Bleeding Tarts Page 18

  By noon, I was a sweaty, but satisfied, mess. I dried my hands, switched to a fresh Pie Town apron, and turned to Abril. “Can you manage in here? I’m going to help out in the dining area.”

  She slid unbaked pies onto the wooden paddle. “No problem. I just need to slip these beauties into the oven.”

  Smiling, I walked through the swinging doors and behind the long counter.

  Petronella manned the cash register, her black hair like an angry rooster’s crown. She was in full goth mode—wearing all black except for her Pie Town apron. I wasn’t sure how she managed to spend so much time on her feet in those motorcycle boots, but to each her own. Petronella made change and handed two burly farmers a white-and-black plastic number tent.

  The restaurant was hopping, voices a dull hum. Forks and glasses clanked. Tuesday lunchers packed the tables and tackled potpies—chicken curry and beef—and traditional shepherd’s pies.

  My heart lightened, and not only because the business I’d poured my entire life into was popular. The place had a feeling to it. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it was just me. But whenever I walked through the door, I felt like I’d come home to family.

  The bell tinkled over the glass front door, and I glanced up.

  Ray struggled inside, his crutches banging into the slowly closing door.

  I hurried from behind the counter, but two gamers and a harried-looking mother beat me to it, holding the door for him.

  “You’re out of the hospital,” Henrietta exclaimed, helping him into their corner booth. She was back in her usual shapeless gamer-wear: baggy olive pants and a loose T-shirt that disguised all her assets. Her happy, eager look brightened her appearance.

  I walked to their table. Normally, people ordered at the counter, and we brought them their food if they were dining in. But the poor guy was on crutches, and he had saved my life.

  “How are you doing, Ray?” With the gamer back at Pie Town, life really was returning to normal. Inexplicably, a chill ran down my spine.

  “Better,” he said. “No more murder attempts?”

  I lowered my head, my good mood evaporating. “I guess you didn’t see the morning paper.”

  “There’s been another murder at the Bar X.” Henrietta yanked a canvas backpack wedged between her hip and the wall and pulled out a cell phone. She tapped the keypad and aimed the screen at me. It displayed an article from the local paper. “Larry Pelt, the used car guy.”

  “What?” Ray’s eyes widened. “I bought my car from him. It runs like a dream.”

  “What’ll it be, Ray?” I asked. Suddenly, talking about the murder was the last thing I wanted.

  “Vegetarian potpie,” he said.

  I dropped my pencil. Vege-whaaaa?

  “A nutritionist dropped by my room,” Ray said. “She convinced me I should give greens a chance.”

  I stooped and grabbed my pencil off the linoleum floor.

  One of his fellow gamers chortled. “She? What’d she look like?”

  Ray’s freckles darkened. “I’ve heard the veggie pie is good, okay?”

  The other guys ribbed him. Henrietta shrank into her seat.

  Sympathetic, I smiled at her and whisked to the kitchen window.

  Abril grabbed the new ticket, nodded, and a minute later slid a warm, mini potpie through the window.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed a bundle of wrapped utensils from the bin and hustled it to the gaming table.

  A fixed smile on her face, Henrietta rolled a set of dice across the table.

  Since I couldn’t figure out my own love life, much less sort Henrietta’s, I dropped off the pie and turned to go.

  Gordon strolled into the restaurant in his dark-gray suit, and I stopped short.

  Marla clung to his arm, and I couldn’t help but remember Charlene’s warning. My jaw tightened. Marla was probably only trying to Mata Hari information out of the detective. Still, this was the second woman dripping off Gordon in a week. Had it always been like this, and I hadn’t noticed?

  The two stopped in the center of the checkerboard floor, and Marla murmured something in his ear.

  My eyes narrowed.

  Or maybe she wasn’t whispering sweet nothings. Maybe she was shouting in his ear, forced to get close because of the noise. The decibel level had risen now that the gamers were in full swing.

