“Too late. No take backs. The Internet is forever.”
Frederick raised his head from Charlene’s shoulder and yawned in agreement.
“Now come outside and meet the other suspects.” She wound through the tables.
Resigned, I followed and adjusted my thin top. The arms were a little pinchy. “Other suspects? I’m not a suspect.”
“If they find any blood on that T-shirt, you are. So, what about it? You didn’t cut yourself slicing fruit today, did you?”
My skirts swished around my knees. “Charlene—”
“I know you didn’t kill anyone, and more importantly, so does Detective Carmichael. I expect you to pump him for information on Friday. Or at least pump him—”
“Charlene!” My face heated.
Her eyes widened with innocence. “What?”
“Friday’s off.”
She stopped with one hand on the swinging, batwing doors. “Why?”
“Because he’s in the middle of an investigation,” I said, “and I found the body.”
“Oh.” She snapped her fingers. “All the more reason to help the police wrap this up quickly. Solve the crime, salvage your love life.”
“I don’t think Gordon wants us to interfere—”
“Asking questions isn’t interference. What can it hurt?”
“You always say that, and things always go—”
“Besides,” she said, “it’s human nature to discuss tragedy. We’ll just be there to listen. And if we hear anything useful, you can pass it on to your Detective Carmichael.”
“I guess,” I said, uncertain. Charlene wasn’t wrong about human nature. Everyone would want to talk. My stomach churned. Everyone except the killer.
She pushed through the doors.
Feet dragging, I followed her into the sunny street.
She beelined toward a small cluster of people: two men and the woman who’d screamed at me, convinced I’d been covered in blood.
“Everyone all right?” Charlene stopped in front of the trio. They edged apart, making way. She tapped a pen on the cover of her little leather notebook. “Val, this is Bridget, Ewan’s daughter.”
Bridget winced, deepening the fine lines around her caramel-colored eyes. “Sorry, Val. Charlene explained about the pie. I guess I panicked. Are you all right? I hope the clothing fits okay.”
I tugged on the sleeves. “It does, thanks. And I wasn’t exactly at my best either. I didn’t expect to find . . .” A corpse.
“And these are the Bar X trick shooters,” Charlene said. “Moe and Curly.”
The men bobbed their heads. They wore cowboy hats, khaki slacks, and denim shirts. Empty holsters were slung low about their broad hips.
“I’m Moe,” said a fiftysomething with unnaturally dark hair, a down-turned mouth, and beaky nose. He stepped forward and shook my hand.
A man built like a fireplug and with a military haircut stepped forward. “I’m Curly.” He tipped his hat.
I blinked. The men looked unnervingly like their Three Stooges namesakes. I’d always been more of an Abbott and Costello fan. “Is there a Larry?” I asked.
“Not anymore,” they said in unison.
“And yes, those are our real names.” Curly lifted his hat and rubbed his uber-short salt-and-pepper hair.
“Chief Shaw already took their statements,” Charlene said.
I crossed my arms, uncrossed them. If Shaw really believed it was murder, those were quick interviews. As the Bar X trick shooters, Moe and Curly had been firing weapons around the time of death.
“Did you see anything?” Moe eyed me intently.
“I saw . . .” What had I seen? I wracked my brainpan. But I’d been fixated on the exploding pie and then the corpse, and not much had made it into my peripheral vision. “I’m not sure what I saw.”
Moe’s brow wrinkled, and he fingered his empty holster. “Chief Shaw confiscated our revolvers,” he said, mournful. “Guess he figures if one of us did it, the ballistics will tell him.”
“Who was Devon?” I asked.
“Devon Blackett, our bartender.” Bridget’s full lips quivered. “It must have been an accident. I don’t know why anyone would want him dead.”
“If by ‘accident’ you mean Curly or I did it,” Moe said sharply, “we don’t have accidents with our weapons.”
“No, I didn’t mean . . .” Bridget flushed. “I know you’re careful. Maybe someone else was around the Bar X, hunting or goofing around. You know we’ve had to chase kids off before.”
