Pies Before Guys Page 8

  “Well,” I said hurriedly, “thanks, Patel. If you do hear anything pertaining to the murder, let us—I mean the police—know.”

  Charlene growled. “I’m flying my UFO straight over her fancy beach house.”

  Patel rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, there is something else.”

  “That rat, that—” Charlene stopped midstream. “I thought you said that was all you knew?”

  “But not about the murder,” he said. “You didn’t ask me about the murder.”

  Her eyes bulged. “I was trying to be discreet!”

  Heads swiveled in our direction.

  “Patel,” I said, “hold that thought.”

  I trotted down the steps. Pausing inside the glass doors, I smoothed my dress. I slid them open, and a blast of salty air tossed my hair. The sun had settled deeper to bed, the cobalt ocean blanketing its blazing rim.

  Gordon smiled warmly. “Hey, beautiful. What kept you? Has Charlene got another paranormal caper brewing?”

  I let him tug me to the bench and sank into his embrace. He looked so good in that sweater, I hated to ruin the mood. “Yes, I mean no. Gordon, Patel says he might actually have some information about the murder.”

  “And he told you, because . . . ?”

  “He didn’t tell me. I asked him not to tell me. I asked him to tell you. I have no idea what the information is, or whether it’s of any interest. But if you don’t get up there soon, Charlene will wheedle it out of him, and then you’ll have her on your hands and in your jail.”

  “Save me.” He leapt from the bench and hurried past me and indoors.

  I dithered for a moment on the bench, grabbed my sequined clutch off the table at my elbow, and followed.

  Gordon leaned one elbow on the bar. “What’s the word, Patel?”

  The bartender set down the beer glass. “Professor Hastings’s boyfriend, that Aidan fellow, has been pushing for marriage. But she’s not interested.”

  “And?” Gordon asked.

  “And that’s it. But they were pretty hot and heavy. Well, as much as you can get at a place like this.” Patel motioned with the empty glass around the bar, filled with the low murmurs of couples at square tables.

  I slumped, disappointed. We’d already known Aidan and Dorothy were dating. Charlene had dragged us up here for this? Though in fairness, this time, I’d been the one doing the dragging.

  Charlene rubbed her jaw. “Suspicious.”

  “Anything else?” Gordon asked briskly.

  “Nope,” the bartender said. “That’s it.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” He handed Patel his card. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”

  I motioned for Charlene to stay. Cheeks burning, I followed Gordon downstairs and to the patio. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I always welcome tips.”

  “But that one was weak.”

  “Look,” he said, “I know you and Charlene are friends, and I know you do a lot for her—”

  “Not really.” She’d done more for me. Finding me a home. Getting me involved in the community. Being a friend.

  “But you need to be careful.”

  “Careful? I mean, okay, that so-called tip was embarrassing. But Patel said he had information, so I passed it on to you.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. You two have been lucky so far.”

  I preferred to think that my keen instincts and amazing skills as a detective had kept us safe and successful. My eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  He pulled me close. “She’s going to get herself into trouble,” he murmured into my hair. “I just don’t want you to get drawn in.”

  “Charlene’s not as crazy as she likes to let people think.”

  He hesitated. “It isn’t only Charlene.”

  I pulled away. A gust of wind blew off the Pacific below and shivered my skin. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m crazy?”

  “No,” Gordon said quickly. “Well, a little. In a good way. Anyone who starts a business has to be a little crazy. It’s a huge risk.”

  I folded my arms, partly from annoyance, partly because I wanted my patio blanket back. The cliff was chilly.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” he said. “Listen, this needs to be completely confidential. You can’t even say anything to Charlene.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but—”

  “But what? Telling me what?”

  He clawed a hand through his thick hair and blew out his breath. “I’m bringing Abril in for questioning tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I gaped. A bitter wind moaned through the ocean cliffs below. The sun vanished beneath the waves. Gray darkness fell, turning the Pacific to pale lines of white foam stretching toward the shore.

  I shook my head. “Question . . . You mean, not as a witness? As a suspect?” My voice rose on the last word.