  Jaguar. I almost turned, imagining Charlene’s voice in my head.

  I strode to the counter, grabbed an empty plastic bin, and cleared a table. When I returned to the register, Gordon waited there alone.

  And I felt that same, stupid smile Henrietta had worn creep across my face. “Hi,” I said. “What can I get you?”

  He rummaged in the inside pocket of his charcoal-colored suit jacket. “I’ve got a list. I’m supposed to bring these to the station.” He passed me the rumpled paper.

  I raised a brow. It was a delightfully long list. I jammed the paper into the wheeled ticket holder and spun it to face the kitchen.

  Abril peeked through the window.

  “Those are all to go,” I said.

  She nodded and disappeared.

  I returned to the register. “So,” I said. “Marla.”

  “Mm, hm,” Gordon said.

  “I suppose you gave her the same warning about not interfering in an investigation.”

  His dark brows slashed downward. “Interfering?”

  “In the murder investigation. She and Charlene have a competition going.”

  “Over what?”

  “Marla’s asking around about the Bar X murder. Murders,” I corrected.

  Gordon burst into laughter. “Is that what she wanted? You three are too much.”

  “Hey, Marla’s not on our team. She’s a lone wolf.” And was I imagining a jagged-knife edge to his chortles?

  “What next?” he asked. “Are you going to recruit the local senior center as Baker Street Irregulars?”

  My mouth compressed.

  “Order up,” Abril caroled.

  I grabbed the tray sticking through the kitchen window and boxed the pies. Thinking hard, I tied the pink boxes into two stacks and slid them across the counter. “Color me confused. Earlier, you thought I was going to get myself killed. Now you act like the Baker Street Bakers are a joke.”

  He sobered and counted a handful of bills, laid them on the counter. “No, you getting killed would not be funny. And I still wish you’d steer clear. But I’ve decided to take a Zen approach to things I can’t change. I’ve got two senior citizens and a pie maker playing amateur detective in a murder investigation. Last week I was called out to investigate a suspicious coin. It was a quarter. That wasn’t half as annoying as the drunken interpretive dance that followed. The week before, I was brought in on a bird-napping case. The bird in question—a cockatoo—was found dead at the bottom of its cage. By me. And don’t get me started on the dog park.”

  “Are the fairies back?”

  He stared, expressionless.

  “Or space aliens. I heard someone saw something strange,” I finished weakly.

  “It’s just kids fooling around, but now it’s my job to catch them in the act.”

  “You’re a detective. Why isn’t someone else chasing kids and bird nappers?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his dark hair. “Town politics have gotten tense. It’s made its way into the department. Chief Shaw’s worried he’ll lose his job, since he only got it because the old chief of police was arrested.”

  “Oh,” I said in a small voice, and made his change. “You were joking about the interpretive dance, right?”

  “Was I, Val? Was I?” He gripped the counter, his knuckles whitening. He picked up the boxes. “Take care of yourself, Val.”

  More confused than ever, I watched him leave. I no longer worried about solving the case in time to get a first date with Gordon. Now I worried about getting that date before San Nicholas turned him banana-pants crazy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lights gleamed thr
ough the narrow windows of Ewan’s cheerful Victorian as Charlene and I climbed the steps to the front porch. In a suicidal frenzy, moths batted themselves against the lamp beside the white front door.

  I shifted the boxed boysenberry pie in my arms and smothered a yawn. For a Tuesday, the day had been strangely tiring. “Are you sure they want to see us?” Ewan had invited us both to dinner, but I wasn’t sure how much of it had been his idea and how much was a put-up job by Charlene.

  “We’re bringing pie,” she said in a low voice. “And I told you, he invited us. I think he needs a distraction. These murders are weighing on him.”

  I knew the feeling. The death in Pie Town earlier this year had left me with a sickening, creeping sensation and the knowledge that someone close could strike again. It had been a bad time, and had nearly sunk my new business.

  Charlene knocked on the door.

