Bleeding Tarts
Page 11
Chapter Ten
Charlene banged on Pie Town’s front window.
A gamer at the corner booth twitched. His dice rolled off the table and scattered across the linoleum floor.
The game had gone on. Ray was in the hospital, but he’d recover, and Charlene and I would visit him this afternoon.
She pointed at Frederick, draped over the shoulder of her green, knit tunic. Raising her eyebrows, she mouthed: “Get out here.”
I grabbed my purse from beneath the counter and hurried outside, glancing over my shoulder. We were in our usual postlunch slump, and Petronella had a handle on everything, even if she was looking exceptionally dark and stormy today. We still hadn’t had that talk, but she hadn’t pushed, and the murder had taken precedence. I’d talk to her this afternoon. Definitely.
“You shouldn’t make an old person wait.” Charlene’s white hair tossed in the breeze. “Especially not on a hot sidewalk.”
“I thought you were only forty-two,” I said. And it wasn’t that hot. The day was cloudless, but experience told me the breeze would bring fog tonight. “Besides, you could have come inside.”
Her eyes widened. “With Frederick? And break the rules?”
I compressed my lips. She’d ignored my requests to keep Frederick out of Pie Town so often, I’d sort of forgotten. “You’re right,” I said. “Not everyone loves animals.”
She sniffed. “They ought to. My Jeep’s around the corner.”
“So’s my VW.”
She turned and stared.
I stared back.
“Fine,” she said. “Since someone tried to kill you last night, you can drive.”
“Thanks!”
Charlene and I strolled into a residential section of Victorians and saltbox-style homes. I inhaled deeply, smelling salt air and the roses trailing over a nearby picket fence. You didn’t get this kind of fresh air in the big city.
We got into my sky-blue VW and puttered west, turning north on Highway One.
Three miles later, I pulled into a used-car lot. A dancing balloon man flapped by the entrance, streamers of its yellow plastic hair billowing in the breeze. A giant sign rotated overhead: PELT’S PRE-OWNED VEHICLES.
Charlene snorted. “Like we don’t know ‘pre-owned’ means ‘used.’”
“It does sound nicer.”
“It’s deceptive advertising.”
“It’s not really deceptive. More manipulative.”
“Why are you arguing about it?”
I sighed. “I don’t know.” Since I’d joined the business-owning class, I’d become more sympathetic to marketing tricks. I was even thinking of having an app made for Pie Town.
I parked beside a gleaming, flat-roofed building of glass and metal. “What if Larry isn’t here?” I asked.
“Then we interrogate his staff. I’ll bet they’ll spill all sorts of dirt. Who wouldn’t want a chance to rat out the boss?”
Uncomfortable, I shifted in my seat. I was a boss. And despite my running battles to keep Frederick off the premises, I thought I was a reasonable manager, and the staff liked me. But every manager probably believed that.
Charlene clambered out of the VW and arched, pressing her fists into her lower back.
Frederick woke up enough to stretch as well, his claws extending. Then the white cat returned to his favorite pose—limp around Charlene’s neck.
We strolled toward the glass door.
A young salesman in a crisp white shirt and khakis intercepted us. He beamed. “Hi! My name’s Greg. How can I help you today?”
Charlene angled her head at my VW. “She needs a replacement for the beater she’s driving.”
What? That hadn’t been part of the plan.
His tanned brow creased, and I imagined him on a surfboard, his sandy hair thick from the salt water. “I can see she does. What year is that car? Seventy-two?”
“Seventy-four,” Charlene said. “Larry said he’d set her up personally.”
His brown eyes lighted. “You know Larry? He’s my uncle.”
“Good to see nepotism is alive and well,” Charlene said.
“My uncle’s with a customer right now, finalizing a contract on a sweet Cadillac SRX. That’s an SUV.”
Charlene’s gaze narrowed. “I know what it is. You think just because you’re dealing with women, we don’t know cars?”
I hadn’t known what an SRX was.
