Bleeding Tarts Page 9

  Other questions gnawed in my gut. If not one of the advisors, then who had killed Devon? Who was trying to kill me? And would Gordon and I ever go on our first date?

  Charlene poked her head out of the piecrust room. “What about a corset?”

  I crushed a ball of pie dough. “No.”

  Abril looked a question at me, and I shook my head, embarrassed. At least Charlene was getting some of her mojo back.

  “Retro is in,” Charlene said.

  “No, Charlene.”

  My assistant manager, Petronella, banged through the swinging kitchen doors. “Val. Someone’s here to see you.” She ran one finger beneath the delicate net imprisoning her spiky black hair.

  I checked my watch. It was only eleven—too early for my lunch/interrogation with Moe. I washed my hands in the sink and dried them on my Pie Town apron. “Thanks. I’ll be right—”

  “It’s Heidi from next door.”

  My stomach plummeted. What next? Another lecture on the perils of sugar? I stretched my mouth into a smile. “I’ll be right out.” Double checking my own hair net, I followed Petronella through the swinging doors and behind the counter.

  Pie Town was surprisingly busy for a Friday morning. Cheerful voices and the clank of forks echoed off the black-and-white tile floor. A handful of shaggy-haired gamers sat in their corner booth, dice rattling across the Formica table. Graham and Tally Wally sat on pink barstools, their elbows on the counter, sipping coffee and arguing politics. They were surprisingly loud considering they both agreed with each other.

  Heidi, in her green HEIDI’S HEALTH hoodie and yoga pants, loomed in front of the register. Her fingers tap-tapped the linoleum counter. Catching sight of me, she leaned over the counter. “Unbelievable,” she hissed, her blond ponytail twitching. “How selfish can you be?”

  A group of retirees scraped their chairs away from the two tables they’d put together. They gathered their books and purses, readying to go.

  I slowed to a halt behind the register. “What?”

  “A policeman showed up at Mark’s doorstep this morning, asking about you.”

  The retirees stopped moving toward the door. Purses clutched to their chests, they cocked their heads.

  I blinked. “About me?”

  “The cop practically accused him of trying to kill you. I don’t know what you’re into, but you know perfectly well Mark had nothing to do with it. Just because he dumped you—”

  “It was mutual!”

  “—at the altar—”

  “We were not at the altar.” My hands bunched in my apron. The breakup had gone down a couple of months before the wedding.

  “—does not mean he wants to kill you. I’m sure there are plenty of other candidates for that job.”

  Such as Heidi? I shook my head. “No one’s trying to kill me. It’s all a mistake. I’ll call Mark and—”

  “Don’t you dare call him. You’ve done enough to that man. Leave Mark Jeffreys alone.” Spinning on her workout shoes, she stormed from the shop. The bell over the door tinkled merrily at her departure.

  I turned to escape.

  Grinning, Charlene leaned through the open window between the kitchen and the restaurant. “Yep. She wants you dead.”

  “You don’t need to look so happy about it,” I said. “And she does not.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Graham said. He slurped his coffee. “No one here wants to kill you. And I’ll take Pie Town over that gym any day.”

  “Thanks.” I would have offered to top off his mug, but we were self-serve, and the coffee urn was within his reach. I nudged the tray of hand pies closer. “Another?”

  He patted his bulging stomach. “I’m on a diet. Cutting back. Lost five pounds already.”

  “Congratulations!” My mouth quirked. I’d heard that before. “Good for you.”

  The bell over the door tinkled, and an elderly woman wearing a flowered hat and sagging hosiery tottered in. I slid a boxed strawberry-rhubarb pie from beneath the counter and waved. “Good morning, Mrs. Banks.”

  “Those damned grocery thieves are at it again,” she said. “Stole a dozen eggs and a half gallon of almond milk right out of my car. I need the Baker Street Bakers.”

  Graham shook his head. “San Nicholas isn’t what it used to be. I remember when you could leave your doors unlocked.”

