A Beeline to Murder (10 page)

“I sleep just fine, Mr. Bonheur. Just fine.”

The chief strode to the door, jerked it open, and summoned Nettie with a “Come here now” hand gesture. Abby cringed. She knew Nettie would stand up to him when others wouldn’t. But she could just hear him saying something like
,
“Good God, woman! When are you getting off those damn crutches?” Any knee-jerk reactions to his comments only made the chief come down even harder. Abby shifted her attention to the massive collection of black-and-white photographs lining the walls on either side of the door. The chief was in every photo. No surprise there.
A collection to match his ego!

She walked over to one of the walls and studied the photos. She knew the chief had hung them there so people would gaze at them. He liked that.
Because, after all, it is all about him.
One image showed the chief with the mayor and the town council members. In the next image the chief was in his class A uniform, his badge fitted with a black sash to show respect for a fallen officer. The occasion would have been a funeral.

In another picture, Abby spotted herself standing in a group with the chief at a promotion ceremony. Abby had worked as hard as any of them, putting in overtime, working weekends, taking on extra responsibilities, and studying for the sergeant’s exam. Although her turn at a promotion had been coming—or so the chief had promised year after year, all seven of them—it had never materialized, not even when she passed the exam. But she had never given him the satisfaction of letting her disappointment show.

Nettie hobbled in.

In an authoritative tone, the chief addressed Nettie. “Give Mackenzie and Mr. Bonheur his brother’s belongings and any evidence we took from the pastry shop during our investigation. Oh, and she wants a copy of the police report, too, when it’s ready. Make sure we get a signature for everything they take with them.”

“Yes, sir.” Nettie turned her heavy body as best she could, taking care to favor her bad knee, before leading Abby and Philippe back down the corridor. The chief’s door slammed, and Abby was pretty sure she heard Nettie whisper beneath her breath, “Someday, karma’s going to bite you in your chiefly butt.”

 

Dashing into the drizzling rain, Abby and Philippe each carried a box sealed with the tape used by the police department for evidence. Once the boxes were safely stashed behind the car seats and she and Philippe had climbed in, Abby turned the key and flipped on the windshield wipers. She looked over at Philippe and asked, “Your place or mine?”

Philippe twisted in his seat and gazed quizzically at her, as if not sure he had understood the question.

“We should go through your brother’s property together. If there are photos in those boxes the police gave us, you might be able to identify who is in them. You know the saying, ‘Two heads are better than one’?”

Philippe nodded. “
Alors
, in that case
,
shall we put our heads together in my suite?” A sheepish smile crept across his face.

“Actually, I was thinking of the lodge’s library,” Abby countered, in case Philippe was having ideas about something other than work. “It’s a spacious room with a massive table, comfortable chairs, a fireplace—always good to take away the chill—and complimentary wine and cheese at this hour of the day. Sound good?”

A beat of silence ensued. Then, in a tone of acquiescence, Philippe replied, “Oui.”

“Alrighty then.”

Releasing the emergency brake, Abby guided the Jeep back down Main Street. At the theater, she pointed toward the marquee. The newest movie being shown was a French-language film. But Philippe was already looking past the theater, toward the plate-glass window of his brother’s patisserie. And there was Dora. The town’s eccentric homeless woman, perhaps in an effort to find refuge from the rain, had pushed her grocery cart laden with bags under the pastry shop’s roof overhang. With nose pressed to the glass, and the sides of her eyes shielded with gloved hands, she stood staring into the darkened interior.

A sudden sharp twinge of sadness gripped Abby’s heart. Hoping to lighten the heaviness, she quipped, “Suppose the poor woman is still waiting for that coffee Jean-Louis promised her.” Abby lifted her foot to the brake and slowed. After rolling down the window, she called out, “Everything all right?”

Dora turned. The distraught look on Dora’s face suggested to Abby that all was not okay. The homeless woman pulled anxiously at a tuft of matted gray hair and muttered inaudible words. Then, abruptly, she grabbed the handle of her grocery cart and turned back into the rain, heading in the opposite direction of Abby and Philippe.

