The Murder of a Queen Bee (15 page)

Clay plugged in the twinkle lights that Abby had strung around the partially framed patio. Her dream was to one day turn it into a screened-in room that allowed light and air in, while keeping out flies, bees, and mosquitoes. But until then, it afforded a place away from the hot kitchen in the cool night air without having to flip on the outdoor lights mounted on the wall.

“I have a confession, Abby,” Clay said in a serious tone. He twirled the pasta on his plate around his fork.

“Another one?” Abby asked, leaning back against the patio chair cushion. “So, go on.... I'm all ears.”

“I've ordered lumber. The local DIY guys will drive it out in the morning.”

“Here?”

He snorted, “Where else?”

“Lumber? For what?”

“The master bath.”

“How could you know what to order when you haven't taken measurements?”

“Who says I haven't? That first day, when I brought the tools out here and waited for you in the house, I borrowed your new measuring tape.”

“Oh . . . Will these surprises of yours never end?”

“It's part of my master plan,” Clay said with a broad grin. “Get ready for this place to transform.”

Transform, huh? Your master plan? What about mine?
Abby mustered a polite grin and pushed back her plate. Leaning back against the chair cushion, she listened intently to the chorus of peepers and crickets. Perhaps their sound could drown out the voice inside her head that complained about him moving too fast. She searched the deepening violet sky for the early evening star as Clay began to spin a spell, talking through his ideas for the bath but never once asking for feedback or her opinion. She knew any plan he conceived would be an improvement on that nasty, cheap shower enclosure around the chipped tub, but why hadn't he asked her what
she
wanted?

Empowerment could take many paths, and maybe this was hers. Although it had been a long time coming, she was beginning to understand that passion could carry them only so far. Before their romantic love could become an enduring bond that could last a lifetime, there had been an abrupt rupture. And the great irony was that during Clay's absence, she had found stability from learning to trust the surest voice around her . . . and it had emerged from deep within her being. Now that selfsame voice sounded a niggling doubt that she could ever be a dutiful wife waiting for her man to come home after another of his far-flung trips.

When he got up and pulled her to a standing position to kiss her, Abby mustered a generosity of spirit, rationalizing that if she could allow herself to relax into his embrace, her misgivings might evaporate. The sweet moment ended almost as it began when Clay began swatting at the mosquitoes puncturing his bare forearms.

“Our cue to go inside, I guess,” said Abby.

“You want help rinsing the dishes?” Clay picked up her plate and put it on top of his and then loaded the silverware and glasses.

“Nah. I'll do the dishes. You relax.”

“Couch or bed?”

“Suit yourself.”

By the time Abby had finished the dishes, made a cup of green tea with roasted brown rice, and locked the sliding glass door to the patio, Clay had fallen asleep on top of the coverlet. Clothed only in his underwear, he had stretched his tan body across the middle of the bed and was tangled in the sheet. Abby retrieved the laptop at his side and briefly noted the screen display of bathtubs. After turning off the laptop and placing it on the floor, she paused to look at how Clay's body curved against her bed pillows and sheets. Just like in the old days. All she could think about over the past year was his coming back to her. Here he was. But her desire to crawl in next to him was weaker than her desire to read Fiona's journals. She padded barefoot away from the bedroom, with Sugar trotting right behind her.

Abby sank onto the oversize leather couch with her cup of tea. She reached for the journals, an eclectic mishmash of styles, colors, and shapes. From the dates inside the journals, Abby soon figured out the chronological sequencing and put them in order. Some of the journals were plain composition books with lined pages, like those used by high school students. Other journal covers sported elaborate designs, perhaps appealing to Fiona's imagination. Scanning the first of them, Abby realized that the disparate artwork on the journal covers found resonance in Fiona's cursive ramblings. She had written some passages in a careful cursive, while scribbling others. In the earliest journals, Fiona had kept a record of her meditation practice. She wrote about how the teachings of different gurus jibed or conflicted with her Catholic upbringing. Through her inner spiritual experiences and analysis, Fiona had unwittingly charted the intellectual and spiritual contours of her mind.

Abby swallowed the last of her tea and set aside the cup. She grappled with Fiona's ideas of duality, not sure why it mattered so much. A gentle breeze stirred the long copper tubes of her harmonically tuned wind chime. The notes sounded peaceful, like a spiritual hymn. The breeze grew stronger, entered the open screened door to caress Abby's arms and legs. By lamplight, she read on.

