Bleeding Tarts Read online

  Well, I was. Sometimes I wasn’t sure about Charlene. “Gordon—”

  A muscle spasmed along his jaw. “Not. Another. Word.” He stalked to his car, got in, and slammed the door.

  I winced.

  Gordon drove off, his taillights vanishing around the corner.

  Charlene strolled onto the porch. “That went well.”

  I squeezed my eyelids shut and took a calming breath. “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “It’s not eavesdropping when the conversation’s happening in your own garden.”

  “I think I can safely say my dating life is DOA.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You heard.”

  “I heard a man who is concerned for your well-being, but thinks enough of you to let you make your own choices.”

  Charlene was in think-positive mode. I was not. “How’s Frederick?”

  “Oh! They didn’t swab for DNA. Let’s bag his paws.”

  I arched a brow. “Do you think he’d let us do that?”

  “Mm.” She rubbed her jaw. “You could bag his paws.”

  “No way.”

  “At least we have that thread from the burglar’s clothing.”

  Which I’d forgotten to give to Gordon. I slapped my forehead and groaned.

  She walked down the steps and clapped me on the shoulder. “We’re shaking things up, my girl. The killer knows we’re getting close, and he wants to silence us.” She rubbed her wrinkled hands together. “At last, our case has got some direction.”

  “It does?”

  “It’s time we Baker Street Bakers channel Sherlock Holmes. The game is afoot!”

  “Holmes never said that, you know.”

  “No one likes a know-it-all. Now, off to bed. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

  “Aside from bake pies?” She had something in mind, and my nerves hummed with anxiety. Charlene’s plans always seemed to end up with me injured or covered in mud.

  She gazed at me over her reading glasses. “I have a plan.”

  Fantabulous. “What’s your plan?” I asked, unenthusiastic.

  “Just you wait and see.” She jogged up the steps and slammed the door shut.

  I stared at it, dismay puddling in my stomach. Charlene with a plan. Now that was terrifying.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We made it through Saturday without any disasters. Sunday, a suspiciously smug Charlene vanished into the flour-work room. She churned out a slew of piecrusts and disappeared at the end of her shift without saying a word.

  Certain she was up to no good, I spent the rest of the morning filling pies at the work island and waiting for the other anvil to drop.

  I finally emerged from the kitchen to help Petronella with the Sunday lunch crowd. The tourists were out in full force. Families with overexcited and overtired children swarmed the booths. A long line stretched from the counter for takeaway.

  I worked the register, spitting out orders, boxing pies, and delivering plates of salad and mini pies to their tables. The counter was an oasis of calm, lined with friends and regulars—Joy from the comic shop, and the retirees, Tally Wally and Graham. The three sat and sipped coffee in a silent meditation.

  Watching me box a peach pie, Joy brushed back her curtain of silky black hair. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “I’m sure the police have it well in hand,” I chirped.

  Wally chuckled. “Or Charlene does.”

  I knotted my hands in my apron, mirroring the knot twisting my stomach. What was Charlene up to?

  Graham leaned across the counter, nudging his tweed flat cap off the ledge.

  I caught it before it hit the linoleum floor and returned it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I hear someone broke into Char’s place last night.”

  “Word gets around fast.” Small town fast.

  “And I heard she took a potshot at the guy,” Wally said.

  “With what?” Graham asked.

  “A gun, what do you think?” Wally said.

  “Knowing Charlene, it could have been a blow dart.” Graham cackled, and Wally joined in.

  I whirled to the cash register and handed over the peach pie.

  Henrietta, in a swingy green skirt and blouse, hurried into the restaurant and looked around. Seeing the gamer booth full to the brim, she hustled to the counter and squeezed between Joy and the two men. “I saw Ray in the hospital,” she said breathlessly. “He says thanks for the pies.”

  “He saved my life.” I swiped a damp towel over the counter. “Pies are the least I can do.”

  “I heard he saved you from a runaway dump truck,” Graham said.

  “No, it was one of those foreign sports cars,” Wally said. “A Maserati.”