  Couples at the patio tables nearby glanced our way.

  He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

  A log shifted in the firepit. Sparks shot upward, our shadows dancing weirdly across the patio.

  This was crazy. “But . . . Abril! She couldn’t hurt a fly. She instituted a catch-and-release program for the Pie Town spiders.” Not that we had much of a bug problem. Since we were food service, I was militant about pest control.

  “There’s a chain of questioning that I have to pursue.”

  “What questions?”

  “You know I can’t tell you. I shouldn’t have told you this much.”

  The wind whipped hair into my eyes, and I pushed the wayward strands behind my ears. Another gust immediately freed them, slapping my face.

  I took deep, yogic breaths. Gordon was a good cop. Abril was innocent, and I had to trust that he’d prove that. Bringing her into the station was just one more step in the investigative process. “Okay. I know you’re doing your job, and she’ll be all right. Abril’s got no motive.”

  He shifted his weight, his arms loose at his sides, and said nothing.

  “She has a motive?” I whispered, horrified.

  He gazed at me, his emerald eyes glittering with sorrow.

  “No,” I said. “There are other, better suspects than Abril. There was a student TA Abril and Doran talked to—Genny Glasspool. She worked for Starke, and they had an affair. He gave her a bad recommendation, and she was furious.”

  He lowered his head and grimaced. “I know.”

  “You know?” My shoulders collapsed. “But . . .” This made no sense! How could Abril have a better motive than Genny, unless . . . I remembered Abril’s eagerness to bring the reading to Pie Town, her enthusiasm over Starke.

  Unless Abril had been romantically involved with him too.

  I shook my head. No. Abril was smarter than that. I didn’t believe that was the answer.

  The phone buzzed in Gordon’s pocket, and he clapped it to his ear. “Carmichael . . . I’ll be there in ten.” He pocketed his phone. “I’m sorry, Val, it’s an emergency—not the murder.”

  “And you’ve got to go,” I said dully. “It’s okay.”

  “I’ll get the check on the way out.” He kissed my cheek and jogged inside the white stucco building.

  The fire popped, and I jumped. I needed to talk to Charlene—no, I couldn’t talk to Charlene. I’d promised Gordon to keep my mouth shut. If I told Charlene, she’d go tearing off to Abril’s to learn the truth.

  Pasting a smile on my face, I walked inside and up the stairs, to the gleaming wooden bar. As I’d half hoped, half dreaded, Charlene still sat on one of its high, leather stools.

  I slid onto an empty seat beside her and adjusted my dress. “Gordon had to leave for a police emergency.” I dropped my sparkly white clutch onto the bar.

  “Ah, the life of a copper. Fast-talking dames, fog, and fisticuffs.”

  “That’s a Sam Spade movie, not San Nicholas.”

  “In the first place,�
� Charlene said, “Sam Spade roamed all over this coast. In the second place, they wouldn’t call Gordon in for another surfer dispute. What was the emergency?”

  I shrugged off my guilty conscience. “I don’t know. Did you hear about the alligator at the drive-through?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Was it the ghost alligator?” she asked, breathless.

  “A real one. Wait, there’s a ghost—” I shook my head. Not important. I told Charlene and Patel the story of the gator in the drive-through.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked her.

  “Same thing I was drinking before.” She raised her sidecar, amber in its cocktail glass. “I suppose you’ll need a lift home.”

  I sighed. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll need to finish my drink first.”

  I eyed the near-full glass. Charlene was a slow drinker, and she filled in the gaps with plenty of pretzels between sips, so I wasn’t worried about her driving. “In that case, I’ll have another glass of wine.” I motioned to Patel, and soon I had a full goblet in front of me.

  Patel drifted to an elderly couple. They held hands atop the bar and spoke in low voices, laughing. My chest squeezed with longing. Would I ever have that?

  “What’s wrong?” Charlene asked. “Murder got your tongue?”

