The Murder of a Queen Bee (10 page)

Abby shook her head, as if in complete disbelief. “You don't think someone in that commune might have had a reason to hurt that woman who is dead now, do you?”

The two women looked at each other.

The freckle-faced woman flicked water from her hands and spoke up. “Well, you've got to wonder what happens when a woman like that falls out of favor with the so-called prophet.”

“Or if she incurs the jealousy of the other women,” the gray-haired lady remarked thoughtfully. She quickly reapplied her lipstick and looked at Abby. “Several of those commune people work down at Smooth Your Groove. I'd be careful about eating anything there. Who knows what they're putting in those smoothies.”

“Thank you. I will,” Abby said, lifting her curly hair with the front of her hand and flicking it from her bodice over her shoulder. She plucked the reddish-gold strand clinging to her shirt and let it drop to the floor.

“Yes,” chimed in Freckle Face. “You can't be too careful.”

The gray-haired woman adjusted her scarf, tucked her purse strap over her shoulder, and waited for her friend. “We're here for a mini reunion,” she said. “Edna Mae and the two of us went to nursing school together, but that was aeons ago.”

“Really?” said Abby. “That's so nice.”

“Edna Mae's retired now. That antique store is her second career.”

“Lovely how you've remained friends for such a long time,” said Abby, rolling the cuffs up on her shirt. She glanced at her watch. “Ooh, and speaking of time and friends, I've got to get back to my date, or he'll come looking for me.” Abby opened the powder-room door and glanced back at the two women preening in the mirror. Their conversation had shifted from murder and the commune to the Amish quilts Edna Mae now carried in her shop.

On the return trip to her table, Abby thought about the “cheap trinket on a cord” remark and the symbolism of the number eight. What might seem like the mindless prattle of outsiders could have relevance. She made a mental note to look into it.

Clay whistled softly. “You had me worried, woman. I was beginning to think you'd slipped out the back door and left me for good.” His dark eyes danced. “I would have come after you. We've got plans.”

Abby arched a brow. “Oh, do we?” She plucked the white napkin from under her fork, shook the fabric loose, and laid it across her lap. Clay poured the wine and intercepted Abby's hand as she reached for her glass. He drew her fingers to his lips, kissed each with tenderness, as though reacquainting himself with the feel of her flesh.

“To a fresh start with the only woman I have ever truly loved. The one who has claimed my heart and soul. To you, Abby, my main squeeze.”

Shouldn't that be “my
only
squeeze”?
Her thought remained unspoken as she lifted her glass and touched it to his. He probably hadn't even recognized his faux pas.

Clay took the lead in filling in the blanks of his life from their year apart. He had always enjoyed talking about himself, and this time was no exception. As Abby listened, she realized as perhaps never before how thickly Clay could lay on the Kentucky charm. He was as smooth as the old-vine zinfandel they were drinking. Eventually, he got around to a topic besides himself—the farmette—and inquired about her renovation projects for the summer.

Abby told him of her desire to rip out the aging shower-tub combo in the master bath. “There's mold growing behind that cheap vinyl enclosure. I just know it,” she said. She sipped the red liquid, relaxing into the warm, contented mood it evoked.

“And I've got a plan to fix that,” he said, with a grin that bared nearly all his pearly whites.

“Well, I like the plan you conjured up while we were inside Lidia Vittorio's jewelry store,” Abby said. “I can't afford a marble floor or a fancy jetted tub, although I'd love them.”

“We'll see,” said Clay. “There are several architectural salvage yards in the county and at least three stone suppliers who fill their Dumpsters daily with castoffs from custom cuts. With permission, we might be able to find enough similar pieces of marble to lay a small floor.”

Abby looked at him in surprise. “Do you know anything about cutting marble?” she asked. “It's stone. Thick stone. A slab of a mountain.”

Clay smiled like a Cheshire cat. He devoured an appetizer-sized serving of bruschetta, mozzarella melted over chunks of heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil on a toasted crostini that had been generously brushed with olive oil. Wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin, he leaned forward to gaze at her with smoldering intensity. In a tone of supreme confidence, Clay said, “All you need is the right tool for the job . . . and the knowledge of how to use that tool. And, thank the Lord, I've got both.”

Abby's cheeks flamed at the double meaning. Her pulse quickened. “Oh, I'm sure you have. But if mold,” she said, in a not too obvious shift in the conversation, “is in the drywall, that section will have to be removed.” She guided her finger around the rim of her wineglass
. Sip the wine more slowly.
It wouldn't do to lose her objectivity, and he seemed intent on weakening all her defenses. “Is it so simple?”

“Oh, it is. Trust me,” he replied.

Trust. Not so easy.
Abby sank deeper into her chair, only faintly aware that she drew comfort from the solid support of the oak planks.

Leaning in, he put his hand over hers. “A tub for two is on my wish list.”

“Flooring and kitchen shelves are on mine,” Abby muttered hastily. “There is almost no storage space, and I'm tired of that plywood subfloor in the living area. It looks okay covered with an area rug, but how much nicer the space will be with warm hardwood floors. But that will be a big project.” She didn't want to sound too depressing. But when everyone else talked renovation, they were dreaming of new doors, windows, crown molding, and countertops, but she wanted finished walls and floors.

