A Beeline to Murder (21 page)

Abby grinned and grabbed him with both hands to steady herself as a wind gust tugged hard at her balance. “And maybe a drink at the Black Witch after dinner?”

He arched his brows. A quizzical look crossed his face. “Maybe even two. And stiff ones at that. Should I read something more into this?”

“It’s up to you. I’ll explain while we fill our tummies with comfort food,” said Abby.

“Bean soup is comfort food? Americans!”

 

 

 

1 cup dried Hutterite small soup beans or other white
beans
3 medium celery stalks, diced
2 large carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 large smoked ham hock
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and diced
½ cup torn fresh spinach leaves
1 packet Lipton Golden Onion Recipe Soup & Dip Mix
6 cups chicken stock
2 to 3 medium bok choy leaves, torn into small pieces

 

Chapter 15

Pacific oysters can engage in annual sex reversals—male one year, female the next—one of nature’s many surprises.

P
hilippe pointed to Zazi’s chalkboard sign right inside the restaurant’s entrance and exclaimed with exuberance, “Oh, mon Dieu! The grilled oysters, we must have them to start . . . and champagne!”

“Sounds good,” said Abby, recalling how crestfallen his expression had been at the Shakespeare Festival, when the concession stand had run out of oysters. “Would you mind ordering while I give a quick call back to Kat? It’s not the kind of conversation I want to have in public. I’d like to make it from the car. Okay?”

“Ah, oui.” His brows knitted. He looked puzzled. “You won’t be long?”

“I promise. I’ll be back before the oysters are served.” She put her hand on his arm and said softly, “There are at least two people who know the truth about what happened to poor Jean-Louis . . . three, if you count an accomplice. It’s high time the truth comes out, but I’m thinking things have to be set in motion first.”

She reached for the bar across the door to open it but relinquished it when Philippe placed his palm against it and pushed the door open. He followed her outside into the fading light of early evening. The wind unrelentingly whipped his trouser legs and lifted the sheer flounces above the hem of Abby’s black mourning dress.

“You must enlighten me,” he said, “as soon as you return. I do not like suspense.”

Abby nodded. The wind gusted and tugged at her hair, loosening the comb anchoring her thick mane, which she’d twisted into a loose braid at the nape of her neck. Instinctively, her hand flew back to catch the comb, but she was a millisecond too late. As the comb slipped from her hair and the unrestrained locks tumbled over her shoulders, Abby pivoted away from Philippe and darted after the comb. It somersaulted down the street, lifted and tossed by the airstream. Giving up hope of ever catching it, she turned back to Philippe. He stared at her, his gray-green eyes sparkling with intensity.

“What?” Abby asked, shaking out her hair and reaching to pull a lock of it from her eyes.

Gazing intently at her hair, he murmured, “Alexa Wilding.”

“Huh?” Abby was sure her face had a stupid expression on it, but what was he talking about?

“Your hair. Your face. This light.”

“Reminds you of another woman?” Abby asked incredulously.

“Oui. An English girl named Alexa Wilding.”

Abby wasn’t expecting him to tell her the truth about his intimate relationships. But Philippe, she’d learned, was full of surprises.

“She was a working-class girl who posed for Dante Gabriel Rossetti.”

“Oh.” Abby sighed in relief. “You mean that Pre-Raphaelite artist? I’ve heard of him, but not her. So tell me, Mr. Art Dealer, what was so special about Alexa Wilding?” Abby wasn’t too sure where this conversation might go, but she would play along. Maybe she would learn something.

“Rossetti had already completed
Lady Lilith,
one of his most famous paintings. Then he saw Alexa Wilding. His usual model did not possess delicate features. To reflect an image of refined beauty, Rosetti reworked the painting to capture Alexa Wilding’s face.”

Philippe moved a half step closer and clasped a strand of Abby’s long, curly hair in his hand for a closer look. “Alexa Wilding’s hair was the color of grain. But I can imagine that painting with your gold-red hue with undertones of burnished copper.” Releasing her hair to cup her chin in his hand, he gently studied one side of her face and then the other. “Extraordinary,
ma chérie.
”

“The painting?”

“You.” Philippe’s eyes locked with hers.

