We sat, and I laid the box on the table. “I’d love some tea. Thanks. I brought hand pies.” I opened the box.
He stretched a calloused hand across the table and ruffled Frederick’s fur. “How can I say no?” He reached inside and took one. “How do you know what the flavor is?”
“The initials are on the crust.” I pointed to the fork-tine holes that spelled BB.
“Clever,” he said. “Blueberry?”
I nodded.
He took a bite, swallowed. “Perfect. I still prefer actual pie to hand pies—there’s more filling to crust—but these will sell like crazy.”
My heels bounced on the wooden deck. This was actually happening. My first wholesale client!
Charlene sniffed. “The crust is the best part.”
“The orders will vary,” he warned.
“As long as I can get at least two days’ notice, we can fill them,” I said. “We bake our pies fresh each morning, but I need to make sure I’ve got enough supplies in advance.”
We talked numbers, and my skin tingled with delight. They were really good numbers.
“I think we’re done here.” He extended his hand. “Is it a deal?”
I shook. “Deal.” A handshake deal! This was so Old West.
“Now.” Charlene leaned forward and tapped the table with one gnarled finger. “Let’s talk murder. Did you learn anything from the cops?”
“They’re not talking to me.” His ruddy face creased. “It’s as if they think I’m a suspect.”
“You had an alibi for the time he was killed,” Charlene said. “You were with Marla and me.”
“That Detective Carmichael is acting like my alibi doesn’t mean much.” He took another bite of blueberry hand pie.
My brow creased. Gordon wouldn’t be suspicious for no reason. When exactly had Devon been killed? I’d assumed it was around the time I’d been shot at. But what if that shot had been meant to deceive, to make us think the murder had occurred then? What if Devon had been killed earlier?
A warm breeze flowed over the balcony, ruffling the tablecloth.
“What can you tell us about your bartender?” I asked.
He heaved a sigh, his muscled bulk shifting in the chair. “Unfortunately, not much. I’ve got his résumé if you want to see it. Devon was a recent hire. My daughter had been working the bar and doubling as our photographer. The old-time photography was more popular than we expected, so we hired Devon.”
“Was he a good worker?” I asked. “Were there any tensions between him and the staff?”
“You know bartenders. He could be flirtatious with the guests, but he was always respectful to Bridget. He’d have been an idiot not to be, since she’s my daughter.”
I scooted the wicker chair closer to the table. “Who might have wanted to kill him?”
“Beats me. He broke up a fight a couple weeks ago. I didn’t think there were any hard feelings, but I could have been wrong.”
“A fight?” Charlene sipped her tea and set it down, wiping the condensation beads that had formed on the tall glass. “Not in the saloon?”
“A group of financial advisors, if you’d believe it. Someone had had too much to drink, and there was a brawl. I gave Devon hell afterward—not for breaking up the fight—but for over serving. We may not be a normal bar with normal bar problems, but they’ll yank my liquor license quick enough if we serve people who are drunk.”
“Who were these financial advisors?” I asked.
“A crew out of San Francisco. I’ll get you the name of the company if you want it.”
“I’m more interested in the guys who were in the fight,” I said.
“I’ve got notes on that too.” He gave me a hard smile. “They’re banned from the Bar X.”
“Now . . .” Charlene smiled innocently. “What’s the story on this phantom of yours?”
Mentally, I slapped my head. I should have expected a detour into the supernatural sphere.
“Ah. That.” He turned his head, staring at the western town sprawled below. “It started out as a fairy tale for the tourists. You know how it is. Everyone loves a good ghost story. And Bridget figured my fake ghost town should have a fake ghost. I didn’t see the harm.”
I folded my arms over my chest, relieved. See? Fake ghost.
“Started out?” Charlene asked.
He rubbed his bristly cheek. “The thing is, before I knew it, the Bar X had a real ghost.”
She leaned forward, her lips parted. “Tell me.”
