Bleeding Tarts Read online

  “Sorry, gotta go and visit Ray,” Charlene said, and steered me out the door.

  “Nice exit,” I said. “I was starting to think I’d have to buy the van.”

  “You do. I got him down to eighty-five hundred.”

  “You what?” I bit back my annoyance. “You said you and Frederick wouldn’t be caught dead in a pink van.”

  “Frederick and I won’t be making the deliveries. I’m piecrusts only, remember? The only reason I came with you to the Bar X is because Ewan is a personal friend of mine.”

  “But—”

  “I just knocked fifteen percent off the sticker price,” she said. “Do you know what a coup that is? You’re lucky I was here. And you’re buying that van.”

  I made a low noise in my throat—a whimper of despair. I couldn’t afford it at eighty-five hundred dollars either.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlene and I drove to a local flower farm. In its cool greenhouse, I selected a dripping bunch of lavender from a plastic bucket. I grabbed a vase off the shelf and met Charlene at the register.

  The cashier packed up our bouquet, setting the vase in a box for stability.

  “Marla’s the killer,” Charlene growled. “I know it.”

  The cashier, a plump woman with silver hair, shot her a startled glance.

  “A killer instinct for fashion, that’s for sure.” Smiling maniacally, I paid for the flowers.

  Charlene sniffed. “She keeps turning up in the case, and I find it highly suspicious she’s now investigating.” She put the last word in air quotes.

  I steered her outside and into my VW. “Maybe we shouldn’t accuse anyone of murder in public.”

  “Why?” Charlene buckled up. “She’s the most likely suspect. Marla’s selfish and self-centered and has no regard for anyone. She’s the perfect murderer.”

  “Uh huh.”

  The Bug started with a cough, and I pulled onto the highway, looping inland. We crested a low mountain. At its top, a cemetery overlooked a series of lakes glittering in the valley below, golden with dried grasses.

  “Maybe we can go to that new mall after we visit Ray,” she said.

  “Sure. What are you looking for?”

  “I thought we could go to that fancy lingerie store.”

  “What do you . . . ?” Right, for my date that was never going to happen. My lips compressed. “I’m not buying a girdle.”

  “Who said anything about a girdle?”

  “You did.”

  “A girdle is out. You shouldn’t be physically uncomfortable on a date. Now, new lingerie—”

  “Forget it, Charlene.”

  The modern hospital where Ray was recuperating was in a small city on the Peninsula. I found a parking space at the back of the lot, and we walked inside the blue-glass building.

  Collar up to hide Frederick, Charlene skittered into the glass and tile lobby.

  I shook my head. If she got caught with the cat, I would disavow all knowledge.

  While she pretended to examine some lending books in the lounge, I asked at the help desk for Ray’s room. A volunteer directed me upstairs.

  Like a spy who’d escaped a retirement home, Charlene slunk behind me and into the elevator. On the second floor, I had to ask for directions at two more nurse’s desks before I finally located Ray’s room. A curtain had been drawn across the open door.

  I knocked on the frame. “Ray? It’s Val and Charlene. Can we come in?”

  “Hey,” he called. “Yeah.”

  I pushed the curtain aside.

  Ray lay in a hospital bed, his red hair rumpled. One leg was in a cast and raised at an angle by a complicated series of straps and ropes and pulleys. His stomach made a mountain of the beige hospital blanket, and his freckles stood out against his pale face.

  Marla smiled at us from the nearby lounge chair and touched her silvery hair. She snapped shut her notebook. “Following my lead again, I see.” She tightened the belt of her trench coat.

  Charlene sucked in her cheeks. “You—”

  “You crazy gamer,” I said loudly. A hospital catfight involving an actual cat was all we needed. “How are you feeling?” I set the lavender bouquet on an empty table near his bed.

  He grinned. “Sore. Did you bring pie?”

  I opened my bag and pulled out a pink box and a plastic wrapped spork. “A mini cherry. I don’t think it’s warm anymore though.”