Abby realized that Fiona's yearning to be fully present in her life as a spiritual being—equally at home in the invisible and the visible world—lay nakedly exposed across her handwritten pages. For a moment, she felt conflicted about continuing to read. Fiona would not have wanted her life dissected, as cops were obliged to do when working to solve a murder. And although exuberantly free-spirited, Fiona probably would have balked at having her sacrosanct journals combed for clues by others. Thinking about putting aside the journals, Abby reminded herself that the search had to be done by someone. That being the case, Fiona likely would have wanted the reader to be a friend.

Abby meticulously thumbed through the pages, then suddenly stopped. She ran a finger under sentences in a section about a seer who foretold a bright future for Fiona. Elsewhere, she read about Fiona's desire to make sense of her dreams. She read, too, about instances when Fiona's inner vision collided with physical reality.

Abby lost herself in Fiona's world as page after page of entries revealed the restless spirit of a woman who refused to live her life on the train tracks of habitual routine and mindlessness. During the last three months of her life, Fiona had written about relief at ending the dalliance with Laurent Duplessis; her deepening love for her husband, Tom; and her fear that someone wanted to harm her. The anxiety showed up in entries posted at all hours of the night, some of them about nightmares with dark imagery. Fiona had clearly tried to extract meaning from them. Tucked into those pages, Abby found a brown wool scapular bearing the face of Jesus. Making a mental note to give it to Jack, she thumbed through the next few pages and found papers that had been shredded. She realized after reassembling them that they were the divorce papers Fiona had never signed. On the last page of that journal, Fiona had written the date of the Friday before the weekend she died. In the margin was the numeral eight and snake figures.
He's setting me up. I know what's going on now, and I have proof.

Abby turned the final page and found a key taped to the inside back cover. She stared at it, speculating about what it might open. Seeking answers, she'd found more questions. Now she was stumped. Her neck ached. Eyes were tired. She laid aside the book and reached for the soft blanket draped over the couch. Pulling it over her, she turned off the table lamp.

Before her mind's eye, a bizarre gallery took form—images of Fiona's inner circle. The snake that Fiona had interpreted as a dream symbol of deceit and betrayal had figured prominently in more than one dream. Abby wondered what could link the partial tire track, the smoker's nicotine patch, Fiona's necklace, Laurent's missing briefcase, the journal notations of a snake, the number eight, and that key. She stifled a yawn, knowing that she needed to let her brain rest, if only for an hour. Perhaps things would become clearer after the sun came up.

Chapter 11

Two roosters will not a harmonious henhouse
make.

 

 

 

T
he one-room post office adjacent to the police station smelled of paper dust and a lemon-scented disinfectant from a recent mopping of the green tile floor. Abby wrinkled her nose and walked straight to the wall of mailboxes to retrieve her business mail, hoping that the stench wouldn't hang on her white blouse and navy blue crop pants. When her key failed to release the box-locking mechanism, she soon realized why. She had taken Fiona's journal key from her daypack's zippered pocket instead of her mailbox key. Using the other key, she removed the mail—most of it junk—from the box before closing and locking it. Abby tossed the circular ads and discount cards in the large corner recycling bin but held on to the bee catalog she'd requested from a Sacramento-based company.

Leaving the post office, she noticed the attention-grabbing catalog cover. It featured a completely assembled painted hive with ten top bar frames, metal frame rests, an inner cover, and a lid—all for the unbelievable sale price of eighty dollars. A completely assembled and painted hive box for under a hundred bucks? No way. Something must be missing! She glanced up at the pedestrian walk light, which gave her the go-ahead. Abby stepped into the crosswalk and stole glances at the catalog cover as she made her way to the other side of the intersection.

A car horn blared. Tires screeched. Abby's hand flew out for balance and hit the hot hood of an approaching car. Adrenaline rushed through her. Her heart pounded. In a single movement, she clutched the catalog to her chest and gripped the shoulder strap of her daypack in order to race across the intersection.

Only after the champagne-colored BMW Alpina B7 started to roll forward through the intersection and turn onto Chestnut, where Abby stood at the corner, did she see the driver. Premalatha Baxter and her passenger, Dak Harmon, glared at her, as if the incident had been Abby's fault. Had they been carelessly speeding? Or had they tried to scare the wits out of her? Abby took a deep breath and shrugged off the incident. With murder on her mind, as it had been of late, she could be overreacting.

Except for her friendship with Fiona, Abby's dealings with the commune people had been minimal. She'd just as soon keep it that way. But she couldn't help wondering how anyone in that commune could afford a car that cost in the neighborhood of over a hundred grand.

The BMW rolled along Chestnut, toward the commune-owned Smooth Your Groove, with Abby watching and trying to shake off the tension her body still registered. After sliding the catalog into her daypack and zipping the daypack shut, Abby hitched her pack over her shoulder and set off again. Her cell phone vibrated in her pants pocket. It had to be either Jack or Kat replying to Abby's earlier texts. From Kat, she wanted to find out if Tom Dodge had been arrested, as reported, or simply detained for questioning. And from Jack, she wanted to know if he could help her figure out what lock Fiona's journal key might turn.

