Exhausted, I shrugged into a lightweight safari jacket. Grabbing my purse off the bookcase, I strode into the dining area. In their pink booth, the gamers argued over whether a spell was legal.
“I’m headed home, everyone,” I said.
Ray rumpled his red hair. “Okay. Time to wrap it up, guys.”
They gathered up their books and papers and dice.
I held the door as they ambled onto the sidewalk, and then I locked it behind us.
Fog brushed the rooftops. On Main Street, the iron street lamps gleamed with moisture. The shops were dark, only light from the gym and a restaurant across the street making tentative inroads on the nighttime gloom. A woman walked her white poodle. The dog’s nails clicked, a hollow sound on the sidewalk. The two vanished into the fog.
“Where are you parked?” Ray asked.
“Down the street,” I said, gesturing.
“I’m that way too. I’ll walk you.”
“Thanks.”
We strolled down Main Street, passing empty parking spots and a brick hotel with Spanish arches.
“That must have been some game,” I said. “How long do they usually last?”
“Until they’re done, and this dungeon hasn’t been solved. You should try an RPG sometime.”
“RPG?”
“Role playing game.” He grinned. “I know, it sounds kinky, but it’s not.”
We reached the end of the block.
“I’m across the street.” I pointed to my Bug.
He nodded at a Ford Escort. “This is mine, but I’ve come this far. I may as well walk you to your car.”
We stepped into the road. Lights caught us, blinding.
Ray shouted. He grabbed my jacket and yanked me backwards, pulling himself forward at the same time.
I gasped, unable to react, and stumbled toward the curb.
The car swerved toward us, too close, and there was a sickening thump. Ray careened off the speeding car and slammed against me, knocking the air from my lungs. He groaned and dropped to the pavement.
The car, a Prius, sped off.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Then I cursed and fell to my knees. “Ray? Ray!”
He groaned, his eyes rolling up in his head. “My leg. I think it’s broken.” Ray went limp, his chin falling to his broad chest.
“Oh, no.” Hands trembling, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called nine-one-one. The phone rang once, twice.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.
“This is nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I’m on the corner of Main Street and Primrose in San Nicholas.” My voice shook. “I need an ambulance. My friend’s just been hit by a car.” I swayed. It seemed impossible. But there was Ray, on the damp pavement.
Ray’s eyes opened. “Don’t tell them,” he croaked.
“What? Don’t tell them what?” The cold from the street seeped through my jeans and into my knees.
“Don’t tell them I was taken out by a hybrid.”
I laughed, shaky. He was well enough to make jokes. I prayed that meant he’d be okay.
The dispatcher—bless her—stayed calmer than I did. After promising an ambulance was on its way, she walked me through checking out Ray’s injuries.
Firemen and paramedics arrived first; the station was only seven blocks away. Blue and red emergency lights whirled, their beams distorted by the fog. The firemen pulled me away, taking charge.
I blinked back tears. “Is he going to be all right?”
“We’ll need to take him to the hospital for X-rays,” a paramedic said, “but he’s conscious.”
A uniformed cop strode to our group and pinioned me with a glance. “Val? What happened?”
I knew the man, a muscled African-American cop named Alan. He lunched in Pie Town fairly regularly, a big fan of the pulled-pork pies. “We were crossing the street,” I said, “and he was hit by a Prius.”
“Where’s the driver?” Alan asked.
“I don’t know. He drove off.”
His expression hardened. “Did you get the plate?”
“No, I’m sorry. It happened so fast, and this fog . . .” I clenched my jaw. If I’d been paying more attention, if I hadn’t panicked, gone blank . . . How could I have been so stupid?
“Anything else you can tell me about the car? The color?”
“Blue! It was blue.” My neck muscles bunched. Blue like every second Prius in California. So much for my razor-sharp observation skills. Thanks to me, they’d never find the driver.
“All right,” Alan said. “It’s okay. If you think of anything else—broken headlights, any numbers on the plate—let me know. Uh, you were part of the Bar X mess, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, confused.