Curly wrinkled his sun-reddened face. “I did see a bunch of wild pigs earlier today. There could have been a hunter chasing after them, I reckon.”
“A stray shot would explain why someone shot Val’s pie,” Charlene said. “Two stray bullets, and one was deadly.”
“Maybe,” I said, though I didn’t quite believe it. The bartender had been in the alley, which wasn’t over four feet wide. He would have been fairly well protected from random bullets.
“For all we know,” Curly said, “it was the Phantom of Bar X.” He slapped his cowboy hat against his thigh.
Bridget’s shoulders hunched. “Not that again.”
“What phantom?” I asked, and immediately regretted it. The only thing Charlene loved more than a good conspiracy was the paranormal. Knowing my luck, she’d try to drag me into a spot of ghost hunting.
“Something Ewan invented to drum up business,” Moe said. “Tourists love a good ghost story.”
“It’s not a story,” Bridget said, her words clipped. She spun on her heel and stalked into the saloon.
Curly winked and replaced his hat. “Right. It’s not a story, and her father didn’t dream it up to attract tourists.”
“What have you heard about this phantom?” Charlene asked casually. “What does it do?”
“It wanders the Bar X at night, looking for vengeance on the man who killed him,” Moe said. His broad face hardened. “It’s a fairy tale.”
“That can’t be right,” Charlene said, pocketing her notebook. “This whole setup isn’t more than five years old. No one was killed here, were they?”
“This site is part of a ranch from the eighteen hundreds,” Curly said. “Who knows what happened way back when? I’m sure lots of folks died around here, even if they weren’t murdered.”
“There’s been a murder now,” I said.
“Maybe,” Moe said. “When the ballistic tests come back on our revolvers, that’ll prove we didn’t do it.”
“Don’t worry, Miss,” his partner said. “This probably will turn out to be an accident. Maybe Devon shot himself. Murder is rare in San Nicholas.”
If Devon had accidentally shot himself, the gun would still be nearby. I hadn’t seen a gun by the corpse, and I had a sick sense the gunslinger was indulging in wishful thinking.
Chapter Three
We left Curly, Moe, and Bridget and walked down the dusty road. The sun walloped us, glinting off the storefront windows of the fake ghost town.
A trio of cops in blue turned to stare at my “fallen woman” getup.
Wishing I’d brought my Pie Town apron today, I tugged up the low collar of the revealing blouse. “The Jeep’s back thataway.”
“And Ewan lives thisaway.” Charlene pointed at a Victorian perched on a hill. To the home’s west, a piebald horse peered over a wooden fence and munched dried grass.
Unenthusiastic, I gazed at the two-story yellow Victorian, iced with white gingerbread trim. Charlene was right. We couldn’t leave yet, even if my sleeves were pinching. Not with a Jeep full of pies.
“Just wait ’til you see the inside.” She huffed, crunching up the gravel driveway. “Now let me do the talking.”
“We need to find out what’s going to happen to the pie-eating contest,” I said, determined to be cold, businesslike, and efficient. My stomach twisted with selfish nerves. I’d pinned my hopes on regular pie sales to the Bar X. If this deal fell through, Pie Town was on the edge of rea
l trouble.
I shouldn’t have been thinking about pies. A man was dead. But Pie Town was still a new business, and aside from Charlene, it was pretty much all I had. My thoughts cravenly turned to its welfare.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve got it handled.”
That was what had me worried.
She lumbered up the front steps and rapped smartly on the screened door. It swung open, and Marla beamed with patently false sympathy. “Charlene! They didn’t arrest you after all. What a relief.”
Charlene’s nostrils flared. “Here to comfort the bereaved?”
“Hardly bereaved,” Marla said. “Poor Ewan barely knew the dead man, though, of course, it is a terrible shock.” Diamond rings twinkling, her wrinkled hand gripped the door handle. “Can I do something for you?”
“Who’s there?” Ewan’s voice called from inside.
“No one important,” Marla said.