  “Gimme.” He reached toward me, and I handed him the box.

  “Marla,” Charlene snarled.

  “Charlene,” she said.

  “Leave your fedora at home?” my piecrust maker asked.

  “I don’t wear silly hats,” Marla said. “Or helmets. Those things you had to wear in the roller derby looked heinous. I suppose with all those times you were slammed into metal fences though, you needed one. Multiple concussions can do long-term damage. Have you ever had your head examined?”

  Charlene’s nostrils flared. “What are you doing here?”

  “When I heard what happened, it was obvious that the attack on Ray and Val was connected to Devon’s murder.”

  Charlene jammed her fists on her hips, rumpling her green tunic. “How did you hear about the hit-and-run? It didn’t make the morning papers.”

  “You Tweeted about it,” Marla said.

  Charlene said something unladylike.

  “Mrs. McCree!” Ray’s brows rose.

  Charlene pinked. “Sorry, Ray.”

  “Sloppy work, Val,” Marla said, “putting one of your own customers in jeopardy.”

  I shriveled with guilt. “Ray, you saved me from that car. I’m so sorry for what happened. And thank you.”

  “Aw.” Ray made a dismissive motion, and the metal contraption holding his leg creaked. “That’s okay. I walked you to your car because Mrs. McCree said someone was trying to kill you. I knew what I was getting into. And I guess Mrs. McCree was right.”

  Marla looked me up and down. “You might have moved a little quicker if you laid off some of those pies.”

  Bullpuckey. I wasn’t getting fat. Was I? Forcing a smile, I turned to Ray. “How bad is it?”

  “My leg’s broken in three places, and my hip is cracked.”

  I winced. Ouchy. “Did you get a look at the driver? Because I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I gave the cops a sketch.”

  “What did he look like?” Charlene asked eagerly.

  “Sort of, you know, like a dark shape.”

  “A dark shape,” I said, disappointed.

  “Kind of a blob.” He unwrapped the spork. “The cops wouldn’t tell me anything. What have you heard?”

  “We think we found the car,” I said. “It was abandoned near the Half House. The police are running tests.”

  “They’re probably trying to pull my DNA from the grill.” He nodded sagely. “Car forensics. I saw it on TV.”

  Charlene tugged on my sleeve and made growling noises.

  “Who’s car was it?” Ray asked between bites of pie.

  “Someone stole it from a local dealership,” I said.

  Charlene’s grumbles grew more insistent.

  “Pelt’s?” he asked.

  “Larry Pelt?” Marla asked. “He was at the Bar X when Devon was murdered.”

  “Duh,” Charlene snapped. “We already figured that out.”

  Marla tapped her Mont Blanc pen on the notebook—leather bound, naturally “Interesting.”

  “What’s so interesting about it?” Charlene asked.

  “That Val is at the epicenter of so many deadly events.”

  Charlene crossed her arms over her chest. “Obviously, someone’s trying to kill her too.”

  “Is it obvious?” Marla asked. “Val was right there when Devon was killed. And now all these odd things are happening to her. It makes one wonder if she hasn’t set up these so-called attacks in an amateurish attempt to divert suspicion from herself.”

  “What?!” Charlene’s eyes bulged.

&nb
sp; “I haven’t,” I said. Not that it mattered what Marla thought.

  “The evidence suggests otherwise,” Marla said. “I predict you’re in for an unpleasant surprise, Charlene.”

  “Nice try, Wrongstradamus,” Charlene said.

  “Are cats allowed in hospital rooms?” Marla asked.

  “He’s a comfort animal,” Charlene said.

  “Oh?” Marla tilted her head. “Do you have a license?”

  Charlene ground her teeth. “Are you asking to see it?”

  “Since the license should be visible around the animal’s neck, it’s obvious that’s no comfort animal.” She rose. “I’ve got everything I need here. Thank you, Ray. I’m sorry Val and Charlene dragged you into a murder investigation.”

  “I don’t mind,” he mumbled between bites of pie.