  Mrs. Banks counted out exact change. “Someone’s got to do something about these supernatural thieves. I’ve been turning my pockets inside out, Val, but it doesn’t help at all.”

  I rang her up and slid the boxed pie across the counter. “Pockets?” Baffled, I scrubbed my hands in my apron.

  “Char thought it would keep the fairies away, but it’s not. I guess that means the disappearances might be ectoplasmic after all.”

  “Hm.” I glanced over my shoulder at the kitchen window, but my piecrust maker had vanished. “We’ll stop by soon,” I promised. A spectral investigation would make a good excuse to make sure everything was okay at her home. I hoped her absentmindedness was a normal consequence of aging and not something more serious.

  “That would be a relief.” She turned to go.

  “Mrs. Banks?” I pushed the pink and white box toward her. “Your pie.”

  “Oh!” Coloring, she took the box.

  Graham rose from his stool. “Let me walk out with you.”

  Together, they moseyed from the shop, and I smiled. Graham would make sure both Mrs. Banks and the strawberry-rhubarb got into her car.

  Returning to the kitchen, I removed a batch of mini pulled-pork pies from the oven. The slowly rotating racks, designed to give the pies an even bake, were mesmerizing. There was a cadence to sliding the pies from the oven on the long-handled paddles. I set the pies on metal racks to cool.

  Charlene banged a stool beside the butcher-block table and sat, stretching her legs. “Nothing like putting in a full day’s work to make you feel useful.”

  I gave her a look. Charlene only worked half-time, and her day usually ended before noon. “You should have been finished an hour ago. What were you doing in the flour-work room?” Ha! Last night’s pep talk had worked. Charlene was waiting to interview Moe. She just didn’t want to admit it.

  Charlene straightened. “Just what are you accusing me of?”

  “Nothing,” I said innocently. “I’m only curious.”

  She yawned. “Thought I’d try a new piecrust recipe.”

  I froze, my heart thudding. “What?” Her piecrusts were the best in Northern California. You don’t fiddle with perfection!

  “What you said last night about Marla and the piecrusts got me to thinking,” she said. “I’ve been resting on my laurels. I could do better.”

  “No,” I said. “No, you can’t. The customers love your crusts!”

  “Sure, they do now, but Marla—”

  “Marla, Marla, Marla! Enough is enough. Listen to yourself. She’s playing you like a conga drum. You’ve let her get under your skin, and now you’re second-guessing yourself. Change your piecrust recipe? Are you nuts?”

  Wooden paddle in hand, Abril reared away from the big oven. “A new piecrust? You can’t! These are pie perfection, perfect rippling spheres of crust that melt on the tongue.”

  Charlene’s white brows rose.

  “See?” I said. “Abril agrees.”

  Petronella wandered into the kitchen. “Agrees about what?”

  “Charlene wants to change her piecrust recipe,” Abril said. “But the pies won’t be the same without them. Those succulent globes of tart cherries, bursting with flavor against the buttery, decadent crusts . . .”

  We stared.

  “This is a joke, right?” Petronella asked.

  “No joke,” Charlene said, eyeing Abril. “I’m changing it up.”

  A series of expressions—shock, annoyance, anxiety—flashed across Petronella’s face. “And put Pie Town out of business? Thanks a lot. I just made assistant manager.”

  “You should neve
r get complacent,” Charlene said.

  “But you can’t just . . . change things!” Petronella said.

  “Do you think Steve Jobs, after creating his whiz-bang phone, said, ‘good enough?’” Charlene asked.

  “You can’t eat a phone,” I said.

  Charlene crossed her arms, her jaw thrusting forward mulishly. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand perfectly.” She’d lost her confidence. I’d been there, done that. “The piecrust recipe stays.” Abruptly, I remembered I hadn’t had the chat with Petronella that she’d asked for. “Hey, Petronella, if you want to . . .” I glanced out the kitchen window. Looking lost, Moe stood in the center of Pie Town’s checkerboard floor.

  “What?” my assistant manager asked.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. Petronella would have to wait. “Charlene, Moe’s here.”

  “Moe?” Charlene stared, expression blank.

