A Beeline to Murder (13 page)

“Is he expecting you?” The woman inquiring was a statuesque brunette and was wearing a blue summer suit with a matching silk blouse and pearls. She peered at Abby over silver wire-rimmed glasses.

“No.” Abby proffered a business card and waited. She took a brochure from the stack on the reception area table and quickly perused it. The land development company not only helped clients find and purchase land but also handled farms and commercial and residential properties. When a man’s voice addressed her in one of the friendliest tones she’d ever heard, Abby looked up.

“Well, come on in, little lady. Can I offer you some coffee?”

“No thanks.” Abby followed Willie Dobbs into his office and took a seat in the chair reserved for clients.

“What type of land are you looking for?” Dobbs was a heavyset, balding man with puffy cheeks and a rounded chin. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt, forgoing a business tie for a black leather bolo with filigree tips and a large silver eagle clasp.

“I’m not in the market for land, Mr. Dobbs,” Abby said, taking note of the length of the bolo and deciding it was too short to hang anything bigger than a box of bird suet.

“That right? Then what can I do for you?” He dropped into the high-backed red leather chair that dominated his smallish office and his antique letter-writing desk.

Abby removed a pen from her shirt pocket and a notepad from her pants pocket. “I am a private investigator, Mr. Dobbs. I just want to ask a couple of questions about your tenant Jean-Louis Bonheur, recently deceased.”

Dobbs’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his hands over his ample belly, exposing thick fingers, swollen knuckles, and a black and shiny thumbnail.

“I hear he strung himself up.”

“That seems to be the gossip going around. His brother has hired me to look into it. He just wants to be sure that nothing has been overlooked by the police, what with our department being so understaffed and all.”

Dobbs unclenched his hands and leaned forward, drilling Abby with a severe look. “You got five minutes. That’s all the time I intend to give this mess.”

“So you didn’t like him?”

“No, and I told him so.”

“You didn’t want to renew his lease?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Should be obvious! This town is like a small business, and business is always about economics and image. His kind is not the image we want here.”

“When you say ‘we,’ who do you mean?”

“Mayor, town council members, and the good people who make up our chamber of commerce.”

“But isn’t it true that Chef Bonheur’s business was thriving?”

“I don’t believe that for a minute. People lined up to experience the novelty of what he was doing there. There was plenty of talk about that cream puff.”

“The talk I’ve heard is that he was a hard worker, trying to make a go of it,” Abby said in a cool tone. She decided to try to bait Dobbs. “It couldn’t have been easy for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like anywhere else, Las Flores has good people. But some folks will never change, you know, people who are bigoted, like rednecks, racists, misogynists, and homophobic folks. You’re not one of them, are you, Mr. Dobbs?”

Dobbs blanched. He glared at her in silence.

Abby pressed on. “Sir, on the morning—early morning— of the day your tenant Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur died, where were you between four and six o’clock in the morning?”

“What are you getting at? You think I killed that fairy?”

“Did you?”

“Wanted to. Didn’t.”

“Your wife is your alibi, according to what you voluntarily told the police. Is that still your statement?”

“What’s your point?”

“Just that I noticed also on the report, your wife mentioned your snoring and sleep apnea.”

“So?”

“She said sometimes you use a CPAP machine, in case during sleep you forget to breathe. So you don’t sleep in the same room as your wife, do you? I mean, that noise—the machine, your snoring, and all. Your wife cannot say for certain that you were actually home at the hour the chef died, can she?”

Abby watched as little red dots emerged and patterned his forehead and cheeks. Bristling, he lumbered upward, pointed to the door, and said in an icy tone, “You can direct any further questions to my lawyer. Get out.”

Abby stood up, put her pen and pad away, and walked out. She heard the door slam behind her. A picture went askew on the wall of the reception area.

Suppose that went as expected.
Abby checked the time on her watch and picked up the pace back to Maisey’s. Dobbs, as everyone knew, lived in a sprawling gated ranch house on a road that meandered around the other side of the foothills to the east and south of Lucas Crawford’s ranch. Maybe there was an alarm system, a gate watchman, or cell phone records she could check to help her nail down Dobbs’s alibi. But not now. It was on to the jewelry store by way of Maisey’s.

Swinging open wide the pie shop door, Abby spotted Philippe at the counter, hunched over a half-eaten piece of low-country bourbon pecan pie, the house specialty.

“Sit yourself down right there, darlin’, next to your handsome friend,” Maisey called out in a silky alto voice. “I’ll just fetch the pot.”

“Oh, thanks, no, Maisey. We’ve got to get to the jewelry store.”

“Are you sure?” Maisey asked.

Abby raised her wrist in front of Philippe and tapped her watch.

