Bleeding Tarts Read online

  “What can you tell me about the car that was following you?”

  “It’s probably got my blue paint on its front fender. It looked like a sedan. The headlights were spaced wide apart. That’s why I thought you were behind me. But I couldn’t tell you the car’s make or color. Oh.” I remembered. “And the headlights looked rectangular.” I shivered and hugged myself.

  “We can wait inside.” He nodded toward the police station.

  “No,” I said quickly. “That’s okay.” I’d rather not spend any more time in the police station than I had to.

  “You’ve attracted the wrong person’s attention.”

  “You warned me about asking questions.” I’d already nearly gotten Ray killed. How many hard lessons did I need before I learned? “I should stay out of this,” I said dully.

  “I think it’s too late for that. This is the third attempt on your life. Fourth, if you count the pie incident.”

  Surprised, I looked up at him. “Then what—”

  “I’ll come up with something.”

  Heat bubbled in my chest, my rotten mood evaporating. I had friends. I was unhurt. And whoever had tried to run me off the road had picked the wrong pie maker to bully.

  We waited on the sidewalk.

  He shrugged out of his jacket. “Take it.” He handed it to me, and our fingers brushed.

  A shiver of energy tingled through me. Swallowing, I slithered into the jacket and was enveloped in Gordon’s woodsy scent.

  A few minutes later, the tow truck rumbled up the road.

  The driver lumbered out of the yellow truck and stared at my crushed Bug. Shaking his graying head, he removed his cap and laid it over his heart. “I used to own one of these. Good car.”

  He promised to tow it to my regular garage, and we left him muttering and clucking over the patient.

  Gordon drove me home, staying to check out my hobbit-sized house for intruders. He glanced at the kitchenette, stuck his head in the bathroom, and peered around the bookcase that blocked off the sleeping area. No attackers lurked in the shadows.

  Seemingly satisfied, he said, “Where’s that ice pack?”

  “Um. Freezer.” I grabbed a bag of frozen peas.

  Whipping a dish cloth from the oven handle, he wrapped it around the peas. He turned me around and lifted my hair, pressed the peas lightly against the back of my neck.

  I drew in a quick breath—from the cold or from his presence, I couldn’t say.

  “I don’t like leaving you here alone,” he rumbled behind me. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”

  “I’ll call Charlene.” She’d want to hear about the car chase, but she wouldn’t want to spend the night. And I wouldn’t ask her to.

  He stepped to the door and smiled, lopsided. “Tell her to bring Frederick.” Gordon brushed a kiss across my forehead and left.

  * * *

  In spite of the frozen peas, I had a whacking-big neck-ache the next day. The sunlight streaming through the blinds at Pie Town assaulted my eyes. The chatter of diners and clatter of plates and rolling of dice battered at my ears. Not even the scent of baking fruit and sugar cheered me.

  My VW was dead, and I was in mourning. The garage thought they could get a hundred bucks out of it for scrap.

  Scrap!

  Moving stiffly, I cleared one of the tables. “It was vintage,” I muttered.

  “You okay, Val?” Henrietta called from the gamers’ booth. Beneath her mop of sandy hair, she beamed.

  Balancing the plastic bin full of dishes on one hip, I turned my body to smile at her. “I’m fantastic.”

  Ray’s crutches leaned against the gamers’ table. He’d draped his arm along the back of the booth, and his fingers grazed Henrietta’s shoulder. A casual gesture? Or something more?

  Enough with feeling sorry for myself. Poor Ray had suffered multiple breaks, and he was moving on. “Can I get anything for you?” I asked.

  “Not me,” he said, glancing at Henrietta.

  She shook her head. “I’m good.”

  Ramrod straight, I delivered the bin of dirty dishes to the kitchen and set them beside the dishwasher. When I returned to my post behind the counter, Charlene had materialized on one of the pink counter stools.

  She eyed me sympathetically and raised her mug. “Looks like you need an aspirin.”

  “An aspirin, a heating pad, and a vodka tonic.”