“It’s the usual haunted stuff. Doors open and close for no reason, lights flick on and off, there are strange rapping sounds. It was all harmless until someone left the corral gate open, and Moe and Curly’s horses escaped. Fortunately, they didn’t get far, but those two were furious.”
Charlene frowned. “The corral gate?”
“Horses?” I asked. “I thought they were trick shooters.”
“That’s part of the trick,” he said. “They shoot their targets from horseback. It’s quite a show.”
Face pinched, Charlene turned a quelling look on me. “Why did you blame the open corral on the ghost?”
“No one else took credit for it. I can chalk up the doors and noises and lights to natural causes. The problem is, people have actually seen the ghost.”
She clasped her hands together. “What have they said?”
“A pale form,” he said. “It’s all vague. But I think it’s a tulpa.”
“A what?” I asked blankly.
Charlene pressed a hand to her mouth. “A manifestation that’s imagined into existence. There was a case in England where a group of psychologists brought people into a castle and told them it was haunted. They invented an entire history for the so-called spirit. So naturally, half the group experienced the ghost. The psychologists chalked it up to the power of suggestion.”
“Right,” Ewan said. “Then tourists who hadn’t been involved in the experiment reported seeing the same ghost. They couldn’t have known the details of the story the psychologists had fabricated. Charlene tweeted about the case last year, I think. Never expected to see something like this in San Nicholas.”
Oh. My. God. Ewan followed her on Twitter. They were two peas in a spacepod. And was that the scent of romance in the air? I smiled. Charlene deserved to find someone who appreciated and understood her.
“I don’t like this business about the corral,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
His face colored. “I didn’t want you to think I was making up the story to flatter your interests. And I had invented the original ghost story.”
She shook her head. “Ewan. I would never think that.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I’d better get those files you asked for.” He rose and walked into the house. The screen door banged shut behind him.
“We’re in.” Charlene rubbed her hands together.
“I know.” I pumped my fist in the air. “Who would have guessed he’d need so many pies on a regular basis?”
“I’m talking about the investigation. I wasn’t sure he’d agree to let us investigate.”
“Er, did he agree to let us investigate?”
Ewan returned and handed Charlene a manila folder. “Here you go. A copy of Devon’s résumé and that information on the financial planning group.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Mind if we nose around? Ask your staff some questions?”
“Have at it,” he said.
She shot me an I-told-you-so look and rose. “We may have more questions for you later, if you don’t mind.”
“Try not to disturb the staff too much,” he said. “Between you, Marla, and the cops—”
“Marla?” Charlene’s jaw dropped. “What does Marla have to do with anything?”
“She’s here at the Bar X,” he said, “asking questions just like you.”
A crimson wash raced from Charlene’s neck to her snowy hairline.
“Okay, thank
s!” I tugged lightly on Charlene’s knit sleeve and led her, sputtering, to the VW.
“Marla.” She clenched her fist.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Marla!”
Frederick raised his head from her shoulder.
“So what, if she’s asking questions?” I asked, soothing. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. We do. We’ve got experience on our side.”
“Marrrrrrlaaaaaaa.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak, fear locking my jaw into place. I’d always thought of Charlene as hearty, but she was old. “Are you okay? Is this a stroke? Oh, my God. It is a stroke.” Heart thudding, I wrenched open the car door. “Sit down. I’ll call an ambulance.”
She brushed away my arms. “It’s not a stroke! I told you she’s always competing with me. What’s worse is she always wins. Always!” Her face screwed up, childlike.
I was torn between laughter and tears, her expression recalling all my own childhood disappointments. The hand-me-down clothes. The ragged, home-grown haircuts. The missing father. And I sensed there was more to this feud than simple one-upmanship. Something in it struck at Charlene’s vulnerabilities.
“Come on,” I said gently. “The roller derby is way cooler than the Ice Capades.”
“It’s more than that.” She picked at a loose thread on her tunic.
“Then what?”