“Well, of course you are,” Maisey said. “Shopping for something special?” The genteel woman from South Carolina wiped her hands on her apron, waiting for a reply, but Abby pressed her finger and thumb together and traced a line across her lips, indicating they would remain sealed.

“I ain’t being nosy. It’s just been a while since you been by, Abby. I want to hear what’s going on with you and your new life out there on the farmette. We got some catching up to do.”

“Yes, but another time, Maisey. We’re on a mission and a tight schedule. I’ll tell you about it the next time I come in for pie.”

“Ooh, sounds good.” Maisey flashed a wide grin. “So, off with you two.”

After slipping her arm through the crook of Philippe’s elbow, Abby gave a gentle tug and felt Philippe resist as he scarfed down one more bite. He stood, wiped his mouth, and stretched out his hand to grasp Maisey’s. Philippe pulled her large, long fingers to his lips. “The pie, Madame Maisey . . . it is the best I have ever eaten.”

Abby stood silent.
Boy, somebody’s mood has changed.

“How about a box? I can wrap it for you,” Maisey offered.

“No, no, merci. We will return, won’t we, Abby?” Philippe announced, grinning broadly.

“Yes, we must.” Abby winked at Maisey and led Philippe from the pie shop.

“Didn’t I tell you pie would help?”

 

 

 

4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter
1 cup packed brown sugar
3 large eggs, beaten
½ cup dark corn syrup
3 tablespoons bourbon (for that extra brown sugar, caramel, and vanilla flavor)
½ teaspoon salt
½ cups toasted whole pecans, plus 1 cup, coarsely chopped
One unbaked 9-inch pie crust (either your own recipe or store-bought)

 

Chapter 10

Boxed and jug wine are fine as long as you never drink or cook with a flawed wine.

 

 

T
ucking the evidence envelope containing the earring found near Jean-Louis’s body into a pocket of her pea-green cropped pants, Abby held it there as she dashed across Main and darted into Village Rings & Things. Philippe walked briskly beside her, keeping pace despite the humongous piece of pie he’d just devoured. The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows of the store, glancing off the surfaces of glass cabinets, shimmering displays of gemstone jewelry, and shiny mirrors. The pleasing scent of cedarwood and citrus permeated the interior. On any other day, Abby would stroll straight to her favorite area, the marcasite display case . . . but not today. She wanted to interview owner Lidia Vittorio about that earring. . . and her timing seemed near perfect; there were no customers inside the store.

Lidia, emerging from behind a beaded curtain that only partially hid the back room where her husband, Oliver, did the cleaning and repair work, called out sweetly, “May I help you?” Standing next to the curtain and stroking the beads into stillness, she stared at Abby for a moment. “Why, Abigail Mackenzie, is it really you, dear? We’ve missed having you patrol our premises.”

Abby smiled. “I’ve missed seeing you.”

Lidia smoothed an imagined wrinkle from the black crepe dress enshrouding her petite frame. Her silver hair was swooped up tightly in a bun. She walked with the uprightness of a young tree, despite the osteoporosis that had forged a dowager’s hump over her upper back. After embracing Abby warmly, Lidia held her at arm’s length. “You look so healthy. I take it the police work is keeping you fit.”

“Well, I’m no longer with the police, although occasionally I do a little investigative work for the DA.”

“So that explains why you’re not in uniform.”

“True. I bought a farmette outside of town. It’s the farmwork that keeps me fit.”

“Well, nothing beats a homegrown tomato, dear.” With a sly wink at Philippe, Lidia touched the cuff of Abby’s shirt and added, “I’ve got a pair of Australian opal earrings with green pinfire streaks that would go beautifully with the color you are wearing.”

Abby chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”

Lidia turned her attention to Philippe. “You know, young man, I haven’t seen you around town lately, either.” She extended her hand to Philippe, who took her long, tapered fingers in his and bowed ever so slightly, evoking from Lidia a pale-lipped smile.

“Philippe Bonheur,” he said politely. “From New York. I am just visiting.”

Abby explained, “Philippe’s brother was the chef down the street who recently passed away.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Lidia’s tissue-thin, blue-veined hands inched upward to the diamond-studded cameo at her neck. After years of visiting the store, Abby had learned why the old lady wore that cameo every day, regardless of her attire. The piece had belonged to Lidia’s maternal great-aunt, the family’s matriarch. As a preadolescent girl whose mother had already passed, Lidia had been fascinated by the carved face of the jewelry and had often touched it while sitting embraced by her great-aunt’s arms. The irony, Lidia had pointed out to Abby, was that surrounded as she was in the shop by exquisite jewels, the only piece she truly cared about was that cameo. Lidia believed it carried the same soothing vibration that her great-aunt had possessed.