“No, no.” He raised his hands in a warding gesture. “Not at all.” He turned to me. “What are you looking for?”
“Something, uh, durable,” I said, “and with good storage capacity. I own a pie shop, and we’re starting to deliver, wholesale.” It would be nice not to have to depend on Charlene’s Jeep, but a new car was a pipe dream.
He snapped his fingers. “Got it. Something that will double as a business vehicle. We’ve got SUVs that can fit the bill.”
“And not too expensive,” I added hastily. I couldn’t afford an SUV. Then I remembered it didn’t matter what he showed us. I couldn’t afford a new car, period.
“I think I know what you need,” he said. “While we’re waiting for Larry, why don’t you follow me?”
We trailed behind him, winding through the mass of shining cars.
“What are we doing?” I whispered to Charlene.
“Killing time until Larry’s free,” she said. “What’s the harm?”
Dread pooled in my stomach. What’s the harm? Speaking the words aloud was a sure jinx.
“It’s on the other side of the building.” He glanced over his shoulder.
We rounded the corner, and I stumbled to a halt.
“Oh. My. God,” Charlene said.
Frederick raised his head. His blue eyes widened.
A pink Volkswagen van sat parked in the shade of the building.
Pink. Exactly the same shade of pink as our pie boxes.
“What the heck is this?” Charlene asked. “A Barbie Dream Van?”
Frederick blinked, winced, and buried his head in Charlene’s shoulder.
“It’s fifteen years old,” the salesman said, “but it’s only got ten thousand miles. The owner was an elderly woman who thought she’d use it for camping, but she never really took it anywhere.”
“Was she blind?” Charlene asked.
“Does it . . . Does it run?” Hardly daring to believe it was real, I reached to touch it and visualized the Pie Town logo on its sides.
“Like a dream,” he said. “The prior owner may not have taken it anywhere, but she made sure it went to the garage for an annual checkup. This van is in pristine condition.”
It was perfect.
“It’s pink!” Charlene snorted. “No wonder you’ve got it hidden. That thing’s so bright, it’ll send drivers on the highway careening into a ditch.”
“The prior owner was worried about other drivers being able to see her,” Greg said. “It’s not likely anyone will accidentally run into you driving this gem.”
“Gems aren’t hot pink,” Charlene said.
“How much?” I asked, my voice hoarse. I could install racks in the rear for the pies. It would be totally recognizable around town. And . . . branding!
“Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,” he said. “Plus tax.”
I wanted it so badly my chest tightened, and I looked away. Too bad I couldn’t have it. I was cash poor at the moment.
“Ten thousand dollars? Are you out of your mind?” Charlene asked. “For that Pepto-Bismol monstrosity? You should pay us to take it off the lot. Where’s Larry?”
He smiled knowingly. “Think about it. I’ll see if he’s free.” Stepping aside, he pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
“It’s perfect,” I whispered.
Charlene snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Perfectly loopy. We’re not buying that van.”
“Look at the color.”
“I can’t help but look at the color. It’s scarring my retinas.”
“It’
s the Pie Town color. It’s our logo.”
She angled her head away and squinted. “Is it?”
“I’ve got a pie box in the Bug. If it’s not an exact match, it’s pretty close.”
“I guess I never noticed how awful that pink was. It’s okay in small doses, but an entire van . . .” She shuddered. “Yeesh.”
“Imagine our logo on the side. We could use it for deliveries.” My shoulders slumped. Imagining was all I could do. Even on a payment plan, I couldn’t afford this blushing beauty.
“Frederick and I will not be seen in a pre-owned vehicle the color of a vomited prom dress.”
“You won’t have to.” I sighed. “Buying a new, used van is only a fantasy.”
“Fantasy? This is a hot-pink nightmare.”
Greg pocketed the phone and smiled. “My uncle’s free. Would you like some coffee? We’ve got donuts inside.”
Charlene perked up. “Donuts? Have you got any chocolate old-fashioned?”