Her mouth sagged. “She’s always been better than me. I once blogged about a tarot reader who told me I’d live a long and eventful life.”
“And you have. You are!”
“Two weeks later, Marla finagled a spot on a TV show with some famous psychic. They investigated the White Lady’s ghost.” She tucked her hands behind her elbows.
“A TV show I’m sure everyone’s forgotten by now,” I said, disconcerted. The White Lady haunted a nearby cliff-side bar and restaurant. She was big news in these parts. “The White Lady’s only a local ghost. Look at all your Twitter followers!”
She bit her bottom lip.
“What?” I asked. “She’s got more?”
“She has her own online video channel. She puts on a life-coaching show. Professional production, soft lighting, the works. And now she wants Ewan.”
“What?”
“You saw her. She was all over him like a cheap suit.”
I tucked my chin. “Do you want Ewan?” And more importantly, had he been serious yesterday about wanting to join the Baker Street Bakers? I wasn’t sure how many conspiracy-addled seniors I could handle.
“No. We’ve been friends for ages. I thought . . . well . . .” She shook her finger at me. “Mark my words, Marla’s got him in her crosshairs only because I’m in the picture. She’s going after what she thinks I want. And that isn’t fair to Ewan.”
“Can’t you just tell her you’re not interested in the man?”
“Ha! As if she’d believe anything I said.” White curls quivering, Charlene slumped against my VW. “Our investigation is doomed.”
I’d never seen Charlene rattled before, and I didn’t like it now. “The heck it is! We solved the biggest crime to hit San Nicholas in decades. Not to mention that weird business with Old Man Rankin’s missing moose head.”
“Are you trying to be alliterative?”
“The point is, you know what you’re doing. Marla is in over her head.”
“You’d better watch it,” she said. “If she knows you and Carmichael have a thing going, she’ll be all over him too. She may be chasing Ewan now, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she was one of those jaguars, on the prowl for younger victims like Gordon or that bartender, Devon.”
“Women who chase younger men are called cougars. And Devon wasn’t exactly a kid.” By my estimate, he’d been in his midforties.
“When you get to be her age, it’s a jaguar.”
“I’m not worried about Gordon.”
“You should be,” she said.
“Let’s nose around the Bar X.”
“Fine.”
Charlene’s skin had a grayish tinge. Even though the stroke scare had been in my head, I took it easy driving down the short hill into the ghost town. I parked in front of the saloon.
Yellow police tape fluttered at the alley entrance. The saloon’s batwing doors swung, hinges creaking, in the salty breeze. Remembering Devon’s body, sprawled in the nearby alley, my scalp prickled.
We pushed through the saloon doors and walked inside, leaving footprints in the thick sawdust.
Cards in their hands, Bridget and Curly looked up from a green felt table.
“Hi, guys,” I said. “How did the pie-eating contest go yesterday?”
“No one puked.” Curly rubbed his double chin and threw down a card. The strap of his green eyeshade bit into his military haircut. “That’s positive.”
“Oh.” Ew. I hadn’t considered that possibility. Those were Class A pies, but they wouldn’t taste good going the wrong way.
“The contest was great.” Bridget frowned at her cards. Her long blond hair was out of its braid and cascaded over the shoulders of her blue T-shirt. “I think they were expecting whipped cream in a piecrust. Actual fruit pies classed up the event. It also slowed down the eating.”
“Want to play?” Curly said. “I’m teaching Bridget poker, but it’s better with more than two people.”
“Poker, huh?” Charlene asked.
“I’m one of the Bar X’s dealers on casino nights,” he said.
“Is poker legal?” I asked.
“When it’s for charity, it is,” he said, “like last night.”
“Deal me in,” Charlene said. “What are the stakes?”
“We’re playing for pretzel sticks.” Curly nodded toward a small bowl by his elbow. “Grab a bunch.”
Borrowing a handful of Bridget’s pretzels, I joined the game too. “Curly can’t be your real name.”