“I’d better call GC.”
“Gordon? Why?” My head swam, and I pressed my hand to the hood of Ray’s white Escort. Because this wasn’t a random hit-and-run. Someone was trying to kill me.
Chapter Nine
“Val!” Gordon strode through the swirling mist. Blue and red lights illuminated his craggy face, creased with concern. “What happened? Are you all right?” He wore jeans and a lightweight, navy V-neck sweater over a white tee. He’d been off duty.
I glanced at Ray, who was laying on a stretcher and being loaded into an ambulance. The gamer was sitting up. “I’m fine. Ray . . .” My throat tightened. “He was hit by a car.”
Gordon drew me aside. “What happened? Take your time.”
I drew a shuddering breath. “Ray was walking me to my car.” I nodded to the sky-blue Bug, parked across the street.
“Ray?”
“He’s a regular at Pie Town, one of the gamers.”
Gordon nodded.
“The Prius seemed to come out of nowhere,” I said, limbs trembling. “I didn’t even see it. Ray pulled me back. I think pulling me backwards pushed him forward, into the path of the car. This is all my fault.”
“It isn’t. Those hybrids are quiet. They’re easy to miss in the dark.”
I shook my head. “It was more than that. There’s not much traffic at night on Main, but I did look before crossing. Its headlights switched on at the last minute, and he or she was driving too fast.”
“You think it was intentional?”
“I’d swear the car accelerated,” I said. My stomach grew heavy with doubt. Was I remembering something that hadn’t happened, my mind filling in the blanks? Sickened, I rubbed my arms. “With everything that’s been going on, yes, I do think it was intentional. Especially since the driver took off afterward.”
The ambulance drove away, its blue lights flashing.
“You may be right,” he said, “but let’s not jump to conclusions.”
I tensed. “I’m not jumping!”
Two cops glanced toward us, and I lowered my voice. “Sorry, but three near misses in as many days? I didn’t want to believe it, but I think someone’s trying to kill me.” Even I could hear how paranoid I sounded. Why would someone want me dead? I didn’t have money for anyone to inherit. Sure, Heidi didn’t like me, but I had a hard time picturing her as a murderess. And if someone was trying to scare Charlene and I off investigating Devon’s death, why was I the only one . . .
My heart seized. “Charlene.” Oh, God. What if something had happened to her? I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my safari jacket and dialed. Her X-Files ringtone played behind me, and I whirled.
Her face pale, Charlene dug through the pocket of her purple knit jacket. Frederick burrowed deeper into her thick collar and snuggled against her ear.
Shoulders slumping as if deboned, I disconnected. “Charlene, are you okay?”
“About time you phoned,” she grumped. “I had to hear about the accident over the police . . .” She glanced at Gordon, and I knew what she’d meant to say: over her police scanner. Which she wasn’t supposed to have. “Over the grapevine. Social media is remarkable. What happened?”
“A hit-and-run,” I
said. “Ray pulled me out of the way and . . .” I swallowed, getting teary again. He was going to be okay. He had to be. And he’d been conscious, so that was a good sign, right?
Her eyes widened, and I noticed the dark circles beneath them. “Ray? Gamer Ray? He’s our best customer.”
“I know,” I wailed. “No one eats more cherry pie than Ray. Once he found a pit in his slice and didn’t even get mad. He just kept rolling those twenty-sided dice.”
A uniformed officer walked to Gordon and said something in a low voice.
Grimacing, Charlene patted my shoulder. “Now, now. Tell me what happened. I take it this wasn’t an accident.”
“No.” Fear and anger scalded my insides. “And Ray got in the way. And then I thought someone didn’t like that we were asking questions, and they’d come after you as well.”
“Ray made a choice to save you.” Her voice hardened. “It’s not your fault. And I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
But it was my fault. Ray wouldn’t have had to throw himself into the path of a rampaging hybrid if it hadn’t been for me.
