The Murder of a Queen Bee (16 page)

“Not exactly a confession,” Abby said, only too aware that Jack was still holding her hand. She gently pulled away from his grasp and slipped the keys into her pants pocket.

He downed his juice and set the glass on the table. “I don't think Tom would hurt an ant, and certainly not Fiona. What I can't fathom is why he'd try to pawn her jewelry. Why can't the police eliminate him as a suspect? And why—if he knew anything at all about that key you found in her journal—did he not mention it to me during our phone call?”

Abby absentmindedly tapped a fingernail against the table surface. “Fiona pretty much penned the narrative of her life in those journals. Toward the end of the last journal, she wrote about her foreboding sense of doom, her nightmares, and moments of extreme anxiety. It appeared that she had panic attacks, without knowing why or seeking help. I suppose, put into perspective, all her observations could add up to a premonition of her death.” Abby breathed in a shallow, quick breath to push away the raw emotion she felt.

Not a minute later, she remembered the scapular. “Oh, jeez, I almost forgot,” she said. She unzipped her pack, fished out the religious item, and handed it to Jack. “I found it in the same journal as the key,” Abby said, zipping the pack and dropping it onto the empty chair beside her.

After dabbing his mouth with his napkin and laying it aside, Jack took a close look at the scapular. He smoothed the strings connecting the two square pieces of brown wool and just stared at it.

Seeing his eyes fill with tears, Abby looked away. She watched as the pink-haired waitress across the room arranged plates of food on a tray, picked the tray up, and started walking toward their table. The young woman set before Jack a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, a bowl of fruit, a side of sausage, a platter of pancakes, and a serving of toast. Jack sniffed and cleared his throat. He slipped the scapular into his pocket.

“Enjoy your food,” said the waitress, before sashaying away to grab the coffeepot and head to another table.

“I should have warned you that they serve large portions here.” Abby chuckled.

He said, wiping his eyes with his napkin, “Good. All I need are some bangers and beans to make it a true Irish breakfast.”

Watching him first devour the mixed fruit and then a slice of toast, Abby said, “You know, Fiona was never going to divorce Tom. I found the papers, which she'd torn up and tucked inside a journal. Do you suppose Tom knew?”

Jack nodded and helped himself to a forkful of sausage and egg. “Like I said, in the end, they may have chosen different paths for the life that each wanted to live, but they loved each other. Of that much, I'm sure.”

The bell on the restaurant's front door jangled. Abby looked up to see Otto Nowicki, in his blue uniform and black boots, his shiny silver star on his chest, heading to the counter. After waving him over, Abby watched as he changed course, making a beeline to her.

“Gotta say, Abby . . . you must have a good reason to be hanging here at our café when you've got all that healthy food at your place,” Otto remarked.

Abby smiled and presented an open palm toward Jack. “Otto, this is Jack Sullivan, Fiona's brother.”

“I know,” Otto replied. “Mr. Sullivan and I have already met.” Otto extended a thick pale hand, which Jack shook vigorously.

“Of course you have,” Abby said.

Pulling out a chair for Otto, Jack asked, “Have you arrested my brother-in-law, Tom Dodge?”

“
Detained
is the word. For questioning,” Otto replied, eschewing the chair.

“But I heard on the radio that Tom has been arrested,” said Abby.

“That's the local media for you. Rushing to a headline, they beat out the competition. We haven't charged anyone. Nor is an arrest imminent.”

Abby looked at Jack, knowing how much he wanted his sister's killer to be found and locked up. The dejected look on Jack's face could have chilled the butter pats on the hot pancakes. Jack put down his fork and stared at Otto.

“What did he have to say,” Abby asked, gently probing, “about pawning his dead wife's favorite necklace and jewelry? He had to know that would look suspicious.”

“He did. And it was,” Otto answered. “But not illegal. He said his wife had given them to him in case he ever needed money. He wanted money now for her funeral.” Looking at Jack, Otto said, “I asked you, sir, if this was true. As I recall, you said it would not be unlike your sister to give him the jewelry. And you also said he'd told you he needed help with the funeral expenses.”

“And both statements are still true,” Jack said.

“So you detained Tom but didn't arrest him?” Abby asked.

Otto wrapped a thumb around his duty belt. “Yep. But we requested copies of those pawn receipts from the jewelry shop owner. As for Tom Davidson Dodge, we've cautioned him to stick around. I assume he's back home by now.”

