Bleeding Tarts

by Kirsten Weiss

  “You think I don’t know what I can handle?” Petronella asked sharply. “Everyone out there’s already been served. We’re past the lunch rush. They’ve already paid the bills. All I’ve got to do is clean up when they leave and deal with anyone picking up pies. Go.”

  She was right, and I was starving. Besides, I lived in a beach town, and I was spending most of the glorious California summer indoors. I untied my apron and hung it on a peg behind the counter. “Thanks.”

  Charlene raised her hand, palm out. “Hold up.”

  I waited while she finished her coffee.

  She sighed. “That does the trick.”

  Together, we strolled onto the sidewalk. A balmy, ocean breeze caressed the bare skin of my neck and arms. I longed to loosen my chignon, let the wind play with my hair. But then I’d just have to put it up again. Loose hair does not go together with food service for oh-so-many reasons.

  “What’s up with Petronella?” Charlene asked.

  “You noticed too? I’m not sure. She started taking those mortician classes she’s always been talking about. Maybe she’s feeling overwhelmed?”

  “She’s working and going to school? I’d have thought you’d be a little more sensitive.”

  “I offered to change her hours,” I said, defensive. “She said ‘no.’”

  Charlene harumphed. “That pottery gal is at the Garden Center today. Let’s head over there.”

  Pleading starvation, I talked Charlene into stopping at the deli. I bought an egg salad sandwich, and we continued down Main Street. I paused at a corner park beside a mosaic statue of a mermaid. “Do you mind?”

  She shrugged and sat on the green bench.

  Perching beside her, I unwrapped my sandwich. A twentysomething walked past in one of my PIES BEFORE GUYS T-shirts, and I nearly dropped my egg salad. “Charlene! She’s wearing one of our tees.” We were getting popular!

  “Well, you’re selling them, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but only to tourists.” I’d never seen someone around town wearing one. Pie Town was cool!

  Frederick lifted his head, sniffing the egg salad.

  “The killer must think we know more than we do,” Charlene said. “Or he wouldn’t have tried to run you off the road, and I wouldn’t have had to play taxi for you again this morning.”

  “Thanks for that.” I took another bite and swallowed. The sandwich was a little dry, and I wished I’d gotten something to wash it down with. “I called Greg. I’m going to take him up on his offer to rent me the van until I can figure out what I’m going to do.” I’d have to buy something, but I wasn’t going to car shop while desperate.

  “Ah, so the mythical duck hunter bowed out,” she said triumphantly. “I’ll tell you what you should do. Just buy that van. I saw the way you were ogling it.”

  “I don’t have the cash.”

  “There is such a thing as a payment plan,” she said.

  “I’m kind of already on one,” I mumbled between bites, feeling my cheeks flush.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Starting up Pie Town cost more than I expected.” I cleared my throat. “And then we lost all that money after the murder earlier this year, and then I got the bright idea of hiring more staff—”

  “Who we needed. Pie Town’s doing well. And you’re not headed to Heart Attack City from overwork.”

  “Profits are moving in the right direction,” I said. A Ferrari rumbled down the street. It probably belonged to one of those Silicon Valley billionaires. “Things are coming together. And now with the opportunity to sell pies outside the shop, business is looking up. It’s just . . . the thought of taking on more debt right now turns my stomach.” Maybe I should have been a business major instead of earning an English degree.

  She patted my knee. “You can’t sell pies wholesale without something to deliver them in. Every leap forward is a risk. But the universe will provide, you wait and see.”

  “Have you been reading those self-help books again?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know they give you heartburn.” I finished the sandwich, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it into a nearby bin.

  The afternoon sun glinted off the shop windows. We continued down Main Street and crossed the short bridge over the creek. The water trickled faintly, low in the summer. I reached up, brushing my fingers along the bottom of one of the flower baskets hanging from the iron lamp posts.

  On the other side of the bridge, we crossed the street to a barnlike structure surrounded by pots of young trees and shrubs. The ground was lined with tanbark, and it crunched beneath our shoes. I took a step, and something slithered beneath my sneaker.