  “It was a Prius,” Henrietta said. Brown eyes widening, she clapped her hands to her mouth.

  “A Prius?” The old men hooted with laughter.

  “Is it even possible to kill someone with a Prius?” Graham asked.

  “Oh, sure,” Wally said. “You could kill someone with anything. See that pie tin over there? I could kill someone with it.”

  “Last I checked, you were in the Air Force just like me,” Graham said. “Not some super-secret special forces ninja school.”

  “The car was going really fast,” Henrietta said earnestly.

  “It snuck up on us,” I agreed.

  The men laughed even harder.

  “Quit while you’re ahead,” Joy said in her monotone voice and took a sip of her coffee.

  “Who was driving it?” Graham asked. “The ghost of Bar X?”

  The two roared. Even Joy cracked a smile.

  Looking abashed, Henrietta slunk to the gamers’ corner.

  I sidled down the counter. “You two know about the Phantom of Bar X?” Strange that Charlene hadn’t yet roped me into a ghost-hunting adventure. Maybe she was learning to prioritize.

  “Well, sure,” Tally Wally said. “I told Ewan to put the phantom on his website to drum up more tourists, but for some reason he hasn’t.”

  Hold up. Charlene had acted surprised when she’d heard about the ghost. Not only was she paranormal central, but she was also good friends with Ewan. She had to have known about it. A dark suspicion formed in my mind.

  “When did you learn about the phantom?” I asked.

  Wally rubbed his bristly chin. “Not so long ago. A few months, I guess. Why? Do you think the ghost killed that young fella?”

  “No,” I said, “that doesn’t seem likely. Do you know Ewan well?”

  “A bit. He’s a good guy, even if he is a little nutty about the Old West.”

  “What ghost?” Joy asked.

  “The usual sort of haunt,” I said. “Opens doors. Leaves cold drafts and eerie feelings in its wake.”

  “That ghost town isn’t even real,” Joy said. “How can it have a ghost?”

  “Exactly,” I said, and went to take a customer’s order at the register.

  By three o’clock, the crowd had thinned, and the decibel level dropped. With only the gamers and a few tourists nursing coffee in the pink booths, I turned to Petronella.

  “Hey,” I said, “we never had that talk.”

  “Oh.” She bit her bottom lip, a very un-Petronella-like gesture, then straightened. “So, I started mortician training. Online.”

  “Congratulations!” Becoming a mortician had been a long-time dream of Petronella’s. She was fantastic with our customers, especially the older ones, and I knew she’d do a great job working with families during their darkest hours.

  “Riiight.” She tapped her booted foot.

  I blinked. “Oh! Do you need to change your hours for your studies?”

  Her delicate nostrils flared. “No, it’s online.” She stared intently at me, as if willing me to . . . Actually, I had no idea what she wanted.

  “Well, I’m really happy for you. I’ll support you in any way I—”

  “Don’t you want me to stay?”
>
  “Well, yes, sure. But—”

  She sighed heavily. “Never mind. It’s cool.”

  Tally Wally ambled to the counter, and she turned to chat with him.

  Baffled, I ducked into my barren office.

  I woke up my computer and dropped into the rolling chair behind my battered, metal desk. Charlene had been reluctant to dig up background information on Ewan and Bridget. I wasn’t confident I’d discover anything online, but the Friths were suspects, and my detecting options were limited.

  Bridget’s social media pages were set to private. Aside from a website for her photography business, I couldn’t find anything about her on the web. There was a bit more on Ewan—an article in the local paper about the grand opening of the Bar X and a few mentions from clients. Not really expecting to learn anything, I searched their names in the local court records, and Bridget’s popped up.

  Startled by my success, I clicked the case record number and a gray report lit my screen: DEVON BLACKETT VS. BRIDGET FRITH. Whoa. What?

  I combed through the report—dates and titles of hearings with the occasional, sparse minutes. Last month Devon had started a lawsuit against Bridget.

  For stalking.

  My stomach curdled. Had Charlene known? Had Bridget’s father?

