, we drove into the Bar X in my perfect pink rental. The van’s tires crunched past the saloon, and my hands clenched on the warm steering wheel. Even though I hadn’t sicced the cops on Ewan’s daughter, I felt weirdly guilty.

  “Don’t worry,” Charlene said, a sure prelude to me freaking out. She stroked Frederick, purring in her lap. “I’ll smooth things over with Ewan.”

  A gunshot cracked, and I flinched.

  “Relax,” she said. “That’s only the Blue Steel Boys.”

  I drove past the chapel. “What’s left of them. Why don’t I have a chat with Moe and Curly while you’re talking to Ewan?” Even though I hadn’t gotten Bridget tossed in jail, I dreaded facing him. “Are you sure he’s here and not at the courthouse?”

  “Bridget’s preliminary hearing is set for the afternoon. Ewan wasn’t able to scrape together the bail money at the arraignment, but he’s got it now, and he plans to get her out. He’s here.”

  I braked, the van drifting to a halt beside the carriage house.

  “You’re going to make me walk up that hill in this heat?” Charlene pointed through the windshield.

  Sighing, I turned onto the winding road and drove to the yellow Victorian. I slithered from the van and glanced at the empty porch. Ewan was nowhere to be seen.

  Charlene climbed the porch steps and rapped on the door.

  Turning in the opposite direction, I followed the sound of gunshots to the corral. At one end of it stood wooden targets. Painted like evil-doers, they wore real black cowboy hats and kerchiefs over their faces. I marched up the steps into the U-shaped stands.

  On horseback, Moe and Curly raced around the inside edge of the corral fence, their pistols raised high.

  “Watch out!” Moe shouted, and he pulled up his piebald horse. It tossed its head, stamped its hooves. He trotted toward me. “You can’t sit there. You’re in the line of fire.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Is there a place I can sit and watch until you’re done?”

  He jerked his head toward the bottom end of the U.

  I walked to that section of stands and sat, smoothing the front of my blue tank top.

  Leaning from his horse, Moe set green apples atop the targets’ heads.

  Then the sharpshooters were off, hooves thundering, guns blazing, apple guts flying. In spite of the murder of some perfectly decent baking apples, I was enthralled. Moe and Curly were amazing. If one of those two had aimed to shoot me, I couldn’t imagine them missing.

  I clutched my hands between my knees. So, who had shot the pie out of my hands? Had it been a misfire or a staged shot? Or had someone else intentionally taken a shot at me? Or . . .

  The practice session ended, and the two men walked their horses from the corral.

  Dusting off the seat of my jeans, I followed them into the carriage house and watched them remove the saddles and brush down the horses.

  “You want something?” Curly asked me.

  “There were two shots when Devon was killed,” I said. “One of them hit a pie I was carrying.”

  “And the other shot killed the bartender,” Curly said.

  “There’s been speculation that Devon was killed earlier,” I said. “Could someone have rigged a gun to shoot later and confuse the time of death?”

  Moe patted his horse. “Anything’s possible, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve never tried it,” Moe said. “You’re talking about one of those setups from the movies? Where someone opens a door and doesn’t know there’s a string tied from the knob to the gun’s trigger? I don’t see how you could pull off two shots that way. That said, someone could have gotten near the scene of the crime and discharged their weapon twice to make a ruckus.”

  “You think the cops got the wrong person?” Curly asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Something doesn’t sit right. I have a hard time picturing Bridget killing Larry.”

  Moe blinked rapidly. “Larry was . . . He was a good man. We never should have . . .” Clearing his throat, he turned away and brushed his horse more vigorously.

  “I heard the real reason you three fell out was over a woman,” I said.

  Curly pinked and cut a sideways glance at his partner. “Marla Van Helsing. She’s quite a woman, but we sure made fools of ourselves over her. I’m only sorry it took Larry’s death for me to see it.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. When he’d cornered us rooting through his garbage, he hadn’t seemed to have given up his dreams of romance. But I let it lie. “Why did you tell me your argument with Larry was about money?”