Abby discounted the idea that a piece of jewelry could manifest a vibe but didn’t doubt the sentimental connection Lidia felt to the piece. But Abby hadn’t come to discuss Australian opals or Italian cameos. She wanted Lidia’s expert opinion about the earring she had found in the pastry shop, near the body.

“Philippe and I are looking into the circumstances of his brother’s death. You knew Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur, didn’t you, Lidia?”

“No, I don’t think we ever met. Bonheur, that’s French, isn’t it?”

Philippe’s expression warmed at the interest Lidia expressed in his family name. “We’re French Canadians.”

Before the conversation could veer off too much into the origins of names, Abby asked, “Is there any chance your husband might have known Philippe’s brother?”

“Not really, dear. When we are not here in the shop, Oliver and I keep pretty much to ourselves. Well, except for my quilting club on Tuesday evenings. And, of course, there’s Oliver’s investment group, which meets the last Wednesday of the month, after their power breakfast at the pancake house.”

Abby smiled and exchanged a quick look with Philippe. She pulled the earring from the police evidence envelope. “What about this? Have you seen this earring before?”

Lidia took the earring and turned it in every direction to scrutinize it.

“I’m not sure.... Something about it seems familiar.” She reached for the nearby velvet-covered board on the glass countertop and picked up her loupe. Holding the earring just above the black fabric, she peered through the loupe. “The facets are sharp, not rolled. The girdle is frosty. Oh, dear, the stone has a small crack.”

Philippe arched a brow, as if intrigued, and Abby shrugged. “What does all that mean?” she asked.

Putting down the loupe, Lidia gripped the earring post between a long, bony forefinger and thumb. “Meaning, dear, your diamond is real. With the fakes, you don’t get the carbon, cracks, or tiny pinpoints of mineral that Mother Nature includes in her stones.”

“And that . . . uh . . . girdle part?”

“It’s here,” Lidia said. Using the nail of her little finger, she indicated the area of the stone below the crown that rested in the setting. “It’s just another sign that it’s a real diamond.”

“Is there more to tell about it?” Philippe asked.

Lidia picked up the loupe and stared through it at the earring once again. “Might be fourteen-karat white gold, but I would have to do an acid test to be sure. Based on the clarity and the style of the filigree, I would say this is an old European-cut diamond earring dating to the early part of the last century. There’s a fracture in the filigree, but it’s still quite lovely.” She turned the earring around slowly, methodically, peering at it from every direction. Suddenly, she gasped. “Oh, my goodness, I remember something.”

Abby, who had been leaning against the counter and staring at the earring almost as closely as Lidia, looked at Philippe. He had been leaning forward, too, but now stood erect, his eyes shining.

“What do you remember, Lidia?” Abby asked.

“This isn’t an item we carry, dear, but I’m certain it came in for repair—a broken piece of filigree in the scroll-work around the square cushion. It also had a loose mounting prong.” Lidia put down the loupe.

“And you remember this because . . . ?” Abby asked.

“Because it’s an antique, Oliver showed it to me right away. He said no one does this kind of work anymore.” Lidia picked up the loupe and put it over the side of the mount. “My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I couldn’t forget this one.”

Abby felt her stomach flutter. “Please tell me, Lidia, that you remember the name of the person who brought this earring in.”

“Well, let me think.” Lidia put down the earring. She placed both hands on the edge of the counter, long fingers splayed across the top. Thus steadied, she closed her eyes.

Abby looked at Philippe and put a finger to her lips. If Lidia needed to shut out the visual world to conjure up a clearer memory, Abby figured some silence couldn’t hurt, either. What she didn’t want was to break the spell.

A moment later, Lidia opened her eyes. “It was last September,” she said. “Students from the high school had started coming in with their backpacks. That’s always a problem. You’ve got to keep such a close eye on those young ones. They tend to pilfer, you know.”

“Yes . . . and so, last September, as you were saying?” Abby asked.

“A man came in. I’d wager he might have been in his early forties. Our cleaning lady’s husband is about that age. I remember the man’s clothing seemed too nice for a sweaty hike up to the reservoir. Said he went up there with a friend. But what I remember most about him is that he wore a Yacht-Master II. Who wears a Rolex on a rugged hike into the foothills?” She smiled at Philippe. “Oh, you might see a yachtsman wearing such a piece in the Old Port of Marseille, but not at the reservoir in Las Flores! Of course, that was the day our air-conditioning broke down. It was hot as blazes out, even hotter here in the shop. Every store in town was running its AC. Triple-digit temps that week and—”

“Yes,” Abby interrupted. “I remember that sweltering heat. The county rationed water, and most of my heirloom corn roasted on the stalk.”