Abby swiftly maneuvered a U-turn. “Sorry, Philippe, but this can’t wait. I’ll be back.” She guided the car into a parking spot and left the engine running and the wipers slapping as she jumped out and raced to catch up to Dora. Not wanting to spook the poor woman, widely rumored to be schizophrenic, Abby strolled alongside the shopping cart until they reached the park opposite the police department.

“Can I buy you coffee, Dora?”

Dora cocked her head, as if listening to other voices.

Abby waited.

Dora finally turned a blue-eyed questioning stare toward Abby.

“You want some hot coffee, don’t you, Dora? And maybe a sandwich?”

Dora nodded.

“So . . . how about I help you push your cart with all those bags to the diner over there?” Abby proffered a helping hand, but Dora adamantly pushed it away.

“Okay. You push, and I’ll walk with you. We can leave the cart next to the diner window. You can see it from inside.” Abby knew the way to communicate with Dora was through simple, direct sentences and nonthreatening actions. She had dealt with Dora before and understood how quickly and easily the woman became overwhelmed. Certain that Dora was more troubled than usual, Abby wondered if the chef’s death haunted her.

When they got to the door of the small diner, Dora, emaciated and surely hungry, refused to go inside. Abby entered the diner, where she ordered and paid for a turkey sandwich and coffee. Then she darted back outside and stood in the rain while Dora devoured the sandwich as if it were her last meal.

Abby waited while Dora sipped the hot coffee, stroking the cup to warm her hands. Finally, she decided to broach the subject of Jean-Louis.

“Miss our pastry chef, Dora?”

The gray-haired woman nodded. “My friend.”

“He gave you coffee, too, didn’t he?”

Again, Dora nodded.

“You liked him, Dora. I suppose everyone liked him.”

Dora shook her head. “No. Not everyone.”

“Really? Who didn’t like him, Dora?”

Dora didn’t speak. She cocked her head, as if voices had started chattering in her ear. Abby waited her turn. A beat later, Dora tilted the paper cup and swallowed the last sip of the fragrant, hot coffee. She licked her lips and shoved the cup back at Abby.

“Good, huh? Refill? You want another?”

When Dora didn’t reply, Abby figured another cup of coffee couldn’t hurt. Although the poor woman’s thinking might be tortured and confused, it was also possible that she saw or heard something prior to finding the body. Dora frequently slept in business doorways and alleys, as well as by the creek. In fact, she prowled about at all hours, and she knew things. Abby would be patient and kind. Dora would open up.

“I’ll be right back, Dora. Don’t go, okay?”

But when Abby returned with the replenished cup of coffee, she discovered that Dora, like a wild bird, had flown away—shopping cart, bags, and all.

 

The unseasonably cool breeze had chilled Abby to the bone. The drizzling rain had ruined her red silk skimmers and frizzed her hair. When Philippe offered his room at the lodge as a place for her to dry off and a change of clothes as a substitute for her drenched clothing, she demurely declined in favor of driving home to change and then returning. They would have a bite to eat and go through the property and reports together.

“What say let’s meet around seven o’clock?” Abby took her eyes off the road for a moment to assess Philippe’s response.

He sighed and said with resignation, “
Bon.
”

Abby sensed that his mood had shifted as she drove toward the lodge. Staring straight ahead through the fan-shaped clearing the wipers left on the windshield, presumably at the wet sidewalks and empty streets, Philippe looked as forlorn as a stalk of corn standing alone in a stripped field.

 

 

Tips for Treating a Bee Sting

Chapter 7

Move chickens and bees at night; when they awake in the morning, the move is a
fait
accompli
.

 

 

A
bby understood why Philippe might think it silly that, when returning him to the lodge, she kept the boxes of his dead brother’s property instead of giving them to him. For Abby, the choice was clear. Until she could prove whether or not Jean-Louis had been murdered, she needed custody of those items.

