Bleeding Tarts Page 22

  Charlene groaned and braced her head in her hands.

  “What’s wrong with being a bartender?” Patel asked.

  “Ask Devon Blackett,” she said. “Oh, right, you can’t, because he’s dead.”

  “I don’t need this.” Patel’s jaw tightened. “Are you ordering or not?”

  “You were jealous,” Marla said.

  “Marla,” I said. “No. Patel’s got nothing to do with—”

  “Admit it,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “You were jealous because Devon got the job bartending at the Bar X, and you didn’t. And so, you killed him.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “The three of you need to leave.” His voice rang across the bar area. “Now.”

  At their tables, customers turned to stare.

  My face went hot. “The three of us? We’re not—”

  “I should have guessed you two were trying to make me a patsy in one of your stupid cases,” he said.

  I pressed a hand to my heart. “I wasn’t! We weren’t!”

  “Our cases aren’t stupid,” Charlene said.

  “Patel,” I said, “this is all a misunderstanding. Right, Marla?”

  “Wrong,” she said. “Patel knows what he did, and I won’t stand for it.”

  “What is this?” he asked. “Good cop, bad cop? I don’t have to answer your questions, because here’s a news flash. None of you are cops. Now get out, all of you, before I call the real police.”

  I stammered. “But . . .”

  Charlene threw some bills on the counter and grabbed my arm. “Come on.”

  A waitress walked into the bar and glowered at us. “Is there a problem in here?” She shifted her tray beneath her arm.

  “No,” I said. “But—”

  “Let’s go,” Charlene said.

  I’d never been thrown out of a bar before in my life. Red-hot mortification flooded every single one of my cells. “But—”

  “No buts,” Charlene said, “you heard the man. We’ll clear up this misunderstanding later.”

  “This isn’t over,” Marla shouted at him.

  Chin to my chest, I trudged into the sloped parking lot. The fog swirled around us, providing welcome cover for my shame.

  Charlene glowered at Marla. “Nice job, Columbo.”

  “I suppose you think you could have done better,” Marla said.

  “He was giving us real information,” I said. “If you hadn’t started hassling him, we might have learned more.”

  “More information you weren’t going to share with me,” Marla said. “I thought we were partners.”

  “Partners?” Charlene scoffed. “After you hung us out to dry at Curly’s?”

  “I had to,” she said. “If I hadn’t caused a distraction, I would have been caught. And then how could I have saved you?”

  “You didn’t save us,” Charlene said. “You ditched us.”

  “Only so I could get away with the garbage bags.” She raised her eyebrows, her gaze questioning. “I don’t suppose you want to help go through them?”

  “No,” Charlene and I said in unison.

  “Did you learn anything from Curly?” Marla asked.

  “Yeah,” Charlene said. “He owns a shotgun. We’re lucky he didn’t fill us full of lead or call the cops.”

  “I don’t see what you’re so upset about,” Marla said, “since neither happened. Besides, thanks to me, you now know that Patel person is a suspect in Devon’s murder.”

  “He’s not.” I pulled my Pie Town hoodie tighter. It wasn’t made for frigid ocean breezes. “He wasn’t at the ranch when Devon or Larry were killed. And I really liked that bar.” I wasn’t much of a bar person, so it was pretty much the only bar I liked. Now I couldn’t imagine returning. This was worse than getting caught by Curly.

  “Yes,” Marla said, “Patel is a suspect. Devon confided that Patel was jealous he’d beat him out for the job at the Bar X. Did you know Patel once let the air out of Devon’s tires?”

  Charlene squared her jaw. “Devon caught him at it, did he?”

  “No,” Marla said, “he didn’t, but who else could it have been? The tires were flattened at the Bar X, and on a night when Patel was running his silly Trading Post.”

  “A night when you were there?” Charlene asked.

  Marla drew herself up. “Just what are you implying?”

  “Anyone could have let the air out of Devon’s tires,” I said. “If Devon didn’t see who did it, then you can’t assume it was Patel.”