  “What’s the word on your car?” she asked.

  I shook my head, and hot pain streaked up my neck. “Totaled.” I rubbed the heel of my palm against my chest, as if to ease the ache.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “I’m screwed?”

  “We’ve got a real excuse to return to Larry’s Pre-Owned Vehicles. You need a new car. I can’t drive you to work every morning.”

  Cautiously, I leaned my hip against the counter and it didn’t hurt. As long as I kept my spine arrow straight, my lower body could do the merengue, and I’d feel no pain. “Do you think it’s odd that this is the third time someone’s tried to kill me by vehicular homicide? Devon was shot. Larry was bashed in the head.”

  “You know what they say. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Meaning whoever’s trying and failing to kill you is a lunatic.”

  “In San Nicholas, that doesn’t narrow the field by much.”

  “Or it means the third time isn’t the charm.” She slurped her coffee. “The good news is, I’ve put the word out on the Internet and have gotten some intriguing responses.”

  “Word out?” I asked.

  “About whoever was chasing you. Turns out a sedan’s gone missing from Larry’s lot.”

  “Really?”

  “One of the salesman is a follower of mine on Twitter.” She tossed her sleek white hair and checked her watch. “I’ll return to Pie Town at six, and we can car shop together.”

  “Six is when I close. I need a little more time to clean up.”

  “Do it later. The car lot’s only open until seven.”

  “But—”

  She swiveled off the stool and marched out, the bell over the door jingling.

  I made a noise of despair. She was right. I needed a new car now. I couldn’t exactly walk to work, and there wasn’t any bus service in the hills where I lived. So, I kept calm and manned the register, doling out pies.

  Graham and Wally ambled in. Pouring themselves coffee, they took up positions at the counter.

  I sidled over to them. “You two are usually morning visitors. What gives?”

  Graham removed his soft cap and took a sip of his coffee. “What? We can’t switch things up every now and again?” He glanced at Wally, and they roared with laughter.

  I didn’t get the joke.

  “He’s fooling with you,” Wally said. “We’re early risers and will always be morning guys. We stopped by because we heard about your car chase. Word is, you took out a lamp post.”

  “I didn’t take it out,” I said. “I only scratched the paint.”

  “Get a good look at who was chasing you?” Graham asked.

  “Aside from Officer Perkins, no.”

  “Too bad,” Graham said. “We didn’t hear anything either.”

  Since they didn’t seem to have more to add, I wandered to the register. A harried-looking, middle-aged man rushed to the counter and ordered four mini potpies and four mini assorted fruit pies. “Wife’s out of town.” He gulped. “The kids had pizza last night.”

  “Good luck,” I said, making change.

  And so it went until six o’clock. I shooed the gamers out of Pie Town and was turning the sign to CLOSED when Charlene appeared on the doorstep.

  She leaned inside. “Ready?”

  “I guess.” I looked around. The kitchen was clean, but the tables and counter needed wiping, and the floor needed mopping and . . . I’d do it later.
r />   We piled into Charlene’s Jeep and drove down Highway One. In the west, the sky glowed tangerine and rose. The car lot’s balloon man flapped morosely. I wondered who was running the lot now that Larry was dead.

  A salesman pounced before I’d gotten the Jeep’s door open.

  “Welcome! How can I earn your business today?” He smiled, his teeth flashing white in the darkening twilight.

  My brows lowered. “Um, we’re looking for Larry,” I lied. Charlene and I had planned our approach. I didn’t think it was a very good one, but I couldn’t come up with anything better.

  The salesman’s expression turned solemn. He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Pelt has passed.”

  “Then who’s running the place?” Charlene braced her elbows on the hood of her yellow Jeep.

  “Mr. Pelt’s nephew, but I’m sure I can help you. What sort of vehicle are you looking for?”

  “We’re looking for Pelt’s nephew,” Charlene said.

  “We’ve got some great new Jeeps. And if you’re interested in an SUV, we’ve got some real beauties. Now, I can tell you ladies are looking for something to run around town in.”