“You mean up at the commune?” Abby said in an attempt to clarify Otto's statement.

“Yes.” Otto shifted his attention from Abby to Jack. “I want to let you know, Mr. Sullivan, that there'll be a couple of our guys in plainclothes keeping an eye on things at the funeral. Okay with you?”

Jack nodded.

Abby pushed back a lock of reddish-gold hair from her forehead and once again straightened the open collar and tugged down the eyelet-trimmed sleeves of her blouse. “A quick question before you go, Otto. I'm trying to reach Kat. Is she working today?”

“If you call patrolling the fairgrounds work.”

Abby chuckled. “Of course. I forgot she was pulling that duty. I'll catch up with her there. It'll give me a chance to find out if any of my jams and honey did well in the competition.”

“You do that, Abby.” Otto turned away and ambled over to a table where he could sit facing the room.

“Doesn't he like our company?” Jack asked.

“He's not unsociable,” said Abby. “If he eats here alone or with other cops, he'll get a free meal. The owner likes having cops around, and cops like to sit with their backs to the wall. Call it self-preservation. He's in uniform, a clear target for cop haters and killers on the loose, even in a small town.”

Chapter 12

The sixteenth century had its own version of
smoothies: smoldering passions were cooled by
drinking water sweetened with honey, sprinkled
with florets from lavender buds, and spiced
with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.

 

 

 

“H
old up there, daddy longlegs!” Abby exclaimed. She and Jack were strolling along the sidewalk on Lemon Lane, the short paved street that ran between the fenced play yard of Holy Names parochial school and the rear entries of the shops that faced Main Street. The key she'd found in Fiona's journal had piqued her curiosity, prompting Abby to suggest that she and Jack visit his dead sister's shop. With his hemp-colored cargo shorts swinging around muscular legs and his moss-colored T-shirt proclaiming his activism with the slogan
MY LIFE DEPENDS ON PLANTS,
Jack, with his elongated strides, had Abby speed walking to keep up.

“Do you think you could slow the pace a bit?”

Jack turned to look at her, as if not fully registering what she'd just asked. Erasing the thoughtful, brooding expression that had claimed his unshaven face, a slight grin emerged at the corners of his mouth and widened into an impish smile.

“Where did you get those long legs?” asked Abby.

“Well . . . we can't all be little people,” Jack jested in his affected Irish accent. “Blame it on my gene pool.”

Abby smiled. “Was your father tall?”

“Ha! No taller than a rasher of pork-belly bacon stretched full out. But Uncle Seamus, my mother's brother, now he was the fir in our family of fruit trees. With uncut hair and his tweed cap on, he stood five feet, eight inches tall. And that was barefoot in his boots. He was fully an inch taller than the rest of our clan in Sneem.”

“Sneem is a funny name. Is that near where you grew up?”

“No, but I have cousins there. A river splits the village into two parts, and relatives of mine live on both sides. One side sits nearest to the North Atlantic coast, and the other looks toward the Macgillicuddy's Reeks, Ireland's tallest mountains. Sneem is a pinprick of a place but, in my estimation, one of the loveliest in the world. We might come from what was once a village, but those of us in our tribe who are short—not me, of course, but the others here and afar—make up in attitude what we lack in height.”

Sashaying sideways to avoid colliding with a wall planter, Abby lost her balance. Jack caught her and held her steady in an embrace until she pulled away. Her heart hammered erratically.
Thank you for blocking my fall. I'm not reading anything into it. Let's just keep moving.

Even after they had resumed walking toward Fiona's shop, passing Cineflicks and Twice Around Markdowns, Abby still felt flustered. She pulled the shoulder strap of her daypack a little tighter and muttered, “Such a klutz. I can't believe I didn't see that. I could've smashed in my nose.”

“And what a shame that would be,” said Jack. “I rather like that nose, especially the freckled bridge, which looks as though the fairies have dusted it. And those eyes . . . the color of the sea along the Cliffs of Moher.”

So, this silver-tongued devil is flirting with me. Best to ignore it.
But Abby was beginning to think that his playful demeanor and overt flirtation could crumble the resolve of even the most stalwart woman intent on resisting him. His flattery made her nervous.