  “And you see only what you want to see.” She tossed her silvery hair and stormed to her Mercedes. Slamming the door, she roared out of the parking lot.

  “I think she’s really upset.” I rubbed my face. “Maybe she did care for Devon.”

  Charlene snorted. “Marla cares about one person, and that’s Marla.”

  “I dunno.” I watched the roadster’s taillights disappear over the rise.

  “She’s only on this case to beat me.”

  “You think so? Because there seems to be more motivating Marla than a simple rivalry.”

  “Do you remember my trip to Oregon, and that Bigfoot photo I snapped?”

  How could I forget? She’d taped the blurry picture to the back of the cash register until customers complained. “Yes,” I said, my head cocked.

  “Two weeks later, Marla went to Scotland. Scotland,” she said significantly.

  I blinked. “You don’t mean—”

  “She shot a video of the Loch Ness monster. It was obviously only a floating log, but it got picked up by the Paranormal Travel Channel and Cryptozoologists International. Do you know where my Bigfoot photo went?”

  “Your Twitter feed?”

  “Into the local Bigfoot museum.”

  “We have a Bigfoot museum?”

  “Not here. In Oregon.”

  A crow settled on the White Lady’s tile roof and clicked its beak in reproach.

  I pulled my hood low over my head. “I’ve never been thrown out of a bar before. Do you think they’ll let us come back?”

  “Cheer up,” Charlene said. “The humiliation can’t have been as bad as getting dumped at the altar.”

  “For the last time, I wasn’t at the altar.”

  She patted my arm. “Of course, you weren’t. Sorry. Marla makes me crazy. She’s just . . .” She pinched her lips together. “She’s Marla!”

  “Yeah. Marla.” There didn’t seem any more to be said.

  The sun vanished beneath the horizon, the thick fog hurrying the rush of night. I waved good-bye to Charlene and watched her drive off in her Jeep.

  I took one last peek over the cliff. A dull, rhythmic roar greeted me, the waves invisible in the deepening dark.

  I slid into my VW, turned the heat on full blast, and puttered down the coastal road, past beach homes and colorful Victorians. Trails of mossy old man’s beard dripped from the dark cypress trees. If I was a kid, I’d trick-or-treat in this neighborhood in a heartbeat.

  Two headlamps flashed on behind me. Wincing, I adjusted my mirror.

  Instead of heading toward Highway One, I took a back road. Closer to the ocean, it wound past hillocks covered in sagebrush and tall grass. On a warm day, the place smelled divine, but tonight all I could smell was the musty scent from my heater. I needed to take my VW to the garage for a tune-up.

  What if I did buy that van? Could I trade in my VW and get the price knocked down? I shook my head. Even if I traded in my ancient Bug—and I couldn’t do that—the van would be out of my budget.

  I glanced in my rearview mirror, and unease whispered up my spine. The car was still behind me. I accelerated—not exactly speeding, but getting close.

  The other car increased its pace to match.

  I bit my bottom lip, my glance flicking to the rearview mirror. Behind me, the car’s headlights were set wide apart, probably a sedan.

  I smiled.

  Gordon’s sedan.

  Digging my cell phone from my bag, I c
licked it on. “Call Gordon,” I ordered. “Speaker.”

  There was a beep, and the phone rang.

  “Val?” Gordon asked. “What’s going on?”

  I smiled harder. “You tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I see your car behind me. You really don’t have to follow me home tonight. I’m pretty sure I can make it there safely.”

  “Uh, Val. I’m at my parents’.”

  My mouth slackened. “Oh. Sorry. My mistake.”

  “Is someone following you?”

  “No. I mean, I thought it was you. It’s probably nothing.” The road twisted into an industrial area of fishing supply companies and tumbledown shacks. Faded fishing floats and worn nets hung like Christmas ornaments from a chain-link fence.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  My grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m driving toward the American Legion from the coastal road.”

  “Okay, make three lefts. See if he follows you.”

  I turned left, and left, and left again, circling a wine tasting room in a corrugated iron building.