Waving good-bye to Philippe as he ascended the Las Flores Lodge steps, she wheeled out of the parking lot and drove back to her farmette. By the time she was guiding the Jeep down the gravel driveway, wheels crunching over the bits of stone, Abby could see a spectacular rainbow unfolding over her garden, which was located next to the chicken house. Above the little structure, a pair of red-tailed hawks circled on the updrafts. Abby hoped Houdini had alerted the chickens of the danger and had hustled them into the wire enclosure, instead of adopting what Abby called “the freeze position,” which he often did, looking like a ridiculous feathered statue standing on one leg.

After locking her car, she went in search of her flock of chickens and found them already inside, on the roost. The little hens huddled against Houdini, who had assumed his usual position on the highest rung. Abby smiled.
Attaboy.
She began counting off the chickens.
A little lady on each side is three, and three on the roost below makes six. A full house. Good night, chickens. Good night, Houdini.

Abby slid the bolt on the door to the chicken house into place and dashed to the farmhouse. Stripped out of her sopping clothes and wrapped in a towel, she searched her closet for something appropriate to wear for dinner. From a plastic hanger, she pulled a top with a built-in bra and paired it with a simple self-lined lace skirt, both black. Dressing took less than a minute. Now, what could she do with her wild, frizzy hair? Abby decided to hide it in a French twist. With her hair pinned in place, she applied a coat of dark mascara to her lashes, brushed her cheekbones with a dusty-rose blush, and applied her favorite pale fuchsia lipstick and gloss.

From three small perfume bottles sitting on her dresser, she chose Nuit de Noel, a perfume that had made its debut in 1922. Kat, who was as crazy about items from the Jazz Age as she was those from the Victorians, had introduced her to the fragrance. It had become Abby’s favorite scent, with its notes of rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, and oakmoss. One squeeze of the pump distributed just enough. Abby slid her feet into a pair of mules with black-and-white stacked heels and grabbed a pair of beaded chandelier earrings and a white sweater. She gave Sugar a pat on the head, dashed out the door, and climbed in the Jeep.

At the end of the driveway, she braked hard to avoid hitting a tractor pulling a sickle bar mower. It finally inched past as her cell phone chimed.
Patience, Philippe. I’m on my way.
The tractor driver waved. Abby waved back.

“Abby here,” she said into the phone, wishing the old man on the tractor would goose it.

“Hey there.” It was Kat’s voice. “You still have a friend or two in the department, and we have got your back. Check your mailbox.”

“As it so happens, I’m next to it. What am I looking for?” Abby asked, hitting the button to lower the window before stretching her hand out to retrieve the mail.

“That report you wanted.”

“Oh, really? Chief Bob Allen said I could be waiting awhile for it.” Abby grasped the large manila envelope and pulled it into the car.

“Yeah, well, he underestimates Nettie. That woman may be slow on crutches, but she’s got the fastest fingers in the department when it comes to computers. Thank her for the report. I had business out your way, so I just delivered it. Enough said. Dispatch is calling. Got to go.”

“Thanks, Kat.”

Abby guided the Jeep behind the tractor until it was safe to pass. She hit the gas and fairly flew down Farm Hill Road toward town. At seven o’clock, she knocked on the door of Philippe’s room.

“Abby, come in,” Philippe said after opening the door. Two fingers of his left hand supported a bite-size square of cheese speared on a toothpick. The other hand, now no longer swollen, clasped an empty plastic wineglass. His black brows furrowed. “This cheese is terrible.”

Abby quickly assessed him. He was still attired in the crisp white shirt and pleated gray slacks he’d worn for their earlier meeting, but otherwise he appeared as fresh as if he’d just stepped from the shower. She couldn’t deny that his vitality and magnetism attracted her, but she was determined to keep her feelings in check. Her heart hadn’t yet healed from the abrupt ending with Clay. Surely it would be possible to enjoy Philippe’s company without any emotional involvement. She hoped so, but judging from the effect he had on her, limiting their relationship to business only might prove challenging.