  She waggled her fingers, diamonds flashing, and swept from the room.

  “Why did you tell him about the stolen car in front of Marla?” Charlene scowled at me. “Now she knows about Larry Pelt!”

  “Ray deserves to know what happened.”

  “You couldn’t wait until she’d left?” She thunked into the chair Marla had vacated. “What did she want to know, Ray?”

  “Same stuff the police asked—if I’d gotten a look at the driver. I didn’t. All I saw were headlights. Those hybrids are so quiet. Thanks for not telling her what kind of car it was.”

  “Not even Val would blab about that,” Charlene said.

  Not even Val? Thanks a lot.

  “What else did she want?” Charlene asked.

  His freckled skin darkened. He swallowed. “Uh, well, she asked if Val had pushed me.”

  I laughed. “Seriously?”

  “You heard what she said.” Ray shifted the pie box on his stomach. “She’s trying to pin this on you. I told her you had nothing to do with it. Like you could shove me in front of a car. I’m twice your size. Still, you’d better be careful.”

  “I’m not worried about her,” I said. “How much longer are they keeping you here?”

  “Another couple days,” he said gloomily.

  “How does a breakfast pie sound tomorrow morning?” I asked.

  He brightened. “Better than the hospital menu.”

  “I’ll bring one by, and a variety pack of mini pies for later in the day.”

  “You have variety packs?” he asked.

  “Figure of speech.” Though it wasn’t a bad idea.

  We hung out with Ray until Henrietta arrived.

  She paused in the doorway, giving us time to ogle her combat boots/miniskirt combo. I’d never seen her in anything other than baggy tops and military pants; she had some killer curves.

  Her cheeks turned a dusty rose. “Oh. Hi. Is this a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” Charlene said. “We were just leaving.”

  “See you tomorrow, Ray,” I said.

  We left the room.

  In the hallway, Charlene pulled up her collar, concealing Frederick. She pushed the elevator’s down button. “I’m no longer worried about Marla solving this crime.”

  “No kidding. If she thinks I did it, she’s way off base.”

  “Now I’m worried about her framing you. The woman’s a piranha.”

  “She said I was fat. Or at least she implied it.” And I was not fat.

  “Some older people can be critical. Don’t take it personally.”

  Some older people? Pot. Kettle. Black. “We don’t have any real evidence proving Marla was involved.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll get evidence.”

  Unease rattled my bones. “I’m glad you’re back in the investigative spirit, but—”

  “But me no buts. If she doesn’t frame you, she’ll kill you. We need to neutralize her.”

  “Neutralize?” Maybe Gordon had a point about the perils of investigating after all.

  * * *

  That night, I sat on Charlene’s floral-print couch and watched her pace in front of the TV. The Stargate credits scrolled, and I clicked on the orange, seventies-era table lamp.

  “Weren’t you supposed to be ghost hunting tonight?” I asked.

  “Get your priorities straight. We’re hunting a killer.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down my back. Charlene didn’t believe in air conditioning. And in spite of the open windows and cool night air, the house refused to release the afternoon’s heat.

  “There’s got to be a way to take her down,” she said.

  “Her who?” I sipped my Kahlua and root beer. At least the glass was still nice and frosty.

  “Marla, of course! The question is, who is her accomplice?”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t focus only on Marla at this stage,” I said, cautious. “We still don’t know—”

  “I’ll bet Curly helped her. He’s a sharpshooter, and he’s got a crush on her, which proves he’s mentally deficient.”

  Above us, a ceiling fan turned slowly, making no inroads on the heat.

  I wrinkled my nose. “He does? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, please. It’s obvious. And Larry said he heard her arguing with the victim.”

  “Maybe Devon overcharged her for a drink. We don’t know what their fight was about.”

  She shot me a knowing look. “Oh, don’t we?”

  “Do we?”

  “Obviously, she was having an affair with Devon like one of those jaguar women.”