  The sedan followed.

  My stomach twisted into my throat. “Ah, I’ve made the turns. The car’s still there.”

  “Okay, Val, listen. I want you to drive to the police station. I’ll meet you there. And stay on the line.”

  “Sure.” My voice cracked. I glanced in the rearview mirror. In the dark, all I could make out were those rectangular headlights.

  The car accelerated and slammed into my rear bumper.

  My VW fishtailed sideways. I shrieked and hit the accelerator, zipping forward and narrowly avoiding a dumpster.

  The phone skittered to the floor.

  I wrenched the wheel to the right. Tires screeching, I whipped around a corner, barely missing an ancient pickup on cinderblocks. I veered onto a narrow road lined with unlit warehouses.

  Panicked, I floored it, but my VW was outmatched by the sedan. It roared forward and slammed into my bumper again. The VW jolted.

  Tinny shouts drifted from the floor of my car.

  My pursuer edged to the left, as if to pass.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” I shouted. I’d seen enough TV car chases to know what came next. He’d slam me sideways, try to ram me into one of the corrugated buildings I was flashing past. Or worse, he’d cut me off and box me in.

  The industrial area vanished, giving way to a farmer’s field. I wove drunkenly, blocking the other car from getting around me. The car thunked me from behind, snapping me forward.

  I shrieked like a five-year-old girl.

  A ribbon of moving lights stretched before me. Highway One.

  My shoulders tightened. “Come on, Bug. You can do it. You can—”

  The car rammed me again. My seat belt caught me hard across the stomach, and I gasped with pain.

  The red and gold lights zipping along the highway grew closer. Closer.

  Ahead, the road sloped sharply upward before a stop sign. I didn’t slow, didn’t think. On the One, the line of cars magically parted. I could see my way into the flow of traffic.

  I sped up, hit the rise. The VW went airborne.

  “Huzzah!”

  The car landed with a hard bump, lurching forward. I wrenched the wheel hard to the right. The VW skidded. I wedged myself into traffic and vaguely registered a hubcap flying into a field.

  A horn blared, but I laughed out loud. I was alive! I was Mario Andretti! And the police station was less than two miles away.

  Red and blue lights flashed behind me. Like that was going to stop me. For all I knew, my pursuer had fake police lights.

  At the turn into downtown, the stoplight’s arrow turned green, the traffic gods giving me their blessing. I hung a left, then a right, crossing the bridge and screeching onto Main Street. The siren behind me howled, but I was closing on my target.

  In front of the police station, I jammed on the brakes. The car skidded sideways, out of control. The VW hit something hard, flinging me into the door. There was a rending sound, a tearing, the VW wailing in agony.

  And then all was silent.

  Hands trembling, I stepped from the car.

  A blaze of light blinded me. “Don’t move!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  So. I got arrested.

  How was I to know that was a real traffic cop behind me? And, of course, whoever had been chasing me had fallen back as soon as I got on Highway One.

  Fortunately, Gordon, chiseled and serious, arrived at the police station about fifteen minutes after I did. Unfortunately, Chief Shaw was there too.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Harris, your pies are excellent, but the law’s the law.” Shaw stared down his hawk nose at me.

  I perched uncomfortably on the edge of a plastic chair, my hands cuffed.

  “Chief,” Gordon said, “she called me, and I told her to drive straight here. And there is rear-end damage to her car. I was on the phone with her the entire time—”

  “And talking on your cell phone while driving?” Shaw asked. “Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve broken?”

  “I was on speaker phone,” I bleated. “It’s voice activated.”

  “Between that, the reckless driving, the damage to that light pole—”

  “Sir,” Gordon said, “may I have a word?” He shrugged his shoulders in his motorcycle jacket.

  “I suppose there’s no harm in it.” Shaw moved away.

  “Um, Sir, I meant with you.” Gordon trotted after him, and they disappeared into an office.

  The arresting officer loomed over me. “You should have pulled over.”