  After a moment, the door creaked open and Bridget stood, her blond-gray hair haloed by the light from the foyer behind her. She glanced at me, and her expression faltered. Bridget plastered on a smile. “Hi! My dad told me you were coming for dinner. Come on in. Is that pie?”

  “What else?” Charlene asked.

  Bridget led us through the foyer and into the living room. The paneled walls were painted off-white and the hardwood floor was stripped to a rustic finish. A brick fireplace stood unlit on the opposite wall. A longhorn skull hung above the cream-colored couch.

  I walked to a white-painted shelf and studied its books and western artifacts: a gray feather in a bottle, a railroad spike, a lasso.

  Bridget plucked a bottle of wine from the low, natural-wood coffee table. “Zinfandel?”

  Charlene collapsed onto the ivory couch. “It’s too hot for red wine. Got any beer?”

  “Always.” Carrying two frosty brown bottles, Ewan strolled into the room. The lines beneath his eyes had deepened and turned cavernous. A tuft of his silver hair stuck out from behind one ear. “That kind of day?” He patted her shoulder, and she laid her hand atop his.

  A look passed between them—fondness, admiration, relief.

  “Thanks,” Charlene said.

  He hitched his jeans and handed her a bottle. “Val? What about you?”

  “I’ll try that Zin,” I said.

  Bridget poured a goblet. Forehead creased, she handed it to me.

  “Thanks.” I shook my head slightly. I wasn’t going to rat her out about the stalking lawsuit.

  Charlene took a swig of her beer and made a face. “Blech. Tastes like hippy.”

  I choked on my wine, trying not to laugh.

  Bridget snorted.

  “Has it gone bad?” Ewan passed her his bottle. “Here, take mine.” He sat in a wide, leather chair angled to face the couch. Ewan stared into the bottle’s amber depths. “We were supposed to have a wedding here tonight. They canceled.”

  I grimaced and sat beside Charlene. “Because of the murder?” Murders, I mentally corrected. Plural.

  He nodded. “They were up front about the reason for the cancellation. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion, and they didn’t want it ruined with blood and police tape. And they aren’t the only cancellations. If I get another wedding party at the Bar X, it will be a miracle. How did you deal with it?” he asked me.

  “Me?” I straightened on the couch.

  “The death in Pie Town last spring,” he said. “I read the papers. It was initially blamed on your quiche. That couldn’t have been good for business.”

  “No.” I turned the goblet in my hands. “Eventually the truth came out, and the customers returned. The same will happen here.” I tried to inject confidence into my voice.

  “Will it?” he asked. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get this place rolling? A fake, Old West ghost town as an event venue? Everybody thought I was nuts to do it. If I lose the Bar X—”

  “You won’t lose it,” his daughter said fiercely. “They’ll find out who killed Devon and Larry, and this will be over.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s one thing to have a phantom haunting the premises. Two murders are something else. There aren’t many people who’ll rent a place with that kind of history.”

  Charlene banged her beer bottle on the table hard enough to rattle the cheese platter. “Enough with the pity party. No one ever pulled out of a slump by sitting around and feeling sorry for himself.”

  “That’s not fair.” Bridget’s eyes flashed.

  “Fair’s a carnival,” Charlene said. “We live in the real world, and we need to deal with the truth. The only way you’re going to get your business back on track is if you focus on what you can do to make it work, not on all the reasons why it won’t.”

  Bridget flushed. “You have no right—”

  “No,” Ewan said. “She’s right.” He rose and paced before the cold fireplace. “I never got anywhere in a funk. We need to figure out who’s responsible and finish this. And I need to get back to basics. I’ve been letting the business ride on its reputation. When I started the Bar X, I had to build that reputation. I had to do footwork, bring people in. I can do that again.”

  “Of course, you can,” Charlene said.