  “You know perfectly well they’re called ‘cougars.’” I crossed my leg over my knee. “I don’t think that’s obvious at all. If we focus solely on Marla, we may miss some real clues to whodunnit.”

  “Not if Marla’s guilty. Look at how she was trying to pin the blame on you. Would an innocent person do that?”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Even if she was having an affair with Devon—and that’s a big if—why kill him?”

  “For whatever they were arguing about.” She snapped her fingers. “She wants Ewan. Marla knows that Ewan won’t see her the same way if he finds out she’s been doing the horizontal tango with his young stud of an employee.”

  “Devon wasn’t that young.” He’d been close to Bridget’s age.

  She ignored me. “Marla had to kill Devon to keep him quiet. It wouldn’t surprise me after all the husbands she’s buried. We can’t let her get her claws into Ewan.”

  “Uh huh. Marla’s the black widow of San Nicholas. Maybe she’s the Phantom of Bar X too.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic,” she said. “Or ageist.”

  “All right, Mulder. I’ll remain open-minded,” I lied and stood to turn off the TV. “But we still need more information.”

  “I’ll get the laptop.” Charlene hurried to the kitchen and returned with the small computer. She plopped onto the couch, bouncing me on my cushion, and booted up the computer.

  “Fine, Marla’s a suspect,” I said, “but we need to be objective and look at all our suspects—Moe, Curly, Larry, Ewan—”

  “Ewan’s not a suspect.”

  “Charlene—”

  “He couldn’t have done it. We were together when Devon was killed.”

  “Yeah, you two were with Marla. If she’s a suspect—”

  “A good investigator looks at everyone.” She pouted. “And we can’t ignore Marla, even if we can’t figure out how she did it. Yet.”

  The bulb in the table lamp popped and went out; now our only illumination was Charlene’s computer screen.

  “Great,” I said.

  “We’ll start with the obituaries.”

  “Maybe we can start with a new lightbulb. Where do you keep them?”

  “Hold on. I’ll get it. Take a look at this.”

  A floorboard creaked, and I looked up, my scalp prickling. The furniture made odd shapes in the gloom. “What was that?”

  “Frederick. He’s more active at night.”

  He had to be. The cat was comatose for most of the day.

  “Here we go,” she said, and pulled up an obituary. “Marla di
vorced her first husband. Here’s husband number two—heart attack.”

  “So. Natural causes.”

  “Well, write it down,” Charlene said.

  “Fine.” I stomped to the kitchen, banging my thigh into an occasional table on the way. Limping, I turned on the kitchen light.

  Frederick lay coiled in his cat bed near the modern, brushed-nickel refrigerator.

  “Are there any lightbulbs in here?” I called.

  “Forget the lightbulbs!”

  I rummaged through my purse, laying on the butcher block work island, and found a pen and battered notebook. Returning to the living room, I flipped on the overhead lamp and sat.

  “Did you turn off the kitchen light?” she asked.

  I got up, trudged to the kitchen, turned out the light, and returned.

  “Did you write it down?” she asked, staring pointedly at the notebook clenched in my hand.

  “If we had more light—”

  “Don’t be such a baby.”

  She looped a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck, and adjusted the glasses on her nose. “Husband number three died in a skydiving accident.”

  “Ouch.”

  “And number four had a heart attack too.”

  “How old was he?” I asked.

  “Seventy-three.”

  “And the second husband?”

  “Sixty-eight.”

  “So, they were in the normal age range for natural deaths,” I said.

  “Sixty-eight? Are you kidding me? He was practically a baby. Now, husband number five had a stroke at seventy-four, and husband number six . . . another heart attack, this time at ninety-two.”

  “I’m getting the feeling Marla’s into older men,” I said, “not the younger ones.”

  “She marries the old ones and toys with the young ones, like a jaguar with its prey.”

  “Cougar.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little odd that nearly all her husbands died on her?”

  “Not if she was marrying older guys.”

  Charlene’s snowy brows drew downward. “Now you’re being stubborn.”

  “Statistically, the deaths do seem odd. But . . .”