“Everywhere you look, Clay, there's a project,” Abby said. “Once upon a time, I was working from a master plan for the farmette. Now I tackle what needs fixing before the next rainy season sets in . . . and pray that the tap on the money trickle doesn't dry up. I've got honey, eggs, produce, and herbs to sell, but the real money comes from my part-time investigative work for the DA. And at present, there isn't any.”

Clay leaned back in his chair, nodding, reassuring her that things would change now that he was back. “I'm home now, Abby.”

The wine had lowered her emotional barriers. She leaned toward Clay, as if to share a secret. “You know,” she said after polishing off the last sip in her glass, “I dream of buying that acre of land at the back of my property. The heirs who own it are lovely people, and right now they don't want to sell. But maybe they'll have a change of heart someday if I come up with the right amount of cash. Who knows?” Abby leaned back in her chair. “With the additional acre, I could get goats, make cheese to sell, and still have enough room to increase my hives and the number of chickens—which means more honey and eggs. If I could fix up that old house back there, I could rent the farmette house for yet another income stream.” Suddenly, Abby's face flushed with warmth. With a sheepish grin, she quickly added, “A pipe dream, I know.”

Clay rubbed his chin. “How much do you think you'd need?”

“Well, that's just it. It's not on the market.”

He pointed to his watch. “We could always auction off this baby.”

She knew how difficult it would be for him to part with the designer watch. He'd set the watch as a reward for achieving his dream of making a six-figure income. And he'd done that on his last job.

“A down payment, maybe,” Abby said with a sigh. “But you know as well as I do, California land is like gold. That acre behind the farmette won't come cheap.” She lifted her glass and waited for Clay to refill it. After taking a sip, Abby held the wine on the back of her tongue and then swallowed. She felt warm and inexplicably happy, reveling in the anticipation of good things to come. Maybe this was Clay's greatest gift to her—inspiring ideas, imparting hope, sending her spirits soaring with the belief that anything she truly wanted was possible if her belief, desire, and will to manifest it were strong enough.

Clay gazed at her with an expression that Abby interpreted as both soulful and contented.

She studied his youthful, tanned face, the faint frown lines threading across his forehead and around his eyes. He certainly didn't look forty-two. He exuded vitality from his rock-hard body. Abby doubted that any woman could remain immune to Clay's charm and intensity. And until she sensed a wind of change blowing again toward their relationship, she would enjoy the buoyancy of spirit his presence brought her. At that moment, Abby realized she would give him a second chance.

They agreed upon a dessert course of fresh ewe's cheese and honey, along with an espresso with a lemon twist for Abby, while Clay enjoyed most of the second bottle of zin. Abby offered to drive him back to the Las Flores Lodge.

With his arm draped over her shoulder, she helped him as he stumbled to the door of his room. Clay leaned against the door frame and faced her. He pulled her close, as if with an awareness of cloth and skin separating their beating hearts, and he wanted more. He tugged on the elastic band holding Abby's hair and freed the mass of waves and curls, which came cascading down upon her shoulders.

“God, you're beautiful,” he whispered. Leaning in, he grazed her mouth with his, caressed her lips in a series of tender, sweet kisses, murmuring how much he loved her between each. Then, in the next moment, he smothered her mouth with a commanding mastery. Finally pulling back, he smiled, as if with secret knowledge of the depths of her soul.

Even Abby felt surprised at her eager response to his sensual hunger. The emotion of the moment had rendered her pliant, even weak. She'd longed for that kiss, and yet now that it had come, it confused her. She didn't want to feel weak with Clay. Why did he still have the power to seduce her?

Suddenly, he reached for the doorknob. “Babe, the hallway is spinning,” he said, slightly slurring his words.

“Uh-oh,” said Abby, hesitant to point out the obvious.
You've had too much to drink.
She heaved a sigh. “Give me the key. Let's get you inside.”

She waited while he fished inside his pants pocket and finally produced the key. After unlocking the door, she helped him to the bed, where he sprawled out. Abby tugged off his shoes and fetched him a glass of water. She'd heard somewhere that booze dehydrated the body and the brain. A glass of water for every glass of wine could help avert that morning-after headache. When she returned with the water, Clay lay quietly snoring. Abby kissed him on the forehead, set the glass of water and his key on the nightstand, and locked the door before pulling it shut behind her.

She decided to use the shortcut through town to the farmette. The road twisted back through a piece of the mountain and eventually dropped down onto Farm Hill Road. She'd be at her door long before midnight.

From Las Flores Boulevard, she turned onto Main Street and stopped at a red light. Enjoying the fresh night air wafting in through her open windows, Abby heard a familiar laugh and looked in the direction of the ice cream parlor. There she saw Kat giggling like a schoolgirl as she wiped drips off the bodice of her sundress and quickly licked a double-layer cone. Had the police made an arrest? Or did they have someone in their sights? Why else would Kat be out for ice cream when the cops were expected to work the case doggedly until it was solved? Abby had even thought that they might have to cancel their date for the upcoming estate sale. Then, seeing Lucas, Abby's heart lurched.

After strolling out of the ice cream parlor with a handful of napkins, Lucas Crawford smiled as he handed the napkins to Kat. Abby's stomach tightened. Lucas—that gorgeous man of few words, with soulful eyes the color of creek water—appeared to be sharing a sweet moment with her best friend. What was up with that?