We followed him inside the glass building.
Larry stood by the open front door. A breeze blasted through it, tossing the older man’s thinning hair. He shook hands with a tall, broad-shouldered man who had his back to us.
I sucked in my breath, turned on my heel. I knew those broad shoulders and that navy suit.
“Charlene?” Gordon asked. “Val?”
I turned and pasted on a smile. “Hi, Gor . . . Detective Carmichael.”
His expression hardened. “What are you doing here?”
“There is a pink van for sale that is exactly the shade of our pie boxes,” Charlene said. “It’s kizmet.”
Gordon lifted a single eyebrow. “A pink van.”
I gulped, yesterday’s bravado gone with the wind.
“For pie deliveries,” she said. “Now that we’ve got customers like the Bar X, we need a van. Pre-owned.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “You know Val’s a penny-pincher.”
Frederick’s ears twitched in agreement.
“I was just telling Officer Carmichael about our stolen car.” Larry rubbed his broad, hooked nose. “Probably some kid looking for a joy ride.”
“In a Prius?” I asked, disbelieving. There were a dozen muscle cars on the lot that I wouldn’t have minded taking for a joy ride.
“Officer Carmichael told me what happened,” he said. “I hear the young man who was hit is going to be fine. But if you hadn’t stopped by, I would have called you, Miss Harris. I feel terrible.”
Gordon made a noise. It sounded a lot like a growl.
“Terrible enough for an I-let-someone-steal-my-car-and-nearly-kill-you discount?” Charlene asked.
“Last night,” Larry said, “someone broke a bathroom window and got inside the dealership. He stole one of the keys from the board and took the car. I thought we had good security, but I guess it wasn’t good enough. There’s some real damage to the front of the car as well.”
“There was some real damage to Ray,” I said, indignant.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Do you think he’d mind if I sent flowers?”
A vein pulsed in Gordon’s neck. “Val. Can I speak with you? Outside.” He stormed out, not bothering to see if I’d follow.
Which, of course, I did.
He stopped beside a pre-owned Porsche.
A semi rumbled past on Highway One.
He rubbed his forehead. “Val?”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find out what Larry knows about whoever ran me down, if it wasn’t Larry himself. He told me he wasn’t at the Bar X when Devon was killed, but you told me he was.”
“Imagine that,” he said. “A witness lying to a fake detective. Now why do you think he’d do that?”
“I’m not a fake detective, because I’m not trying to be a detective. And if you’re worried I’m going to screw up your investigation—”
“I’m worried you’re going to get hurt.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. Since I’d been shot at and nearly run over by both horse-drawn and motorized carriage, getting hurt wasn’t entirely out of bounds. “Someone’s been trying to hurt me from the start. The killer shot that pie from my hands before I even began asking questions. So, I may as well keep asking.”
He ground his palms into his eye sockets. “I know. I know. For God’s sake, Val, if you want to investigate crimes, you need to wait until you get a PI license.”
Whaaa . . . ? “Wait. You mean . . . You think I am capable of investigating?”
“Of course, you are. You’re smart, and you’re driven. Why not become a PI? But, right now, you’ve got no training and very little clue.”
“But I have some clue.” That had to be progress.
He glared. A breeze ruffled his lapel. “Val . . .”
I scrubbed my hand over my face. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny. Not after what happened to Ray. Larry may feel bad about his stolen car being used in an attempted homicide, but it’s my fault Ray got hurt.”
He sighed. “Will you stop saying that? There’s only one person at fault, and it’s the same person who decided to steal a car and rampage through San Nicholas.”
“That sounds like you think it was a joy ride too.”
“That would be stretching coincidence too far. Until I have more evidence, I’m not jumping to conclusions. Neither should you.”
Had he just given me permission to investigate? I opened my mouth, closed it. Smiled. Ignorance was bliss. And I didn’t quite believe him about not jumping to conclusions.
“No more investigating, Val. Not without a PI license.” He strode through the parking lot to his sedan.