Gordon cleared his throat. “We found an abandoned Prius out by the Half House. Want to come and take a look, see if you can identify it?”
I doubted I could tell one blue Prius from another, but I nodded.
“We’ll follow in my Jeep,” Charlene said. “Val’s too shaken to drive.”
I guess I must have been shaken, possibly even stirred, because I got into Charlene’s yellow Jeep without arguing.
“Did he say Prius?” Charlene asked.
“For some reason, Ray doesn’t want anyone to know he was run down by a hybrid. So, keep it quiet.”
Her mouth twisted. “I don’t blame him.”
Frederick’s white tail twitched, coiling around Charlene’s neck.
We followed Gordon down Main, taking a left at Ohlone Drive and winding through the night fog. The Half House stood near the base of the rolling hills, their swells blocking the stars. The building is a historical landmark that looks like a saltbox house that someone cut down the middle, so Half House is what the locals called it. Its lights were dark at this hour.
Gordon’s sedan drifted to a halt beside a waiting police car, its headlights shining across a field of dried grasses. He stepped from his car.
Charlene killed the Jeep’s ignition. A dog—or maybe it was a coyote—howled a lonely lament.
We tramped along the shoulder to join the cops. Tall grasses dampened our knees.
“Ms. Harris, Mrs. McCree,” Gordon said, “this is Officer Burkett.”
Hands gripping the collar of his bulletproof vest, the officer nodded. When I’d first seen a cop wearing a vest in San Nicholas, I’d thought it was an over-the-top precaution. The way local crime was trending, it now seemed sensible.
Burkett led us to the edge of a gully and pointed.
A blue Prius angled nose down into the ditch, as if the driver had tried to take a shortcut to the Half House driveway and failed.
Or had tried to hide the damage from hitting Ray.
I pointed. “That yellow sticker on the rear window. I remember that.”
“Are you certain?” Gordon asked.
The fog parted, and a sliver of moonlight quartered the Half House.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d forgotten it, but now that I see it . . . It was there. That could be the car.”
“Could be?”
I raised my hands, helpless. “It’s a blue Prius with a yellow sticker on the rear window. I didn’t notice much beyond that.” Honestly, I was amazed I’d remembered the yellow sticker.
“That’s good enough for me. I’ll ask our forensic guys to take a look. Thanks, Val.”
“I wish I’d seen whoever was driving.” I jammed my fists into the pockets of my safari jacket.
“This is helpful,” Gordon said. “Really.” He saw us to Charlene’s Jeep. “Whatever’s going on, it’s serious. And you need to let the police handle it.”
“No,” I said.
“What?”
“No.” My pulse accelerated. “Someone’s tried to kill me. Repeatedly. I won’t interfere with your investigation, but I’m not sitting around and waiting for someone to figure out who wants me dead. Not after Ray got hurt.”
He ran his hand along the top of his crewcut. “Val, did you ever think the reason someone’s coming after you is because you’ve been sticking your nose into the Bar X murder?”
“Yes, I did consider it. But if that were true, someone would have threatened Charlene as well. And someone shot a pie out of my hand before I even found the body.” I turned to her, pale in the faint strip of moonlight. “Has anything happened to you?”
“Um . . .” She looked moonward. “No.”
“Val—”
“This is who I am, Gordon.” And if that meant we never had our first date . . . The thought was spectacularly depressing, but I pushed it aside. An innocent bystander had been hurt because someone was gunning for me. I wasn’t backing down. “If you need to arrest me, I understand and will respect your decision. I’ll probably be safer in jail anyway.” I got into the passenger side of the Jeep.
“Val,” he said. “I get that you’re upset. Anyone would be. But you need to think this through.”
Charlene started the Jeep.
I didn’t want to think anymore. I was too angry. “You’re probably right,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ll change my mind. Thanks, Gordon. I hope you find something in the car.”
Charlene was silent on the drive into town. She dropped me at my VW. “I’ll follow you home,” she said. “Just to make sure no one is following you.”