  I shrieked and leapt into the air. A red snake with an ivory stripe on its back darted between two miniature lemon trees.

  I clutched my chest, my blood pounding.

  Charlene laughed. “It’s only a garter snake. They’re harmless.”

  Graham waddled out of the sliding barn doors, a floppy fisherman’s hat on his white hair. “Was that a scream of delight?”

  “Graham!” I wheezed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I can’t spend all day at Pie Town,” he said. “I was looking for a new rhododendron bush. The neighbor’s dog dug up mine.”

  Charlene stroked Frederick, who didn’t deign to open his eyes. “I know that dog. He and Frederick don’t get along.”

  “Really?” Graham raised a brow. “I didn’t think he was smart enough to know he’s not supposed to like cats.”

  “That’s the problem,” she said.

  “So, what are you two doing here?” he asked.

  “Interrogating a witness,” Charlene said.

  “Who?”

  Charlene jerked her head toward the barn. “Sarah Onaka.”

  “The pottery gal? She’s inside. Come on.” He walked into the barn.

  I rubbed the back of my neck, not liking that our chat with Sarah had turned into a group interview. But I couldn’t object when Graham was one of my favorite customers.

  We walked down an aisle fragrant with flowering plants. The barn’s high roof was made of glass, flooding the wide building with light and warmth. Keeping an eye out for snakes, I brushed past a hydrangea bush.

  Graham turned right through a display of flowering, pink bromeliads and stopped in front of a tall counter made of distressed-wood boards. A young Asian woman paused in the act of rearranging a shimmering bowl the color of the Mediterranean Sea, and I gaped.

  I have a weakness for pottery. Maybe it’s because pottery is aligned with the kitchen. Maybe it’s because it’s one of the few forms of handmade art I can afford. I gave myself a mental head slap. Maybe I like pottery because I have nowhere to put it. I always want what I can’t have.

  “Hi!” She smiled, tucking her long black hair behind one ear. “How can I help you?” She glanced at my TURN YOUR FROWN UPSIDE DOWN T-shirt. “Pie Town! Hey, you’re going to be selling at the Bar X, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, Ewan will be selling our pies,” I said. “But, yes.”

  “They’re investigating Devon’s murder,” Graham said.

  “The police are investigating,” Charlene said. “But someone’s tried to run over Val three times since Devon was killed, once with a stagecoach. We’re being proactive.”

  “With a stagecoach?” Sarah asked. “That really happened? I thought it was a new urban legend. What with the Bar X Phantom—”

  Charlene braced her hands on the counter and leaned forward. “The phantom? What have you heard?”

  “Um, Charlene.” I tugged at the hem of my pink T-shirt. “I think—”

  Charlene shushed me. “You were saying?”

  “It turned everything upside down in my pottery shop. Fortunately, nothing was broken.”

  “When was this?” Charlene asked.

  “A couple months ago. When I locked up the pottery shed, everything was fine. I came back two days later for an event, and—”

  “Yo
ur pottery was upside down?” Charlene asked breathlessly.

  “Not just the pottery,” Sarah said. “The phantom had even turned over my pottery wheel.”

  I checked my watch. It was time I returned to Pie Town. “About Devon—”

  “About the phantom,” Charlene said, “when did you first learn about the ghost?”

  “That was when I learned about it. I thought someone was pranking me, but then Bridget told me about the phantom.”

  “Did she?” Charlene asked. “Interesting.”

  “The phantom seems harmless,” Sarah said. “And my pottery sales went way up afterward. People heard about what had happened, and came to check out the site of the haunting. A lot of them ended up buying. So, as far as I’m concerned, the phantom can make a return visit any time he likes, as long as nothing’s broken.”

  “You must have been relieved,” I said. “Now, Devon—”

  “What sort of stories did Bridget tell you?” Charlene asked.

  “The phantom’s made a mess of her photography studio more than once. And I guess there’ve been some sightings in the saloon.”