  “I know, Officer Perkins.” Double embarrassment. Perkins was a regular at Pie Town. “All I could think was to get to the police station. Someone really was chasing me, and I was so close.”

  “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  I lowered my head and stared at the linoleum floor. How apt. Because it felt like I’d stepped on a grenade. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Getting thrown out of a bar or getting arrested for reckless driving.

  “You do have good pies though.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The department went nuts when all those cherries came back from the Bar X. Really, excellent work, Val.”

  “What?!” I knew those cops had snaffled my pies to eat!

  Chief Shaw stuck his narrow face out of the door. “Perkins?”

  The officer nodded and strolled into the office.

  Fuming over the pies, I rolled my shoulders and waited. For the record, handcuffs are not comfortable. Unless you’re a yogi, they bite into your wrists. And the longer you’re in them, the more painful they become. Maybe I should have requested waist shackles instead.

  The cops emerged from the office. Gordon and Chief Shaw ambled toward me.

  “Stand up,” the chief said.

  I rose.

  “Turn around.”

  I did, and he uncuffed me. Relieved, I rubbed my wrists.

  “What you did was foolish, young lady,” Shaw said.

  I bit my tongue. Young lady? He wasn’t that much older than me. Ten years, tops. Maybe fifteen. Possibly twenty.

  “We’ll only be charging you with speeding,” he said, “and you’ll have to pay for any repairs to that light pole.”

  I released a gusty breath. “Thank you, Chief Shaw.”

  He preened, seemingly pleased with the “Chief.” “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Thank Detective Carmichael and Officer Perkins. I think Perkins has a soft spot for you.” He winked and wandered down a rear hallway.

  “See ya, Val,” Perkins said, and he left too.

  “How are you feeling?” Gordon asked.

  “Humiliated, but grateful. Thank you.”

  “I meant physically.” His jade eyes darkened with concern. “That sort of crash can do a number on your neck.”

  I rubbed my muscles. “I feel okay.”

  “You might not tomorrow. Put some ic
e on it. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “I don’t want to ruin any more of your evening. I can drive myself.”

  He held the front door open for me. “No, I don’t think you can.”

  I walked outside and stopped short at the top of the brick steps.

  An iron lamp post was embedded in the side of my blue VW. My car was half up the curb, its wheels at an odd angle.

  I tried to swallow, couldn’t. In all the excitement of being arrested, I hadn’t really noticed the damage to my vintage car.

  “Have you got Triple A?” he asked.

  Numb, I nodded. Pointed. “My wallet is in the car.”

  I stumbled down the three brick steps to the sidewalk. My Bug. Squashed. I suspected the insurance company’s verdict: totaled. The repairs would likely cost more than the old car’s value, and my throat thickened. I’d had that VW since college. It was one of the few souvenirs from my old life, my pre-engagement life, life with my mom.

  Gordon opened the driver’s side door and leaned in, extracted my purse. He strode to the sidewalk and handed it to me. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  His green eyes darkened with concern. “Are you all right?”

  Unable to speak, I motioned toward the Bug.

  He gave me my cell phone. “I found it on the floor. The good news is, I don’t think you’ve damaged the light pole. Some scraped paint, but that’s it. All you’ll get stuck with is the speeding ticket.”

  I nodded and tried to feel grateful. I was alive. I wasn’t under arrest. And I had friends like Gordon and Officer Perkins to help me out of a jam. But all I felt was awful.

  Swallowing, I pulled myself together and dug through my wallet for my membership card. I called, explaining the situation, and requested a tow truck.

  “Are you in a safe place?” the dispatcher asked.

  I glanced at Gordon, then at the police station, its windows glowing amber through the fog. “Yes.”

  “We’ll get a tow truck to you in fifteen to twenty minutes,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I hung up. Maybe Gordon was right. Maybe I had gotten in over my head. Maybe Charlene and I had gotten lucky in our first murder investigation.

  “It’s not that bad,” he said.

  I forced a smile. “Any day above ground is a good one, right?” It was one of Charlene’s favorite sayings.