Grim, I nodded. Cancel that. I wasn’t grim, I was stinking mad. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel as I drove the winding road, Charlene’s headlights flashing in my rearview mirror. I pulled up beside my tiny home sweet shipping container.
The automatic light by my front door flashed on. My gaze swept the lot.
My anger at the hit-and-run was swamped by a wave of apprehension. The picnic table cast long shadows, reaching for the looming rectangle that was my house. Behind it, eucalyptus trees rustled. I’d never felt creeped out by my own home before, but tonight I was glad Charlene had returned with me.
At the front door, I fiddled with the lock.
Charlene came to stand beside me. “I need a drink,” she said.
I shoved open the door. “Root beer and Kahlua it is.”
“Something with more heat, I think.”
“Hot chocolate and that cinnamon whiskey?”
“That’s the ticket.” She followed me inside. “Gordon will come around,” she said, making herself comfortable in the dining nook while I microwaved the milk.
“I’d like to believe that,” I said. I’d meant what I’d said about continuing to ask questions. But I could see his point of view. I only hoped he could see mine.
“He can’t expect you to sit on your hands while someone’s trying to kill you. Not unless he’s offering police protection. We both know San Nicholas can’t afford that.”
Rumors were swirling that the small town was on the verge of bankruptcy. With finances so tight, I was amazed Gordon had gotten his promotion to detective—a testament to the fact he really was that good. The thought depressed me even more.
Mixing the drinks, I squirted whipped cream on top, adding a sprinkling of cinnamon and cayenne pepper. I set the mugs on the square table and sat.
She frowned. “No cinnamon stick?”
I heaved myself from the chair and clumped to my kitchen, dug a cinnamon stick from a plastic container in the cupboard, and handed it to her.
She swirled it in the whipped cream and sucked on the end.
I sat across from her and sipped my own drink, getting a nose full of whipped cream. The warmth of hot chocolate and alcohol cascaded through my veins. I stretched out my legs.
Charlene stirred her drink with the cinnamon stick. “That detective of yours is righ
t. We shouldn’t play at investigating.”
My heart crashed to earth. I’d managed to forget Charlene’s loss of confidence. Her issues hadn’t gone away, but after what had happened to Ray, I had to go on with or without her. And if I plowed on without her, would I make my best friend feel worse? “He’s not my detective.”
“You’re too young to die,” Charlene said, ignoring me. “And I’m too old to pretend.”
“Charlene, if you don’t want—”
“So, the gloves are coming off.” She stabbed a crooked finger in my direction. “And Marla can suck eggs. She’s always had a knack for getting under my skin. We’re going to find whoever did this or die trying.”
I gaped. “Well, I’d rather not die trying—”
“That yellow sticker on the Prius, did you see what was written on it?”
Tentative, I took another sip of the cocoa concoction. “Larry Pelt’s Pre-Owned Cars.”
“People don’t drive around with a used car sticker in their window. That was fresh off the lot.”
Huzzah! Charlene was back! I nodded, relieved. “You think Larry was driving? Using and abandoning his own car seems a little obvious.”
“Obvious or not, tomorrow we’re going to see what he has to say.”
Tomorrow? Crikey. Charlene was back. “Tomorrow’s Friday. It’s a big day for pie sales. I can’t—”
“You’ve got an assistant manager, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“That’s why you hired all that new staff, wasn’t it? So you could have more free time?”
“Yes, but it’s still my business. I’ve got responsibilities.” I had wanted Charlene to return to normal. But on one of my biggest sales days?
“You’ve got two choices. Work yourself to death at Pie Town, or get killed by a lunatic with an obsession for flattening you.”
I shifted in my chair. “I’m fairly certain there’s at least one other choice.”
“Sure. You can step away from the oven and help me figure out who’s behind this.”
“Help you figure it out?”
“Fasten your seat belts,” she said in a poor imitation of Bette Davis. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
Bleeding Tarts Page 10