  “No,” I said, “we’re—”

  “Oh, you two are distance drivers?”

  “The only distance she drives is between her home and Pie Town,” Charlene said.

  “Pie Town?” He snapped his fingers. “The van, of course. I heard you were interested. Came back for another looksie, did you? We’ve got another customer who wants it, but he had to talk it over with his wife. If you act fast, I can sell it to you.”

  My chest tightened. Someone else wanted the van?

  Charlene crossed her arms, rumpling her loose, green, knit jacket. “That’s the oldest line in the car salesman handbook. What man would want that pink monstrosity?”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I said. It was fantastic—a perfect, pie-box pink.

  “He’s planning on repainting it in camo,” he said. “He’s a duck hunter. And for the price that van is selling at, he can repaint it any way he wants, and it’s still a deal.”

  “Where’s Greg?” Charlene asked.

  “This way.” He strode around the side of the building, and we followed.

  Charlene pinched my arm.

  “Ow!”

  “What are you thinking, acting interested in that van?” she whispered.

  I rubbed my sore arm. “If I have to buy a car, I may as well get the van. It’s perfect for pie transport.”

  “Don’t let him know that. My deal on the price was with Larry, and he’s dead. If Salesboy thinks you want it, he’ll never drop the price.”

  “If that duck hunter buys it, it won’t matter anyway.”

  Charlene snorted, weaving between a Porsche and a Ford Escort. “There’s no duck hunter.”

  “Here it is,” the salesman said, stopping in front of the pink van.

  I sighed. The pink van, my blushing beauty, gleamed dimly in the twilight. And I still couldn’t afford it.

  “We asked to see Greg, not the van,” Charlene said.

  He grinned at me. “I can tell you’re considering this van, and you can imagine how nice it would be to drive home in it. Greg will be happy to help with the paperwork.”

  Charlene swiveled on her heel. “Come on, Val.”

  Neck aching, I trotted after her.

  “Wait!” the salesman shouted. “Don’t you want to take it for a test drive?”

  Charlene lengthened her strides. “If Greg’s available to help with paperwork—and right now I don’t trust a word out of that salesman’s mouth—he’s in the showroom.”

  The salesman hurried after us. “I can see you’re used to playing hardball.”

  “We’re used to talking with Greg,” Charlene said, pushing through the glass doors. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Greg! Get your butt down here!”

  Her voice echoed off the shiny pre-owned vehicles, the tile floor, the chrome staircase.

  I winced.

  An upstairs door popped open, and Greg hurried down the sleek metal steps, a black armband around his crisp white shirt. “Mrs. McCree! Ms. Harris! It’s great to see you both.” He nodded to the other salesman. “I’ll take it from here, Ron.”

  Ron’s face fell, and he slouched from the building.

  Greg grimaced. “Sorry. Ron can be a little overeager. But thanks for coming. You saw my Tweet?”

  Charlene quirked a brow. “You’re @GregorianChant something something?”

  “That’s my Twitter handle. I’m the one who sent you that tip about the stolen sedan.”

  “Why?” I lowered my head and studied him.

  His tanned face grew somber. “Because I liked my uncle. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’ve had two stolen cars in a week—the same week he was murdered.”

  “Did you report the theft to the police?” I asked.

  “How else would we claim the insurance?” He and Charlene shared a knowing look.

  “What can you tell us?” I asked.

  “Same as last time,” he said. “Someone stole the car’s key off the board. Whoever killed my uncle must have stolen his keyring. This time, they got into the dealership without having to break in.”

  “Must have?” Charlene asked. “You mean, you don’t know for sure?”

  “The police haven’t given me his effects, and they haven’t told me what was or wasn’t in his pockets. Why would they? I’m only a nephew. I’m also heir to Larry’s vast pre-owned car fortune.” He slumped against a blue Mustang convertible. “They think I have motive.”

  Charlene patted his shoulder. “I doubt that. It is a nice car dealership though.”