  I leaned back in my chair, and it emitted a grating screech. Court cases took time to get rolling. Devon had only worked at the Bar X for three months. Bridget would have had to put in some serious stalking time soon after Devon had arrived.

  From the court filings, it looked like Devon had acted as his own attorney, so maybe that had sped the legal workings. And he’d only got as far as filing the complaint, so they weren’t deep into the suit.

  But stalking? I looked up the California stalking laws. Apparently, stalking was both a civil and a criminal offense. Why had Devon decided to go the civil route rather than press charges with the police?

  I checked the court websites of other towns where Devon had worked but didn’t find any similar suits. So, he wasn’t one of those serial-lawsuit people.

  Glancing at the clock, I realized I’d left Petronella alone longer than I’d meant to, and I hurried into the restaurant. I needn’t have worried; a hoard of customers had not stampeded into Pie Town. A young couple exited, the bell above the door jingling in their wake.

  Petronella reached for a plastic bin from behind the counter.

  “I’ll clear their table,” I said. “You take a break. Sorry I was away so long.”

  She raked a hand over her hairnet, nearly invisible against her spiky black hair. “No problem.” Yawning, she clomped into the kitchen.

  I walked to the table and piled the bin with dirty tableware, then wiped the Formica.

  A shadow passed in front of the window blinds, and I glanced up.

  On the sidewalk, Heidi stood with her hand on Gordon’s arm. The gym owner leaned closer, wrinkling his navy suit. Her head tilted coquettishly, a plaintive expression on her face.

  My eyes narrowed. What the . . . ?

  I shook myself. Ha. I wasn’t jealous. Gordon wasn’t my boyfriend. I had nothing to be jealous about. Nothing. At. All.

  Gordon smiled at her. Disentangling himself, he nodded, patted her arm, and walked into Pie Town.

  The bell jangled.

  He stopped in the center of the checkerboard floor and frowned at the near-empty counter.

  I cleared my throat and tried to ignore my internal lurch of excitement. “Hi.”

  He turned. “There you are. How are Charlene and Frederick recovering after last night?”

  “Well, I think.” She’d either spent the afternoon getting window replacement estimates or plotting revenge. “Speaking of Frederick, there were threads caught in his claws. We put them in a baggie in case you want them for evidence.”

  Gordon looked less than enthusiastic. “Sure. Drop them by the station. But don’t expect hot shot forensics like you see on TV.”

  We stared at each other.

  I shuffled my feet.

  “So. Heidi!” I said brightly. “I saw you talking outside. Is everything okay? She’s not having trouble at the gym, is she?”

  “In a manner of speaking. She’s made a complaint about the dumpsters. Says you’ve been using hers.”

  I felt a quick stab of panic, then I shook my head. “What? Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Have you been using her bins?”

  “I have not.” I gripped the plastic bin more tightly, its edges digging into my palms.

  “Could one of your employees be dumping without you knowing?”

  “No. They know better than that.”

  “They probably don’t think it’s that big a deal. Anyway, I told her I’d talk to you about it.”

  My brain throbbed. “We are not dumping in Heidi’s bins.” That woman wouldn’t quit! I took a slow breath, counted to ten. “Sorry. I appreciate you talking to me about this instead of filing a formal complaint.”

  He shifted his weight. “Uh, by complaining to me, Heidi has filed a formal complaint. I have to submit a report.”

  “Oh.” I forced a smile. “That’s all right.” That wasn’t Gordon’s fault either. He had to go by the book. It was one of the reasons I liked him. Though now that I thought of it, he’d been giving Charlene and I a lot of leeway with our “investigation.”

  He peered at me, his jade eyes intent. “How would it look if I neglected to file a complaint right before we went on a date?”

  A date was still on the table? Huzzah! “Then, formally, I deny all charges. And if Heidi wants to go dumpster diving to try and prove her case, I’d love to see her try.” The thought of Heidi covered in banana peels brought a half smile to my face.

  His mouth quirked. “I’ll make a note of it. Of your denial, not the suggested dumpster diving. About last night, I was a little hard on you—”

  “No.” I grimaced. “It’s okay. You weren’t wrong.”