Abby mustered a feeble smile. There were a lot of things she wasn't sure about, but one thing she knew for certain: it would be a bad idea to flirt with Jack, even if he'd started it, because they soon would be alone inside the shop. One thing could lead to another, complicating and confusing the well-defined parameters of their current relationship. And she already had invited Clay back into her life. No, this was business, and they would keep to it. As they neared the shop's back door, she considered what she could say to tamp down any amorous intention he might harbor.

“You know, Jack, I mourn the loss of friendship with Fiona. Your sister was beautiful, smart, accomplished, and one of the funniest women I have ever met. She lifted self-deprecation to a high art, often remarking about how lightweight she was.”

“Aye, lightweight and short, that Fiona. Served her right for refusing to hang with me from the backyard oak or drink water from the secret well in the woods.”

And there's the accent again. Charming, to be sure. But do you not know I'm trying to be serious here?
It occurred to Abby that Jack's remembering his and Fiona's youth helped him with his grief.

“And she refused to sample the ale Cousin Jimmy brewed in his basement.” Jack's grin accentuated the deep dimple creasing the left side of his face.

Abby locked eyes with him. His look warmed her to her toes, weakened her knees.
Oh, good Lord. Seriously?
She reached out to the stucco wall, then ran her hands the six inches to the back door. Avoiding his gaze, Abby wondered if he felt it, too. She promptly changed the subject and injected a serious tone. “Speaking of secret places, I can think of only three things in Fiona's shop with keyed locks. Two of them are file cabinets, and the other is her desk drawer,” Abby said. “I'm hopeful, though, that we might find something the key unlocks and, even more importantly, whatever she's hidden that Laurent Duplessis sought when he tossed the place.”

Jack slipped the key into the back door keyhole and turned it until the mechanism released the lock. “You could just ask him.”

“I'll get right on that,” Abby replied. “Just as soon as we find him. Last I heard, he was being detained for a chat with immigration officers. They might have deported him, or if he managed to clear things up, he could be in Haiti or still around here. That said, I haven't seen him lately, but I'd sure like to know what he was looking for that he thought he could hide in that briefcase of his.”

“I'll wager he was shoplifting while he was searching for whatever had gone missing.”

Jack pulled open the door and motioned for Abby to pass. She flipped the light switch to the on position. The music started. Abby stared at the room's disarray. Files and papers littered the floor, the cabinets, and Fiona's desk. Jack swore under his breath. He picked up a book from the desk and returned it to an empty slot in the bookcase.

“I want to find that guy. All I need is about eight and a half minutes,” he said.

“To do what?” asked Abby.

“Beat him into a brisket and whack his cabbage,” said Jack.

“Seriously?” Abby tightly clamped her jaw and stared at him. If it weren't so funny, it would be sad. How could an otherwise intelligent man believe that a round of fisticuffs could fix anything?

Stepping from behind Fiona's Queen Anne desk, with its inlaid leather writing surface partially covered by files, Abby took note of the cut-glass bowl of peppermints wrapped in cellophane and the old-fashioned Rolodex. The latter seemed incongruous with the tech world of nearby Silicon Valley. She inserted the journal key partway into the lock of the desk drawer. When it didn't fit, she opened the drawer and searched it. Maybe there was a secret compartment, like the ones Kat would sometimes locate in period furniture whenever she and Abby went antiquing. After searching the drawer, Abby knelt and felt around underneath, but soon surmised that Fiona's desk had no such secret hiding place.

Jack walked around the small office, picking up folders from the floor and slapping them against the desktop. He fumed, “All heart, that Fiona. And just look at the jokers she attracted into her life—idiots, ne'er-do-wells, and Duplessis, who epitomized them all.” He picked up another pile of folders from the floor and dropped it alongside the stack on the desk. Glancing at Abby, he quickly added, “But among her associates, you, Abby, were the exception.”

“Duly noted,” Abby said. Her attention flitted around the room, from pieces of furniture to a wall calendar hanging near a collection of nature photographs in cheap black frames. A dinner plate–size wall clock hung above a tall metal filing cabinet that stood between the wall and the doorway that opened into the showroom. She tried the file cabinet lock, but the key didn't fit in that lock, either.

Jack plucked a peppermint from the bowl on Fiona's desk, twisted and peeled off the wrapper. Popping the candy into his mouth, he pointed to a small credenza supporting a multifunction printer. “There's a keyhole we haven't tried.” He held out an open palm, apparently indicating that he wanted Abby to give him the key, as though with a different hand, it might unlock something.