Glancing at her cell phone's screen message, Abby felt the dark energy from the near accident lift as she read Jack's short text:
See you in a few
. Abby kept a watchful eye on the parked BMW until she approached Lemon Lane, where she turned right. No harm in taking a look at the shops facing Main Street whose back doors opened onto Lemon Lane. That was where the delivery truck, vendor, and hired help activity took place. Fiona's shop, now shuttered and locked against the likes of Laurent and anyone else, held the most interest for Abby. She saw no one around Fiona's shop. But at the rear of the other shops, the activity was as brisk as that at the entrance to a beehive illuminated by the first rays of morning sun.

On the approach to Tilly's Café, the seductive scents of pancakes, maple syrup, bacon, and fragrant coffee drew her inside. She waved to Pedro, the short-order cook, who was slaving away over an egg scramble on his commercial grill. He lifted his spatula in acknowledgment as she claimed a counter stool and dropped her pack onto the adjacent seat for Jack. She didn't have to wait long for him to show. Within five minutes, the bell on the front door jangled. Abby looked up and felt a lurch of excitement as Jack strolled toward her.

He seemed in a cheerful mood, calling out with an affected Irish accent, “Well, look at you there. How are ya?”

Abby smiled. He seemed to enjoy speaking with an Irish brogue when in a good mood. Or whenever it suited him.

The twentysomething waitress grabbed menus, sauntered over, and plunked them down on the gray Formica countertop. She turned over the coffee cups. Pushing back a tuft of pink hair that had slipped over her ear, she asked Abby, “Know what you want?”

“Just orange juice for me,” Abby said.

“I heard that,” Pedro called out. “No harvest pancakes and scrambled eggs? I know you love them.”

Abby laughed and called back, “Oh, yes, I do, but I cooked eggs before I left the farmette this morning.”

Jack stared at the menu. Damp and loose curls in a halo of light brown clung to the sides of his face and his forehead. His whisker stubble further accentuated his angular cheeks and nose, making him look like a rugged sailor.

Definitely eye candy
, Abby thought. She tried to gauge the waitress's reaction to him, but the girl was all business.

“Your order, sir,” the waitress said.

Jack laser focused his baby blues on the face of the pink-haired waitress. “Something with a wee bit of elixir, if you'd be so kind. The stronger the kick, the better.”

“Seriously,” Abby said, shaking her head. “And what about breakfast?”

“Well, if you insist,” he said with a sly grin. “A pint of plain will do. Rich in cereal, grain, yeast, and alcohol.”

Abby arched a quizzical brow.

“What?” he asked with a broad grin. “It's got your four main food groups, plus some extra benefits!”

Tapping her notepad with a fake fingernail, the waitress seemed to lose patience. She raised a pencil-thin brow and said, “We don't serve alcohol here. You might try the Black Witch, a few doors down.”

“He's teasing,” said Abby.

Jack continued grinning. “Now, don't you be losing patience with me. I'll just be having what she's having,” he said, with a nod to Abby.

“So . . . two glasses of orange juice?” A defiant brow arched as the waitress scribbled the order.

“Hang on.” Jack winked at Abby. “Aye, and the breakfast special . . . a feller needs filling up after living on tins of salmon, sardines, and crackers for days.” Winking at Abby again, he explained, “Getting sick of cat food.”

The waitress cocked her head. “So you're changing your order from just juice to the special now?”

“Indeed.” Jack seemed to enjoy annoying the young woman.

The waitress exhaled heavily and walked over to give Pedro the grill order.

Jack reached for Abby's pack with one hand and grasped her elbow with the other. A warm shiver from the touch of his hand on her arm sent Abby's thoughts spinning and her heart racing.
This is just silly. Stay focused, and get a grip.

He guided her to the last table at the back of the room. “She'll find us,” he said, cocking his head toward the waitress. “Here it's a little more private for us to talk,” he said in a serious tone, devoid of the accent.

Abby laid aside her pack and took a seat.

When Jack pulled a chair out from the table, the chair legs screeched over the ceramic tile flooring, and Abby flinched. Her thoughts flashed back to the crosswalk incident. Her nerves jangled; her stomach churned.

“Can you believe those commune people nearly picked me off in the crosswalk?” Abby's face flushed with heat.

“What do you mean?” Jack's eyes expressed alarm as he dropped her pack on the floor next to her chair and took a seat. “When?”

“A few minutes ago. I had the green light to walk and was in the middle of the crosswalk. She had to see me.”

“Hold on,” said Jack. “You know the driver?”