  “Look. The first thing to do when entering a potentially dangerous situation is to assess the environment. That’s true even when you’re going to help an injured person. You need to identify any potential threats before acting.”

  Normally, I hated being told what to do. But his look of concern stopped me cold. “And I didn’t do any of that.” Even if I had, I still would have gone in for Charlene.

  He glanced around the near-empty restaurant. Stepping closer, he lowered his voice, and it rumbled through me. “I really would like to go on that date sometime. So, don’t get yourself killed. Or arrested.”

  “Okay.” Yay, me. Queen of witty repartee. “Want some pie?”

  “I can’t today, but thanks.” He patted his trim stomach. “I’m teaching a dive class tonight.”

  Petronella appeared in the window between the kitchen and the counter area. “Hey, cuz!”

  He waved. “See ya, Pete!”

  I watched him depart, and an odd twinge of disappointment shivered through me.

  “So?” Petronella asked. “Are you two going to go on that date or what?”

  My cheeks warmed. Did everyone in San Nicholas know about my thwarted love life? “Maybe. Probably.”

  “Better do it soon,” she said.

  “Why?” I wrung my hands in my apron. Did he have a better offer?

  “Because someone’s trying to kill you again, remember?”

  Heidi strode past the window. Tossing her blond ponytail, she shot me a triumphant look. She’d had her bit of revenge with the dumpsters. If only the murderer at Bar X had taken such a simplistic approach.

  I frowned, reflecting on that. Why had I connected revenge with the bartender’s murder? I didn’t have enough evidence to theorize on the killer’s motive.

  But it was time I got some.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I closed Pie Town and drove to my container on the bluff. Watching thin lines of waves power across the Pacific, I barbequed a burger and skewered veggies. A warm, twilight breeze caressed my bare arms. The scent of
barbeque mingled with that of sagebrush and eucalyptus.

  I ate, my plate balanced on the wide arm of my Adirondack chair. Beneath a sky slowly turning pink and tangerine, I read my new mystery novel. The evening darkened to cobalt, and then to an ebony sheen, my e-reader casting an eerie glow. A waning moon rode low on the horizon, and its silvery trail rippled across the ocean. My home might be cramped, but I knew people who’d kill for the view.

  The night cooled, and I shrugged into one of Pie Town’s, EAT PIE, NOT CAKE hoodies, unwilling to leave my chair.

  My cell phone buzzed. I set my book on the broad arm of the chair and checked the screen. Charlene.

  “Charlene, did you know that Devon was suing Bridget for stalking?”

  “Shhh! You’ve got to help me,” she whispered.

  I sat up, knocking the e-reader to the grass. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m trapped at Marla’s house.”

  My brow wrinkled. “Trapped?”

  “Trapped upstairs,” she hissed. “I broke in . . . well, I didn’t break in. I found her spare key. Now she’s come home early, and the only way out is past her. You need to get over here and distract Marla, so I can sneak out. If she catches me, she’ll have me arrested.”

  I rubbed my eyes. Unbelievable.

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  “I’m here,” I ground out. “Where are you?”

  “I told you! At Marla’s.”

  “I mean, what’s her address?”

  “Twenty-three-oh-four Cypress. And hur—”

  The phone disconnected.

  Because it wasn’t a Sunday unless I was an accessory to one of Charlene’s crimes, I grabbed my purse and keys.

  Stomach burning with worry, I raced through town in my VW and crossed to the residential section beside the ocean. I should have seen this coming. Charlene had been obsessed with the idea of Marla as the killer. And in her mind, burglary didn’t count if you could get your hands on a key.

  Cypress Street ran along an ocean cliff lined with cypresses, twisted by the wind and creepy as all get-out in the darkness. I spotted Charlene’s yellow Jeep, parked beneath a tree, and I slowed.

  Outside the iron-gated driveway to 2304 Cypress, I whistled. The narrow drive sloped down to what looked like a private beach. Holy moly, Marla must be loaded.