Abby walked away from the tall filing cabinet and handed him the key. After opening and closing each of the credenza drawers, Jack squinted at the lock and tried the key. It didn't fit. He then scanned the room for anything else with a lock.

“You've got to wonder why she had locking cabinets and drawers when she didn't lock any of them,” said Abby, strolling to the credenza.

“Maybe she wasn't the only person with access.” Jack passed the key back to her. He peeled away the cellophane from another mint.

After pocketing the key, Abby pulled open the credenza's top drawer and took note of its three separate compartments. She then thumbed through business payables, IRS documents, license renewals, liability insurance, employee records, tax returns, and a massive file of legal documents. Leafing through the legal material, Abby recalled a comment Jack had made to her when they first met. Maybe now was the right time to ask him about it. She glanced over at him. Apparently having decided to eat the whole bowl of mints, Jack had plopped down in Fiona's chair. He was hunched over the bowl.

“These candies are seriously addicting,” he declared. His face remolded into a sheepish expression.

“Listen, Jack,” said Abby. “I've been wondering about something. That day when Sugar and I showed up at Fiona's cottage, you accused me of being a reporter and said you'd had to protect your sister from small-town reporters in the past. Why? What had she done that required summoning her big brother from far-flung ports of call to protect her?”

His brows knit in a pained expression. “Accusations . . . mostly.”

“Of what? Against whom?”

“A woman died,” he said, crushing a mint between his teeth. “But it wasn't Fiona's fault. She was just . . . there.”

Abby rolled her eyes. Clearly, she was going to have to wheedle the story out of him. “Jack, please.”

He peeled away the wrapper from another mint as meticulously as if he was removing a floret from a lavender bud. Finally, he said, “Fiona was living in a community in the foothills of the Sierras, learning about herbs while serving as an apprentice to a local midwife. She worked there as a doula.”

“A what?”

“Doula, a labor coach. No medical training, but in every other way assisting before, during, and after the delivery. She said the midwife used herbs in her practice to induce labor or ease the pain of labor, herbs that have been used and deemed safe for centuries.”

“All very interesting,” said Abby. It truly was, but how had the woman died? And what did that death have to do with Fiona? She glanced over at Jack just as he finished unwrapping yet another mint. He popped it into his mouth.

“So . . . what happened?”

“Well, that's about it.”

“Well, a woman died, Jack, so there must be more to it,” Abby said, no longer trying to hide her frustration. After stepping away from the credenza, she reached over to retrieve the bowl of mints.

Jack made a tsking sound. “The woman had the baby, but . . . then the trouble began.”

“Tell me. I'm all ears.”

Jack sighed. “It bothers me to talk about it.”

“I can see that,” Abby said, deciding to try a different approach. She flashed a disarming smile, leaned in toward him, and gave him back the bowl.

“I can't be seduced that easily,” he said, with a wink.

Abby straightened her back, put her hands on her hips, and shook her head.

His pale blue eyes focused on her. “The labor was long. It was the woman's first pregnancy. Only pregnancy.” Jack cleared his throat, picked up another mint, thought the better of it, and dropped it back into the bowl. “The baby had turned the wrong way in the womb. And it had grown too large to fit into the birth canal. The midwife was trying everything she knew, but the husband and the woman's mother called an ambulance after twenty-two hours. At the hospital, the doctors performed a C-section and saved the baby. The mother suffered a brain embolism. Fiona felt devastated. Of course, everyone did. A few weeks after the birth . . . well, and death, Fiona and her midwife friend were sued by the deceased woman's family, who claimed they should have sought medical intervention, instead of waiting for the frightened family to do it.”

“Oh, my gosh. How terrible for everyone involved,” Abby said. She walked back to the credenza and removed the drawer. Kneeling, she guided her fingers around the inside top lip, as she'd often seen Kat do.

Jack heaved a heavy sigh. “The deceased woman's family lost the suit. But that didn't stop them from trying Fiona in the court of public opinion. It was an act of God and nobody's fault, but they continued to contact the media and to make it open season on Fiona and the midwife.”

“And that's why Fiona ended up here?” Abby tried to angle her arm up and inside the credenza to continue her search.

Jack nodded. “She had heard that Las Flores had a commune in the mountains above the town. She wanted a fresh start. And she needed new friends. So she took the Ryan name and continued working with herbs. She never looked back.”