Charlene grabbed the screen door handle and pulled. Marla tugged in the other direction. They struggled for dominance, grunting. I had a brief, horrible image of Charlene keeling over from a heart attack.
“It’s us,” I shouted. “Val Harris and Charlene! May we come in?”
“Of course,” he called. “Come inside!”
Marla let go, and Charlene tumbled backwards into my arms.
She turned and glared at me, brushing off her purple knit tunic.
“Please, do come in,” Marla said, opening the door.
Ewan loomed behind her in the foyer. He raked a hand through his silvery hair. “What a day. How are you two holding up?” And then his gaze traveled from my skirt to my head, and his mouth quirked.
“They took my clothing for evidence,” I said, and stepped inside. The entryway glowed, natural light from the tall windows reflecting off the wood floor. Pegs hung on one wall for coats, but aside from that, the room was barren. “Your daughter lent me these from the photo shop.” I plucked at the skirt. “How are you managing? Did the police say anything about the fundraiser?”
“Ewan and I were just working that out,” Marla said.
“We can’t use the saloon and have to block off the alley,” he said, “but the fundraiser will go on.”
I looked heavenward and sent a prayer of thanks to St. Ivan Rilski, the patron saint of pies and pie makers.
“Why close the saloon?” Charlene asked. “Devon was killed in the alley.”
“Fire code,” he said. “The alley’s a crime scene, and that means we can’t use the saloon’s side door. Without that exit, we’re breaking fire code if we let people inside. We’ll set up tents and move the bar and gaming outdoors.” He turned to me. “I’m sorry this had to happen on your first visit, Val. I hope this won’t turn you off the idea of letting us sell your pies at future events.”
“No!” That hadn’t sounded too eager, had it? I cleared my throat. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Even so,” Ewan said, “I don’t like this hanging over our heads. Devon was a recent hire, but he seemed a decent fellow. And even though our trick shooters had nothing to do with this, it won’t do anything good for their reputation, or ours.”
He walked onto the porch, and we all trailed after him. Ewan crossed his arms and stared at his ghost town below. A faint blue rim of Pacific peeked above the eucalyptus trees.
Charlene leaned against the porch railing. “And I don’t like that someone took a potshot at Val. If you don’t mind, we’d like to look into this.”
I cringed. And this is where it began. Fortunately, no sensible person would ever agree to letting us play detective. “Charlene, I don’t think—”
“The Baker Street Bakers.” Ewan’s eyes lighted. “I wouldn’t mind seeing our local amateur detectives in action.”
“Please.” Charlene sniffed, brandishing her notebook. “Consulting detectives, not amateurs. Though technically, we can’t even call ourselves detectives, since we don’t have a license. Let’s just stick with consultants.”
“Detectives? You’re a detective?” Marla snorted with laughter. “You must be kidding.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Ewan asked. “She and Val helped the police solve two murders—”
“Three,” Charlene said modestly.
“Three murders earlier this year. These two ladies were nearly killed in the process.”
“How unfortunate,” Marla said.
My eyes narrowed. Unfortunate someone had tried to kill us, or that they’d failed?
Ewan turned to my piecrust maker. “Speaking of local news, is it true Mabel Merriweather saw fairies at the dog park?”
I gaped. Was Ewan a lover of the paranormal too?
“That’s what she says, but it was dark.” Charlene tapped the notebook against her chin. “So, it doesn’t seem likely.”
I waited for it.
“My guess is she saw an alien,” Charlene said.
A shiver crawled across my skin. I knew there were no such things as aliens. But there could be. And I’d watched enough X-Files to know nothing good comes from an alien encounter.
“That dog park has always been haunted,” Charlene continued. “Little wonder it’s started attracting fairies.”
“Ghosts attract fairies now?” I asked.
“If you read my Twitter feed, you’d know,” she said tartly.
I sighed. At least the conversation had shifted away from “Val and Charlene, Consulting Detectives.” If Gordon found out I’d been soliciting the Bar X for detective work, we’d never have our first date.