  “Moe,” I said. “You arranged for him to come here for lunch so we could talk about the Bar X?”

  She sniffed. “You don’t need me for the interview. What do I have to contribute? I’m old and useless. I can’t do anything new.”

  “I’m not doing this alone,” I said.

  “Why don’t you call Marla? I’m sure she could provide some insight.”

  “I’m not calling . . .” I exhaled heavily, exasperated. Just because I didn’t want to change the piecrust recipe. “This interview needs someone with experience.”

  “What do I know? I’m just playing at detective. Marla’s right. Meeting clients in a pie shop is unprofessional. And we don’t even have business cards.”

  “I will order business cards tonight,” I ground out.

  “They won’t be as good as Marla’s.”

  “Charlene, I need you out there. I can’t do this by myself.”

  She sighed theatrically. “Fine. If you really think you need me.” She rose and slouched into the dining area.

  Grabbing a menu, I followed.

  Moe turned his cowboy hat in his hand. A line imprinted his straight, dark hair where the hat had rested. His neatly pressed white shirt was tucked into his jeans. He nodded when he saw us. “So,” he said. “I’m here.”

  I motioned toward an empty corner booth, and we sat.

  “You said something about lunch,” he said.

  I handed him the menu. “Take your time.”

  “I will.” He smacked his lips. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent potpie.”

  “Today we’ve got chicken curry, turkey, and beef. There’s also a mini pulled-pork pie.” We’d done it as a Fourth of July experiment and gotten more interest than I’d expected.

  “I’ll take a mini turkey and a pulled pork.”

  Two five-inch deep-dish pies seemed like a lot for one person, but I didn’t comment. “Anything to drink?”

  “Diet cola.”

  “Sure thing.” I went to the kitchen and plated the pies, adding a heaping spoonful of mixed salad. When I returned with the food and drink, Charlene and Moe appeared to be locked in a staring contest across the Formica table. “Here you go,” I said. “Careful, they’re hot.” I slid the plates in front of him and set him up with silverware and a napkin.

  He grunted, breaking eye contact with my partner in crime solving. “Thanks.” He pierced the crust of the turkey pie with his fork. Steam spiraled into the air. Moe leaned closer, sniffing. “Smells real.”

  “Of course, it’s real,” Charlene said. “You think we serve fake pies?”

  He took a bite and sighed. “It is real. I haven’t had a pie like this since my mother died. So, what do you want to know?”

  “Can you walk us through the morning Devon was killed?” I asked. “What you did, who you saw, that sort of thing?”

  “I got to the Bar X around nine and checked on my horse. Curly was in the carriage house doing the same. We went to the corral and did some standing target practice—”

  “Standing?” I asked.

  “Without the horses,” he said between bites of pie. “Around ten we brought the horses in, warmed them up in the corral, and began practicing our trick shooting on horseback.” He pressed his broad finger into the tabletop. “And let me tell you, there’s no way one of our bullets could have hit anyone standing outside the saloon. Not from the corral. Not even if we were trying. There are at least three buildings in the way.”

  “See anyone else?” I asked.

  “Bridget came by to watch for a bit.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around ten, I think. Oh, and Larry was hanging around. I saw him leaving the carriage house just as I walked in.”

  “Why did you three break up your partnership?” I asked.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  I shrugged. “Probably nothing. I’m just trying to figure out the players and their histories.”

  “Larry got greedy with the takings,” he said.

  Charlene’s brow rose. “Greedy? Are you talking about embezzlement?”

  He snorted. “That’s too fancy a word for it. We don’t make enough to steal. Gunslinging is a hobby that pays for itself. Larry figured he had bigger expenses than we did, and he wanted a bigger share for his work shoeing our horses. Words were said.”

  “Did Devon know anyone at the Bar X before he started working there?” I tightened the apron strings at the front of my waist.

  “That’s a funny question. I don’t know. Maybe. He and Bridget seemed to have some weird connection.”

  “Weird how?” I asked.