  Curly’s mouth twisted. “I guess I was embarrassed. And a gentleman doesn’t drag a lady’s name through the mud. Marla didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Hm.” I was all for personal responsibility, but trouble seemed to follow in Marla’s wake. “Well, thanks. And that was some shooting.”

  Moe grunted.

  I hesitated, wanting to say something comforting about Larry. But I sensed the kindest thing would be to leave Moe to mourn in peace. So, I left and walked back up the hill to Ewan’s Victorian. The sun beat on my shoulders, and I twisted my hair into a knot, hoping for an ocean breeze.

  Charlene and Ewan stood on the porch, Ewan casting increasingly desperate glances toward the white SUV in the driveway.

  I slowed, my footsteps dragging, then forced myself to smile and wave.

  Charlene returned my wave, and I relaxed a little. She must have cleared things up with Ewan.

  I climbed the porch steps. “Hi, Ewan. Is there any word on Bridget?”

  “The preliminary hearing’s at one.” He glanced again to the SUV and coughed. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions last week. Charlene explained the caller pretended to be you. It made the tip more believable, given your past history of detecting.”

  Charlene’s mouth compressed, and she gave a slight shake of her head.

  So, she hadn’t finked out Marla. I confess, a small, dark part of me wanted to drop the dime on the Internet video maven. But good for Charlene. She was taking the high road.

  Ewan grimaced. “All those pies—you must have lost money on them. I’ll make it up to you. But I’m sorry, I’ve got to go now.”

  “Wait,” I said. “One question. Did you send Devon a newspaper clipping about the Bar X before he applied for a job here?”

  His brow creased. “No. Why would I?” He brushed past me and hurried to the SUV, roaring off in a cloud of dust.

  Charlene shook her head. “He’s not thinking straight.”

  “And you didn’t tell him about Marla.”

  “What’s between him and Marla is their business, not mine.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  “I just thought . . . maybe you and Ewan . . .”

  Her gaze sharpened. “I don’t need romantic advice from you, Missy.”

  I raised my hands in a warding gesture. “No argument there.”

  “I married the love of my life.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, then . . . one day, you will too.” She walked to the van and clambered inside.

  Smiling, I drove her home and returned to my own tiny house. It was a perfect beach day, but I was happy to sit at my outdoor picnic table with my laptop.

  We were missing something. I wasn’t sure the answers were online, but I didn’t know who else to talk to. So, I broadened my search parameters.

  There were a lot more Curly Nottinghams in the US than I’d expected. I scanned the first five web pages. My heart caught—a Yelp review by a customer who claimed Curly had seduced his wife and shot his hound. My chin fell. It was a Curly Nottingham who owned a carpet-cleaning business in Dubuque.

  A seagull fluttered onto the picnic table and squawked.

  “Forget it. I’m not feeding you.”

  Indignant,
it flapped away.

  Next, I ran a deeper search for Moe/Maurice Elliot. My web research went quicker without sass-master Charlene demanding the laptop every one-point-five minutes. I found a Maurice Elliot who was a fisherman in Alaska. A guy with a cooking blog. A kid who’d been killed driving drunk in Truckee seven months back . . .

  I paused over that article. This Maurice Elliot had left a bar, driven off a road and into a ravine, and been killed instantly. He was survived by his father, Maurice Elliot Sr., of San Nicholas, California.

  Moe.

  Larry had told me Moe had lost his son recently, but I hadn’t realized how recently. Saddened, I rubbed my temple. It had only been a couple of years since my mother had passed, and her death still hit me hard at odd moments.

  Even though Larry was the victim and obviously not the killer, I ran another online search for Larry/Lawrence Pelt. There’s also a surplus of Larry/Lawrence Pelts in the US and Canada, and I wasted a good hour running through the various articles, blogs, and blurbs before giving up. Another search on Marla and Bridget didn’t uncover anything new.

  I checked the local newspaper online. If Gordon had caught whoever was doing whatever at the dog park, it hadn’t made the news.