“Back to Devon’s murder,” Charlene said. “If we take the case—”
“You mean you’re serious?” Marla uncrossed her arms, her gaze ping-ponging between the three of us. “This isn’t a joke?”
“Nope,” Ewan said. “I’ve tried to join their crime-solving crew, but Charlene’s told me I’ll have to prove my baking skills first.”
I stared, aghast.
“He wasn’t serious,” Charlene said to me.
Marla lowered her sunglasses to her eyes. “A detective. You. Charlene McCree. A detective.”
“Yes, me, Charlene McCree. Did you forget to put in your hearing aid?”
On Charlene’s shoulder, Frederick twitched his ear.
“Well, your last case mustn’t have been a very challenging murder,” Marla said.
Ewan rubbed his chin. “I dunno. I thought it was a real three-pipe problem.”
“A what?” Marla’s face was as blank as an empty plate. “What does smoking have to do with it?”
“Duh,” Charlene said. “It’s a Sherlock Holmes reference.”
Marla bristled. “I do know who Sherlock Holmes is.”
“Saw the movies, did you?”
I squeezed between the two. “Mr. Frith—”
“Ewan.”
“Ewan, please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. I’ve still got most of the pies in the Jeep, and the—” I swayed, horrified. “The pies. I left a stack of them on the saloon porch. Did you take them?”
“On the porch?” Ewan said. “I saw a cop carrying some pink boxes away from there.”
I swore. “Come on, Charlene. Those pies are not evidence.” I dragged her to the porch steps. “Don’t worry. If something’s happened to them, we’ve still got time to return to Pie Town and get replacement pies before the contest. It’s all under control!” I turned back to him. “Oh. Where do you want the other pies I’ve got in the Jeep?”
“Put them in the photo shop,” he said. “It’s unlocked.”
“Righto.”
I hustled Charlene down the hill and to the ghost town’s main street, still bustling with police.
“How could you leave pies on the porch?” Charlene asked.
“Where was I supposed to put them? You were on the porch with Ewan and Marla, why didn’t you rustle up the pies?”
“Rustle up? What is this? A western?”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I was an English major. I’m easi
ly influenced when it comes to words. On my trip to London senior year, I came back speaking Cockney. Everyone thought it was an affectation, but I couldn’t get it out of my head.”
“All right.” She patted my arm. “It’s only a pie-eating contest. They’ll be shoving pie down so fast, they won’t be able to taste it. Worst case scenario, we thaw some frozen pies. They’ll never know the difference.”
“What if they do? I can’t leave a bad first taste in their mouths. Everyone at that fundraiser could be a future customer.”
“That’s crazy talk.”
“That they might be future customers?”
“That they won’t like the pies,” she said. “You’re freaking me out. Knock it off.”
I took deep, calming breaths and strode past the carriage house. “Right. Right. Everything is okay.” Aside from a man being murdered and me nearly getting killed.
Gordon was speaking to two uniformed officers outside the saloon. He gestured toward the opposite side of the street and at Charlene’s Jeep outside the pottery shed.
The officers nodded. They walked behind the squat building and vanished into the eucalyptus trees.
I waved. “Gord . . . I mean, Detective Carmichael.”
His eyes crinkled. “You can call me Gordon when I’m on duty.” He eyed me appreciatively. “Nice dress.”
My chest heated, and I crossed my arms in embarrassed pleasure. “Thanks. My pies. I left five on the porch, there.” I pointed. “Now they’re gone. Ewan said he saw a police officer taking them somewhere. Do you know where they are? We need them for the contest this afternoon.”
He frowned. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Wait here. I’ll find out what happened to them.” He strode through the swinging saloon doors.
“See?” Charlene said. “He’ll take care of it.” Frederick’s white tail coiled around her neck.
“I know. It’s fine.” Fine, fine, fine. Worst case, I’d get new pies. So what if we ran out today at Pie Town? It could be a good thing. If people assumed we were selling out, it could make our pies more desirable. It would be like playing hard to get. With pies.
Bleeding Tarts Page 3