  “Did Devon see the phantom in the saloon?” I asked, trying to get this interview on track.

  “If he did,” Sarah said, “he wouldn’t admit it. He thought the whole thing was ridiculous. For a bartender, Devon could be a little snarky, but the customers liked him.”

  “Snarky,” I said, “how—”

  “What did the phantom do in the saloon?” Charlene asked, breathless.

  My lips compressed. Oh, come on!

  “Once, when Ewan opened up the saloon, all the chairs were stacked to the ceiling. And doors have opened when no one was there.”

  The phantom’s antics sounded suspiciously like the haunting at the White Lady. I remembered our recent banishment from the bar, and my temperature rose. “Who do you think killed Devon?” I asked.

  The three stared at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  Charlene patted my shoulder. “She’s distraught. It’s all the murder attempts. You understand.”

  “I am not distraught,” I said.

  Graham shook his head. “It’s a strange feeling when someone’s trying to kill you. When I was in the war—”

  “No one wants to hear your war stories,” Charlene interrupted. “Now, about the phantom.”

  I made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine.

  “Is that your stomach?” Graham asked. “Have you eaten?”

  “She’s digesting,” Charlene said. “I’ve never heard louder intestines.”

  Frederick raised his head and meowed in agreement.

  “You should try green tea,” Sarah said.

  “Two people have been killed at the Bar X,” I said. “Aren’t you worried about working there?”

  “Why should I be?” Sarah asked. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Did Devon do something wrong?” I asked.

  “He was a man-slut,” she said. “And he had a thing for older women.” Twin lines appeared between her brows. “What was it he said about them? Something by Ben Franklin.”

  “In all your Amours you should prefer old Women to young ones . . . They are so grateful!!” Graham quoted.

  Charlene glowered at him. “Says you.”

  “Said Ben Franklin,” Graham said. “Hey, I’m a history buff. Franklin had a lot of better reasons too—like older women being more intellectually interesting. He practically wrote an essay on the topic.”

  “He would.” Charlene sniffed. “Ben Franklin was a rogue.”

  Sarah grinned. “At least Franklin was a gentleman. Devon broke up with his girlfriends by text.”

  Charlene and I both hissed an indrawn breath. There was no easy way to break up with someone, but a breakup text was lowdown. And how did Sarah know he broke up with women by text? “Did someone complain to you?”

  Her cheeks flushed crimson. “Ah, no. I got one of those texts.”

  “So, it wasn’t only older women he liked,” I said.

  “No, but he preferred them. He said they were less demanding.”

  “That’s what Franklin said,” Graham said.

  Charlene’s eyes bulged.

  His head turtled between his round shoulders. “Well, he did!”

  “So angry women or angry husbands are our suspects?” I asked. “No other people who might want to kill Devon?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Sarah asked. “There were a lot of angry women.”

  But none had been spotted at the ghost town the day of Devon’s murder. And I couldn’t imagine why one would want to run me down.

  We thanked her, and Charlene and I walked back toward Pie Town.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Charlene said.

  I gave her a look. It was hard to make progress on the murder when we were distracted by the phantom menace.

  “Greg told us that his uncle seemed upset about something before he died,” I said.

  “Larry must have seen something, or guessed something, about the killer.”

  “And that made him the next victim. The way I figure it, either he wasn’t sure about what he’d seen or believed, or else he didn’t want to believe what he’d seen. Otherwise, he would have gone to the cops.”

  “You think he confronted the killer?” she asked.

  “Maybe. So, who at the Bar X would Larry want to protect?”

  “Oh, I see. We’re back to Bridget and Ewan again,” Charlene snapped.

  “You think he’d protect them?”

  “No,” she said, “because they’re innocent. Bridget wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Ewan had no reason to kill Devon.”

  “Bridget did admit Devon was putting pressure on her. Maybe he was putting pressure on Ewan as well.”

  “If Ewan knew he had a son—and we can’t be sure Devon was his son—he would have embraced him, no question.”