  Grimacing, I shut my laptop, dissatisfied.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Stumped on next steps, and with a sunny Monday afternoon before me, I took my rental van for a spin. I drove south on the One, my gaze flicking restlessly to the rearview mirror. If someone wanted to tail me, I’d made myself a lot more conspicuous in the pink van. But I didn’t spot any tails as I sped down the winding highway, the ocean playing peekaboo between sandy cliffs.

  The light on the Pacific shifted golden, inviting, but the perfect weather thwarted me. Every single beach parking lot was packed with teenagers on their summer break.

  Defeated, I turned the van around and returned to San Nicholas. Parking at the far end of Main Street, I window shopped, lusting after glass pumpkins and distressed chairs and fringed shawls.

  I paused, staring into a gallery window filled with paintings of ocean and fog. A spot between my shoulder blades burned, as if I was being watched. I broadened my gaze, trying to catch reflections in the window. No one seemed to be watching me.

  Shrugging, I strolled to Pie Town. The tension in my muscles released as soon as I stepped onto its linoleum floor and locked the door behind me. Even when closed, Pie Town was my haven.

  In the industrial kitchen, I made myself a fat omelet stuffed with cheese and greens and a side of hash browns. Just because I could, I fried up some bacon too. Hot damn, cooking in a ginormous kitchen felt awesome. Also, if someone tried to break in, I had an arsenal of cast iron pans, hot oil, and knives at the ready.

  I set a frozen pie in the oven to reheat, then noticed a pie sitting in the blue-painted pie safe. Had Charlene stored it there for later?

  Too late, I realized I’d automatically filled the coffee urn. It percolated, popping and bubbling, the rich scent of java competing with cheese, bacon, and eggs.

  “Darn it.” As much as I love coffee, I couldn’t drink an entire urn.

  I grabbed my omelet and mug and sat in a booth. Opening a paper napkin with a flourish, I admired my pie-selling empire. Black-and-white tile floor. Pink booths. A neon, TURN YOUR FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AT PIE TOWN sign above the counter. I rose and turned on the sign because I liked the look of it, and returned to my omelet. It was a broken mess—I’d never really mastered flipping omelets—but it tasted fantabulous.

  The front door rattled, the bell above it jingling faintly.

  My head jerked upward. I froze, staring at a tall silhouette behind the blinds.

  The door rattled harder.

  Movements jerky, I stood and peered through the plastic blinds.

  Heidi. Her blond hair hung loose about her shoulders. The gym owner’s green, HEIDI’S HEALTH hoodie clung tight to her super-fit body.

  Bracing myself, I opened the door. “Hi, Heidi. We’re closed today, but is there something—”

  “I need pie. Now.” She pushed past me and strode to the counter.

  Baffled, I stared after her and shut the door. “Are you okay?”

  “Do you give all your customers the third degree?” She drummed her fingers. “I want a damn pie. Is that too much to ask?”

  “We didn’t bake any today.” I folded my arms. “We’re closed.”

  Her eyes widened, reddening. Her face paled.

  The woman really needed pie.

  I relented. Maybe this could be the start of us not hating each other quite so much. “I’m reheating a strawberry-rhubarb, but it’s got another ten minutes to go.”

  “I’ll wait. Where’s the coffee urn?”

  “In the . . . I’ll get you a cup.” I walked to the kitchen and returned with a full mug of coffee. “The cream and sugar . . .”

  She scowled.

  Cream and sugar were two items that would not pass her lips. So why did she want pie? Something was seriously wrong. “Heidi—”

  “Go away.”

  Fine by me. I returned to my booth. Darting glances at Heidi, slumped at the counter, I resumed eating. Only something truly awful could have driven her into the pie shop of her enemy. I could be the bigger person.

  When the oven timer dinged in the kitchen, I rose. “That’s the pie. Do you want your slice à la mode?”

  “No, and I don’t want a slice. I want the pie.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “What? You mean the whole pie?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  Biting my tongue, I retrieved the pie from the oven. It was warmed through but not super-hot, so boxing it wouldn’t be a problem. I carried the pie to the counter and slid a folded pink box from beneath the register.