  “Not romantic, I think, but they were familiar. They acted like they’d known each other for a while, but they didn’t know each other.” He lifted his shoulders, dropped them. “Hard to explain.”

  “Did Devon have conflicts with anyone at the Bar X?”

  He studied his coffee.

  “There is someone, isn’t there?” I asked.

  He scowled. “Curly’d been acting closemouthed and antsy, especially around that bartender. It made me wonder if Devon had something on him.”

  “Had something?” I asked. “Like what?”

  “Nothing I know about. I don’t pry into a man’s past.”

  “What about someone outside the Bar X?” I asked.

  “How should I know?” He folded his arms over his broad chest.

  I glanced at Charlene; her arms were crossed and her face shuttered. “Okay,” I said, getting no help from that quarter. “You and Curly were shooting, and then his horse lost a shoe. What happened next?”

  “He took his horse back to the carriage house. I kept practicing.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Do you remember hearing any shots after Curly left that weren’t your own?”

  “Nah. When I’m practicing, that’s all I’m paying attention to—my horse and my target. That’s enough. Then I heard a woman screaming—you, I guess.”

  “That was Bridget.”

  “Then you know what happened next.”

  “So, you were at the corral the whole time, between nine and a quarter after eleven,” I said.

  “Yup.”

  This was going nowhere. “What did you think of Devon?”

  His face darkened. “He was a smart-ass.” He pointed at the remaining pulled-pork pie. “Can I get that to go?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why’d you think he was a smart-ass?”

  “Because that’s how he acted. I’m not surprised someone offed the smug bastard.”

  I sat, waiting for more. When he didn’t speak, I rose. “I’ll get a box.”

  Thinking hard, I walked behind the glass counter and pulled out a flattened pink and white box. If I were a real detective, I could drag Moe into the police station and ask the same question over and over until he cracked like an egg.

  I popped the box into form and returned to the silent table. “Is there anything else you think I should know about that day that might explain what happened to Devon?”

  Moe box
ed his pie. “Sorry. It’s a mystery.”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  Charlene and I watched him leave.

  “Well?” I asked. “What did you think?”

  She shrugged. “How should I know? I’m just an old woman, in over her head, alone and confused.”

  “Charlene, you’re not alone, and—”

  She raised her hand. “No, don’t say it. I don’t need your pity.” Shoulders slumped, she walked out the door.

  A sharp ache rocketed from my left eyeball to the back of my skull. Grimacing, I returned to the kitchen.

  * * *

  Tourists surged in and out of Pie Town like the tide. As the afternoon progressed, the waves came in longer, slower intervals.

  The baking wound down, and I spent more time behind the register, greeting customers and selling pies. Baking was still my favorite part of the business, but chatting with customers ran a close second. Everyone had a story. The harried mom whose son got his arm stuck in a fence and had to be removed by the fire department. The insurance agent buying a pie for tomorrow’s office party. The husband bringing home a pie for an anniversary dinner. In spite of the horror at the Bar X, life went on. So would I.

  The lighting dimmed. I turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and glanced at the gamers.

  “Mind if we stay a little longer?” Ray asked, his freckles darkening.

  “As long as you don’t let anyone else in.” I had bookkeeping to do, so I’d be working late in my office. Given the recent attacks, I didn’t mind having the gamers in the next room.

  So people wouldn’t see the gamers and think we were still open, I dropped the blinds, then walked into my office. Arching my back, I unlaced my apron and hooked it on the edge of the metal bookcase.

  My office was woefully Spartan. I’d picked up the cheapest furniture I could scavenge: a dented, metal desk; bookcases jammed with cleaning supplies; a three-year-old computer.

  While the computer booted up, I whipped off my hair net and scrubbed my head. It would be so easy to put the bookkeeping off until tomorrow, but it was the end of the month. Our CPA got grumpy when the numbers came in late.

  I worked until my eyes blurred. Finally, I slumped in my chair and pressed SEND, relieved to have the work off of my desk and onto the accountant’s. I checked my watch and groaned. Ten o’clock. No wonder my eyes burned.