  “Maybe Ewan was trying to protect Bridget from the truth,” I said. “The way she was trying to protect him?”

  Charlene shook her head. “That makes no sense. Ewan’s made no secret that he was out of control before he met Bridget’s mother. He didn’t betray his family. If Devon was his son, he would have welcomed him with open arms, and so would Bridget. Besides, she’s no kid to be sheltered. She’s an adult.”

  We crossed the concrete bridge. A woman pushing a stroller came toward us, and we stepped off the sidewalk to make way.

  “So that leaves Moe, Curly, and Marla,” I said.

  “It’s got to be Marla. Larry was protecting her, and she killed him.”

  “I dunno.” I sidestepped a yellow fire hydrant. “If all three of the gunslingers had the hots for Marla—enough to break up their friendship—Moe or Curly might have killed Devon out of jealousy. We need to confirm that what Greg told us about Marla breaking up the sharpshooters was true.”

  Charlene snorted. “Who do you expect to confirm it? Code of the West, remember? Do you think Marla will tell us the truth?”

  I rubbed my chin. “Under the right circumstances, yes.”

  “And what circumstances are those?”

  “You need to make up with her.”

  Her mouth pinched. “Forget it.”

  “Hasn’t this feud been going on long enough? Who does it benefit?”

  “Me, because I don’t have to deal with Marla.” She lengthened her strides, and I trotted after her.

  “Come on, Charlene. Unforgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

  “Who said that? The Dalai Lama?”

  “I don’t know.” And I was fairly certain I’d screwed up the quotation. “But it’s true.”

  “Don’t push me, Val. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “But—”

  She spun and raised a finger. “Not another word, or I won’t drive you to the car lot tonight for your pre-owned van.”

  I zipped my lips.

  * * *

&nbs
p; My piecrust maker was as good as her word. She drove me to collect the big pink van after Pie Town closed.

  Charlene waited around for me to sign the stack of rental forms, and then sped off, claiming she couldn’t be seen driving in the same zip code as a pink piñata.

  The sky was darkening, rose and gold streaking the western clouds. I ran my hand over the broad steering wheel and told myself not to get too used to the van, even if it was awesome and could probably transport a hundred pies.

  Wanting to share the good news with Gordon, I dug in my purse for my cell phone. It wasn’t there. I turned my purse upside down; mint tins and receipts and lipsticks spilled onto the seat beside me. No phone.

  “Rats!” I must have left it at Pie Town. So, I drove back into town, parking in front of Heidi’s gym. Hurriedly, I unlocked Pie Town’s front door and ran inside.

  When I returned, Heidi paced the sidewalk, her blond ponytail swishing behind her. “Is that thing yours?”

  “Not yet. I’m borrowing—”

  “You’re not supposed to park on the street. Employees and owners of the buildings are supposed to park in the alley, so as not to take street parking from paying customers.”

  “Yes, but it was only for a min—”

  “You are so selfish!” She stormed into the gym, the glass door banging behind her.

  I groaned and shoved up the sleeves of my Pie Town hoodie. Would the gym owner believe me if I said I was sorry?

  A black Cadillac cruised past on the street, a bag of groceries balanced on the roof. Mrs. Banks peered over the steering wheel, her gray curls quivering.

  “Mrs. Banks!” I shouted. “Your groceries!”

  She continued on, oblivious.

  I chased after her, waving my arms in the air. “Mrs. Banks! Mrs. Banks! Stop!”

  The Cadillac whipped around a corner, and the groceries went flying. The paper bag hit the pavement and split. Oranges, cans of soup, and a cauliflower tumbled into the street.

  I grabbed the torn bag. Cradling it awkwardly, I scooped up the wayward groceries and kept a wary eye out for runaway Priuses.

  I checked what was left inside the bag. At least she hadn’t bought eggs.

  Returning to my pie shop, I slid the groceries into a Pie Town bag, locked up, and got into the van. Mrs. Banks would wonder where her groceries had apported to if I didn’t return them to her soon.