  Heidi grabbed the pie and slid it toward her. She jabbed a fork into the center and took a bite. Her nostrils flared. “That’s good.”

  “Thanks.” Leery, I watched her polish off the equivalent of two pieces. I confess, in my dark nights of the soul, I was capable of eating an entire pie. But I’d trained for that.

  She rolled her shoulders and plowed onward for a third.

  “Heidi, is something wrong?”

  She slammed down her fork and glared. “Mark Jeffreys is what’s wrong.”

  My ex? “Uh, you two had a fight?”

  She drew a shuddering breath. “He said I should loosen up, be more like . . .” She pressed her lips together.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you,” she spat. “Of course, I care about health and fitness. I own a gym for Pete’s sake! Do you think this body came by accident?”

  I edged away. “You look good.”

  “Good? I can bounce a quarter off my ass!”

  I couldn’t even bounce a quarter off my mattress.

  “He said I was obsessive,” she said. “As if he’s any better! I can’t walk into his house without tripping over his realty signs.”

  “He does have lots of signage,” I said, sympathetic. I’d been through the Mark Jeffreys’s wringer myself.

  “But to compare me to you?” She sobbed. “I mean, look at you!”

  “Hey!”

  “I mean, no offense—”

  “Taken!”

  “But owning a pie shop has had an obvious effect on your physique.”

  “I may not spend my evenings doing pushups, but I’ve got muscle tone in my legs from being on my feet all day—”

  “It’ll lead to varicose veins.”

  “And in my arms from lifting pies out of the oven and mixing and chopping, and—”

  “I’ll bet you can pinch more than an inch, can’t you?”

  “Everyone can!” Okay, maybe I can pinch a teensy bit more than an inch, but I am not fat. I’m not even pleasingly plump. True, I’m not one of those wafer-thin supermodels, or even Miss Yoga Body seated in front of me with pie dripping down her chin like Dracula’s girlfriend. But I’m normal. “And for your information, I d
on’t eat pie all day.” I think about pie a lot more than I eat it. “And I certainly don’t eat half a pie at one sitting. This is emotional eating, Heidi, and you’re going to regret it in the morning.”

  “Mark’s a jerk.”

  “But he’s your jerk,” I said gently. “And pies are not meant to be used for evil. You’re in a dark place, Heidi.” I pulled the pie away. “And this isn’t healthy.”

  “This is your fault.”

  “I didn’t force you to eat all that pie.”

  She blinked, her mouth working like a goldfish’s. “You’re right. I’ve spent years helping people realize they shouldn’t stuff themselves with food as a way of stuffing emotions. Pies aren’t meant for this. They’re . . .” She trailed off. Her lips parted. Heidi’s eyes gleamed, fierce and fervid and frightening.

  I edged away. “Heidi? What’s wrong?”

  “I need another pie.”

  “We’ve been over this. The store’s closed. I don’t have anything fresh, and I’m not going to bake you a pie. Not after the pushup incident.”

  “You were kind of a good sport about that.”

  “Thanks.” I crossed my still-aching arms.

  “I wouldn’t have really called the police.”

  I wish I’d known that sooner.

  Her look turned cunning. “If you sell me a pie, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “No, you won’t. A full-sized pie is fifteen dollars, but everything I’ve got is in the freezer. Well, there is a pie in the pie safe—”

  “You have a safe for pies?”

  “It’s not really a safe. It’s an antique pie cabinet. I found it at—”

  “I’ll take that one.”

  “I’m not sure how old the pie is.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She dug some bills out of her hoodie pocket. “Gimme.”

  I studied her. Maybe now was my chance to derail our Marla-Charlene pattern. She’d been opening up, even showing a glimmer of humanity. “Heidi, if I sell you a pie when you’re in this condition, you’re going to hate me even more tomorrow than you do today.”

  “I doubt that’s possible.”

  I ground my teeth. “You’re not yourself.”

  “You’re fat.”

  “I’m a size ten! What is wrong with you? You’re only saying that to—”