“It used to be Charles,” he said. “I legally changed it to Curly when I joined up with Moe—short for Maurice—and with Larry.”
“It’s amazing,” I said. “You two really do look like your Three Stooges counterparts.” I couldn’t wait to meet Larry.
“It’s the hair.” He adjusted his eyeshade.
“Have the police said anything to you about the murder?” Charlene asked.
“They won’t even admit it is a murder,” Curly said.
“I don’t see how it can be,” Bridget said. “Who would want to murder Devon? He was a nice guy.”
“To the boss’s daughter, maybe,” Curly said.
“You mean he wasn’t as pleasant to others?” Charlene asked.
“He thought pretty highly of himself,” Curly said. “Couldn’t say a word without spinning it to make you look stupid and him sound like a genius.”
“That’s not fair,” Bridget said. “Just because he was well educated—”
“Doesn’t mean you have to jam it down everyone’s throat whenever you get the chance,” he said. “I raise you five pretzel sticks.”
“Who was the last person to see him alive?” I asked.
“Aside from whoever killed him?” Curly’s broad nose wrinkled.
“Fold.” Suddenly looking every inch of her forty-some years, Bridget laid down her cards. “I was the last to see him. Devon and I were both here, in the saloon. I was setting up the food, and he was cleaning the bar. He went outside to get some supplies that weren’t in the store room. If I’d gone with him—”
“You might have been shot too,” Curly said. “Don’t think that way. It wasn’t your fault.”
“When did he leave?” I asked.
“About thirty minutes before I stepped outside and saw him dead and you covered in cherry pie,” Bridget said.
“Where were you when the hullaballoo started?” Charlene asked Curly.
“Walking my horse to the carriage house. It threw a shoe when Moe and I were practicing in the corral.”
“Threw a shoe?” I asked. “The shoe actually flew off?”
“Anyone see you at the carriage house?” Charlene asked, subtle as a brick to the face.
He lowered his head, staring. “No. The police asked me that yesterday. And is that a cat you’re wearing? No animals are allowed in the saloon.”
“He’s a comfort animal.” Charlene sniffed.
“Oh, then you’ve got a license for it,” he said.
“It’s all right,” Bridget said quickly. “No one’s here but us.”
“I wonder if that’s true,” Charlene said. “I hear the Phantom of Bar X let your horses escape from the corral. It sounds like the phantom is getting out of control.”
I smothered a groan. I should have known Charlene wouldn’t let anything as juicy as a local ghost story go.
“Phantoms aren’t real,” Curly said. “That’s why they’re called phantoms.”
Bridget took the deck and shuffled it. “This one is. But it didn’t let the horses out.”
“Oh?” Charlene canted her head. “Then who did?”
Bridget flushed. “Not a ghost.”
Curly snorted. “The only ghost is in the heads of a bunch of drunk tourists.”
“I dunno,” Bridget said. “Sometimes when I’m closing up at night, after an event, weird stuff goes on.”
“Such as?” Charlene asked.
“I was in the saloon late one night, cleaning up—”
“Devon’s job, wasn’t it?” Curly asked.
“He had an emergency,” Bridget said.
Curly raised a skeptical brow. “Right.”
“Anyway, I had this feeling I was being watched, you know? And it kept growing. The saloon got really still, and then I heard a door slam in the storeroom.”
“Was anyone there?” I asked, breathless. I tried desperately to get a hold of myself. Phantom, shmantom. It had probably been the wind.
“There was no way anyone could have been,” Bridget said. “I closed up fast and left.”
“Curly’s right.” Charlene shot Bridget a look I couldn’t interpret. “There’s no phantom. Best we all forget about it.”
I gaped. No phantom? Phantoms were Charlene’s bread and butter, the peanut butter to her chocolate, the cheese to her wine. “I heard Devon had only been here a few months,” I said, perplexed by Charlene’s change of heart.
Bleeding Tarts Page 5