  “Why are all the men in my life always in such a hurry to go?” I blurted. It was enough to make me want to pack it in and join a monastery, or whatever it was women joined. I could never remember that word.

  “That detective would have stayed if he could. I see how he looks at you.” She stared at her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles.

  “I guess I wasn’t entirely thinking about Gordon,” I admitted.

  “Your father is a special case. And Doran hasn’t left yet. At least he’s trying to stay.”

  My breath hitched. I wasn’t the only one who’d been ditched. Charlene’s daughter lived somewhere in Europe. And like Charlene had said, at least Doran was trying. Her daughter seemed to have said good riddance to their relationship.

  “Ah, family.” Polishing a glass, Patel wandered to our end of the bar and carefully did not make eye contact with Charlene. “Can’t live with them, can’t avoid them at the holidays. But even though I find myself thinking homicidal thoughts whenever my auntie makes me wear one of her awful Christmas sweaters, I know they will always be there for me.” His brows drew together. “Except for that time they left me behind in Yosemite and I was nearly eaten by coyotes.”

  “As a child, I was raised for a time by coyotes,” Charlene said. “It’s why I have such an instinctive connection to Bigfoot.”

  “I spent three hours in a pine tree before the rangers rescued me.” Patel rubbed the glass more vigorously.

  “I spent five hours in a redwood once,” Charlene said, adjusting Frederick over the collar of her sky-blue tunic. “Bigfoot hunting.”

  I cleared my throat. “Moving on, Gordon told me there have been some 911 calls about your UFO pictures.”

  “What UFO pictures?” Patel asked, his brown eyes widening.

  “My pie-plate UFOs.” She pulled her phone from the pocket of her knit jacket and clicked on a photo, expanding the image. “It’s a promotion for Pie Town. If you enlarge it, you can even see the Pie Town logo on the back. See?” She handed the phone to Patel.

  He tugged his ear. “Is that UFO over the White Lady?”

  “Yup,” she said. “I took a snap before I came in tonight. Nice lighting, don’t you think?”

  “The hours around sunrise and sunset are best for photography,” he agreed.

  While they chatted about exposure and contrast, I dug out my own phone and checked Charlene’s Twitter feed. She’d already posted the UFO over the White Lady photo with the text: UFO SPOTTED OVER WHITE LADY! #SANNI-CHOLAS

  I scrolled through her other posts. They all treated the pictures as the real deal. And there were comments. So many comments. Most seemed to take the pictures at face value.

  I groaned. “Charlene, some people are taking these pictures seriously. You’ve got to say they’re fake.”

  “Everyone knows they’re fake. They’re obviously fake. The tins say Pie Town on top.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t see that at this size.”

  “Besides,” she said, “I’m limited by the amount of characters I can include, and brevity is the essence of wit.”

  “People have been calling 911,” I repeated.

  “People are crazy.”

  Briefly, I closed my eyes. It takes one to know one. “Yes, Charlene. People are crazy.”

  “Oh, hey.” Patel angled his dark head toward the other end of the bar. “There’s Professor Hastings.”

  A sadder and wiser-looking version of Shirley Temple sat alone on a corner barstool. She crooked a finger at Patel.

  He glided to her end of the bar.

  “This is too good an opportunity pass up,” I said.

  “Definitely kismet,” she agreed.

  I rose and sat again. “Um, we don’t actually know her. What’s our approach?”

  “The whole point of coming to a bar is to get to know the other people in it. And this is a good chance to give her two tickets to a pie-making class.”

  “And it’s not interfering in an investigation,” I rationalized. “It’s not our fault she sat down at the bar beside us. If Gordon hadn’t left early, he could have talked to her.” That’s what he got for ditching me to save lives.

  Dorothy’s scowl settled deeper into her skin.

  “Maybe we should let her get a drink or two under her belt first,” Charlene said in a low voice.

  Professor Hastings raised a beer bottle to her lips and chugged it down in one go.

  “Or we could talk to her now.” I grabbed my clutch and walked to her end of the bar. “Professor Hastings?”

  She belched and shook her blond ringlets. “That’s me.”