“Well, I see the lodge hasn’t skimped on the portions,” Abby teased. “Let me take you someplace where we can get a decent meal.”

“Ah, Abby, you are an angel.” Philippe’s dark expression melted into a smile.

Abby laughed. “Yeah? Well, I am also an exacting taskmaster. So we’ll eat, and then we’ll work. What do you say?”

“Bon.”
Philippe grinned broadly. He dropped the cheese into the wastebasket and plucked his tie and jacket from the back of a chair.

“Take the jacket, in case it gets cool, but you won’t need the tie where we’re going,” Abby advised. “Dress is California casual at Zazi’s.”

At the bistro, they chose a window seat, where they could watch the sun setting over the mountains to the south of the town. Abby pointed out a rectangle of shimmering light near the top of a peak and explained that the sun was bouncing off a row of windows probably the size of her entire farmhouse.

“Rarified air up there, Philippe,” she explained. “Wealthy people who can’t live without their twenty-four rooms, swimming pool, tennis court, and maids’ quarters. Some of the properties even have their own wineries.”

She reached for the wine list and slid her finger halfway down to one of the listings. “For example, this wine comes from the vineyard of the Stanton Brothers. No one really listens to their music anymore, but a generation ago, they were a popular duo who played banjo and guitar.” She slid her finger a bit farther along. “And this one is from the personal cellar of a local Olympic tennis player. She donates the proceeds to breast cancer research. Oh, and this one is from the Lennahans’ vineyard. Once a year Eva and her husband, Jake, open their home for a wine tasting and food affair to raise money for their favorite charities. Hers happens to be children with incarcerated parents, and his, I’m told, is human rights.”

“This is all very intriguing, Abby, but
j’ai faim.
”

“Sorry. I’m starving, too.” She placed the wine list aside, picked up the menu, and took a moment to glance over it.

“Do you see something you like?” Philippe asked, almost pleadingly.

“Uh, the white bean soup with organic wilted greens. It’s the best. They serve it with an absolutely yummy crostini of melted goat cheese, tomato, and basil.”

Philippe nodded approval. “Something else?”

“Then, how about the lamb shanks rubbed with rosemary, garlic, and thyme? It comes with fingerling potatoes and a salad of spring greens spritzed with olive oil and raspberry-infused vinegar.”

“A shank of anything sounds good. I place myself in your hands, Abby. My mouth, it waters already. The time is right for a glass of wine also, is it not?”

“Of course. Would you like to try something from a local winery, a Napa Valley offering, or perhaps an import?”

“It doesn’t matter. American wines are all terrible. So I am not particular.”

Although Abby disagreed with him on that point, she accepted his right to hold that opinion. She said, “Well, the menu suggests a cabernet, a zinfandel, or even a Ménage à Trois wine
—
a Napa Valley blend of three reds.”

She looked up over the menu to see Philippe gazing intently at her.

Noticing his square jawline and green eyes in the light of the setting sun, Abby felt her cheeks grow warm. Why was he looking at her with such intensity?

Leaning forward with a bemused expression, he announced softly, “I like red. In fact, it is my
favorite
color. . . . And . . . Ménage à Trois . . . hmmm.”

She reached for her glass of water and sipped. “Are you saying we should try it?”

“Oh,
mais oui.
” A glimmer of amusement lit his eyes.

Abby withheld comment, pretending to study the menu. The awkward moment passed. Her lips trembled as she suppressed a smile. Finally, she quipped, “I’m looking for a good dessert,” and she immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Ooh la la! The dessert. This is something I desire—a luscious mouth-size berry . . . a silky, warm custard . . . or something sensuous to the lips and tongue, perhaps covered in chocolate. Something we could nibble together.”

Abby’s cheeks burned. Her palms sweated. She wished for an on/off switch for her hormones. Spotting the petite, dark-haired waitress as she approached, Abby sensed a way to cool down.