Philippe took a turn at guiding Lidia back on topic. “The earring, it was broken, and your customer wanted you to fix it?”

“Yes,” Lidia said. “The man gave my husband the earring to fix.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Abby asked.

“He hadn’t been in here before, but he said that his wife had. The earrings were for her. I gather they had been in his family and had been passed down. The man said he needed something to placate his wife for a recent misdeed.”

Philippe had stepped away to stare beneath the glass at a pair of Edwardian-style gold cuff links in a spiral shape. But at hearing “misdeed,” he looked at Abby with a lifted brow. He seemed to be fully attentive again to what else Lidia might remember.

Abby watched as Lidia, seemingly annoyed that a silver strand of hair had fallen over her shoulder, expertly twisted the strand back where it belonged. “You know, we had to get rid of that AC unit. I guess it must have lasted us three decades.” Chuckling softly, she added, “Not nearly as long as my husband and I have been married.”

“So,” Abby asked, “any chance you recall the man’s name?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think.... No, sorry.” She frowned as though her attempt to remember was not without a great deal of effort. “We might have a repair ticket in our files. We always write the customer’s name on the ticket and match it with the jewelry by the ticket number. I’ll ask my husband if he remembers that man or the earring. In old age, two heads really are better than one.” She chuckled. “He’s six months younger.”

Abby was suddenly aware of the bright twinkle in those aging eyes. That and Lidia’s sweet temperament endeared her to everyone in town.

The storefront door chimed as a young woman pushing a baby stroller entered with two women friends.

“Be right with you,” Lidia called out.

Abby stood, thoughtfully chewing her lower lip. She wanted to ask Lidia a few more questions, but she’d prefer to do it out of earshot of any customers. Then she had an idea. “Any chance that adorable husband of yours is working in the back?”

“Oh, no, dear. Oliver is recovering from hip surgery. He’s grumbling away in the nursing home next to the county hospital.”

The shop door chimed as five teens walked in. Some held containers of super soda with large red straws; others carried cups of frozen yogurt, all bearing the logo of the ice cream shop several storefronts away.

A withering expression crept across Lidia’s face. After handing the earring to Abby, Lidia marched from behind the display case to address the teens. “We don’t allow food or drink in here. You’re welcome to take your treats outside and come back in when you’ve finished. Now, go on with you.” Lidia pointed an authoritative finger toward the door.

After the last teenager was outside, Lidia whispered, “I tell them repeatedly. Still, they come with the drinks. There’s a sign just next to the door there. I wish I could change the wording to read ‘Teens, small children, and pets are not allowed, ’ but I can’t very well do that, can I?”

Abby shook her head. Her heart went out to Lidia—the grand old lady was past retirement age but was still working, and now she was working without Oliver.
Must be difficult.

Lidia was watching the customer with the sleeping infant in the baby stroller. The young woman, with dreadlocks tied back in a red bandanna, had removed several pairs of earrings and was holding each pair up to her ears for feedback from her girlfriends before tossing the pair aside and reaching for another.

“Oh, dear Lord!” Lidia exclaimed. “One pair at a time. That’s our policy.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “When the earrings are all laid out willy-nilly, it’s so easy for them to disappear.” She glanced up at the wall clock. “I’m sorry, Abby. I need to help that girl make her selection. I also have to close shop and drive to the nursing home to sit with Oliver while he has his dinner. He grumbles when he has to eat alone. Would it be possible for you to return tomorrow, dear? I’ll see if I can find that receipt for you.”

Sensing Lidia’s utter distress, Abby nodded and returned the earring to the evidence envelope in her pocket. “Would you like for Philippe and me to flip over the
OPEN/CLOSED
sign as we leave?”

“Oh, yes, dear, if you would. I’ll lock the door behind you.”

Abby plucked a business card from her pocket and handed it to Lidia. “Call me if you or Oliver remembers anything else or you locate the receipt. It’s important.”

“Of course, dear.”

Abby squeezed the old woman’s hand. “Thanks.”

From the jewelry store, Abby walked alongside Philippe as they took the shortcut through the alley from Main Street and then headed up to the church school yard where their cars were parked.

At the cars, Philippe started to say something but was interrupted by the bell at the Church of the Holy Names as it began chiming in harmonic sequence five times. He stared into space, waiting until the echo of the last chime died away. Finally, he looked into Abby’s eyes. “I hope your Lidia Vittorio finds the receipt, Abby. I think this is an important clue, n’est-ce pas?”

“Might be,” Abby replied. “If it reveals the man’s identity, we can talk with him. I want to know what misdeed he did and what the wife knows. What act could have been so egregious as to compel him to give her those earrings? Adultery? Abuse? Murder?”