Abby’s heart hammered. His nearness felt as palpable and luscious as the first time she had held an exquisitely ripe summer pear to her mouth, sinking lips and teeth and tongue into it.
Oh, my . . . is he going to kiss me? Right here, in front of Zazi’s Bistro?
But when Philippe flashed a flirtatious smile and stepped back, Abby quickly regained her composure, smiled weakly, and murmured, “Thank you for the compliment.” She paused to take a short, deep breath. “I just need to make that phone call. Give me two minutes, and I’ll be back before the appetizers are served.”

Philippe watched her cross the street to her Jeep. Abby looked back and waved.

In the car, Abby paused before tapping Kat’s number on her phone. She needed to settle her thoughts and calm the crazy drumming of her heart. Had he just compared her to the Pre-Raphaelite romantic ideal of beauty? It seemed so. When the mere touch of his skin sent a shiver racing through her, Abby couldn’t help wondering what it really would feel like to kiss him.
I can’t think about that now. Focus.

When Kat picked up, Abby said, “I think I know who killed Jean-Louis, and, Kat, I need a favor.”

“Only one?” Kat replied.

“Who is acting chief of police now that Bob Allen is in the hospital, recovering?”

“Otto.”

“Great,” Abby said. “Do you think you could convince him to reopen the case?”

“He’ll want a strong theory and the evidence to support it.”

“Well, I’ve got a handwritten note that practically spells out that the chef was murdered and even suggests who the killer is. Are you hanging on to your handcuffs? That note blew out of Jean-Louis’s coffin just before it was lowered into the ground.”

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“I never joke about murder,” Abby said.

“So, who killed our chef?”

“Eva Lennahan looks good for it.” Abby checked her face in the rearview mirror and decided she could quickly freshen her makeup while explaining everything to Kat. If she was to represent beauty idealized, a bit of blush couldn’t hurt and a touch of lipstick seemed in order. She glanced away from the mirror to look through the windshield. She could see Philippe inside, chatting with the waitress; undoubtedly, he was ordering their champagne. “I tell you, Kat, it was like divine intervention,” Abby said, opening her purse. “And the photo with the handwriting on the back nearly blew away before I could snag it. Anyway, here’s my theory.

“Jean-Louis and Jake Lennahan got together in the Caribbean. Could have been any number of reasons why they met, including a business trip, a guys-only outing, or even an accidental run-in. But their mutual attraction was stronger than their power to resist.” Abby took out her mascara and touched up her lashes.

“While they were there, they each got identical tattoos of the astrological sign Cancer. Philippe told me that Jean-Louis didn’t have that tattoo before he went to the Caribbean. Both men were born in the month of July, making them Cancers. Jean-Louis loved the sea. Jake had access to a yacht in the Dominican Republic. They were about to celebrate their birthdays again in a few weeks. It’s a verifiable fact that Jean-Louis was planning to return to the Caribbean—most likely with Jake, further solidifying their relationship.”

“Illicit relationship,” Kat chimed in. “As we both know, Jake is married to a woman with unstoppable political ambition.”

“And there’s your motive for murder—Eva couldn’t afford a scandal. She had connections within the prison system that could fix her problem. After all, she had met a lot of inmates, wardens, and corrections officers through her charity work with families of the incarcerated. Guys on the inside know how to get a favor done by their buddies on the outside.” Glancing up at the mirror again, Abby noticed a speck of mascara on her cheek. She fished a tissue from her purse and brushed it off.

“But why not kill the husband, instead of his lover? Or, better still, just get a divorce, like everyone else does?” Kat asked.

“Stop the money flow and there ends her lifestyle and her ambitious dreams. I’ll bet she has wheedled a small fortune from Jake, including his family heirlooms. I saw her wedding ring setting when we ran into her at the park. It’s a perfect match to the earring Jake had repaired at Lidia’s jewelry shop. I’d say it is pretty nice bling for someone who once worked as a convenience store clerk. Well, that’s what I’ve learned, anyway, from perusing back issues of the
Weekly.
Apparently, Jake used to go into the Stone Bridge Road convenience store on Sunday mornings for coffee and a newspaper, since his place up in the hills is outside of the news delivery area but near the store. According to one story, that’s where she met him.”

“I gotta say, girlfriend, you have certainly done your homework. Do you think the earring just fell off during the murder?”

“Maybe there was a struggle.”

“Plausible. Proof would be nice.”

“Well, maybe her campaign manager or someone else saw her wearing those earrings that night. I mean, think about it. What reason would Jake or anyone else have for bringing them . . . ever . . . to the pastry shop?”

“She could have dropped it while visiting the chef on another occasion.”