That was more definitive.
I returned inside, where Charlene and Larry were chortling as if they’d known each other for decades.
“And then he said, but I’ve already got a parrot!” Charlene hooted.
Larry wiped his eyes. “That’s a good one.”
“What did Detective Carmichael want?” Charlene asked.
“To make sure I was okay after last night,” I said. “Larry, I can’t help but think that the person who tried to run me over had something to do with the murder at the Bar X.”
“That seems like a stretch,” he said. “After all, I’m the only pre-owned car dealership in thirty miles. If someone’s going to steal a car from a dealership in the San Nicholas area, it will be from mine.”
“Unless someone involved in the Bar X murder wanted to frame you,” I said.
He blinked. “Frame me?”
“You were at the Bar X when Devon was killed,” I said. “You know horses and could have aimed that stagecoach at me—”
“Anyone could have done that,” he said. “Look, I wasn’t near the saloon the day of the murder. I only went to the carriage house.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “But doesn’t it seem odd that both of us have a Bar X connection to Devon’s murder, and someone stole your car to try to run me down?”
“Are you sure they were trying to run you down?” He crossed his arms over his barrel-shaped chest.
“No,” I said. “But what else could it have been? The car snuck up on us.”
“It’s a Prius,” he said. “They sneak up on everyone.”
“Did anyone at the Bar X have reason to want Devon dead?” I asked.
His square jaw worked. “I saw that Marla woman arguing with Devon.”
Charlene straightened. “Really? When?”
The white cat raised his head from her shoulder.
“A couple nights before he was killed. I’d gone there after work to visit the horses. I won’t give them up, even if I do have to run into Curly and Moe every now and then. The lights were on in the saloon. Sometimes, Ewan opens it just for the Bar X staff. We serve ourselves and have a good time, you know? So, I wandered over, but it was only Devon and that woman.”
“What were Devon and Marla arguing about?” Charlene asked, breathless.
“Did anyone else see them?” I asked.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Bridget might have. I ran into her, coming around the corner of the saloon. She had a funny look on her face.”
“What about Moe and Curly?” I asked. “Why did you three break up the act?”
“They started taking it for granted that I’d take care of their horses. I may love horses, but I didn’t love my partners’ attitudes.” He grimaced. “It got out of control. We’d had a good thing going. At least it didn’t bust up my friendship with Ewan and Bridget.”
That tracked with what Curly had told me, though I wasn’t sure if any of it mattered.
His expression softened. “Moe and Curly are good guys too. Moe’s had some hard luck in his life, and it’s made him a little short tempered. But we’re all part of the Brotherhood of Blue Steel.”
“The brotherhood?” It sounded like a secret society, which goes to show I’d been spending too much time around Charlene.
His thick fingers twitched, as if readying for a gunfight. “It’s a local shooting group made up of guys who like the Old West. We only use single-action shooters. Single-action revolvers, pistol-caliber, lever-action rifles, and old-time shotguns. Since only three of us live in San Nicholas, we got pretty close. Or we were until that stupid fight.”
Out of that monologue I’d understood the words “revolver” and “shotgun.”
“What happened to Moe?” I asked. “The hard luck, I mean.”
“His only son died,” he said, biting off the words.
A heaviness centered in my chest. “That’s awful.”
“I don’t have kids,” Larry continued, “but no parent should have to go through that. As far as I’m concerned, Moe can be as big a horse’s ass as he wants. He gets a pass.”
Charlene looked out the tall window. She was estranged from her only child, a daughter, who lived in Europe. “No,” she said quietly, “no one deserves that.”
“I guess that’s one of the reasons I’ve got so much respect for Ewan,” he said. “He didn’t have it easy either, raising Bridget on his own. In spite of his loss, he kept his sense of humor, and Bridget turned out well. They’ve been good to me, letting me keep my horse in their carriage house and come around whenever I wanted.” He shook himself and rubbed his broad hands together. “So, about that van . . .”