The young woman removed a pen and an order pad from the pocket of her white apron and asked, “Ready?”

Abby pushed back her chair and stood up. “Oh, I’d say so. My friend will give you our order. I’ll just go and wash my hands. Back in a moment.”

Abby bolted from the dining room to the ladies’ room, passing the bistro’s kitchen, where the frenzied chatter and the frenetic pace of food preparation became a strong counterpoint to the peace and quiet of the powder room. After locking the door, Abby leaned against it and took stock of the rapid beating of her heart. Her thoughts spun from her giddiness. Her legs felt weak; her pulse thready. Her palms were damp. She turned on the faucet and plunged her hands under the cold water.
Get a grip. He’s your client!

After drying her hands with a paper towel and then tossing it in the receptacle, Abby strolled back to the dinner table. With every step, she reminded herself to stay focused on the business she was hired to do.

Philippe, still sporting a sexy grin, poured the wine and handed her a glass.

Abby was ready. “Let’s drink to solving the riddle of Jean-Louis’s death.” She touched her glass to his.

“
À votre santé,
” he replied. Then in English, he added, “To your health. And bon appétit.”

Throughout dinner, she kept the conversation on topic, asking questions about Jean-Louis and his relationships. She asked for details of his personal life, such as his childhood in Montreal and the family art business in New York. She explored how the family came to learn that the young man was gay—a secret he had entrusted to Philippe when he was a teenager, but had revealed to his parents only in a private conversation several years later. Finally, Abby pointedly asked, “Who will profit from Jean-Louis’s death?”

To her surprise, Philippe answered, “
Moi.
”

“You? Why is that?”

“He decided to put my name in his will.”

Abby rested her fork on her plate. “As sole beneficiary?” She waited a beat to see if Philippe would elaborate.

“Oui.” Philippe wiped his mouth on his napkin before laying it back over his lap. “My brother believed in love. Oui, he had many lovers. Sadly, he had not yet found that one special person. I suppose he saw me as the responsible older brother. For him, it made sense to leave his things to me.”

“But young people don’t usually make wills. At least, not in my experience.”

“Well, that may be, but our father and mother wanted to draft their will, and we were together with the lawyer, a family friend, who said he would do it for all of us. I didn’t follow through, but Jean-Louis did.”

“When was that?”

“Maybe about two years and six months ago—the last time Jean-Louis visited New York. I remember it was Christmas . . . and I had just become engaged.”

Abby felt her heart pounding again.
Engaged.
So Kat was right to think he was attached. She took a moment to absorb this new information. “So, did he return for your wedding?”

“No wedding.” Philippe stared at her with a curious intensity. “My fiancée . . . it was a big step. For her, too big, too soon.”

Abby exhaled a long, even breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Life goes on,” Philippe said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“So your brother’s business, investments, possessions—everything passes to you?”

“He was my family.” Philippe’s eyes narrowed. His expression hardened. “Oh, Abby, you cannot think that I . . . I. . . .” A sudden chill permeated his words, like frost penetrating pea shoots.

Abby remained still. For a long moment, she assessed him with a cool look.

Philippe swallowed the wine left in his glass, placed the stemware on the table, and pushed it back. Leaning in, his eyes locked on hers, he whispered in a husky voice, “I was three thousand miles away when Jean-Louis died. I worked very late that night because the next day was an important gallery opening for our client. When I was told that my brother had died, I took the earliest flight I could to come here.” He sat back and reached for his jacket, which he’d hung on a nearby empty chair.

For a second, Abby wondered if he was going to leave.

“Here,” he said, producing a piece of paper from the jacket’s inside pocket. “My airline ticket.”

She studied the ticket, noting that the dates supported his claim. Flashing a reassuring smile, Abby handed the ticket back. “I never doubted you.”

Philippe’s expression softened. A disarming smile played at the corners of his mouth. “So then?”