“Yes. Premalatha Baxter, the commune manager. She was with that gorilla, Dak Harmon, the leader's bodyguard. The commune business must be turning a nice profit for her to be driving a brand-new BMW.”

Jack leaned in, his expression dead serious. “Why would you be on their radar?”

Abby blew a puff of air between her lips. “I'm guilty of being friends with Fiona and with you. You are Tom's brother-in-law, and he's one of them. So as far as I can tell, that's it. Well, unless being inquisitive is an affront to them. I do ask a lot of questions.”

“My advice, if you want it,” said Jack, “is to cut that Premalatha a wide berth.”

Abby nodded.

“So your text said you had found a key,” he said, leaning back into the chair.

Abby nodded and reached in her watch pocket, then placed Fiona's key on the table. “Taped to the inside cover of one of Fiona's journals. Any idea what it unlocks?”

Jack turned it over. He stared at her, seeming baffled. He shook his head.

“At first I thought it might go to a post office box.” Abby fished out her mailbox key and dropped it next to the journal key. “See what I mean?”

“Yes. They're quite similar.” Jack's gaze was riveted on her face and then moved beyond the keys on the table to the open collar of her white eyelet-trimmed blouse.

Her fingers flew to the blouse's undone top button. Abby's cheeks burned. “What about a safety-deposit box, like at a bank or a credit union?” Abby asked, hoping she might shift his attention.

“It's possible, I suppose.” His expression registered faint amusement, but he stayed on topic. “But which bank and which box number?” Raking his hands through his curly locks, he said, “Maybe Tom would know.”

“That's what I thought. Next point . . . who gets access to a box in a financial institution? As Fiona's husband, Tom is her next of kin, barring a surviving parent, which doesn't apply, since your parents predeceased you both. And she bore no children, right?”

“Right.”

Abby looked up as the waitress arrived with their glasses of orange juice. Before continuing, she waited until the young woman had departed for the area where Pedro plated the food. “Do you know if your sister made a will?”

“The police asked me about that,” Jack said. His pale blue eyes locked onto hers, and for a millisecond, Abby felt a slight shiver of pleasure. “In her original will, Fiona left everything to that old teacher from India and his organization. But then, when the old man left and Hayden Marks took over, Fiona told me she was quitting the commune life. A year after starting her business, she told me she'd revised her will.”

“Oh, I'll wager the homicide team would want to see that . . . find out who stands to gain financially from her death.”

“They asked me for it.”

“And . . . ?”

“I would have given it to them if I knew where to find it.” His long, tapered fingers rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “We didn't find it in the cottage. We both know that. Was there no mention of it in her journals?”

“No.” Abby leaned in, tilting her face slightly up toward his. “If we could locate the box this key fits . . .”

“Maybe we'd find the will.” Jack's tone sounded conspiratorial.

“Except for one inherent problem.” Abby sighed.

“What's that?”

“Let me lay it out. Let's say Fiona had a safety-deposit box where she banked. A bank employee could open the box and look for her will. That's good. The banker would try to determine whom she named as executor of her estate. That's good, too. If Fiona named you, you would get access to that box. But here's the bad news. If it's not your name, but someone else's, most likely, the bank would try to contact that person.”

“What if they can't find that person or he's in jail?”

“You might need to consult an attorney. I'm not an expert, but I think the bank employee would most likely turn the contents of the box over to the county probate clerk.”

“So, we need Tom's help?”

“Yes, I think we do.” Despite her churning tummy, Abby finished her juice and leaned back in the wooden chair. “Jack, can you think of anything else about Fiona's life? During her last days, did she fall out with anyone, like an acquaintance or a business associate? Can you think of anything at all that might have bearing on the case?”

Jack chewed his lip in silence, apparently mentally parsing the details of his sister's last days and weeks of life. His pale blue eyes drilled into Abby, although he seemed unaware of it. Still, Abby felt energy, like a whisper, passing between them. Her grandmother Rose, who had had a rich and imaginative inner landscape, would have counseled Abby to notice it without naming it. Naming something would confine and narrow the scope of it. But even as Abby's thoughts whispered,
Fiona
, her hands grasped for the cool Formica tabletop. A beat passed. She reached for the keys.

Jack snapped out of his reverie, took the keys from her hands for a final comparison. Then, pressing both keys back into her palm and cradling her hand in his, he said, “You know, I talked with Tom by phone right after I learned of her passing.” He choked up, hardly able to utter an intelligible word. “He asked if I could handle the burial if he chipped in some money. He said he just wasn't up to dealing with it. And one more thing . . . ,” Jack said, with his eyes narrowing. “Tom told me he felt responsible, but wouldn't say why.”