  “It’s an amazing dealership. Larry built it from scratch. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful—I’m thrilled he left it to me. I just didn’t want it to happen so soon. He was a good guy.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  I pretended not to notice his brown eyes had grown watery. “Did Larry say anything to you in the last week about the murder at the Bar X?” I asked.

  “No. And believe me, I asked. I think he was shaken by the murder. He seemed off.”

  “Off how?” I asked.

  “He was always a happy guy. I know car salesmen have a reputation for being fakes, but Larry really enjoyed cars, and he enjoyed people too. But this last week, I could tell he was forcing it. He wasn’t himself.”

  “I heard there was a falling out between him and the other Blue Steel guys about a horse,” I said.

  Greg choked back a laugh. “About a horse? It was over a woman.”

  My brows rose. “A woman? Who?”

  “Some rich lady who’s got a place on the beach.”

  “Not Marla Van Helsing?” Charlene asked.

  “That’s the one,” he said. “I’ve seen her in action. She flirted with all of them, but my uncle ended up dating her until she found someone better. That’s what broke up the team.”

  “Why did Larry tell us their falling out was over money and the time he was putting in taking care of the horses?”

  “Code of the West,” he said. “You don’t speak badly about a lady.”

  I folded my arms. Of all the reasons to lie during a murder investigation . . .

  “We’d like to take a look at Larry’s papers,” Charlene said. “He might have left a clue to his murderer.”

  “The police have already been here,” he said, angling his head toward the upstairs office. “So, if you want to take a look at what’s left in his desk, I guess that’s okay. Come on. I’ll show you.”

  We followed him up the stairs to the office. It was painted white, with windows overlooking the showroom and the darkening sky. Two rolling chairs sat on one side of a black, curving desk, and a matching chair was on the other.

  Greg watched us rifle the desk. “Say, I can always rent that van to you, let you get a feel for it before you decide to buy.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, thumbi
ng through a stack of envelopes.

  We didn’t turn up any incriminating photos or secret reveals to the murderer’s identity, so we moved on to the filing cabinets.

  After an hour, Charlene rolled back her chair and shook her head. “There’s nothing.”

  I shut a cabinet drawer. “Same here.”

  “Sorry,” Greg said. “The police didn’t seem to find anything either. At least, they didn’t take anything away.”

  “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?” Charlene asked.

  “Because you want the killer caught as badly as I do,” he said. “If you find anything, would you let me know?”

  “After we tell the police,” I said.

  “Right,” he said. “And, uh, Mrs. McCree?”

  She looked up. “Yes?”

  His smooth cheeks reddened. “Is it true about the fairies in the dog park?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Pie Town’s Saturday afternoon crowd was buzzing. Balancing a tray of pies, I sped to a booth full of surfers near the front window.

  Heidi walked past outside and paused to scowl at me.

  I wasn’t going to let her bother me. So what if I could barely manage fifty pushups? I got plenty of exercise, even if my jeans had seemed a little tight this morning.

  White cat draped over her shoulder, Charlene breezed into the pie shop and poured herself a cup of coffee. She lounged against the counter and eyed the restaurant. Gamers in one corner. Surfers in the opposite. Couples in between with sunburnt noses and salt-tangled hair.

  “You take a break yet?” she asked.

  “What?” Frowning at the cat, I whizzed past her into the kitchen. I set the tub of dirty dishes beside the dishwasher, and returned to my spot behind the register.

  “I said, have you had a break yet?” She sipped her coffee.

  “Sure, I . . .” My stomach rumbled, and I glanced at the clock. Two-thirty, and I hadn’t eaten lunch. Had I taken a break at all today?

  Expression shuttered, Petronella leaned through the kitchen window. “No, you haven’t had lunch. Go ahead, Abril and I have got this.”

  “You sure?” I shifted my weight, rolled my shoulders. It was busy today, and Petronella was still acting stiff around me. Somewhere, I’d wrongfooted it, and dumping more work on her couldn’t help things.