“True, but my instincts tell me different.” Popping a mint into her mouth, Abby said, “This is where Otto could be effective in unearthing her whereabouts in the wee hours of the morning, what she was doing, and what she was wearing when Jean-Louis died. I’m thinking she got a call from someone who thought they could solve her problem by making it seem that the chef had become deeply depressed, depressed enough to hang himself.”

Kat said, “Makes sense, but who would make that call or even know how to reach her in the middle of the night?”

“Whoever it was most likely accompanied Eva to the pastry shop. We know she needed muscles to lynch him.”

“Ah,” Kat said, “so the chef would see Eva’s face and open the door to her.”

“Exactly,” Abby said, checking out Philippe, who was staring back at her.

“Probably,” said Kat. “So she went there to convince the chef
not
to go to the Caribbean with her husband, and when he wouldn’t agree, she murdered him?”

“Oh, this is where it gets muddy for me,” Abby said. “Maybe Otto could grill Jake, see if he’ll turn on Eva . . . or maybe he could call Eva in, insinuate that he knows about Jake and the chef’s little affair, and make her think we are hot on her trail. She’s too calculating to spill, but if she doesn’t lawyer up, we might get her to reveal something or keep her talking long enough to analyze her behavior. Of course, we could hope for a confession,” said Abby. “We know her marriage to Jake gave her access to power, privilege, politics, and all sorts of people. All that access would change, and a scandal would ensue, if Jake revealed his secret.”

“So if Eva knocked off the chef, who was her accomplice?” Kat asked.

“My guess . . . she called in a favor from a local biker, an ex-felon, or a gangbanger—someone who knows how to get things done, inside or out. I suppose it could also have been a hit for hire. Either way, I think she was there with an accomplice.”

“She’d have her pick of thugs hanging out at the Black Witch, right next door to the pastry shop,” said Kat.

“Yes, and I’d love to know if the killer’s epithelials are on the twine. You did say the twine you found in Dora’s bag was a long piece with a knot. I’ve seen those newspaper bundles with a double length of string,” Abby said.

“Yes, but multiple people would have touched it—surely the killer, but also the newspaper carrier, and let’s not forget Dora.”

“No, maybe not Dora. Well, yes, she would have touched it, but she almost always wears those ridiculous white gloves from the last century. The news guy’s skin cells certainly would be found. But the killer’s cells are likely there, too, unless he wore gloves,” Abby stated. “As for the newspaper carrier, he is not really a person of interest, because we know from a pastry shop neighbor on the back side of Lemon Lane that a thump was heard around five a.m., possibly the newspaper hitting the sidewalk. We also know from the call the newspaper carrier made to dispatch that his car was nearly hit by Etienne, who ran that stop sign around four thirty a.m. So, although the deliveryman would have touched the twine to tie the bundle, his alibi of running a route is airtight, and he has no motive for murdering the chef.”

“All good points. But what about that Vieillard fellow?” Kat seemed to be anticipating Otto’s skepticism, since Otto was the acting chief now, working directly under Chief Bob Allen’s authority.

“Since you asked, Vieillard is really Jake Lennahan. It is a name that Jean-Louis used as a term of endearment to keep the identity of his secret lover private. You know how Jean-Louis was about giving other people pet names. Jake was older, but only by five years and two days, and he was still in the closet, so to speak.”

“The possibility has crossed my mind that Jake might have framed his wife,” Kat said. “How would you refute that?”

Abby laughed. “He couldn’t have known that his note would fly out of the coffin. A handwriting sample will prove Jake wrote that note. His wife killed his lover. We have to find out who helped her do it.”

“Yeah, so I’ll bring her in for an interview. But before I go, I need to tell you that there’s talk concerning you.”

“What kind of talk?”

“I guess the questions you’ve been asking are beginning to make some low-life types nervous.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“To start with, associates of Dora from the encampment under the creek bridge. Word has got around that you’ve been looking for the murderer among our citizens, and you know how paranoid the winos down there can get. They think one of them will be wrongly fingered for it. Then there’s the buzz at the Black Witch, among the bikers.”

“They got a problem with me trying to figure out what happened to Chef Jean-Louis?”

“It doesn’t take much to get them riled. I’m told Sweeney didn’t like the cold shoulder you gave him the night he was mouthing off in the bar. He told his drinking buddies that if he ever gets you alone, he’s going to teach you a lesson. Plus, you’re a former cop, and you’ve been meddling in his business.”