  “Um, I just wanted to say how sorry I am—”

  “We are,” Charlene said.

  “—about the death of Professor Starke.”

  She eyed Charlene. “Is that a cat around your neck?” A multicolored silk scarf hung limply around the collar of her denim jacket.

  “Maybe,” Charlene said.

  “Is that animal alive?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Frederick’s narcoleptic. May we join you?”

  The professor shrugged and motioned with her empty bottle. “I don’t own the barstools.” Patel put another opened bottle by her elbow, and she took a swig.

  I stuck out my hand and sat. “I’m Val Harris. This is my friend, Charlene McCree.”

  She shook my hand warily, her silver rings biting my fingers. “And you already know me. The question is, how?”

  “We ran into you leaving Dean Prophet’s office the other day,” I said, “after Professor Starke’s death.”

  She rested her forehead on the bar, and an anguished sound escaped her throat. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Coppers been giving you the third degree?” Charlene said, tone sympathetic.

  “You have no idea,” she mumbled into her elbow.

  “The lead detective knows what he’s doing,” I said. “He’ll figure it out.”

  She bolted upright and fixed me with a gimlet eye. “Oh, he will, will he?”

  “Yes!” I said, and crossed my legs on the barstool. Though he did seem somewhat jinxed when it came to cases connected to Pie Town. Augh! Even I was connecting the murders to Pie Town now.

  “It doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing,” the professor said. “He’s obsessed with that damn sword. Just because it’s mine—”

  “Wait, are you talking about the sword that killed Professor Starke?” I asked.

  She nodded and took another pull on her beer. “Everybody knows it wasn’t in my possession. I lent it to Michael. It’s not my fault the idiot got skewered with it.”

  “It sounds like your feelings for the man were
. . . complicated.” Charlene rolled her hand in front of her heart. “Get it off your chest. We’re good listeners.”

  Dorothy’s blue eyes flashed. “My feelings for that detective are crystal clear!”

  “I meant your ex,” Charlene said.

  “Look. Michael and I worked together. We were colleagues, that was all. And I didn’t want him dead, and I certainly wouldn’t have wrestled my own sword away from him to stab him with it.”

  “You couldn’t have,” I said, probing, “not when you were so far away from the crime scene.” Where had she been?

  “That’s right.” She waved her empty bottle at Patel. “I was at home.”

  “Alone?” Charlene asked hopefully.

  “Another?” Patel asked.

  “Yes.” Dorothy held out her empty bottle. “Please.”

  Patel took the bottle and glided to the other end of the bar.

  I cleared my throat. “You were saying about being at home?”

  Dorothy slumped. “I should have gone to the stupid reading. If I had, maybe none of this would have happened. And now Aidan . . .”

  “You mean your boyfriend, Professor McClary?” Charlene asked brightly.

  She nodded, fuming. “I really dislike that word when applied to adults.”

  “What word?” Charlene asked. “Professor?”

  “Boyfriend,” she said. “It sounds juvenile. But everything else sounds sterile or melodramatic. I loathe the word partner. And lover is even worse. Ugh. It’s like something out of Valley of the Dolls.”

  “The only other alternative for adults is um-friend,” I said.

  “Um-friend?” Dorothy asked.

  “As in, this is my, um, friend.”

  “Did you know,” Charlene said, tapping one finger on the bar, “that in Kyrgyz, um is the word for a lady’s private bits?”

  Charlene!

  “I’m in the English department,” the professor said, “not the Kyrgyz department.” She turned to me. “Val Harris . . . Where do I know that name?”

  “I own Pie Town.”

  She drew back on her barstool. “Oh. Then . . . you were there.” Her expression grew anxious. “Did the reading go well? How was he?”

  Aside from the murder? “You mean . . . Professor Starke?”

  “No, Aidan. Michael always does well at those things. He’s such a—” She looked down. “He was such a ham. But he knew how to work a crowd. Aidan on the other hand is a typical Byronic hero—his passion is as changeable as coastal weather.”