  Thoughtful, I slipped a piece of Irish cheddar onto a cracker. Two murders in one place . . . Could the killer have a grudge against Ewan? Or were the murders a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone scenario? Get rid of people you don’t like and destroy Ewan’s ranch?

  “Do you have any enemies?” I asked him.

  “Me?” He tucked his chin, his grizzled brow furrowing.

  Charlene nodded. “You’re thinking the harm to Ewan’s business might not be an unintended side effect.”

  “You believe it’s intentional?” Bridget asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We need to explore all the possibilities.”

  “If someone wanted to hurt me . . .” He glanced at Bridget then looked to the darkened window. “I can’t imagine who would. I wasn’t the best person when I was young. The Navy eventually straightened me out, but there were a dozen men who wouldn’t have minded taking a swing at me. But that was a lifetime ago, and none of them are in San Nicholas.”

  “What about this property in general?” I asked. “Was anyone upset about how you developed it?”

  “There was a local environmental group that wanted to buy the property and keep it as an open space,” he said, “but I outbid them. They weren’t happy, but they were never threatening.”

  “What about Marla?” Charlene asked.

  I schooled my expression.

  “Marla?” Ewan’s ivory brows lifted. “What about her?”

  “She was on the scene,” Charlene said. “Rumor has it she was close to Devon.”

  “To Devon?” Ewan asked. “Curly’s not going to like that. He’s got a big crush on her.”

  “So, she has been spending more time around the Bar X than your average client,” Charlene said.

  “What do you mean?” Ewan asked.

  “I mean enough time to get to know both Curly and Devon,” Charlene said.

  “She’s held several events here,” Ewan said. “Private parties, things for charity. We’ve all gotten to know each other.”

  “I also heard that Devon might have been underpouring drinks,” I said.

  Charlene shot me an irritated look.

  “I heard that too,” Ewan said, “but I never saw any evidence of it.”

  A timer pinged from the kitchen.

  “That’s dinner,” he said. “Come on, folks.”

  They led us into the dining room. The walls were painted deep red, setting off the rustic wood table and chairs and the wagon wheel on one wall. On the opposite side of the room was another cold fireplace.

  She and her father moved back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. They loaded the long table with lasagna, sourdough bread thick with garlic, buttered asparagus, and a green salad.

  “More wine?” Ewan asked, extending the bottle toward me.<
br />
  “She can’t. She’s driving,” Charlene said. “But I’ll have another beer.”

  I made a face. So that was why Charlene had agreed so easily to let me drive. “By the way,” I said, “where did they find Larry’s horse?”

  Ewan topped up Bridget’s glass and sat at the head of the rustic table. “Tied up at the corral.”

  So, the animal hadn’t kicked him in the stall and bolted. “Why would Larry leave his horse there?”

  “The corral’s not far from the carriage house,” Charlene said. “Maybe he tied the horse up, saw something or someone in the carriage house, and decided to walk over.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” I said, but it seemed odd he’d leave his horse. Or was I getting as superstitious as those partiers who’d canceled?

  During dinner, we made small talk, and Ewan regaled us with tales of the Old West, which was wilder than even the movies painted.

  “Can you imagine striking out like that for unknown territory?” Ewan asked. “Being completely on your own—just you and your wits and your horse? The hope and dread and excitement?”

  “And the manual labor.” Charlene raised her beer. “I’ll take this century, thank you very much. I like my indoor plumbing and antibiotics and washing machines.”

  “Who knows?” Ewan’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe what they say about reincarnation is true, and we get to experience it all.”

  The conversation turned to the metaphysical and paranormal. Half listening, I watched the interplay between Ewan and Charlene. Was he winding her up, or did he really share her interests? I turned the wine goblet in my hands. If the latter, why hadn’t he told her about the Bar X phantom sooner?

  “Any more phantom sightings?” I asked, studying Charlene.

  “None,” Bridget said sharply.

  “I’ve been researching tulpas,” Charlene said. “And I have to say, I’m concerned. If that’s what you’ve got, they can get nasty.”