The Murder of a Queen Bee (20 page)

Abby opened her eyes to find Jack's eyes smoldering with intensity as he gazed at her, his lips so close they would have touched her if she'd nodded forward. He said nothing. She said nothing, but her cheeks flushed with warmth.

“You know, Abby,” he said, his voice a husky whisper, “you smell awfully sweet for someone who's just been in a fight.”

Abby's lips curved into a smile. “And here I thought I needed a shower.”

He leaned back, pulled the neck of his T-shirt up to his nose, and sniffed. “No, if anyone needs a shower, it would be me.” He rose and moved his chair back to its original position at the table.

Abby's thoughts raced back to when they first met. Having been interrupted during his shower, he'd answered the door annoyed. But then later on, when she had helped him sort through Fiona's things, he'd greeted her in an unbuttoned shirt, revealing a lean muscular torso. A shiver ran through her.
Oh, Lord. Don't think about that now.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Let me see your hands. You were shaking one of them pretty hard in the car.”

“Aye. Jabbing that bollock brain was like a bare-fisted punch at a dicot angiosperm.”

She looked at him, bemused. “Come again?”

“Hardwood tree.”

“Yeah, well, your lightning jab broke his hold on me.” Abby noted the impish grin that lit up his face, and turned her attention to his hands. “Bruising and swelling, but no cuts. Use that ice pack on them. Got any painkillers?”

“Oh, yes.” He opened the fridge and took out two bottles of Guinness, popped off the caps, and handed her a bottle. “The liquid variety.”

“I can see that,” said Abby, suppressing a smile. She tapped her bottle against his.

Jack took a swig. “I'll just change my shirt,” he said, then set the bottle on the table and hustled off to the bedroom.

When she could no longer tolerate the ice against her eye, Abby tossed the ice pack in the sink. She sipped from the beer and moseyed to the screen door at the back of the house, where an audible breeze rustled through the pines and redwoods. Looking out at the edge of the clearing between the house and the trees, Abby spotted the doc's cat stalking a bushtit. The bird flitted between a patch of sweet broom and a thicket, as if teasing the cat.

“Mind the hole,” Jack called out from the bedroom doorway behind her.

Abby stopped short. She glanced down at the rug partially covering the hole. How could Fiona have allowed the hole to go unrepaired? With her landlord right next door, it could have so easily been fixed. As Abby thought about it, a realization began to emerge.
Hole! Oh, sweet Jesus.
She leaned down and pulled the rug back. “Jack, bring a flashlight, will you? And a cap or something for my hair.”

“What? What's going on?” Jack asked.

“Just trust me.”

A moment later, he handed her a blue plastic flashlight and an Andean-style woolen cap with earflaps, a braid down each side, and one garnishing the top.

“Seriously?” Abby handed him her bottle of beer, took the flashlight, and plucked the cap from his fingers.

He winked at her. “In case you haven't noticed, I've got a big head. It's not easy to find caps that fit.”

“And it's only going to feel like a hundred degrees with all my hair under that hat, but never mind.” She pulled on the hat, flicked on the flashlight, and looked at him with an expression of childish delight. “Spell
hole
backward.”

Shaking his head, he stared at her like she'd lost her mind. “Okay. I can do that.... E-l-o-h.”

“Precisely. Your sister's secret code. High time we found out what's in that hole.”

Abby knelt and then lay flat on the floor, her face over the hole. She shined the light in. “Um . . . don't see anything. Maybe if I can squeeze my arm farther in and get my head down in there for a better look. Hang on.” She moved into position. “Okay, let's see. Okay, okay. There it is.”

“What? What do you see?” Jack asked.

Abby wiggled, willing her arm to reach farther, but soon realized her effort was futile. “Shoot. Can't reach it. And if I can't reach it, how in the heck did Fiona get it there?”

“What? How did she get what there?” Jack's tone sounded impatient.

Abby felt his body stretching out on the floor beside her. She wiggled and stretched some more.

“Pull your head out of that hole,” he demanded. “Let me try.”

“Would if I could,” Abby called from under the floor. “How about a little help?”

Jack shifted his position. Abby figured he was up on his knees. She felt his hands around her hips, pulling her back until her head was out of the hole.

“There's a light-colored fire safe down there, and it's got a combination lock. I'm betting there are four numbers in the combination.”

“The year Fiona was born.” His eyes were shining when Jack took the flashlight from her. He wasted no time investigating the hole. “I see it.”

Abby said, “Think you can reach it?”

“Doubt it.” He tried. No success. “We need something with a hook. Let me think.” He sat upright, with his back to the wall. “But what? We threw almost everything out.”

Abby pulled on the side braids of the woolen cap. “There's a poker in the living room. And a three-prong trowel out by the garden fence. I remember seeing it when you showed me Fiona's garden. If you cut these hat braids off, we've got yarn to tie the trowel to the poker.”

Jack uttered a long, low “Ohhh.” After a moment, he said, “Genius. Going to the garden. Back in a minute.”

Abby's phone buzzed with a text as she was pulling the poker from the tool stand next to the fireplace. Certain that it was Clay again, she figured it could wait. But curiosity got the better of her. She removed the phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen.

Abby texted back.
Holy chicken feathers. I want all the details, but busy right now. Will call you later.

Sitting next to the hole, she looked out the back door at Jack hurrying toward her. She had the pole for the hole, and Jack had the hook.
Time to go fishing.

Chapter 14

A male hummingbird does not penetrate the
female to mate—he presses his cloaca against
hers in a cloacal kiss that lasts three to five
seconds.

 

 

 

A
bby lay stretched out on the floor, watching Jack maneuver the hooking tool they'd made by using the yarn from his cap braid to bind the fireplace poker to the garden trowel. After numerous unsuccessful attempts, he finally connected the trowel end of the tool to the handle of the fire safe beneath the floor. Concentration furrowed his brow as he inched the safe with precision toward the hole in the floor.

He stopped with a sudden gasp and drilled her with a blue-eyed stare. “I do believe it's within my reach. Take the tool,” he said, handing her the makeshift rake. “Mind the yarn. I want you to rebraid it and stitch it back on my cap, where you cut it off.”

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Oh, quite,” he said with a straight face. He put his arm into the hole until his upper shoulder nearly disappeared.

What a picture this is.
Abby thought about capturing it with her smartphone camera app but abandoned the idea when Jack, grunting, pulled the fire safe upward. He set it on the floor with a thud.

She reached up and removed his knitted cap from her head. Her reddish-gold locks tumbled in a loose mass over her shoulders. “Here you go,” she said, tossing the hat to him. “You should have put it on before you put your head down there.” She leaned over and plucked a cobweb from his hair. “Hope the spider wasn't still in it.”

“Indeed,” he said. “I should have thought of that. You know, it might be my favorite piece of clothing, that cap.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“You've got to have your head covered if you are braving the cold wind in the high Andes.”

“And when are you going there again?”

“Maybe never. But you never know.”

“So . . . let me get right to work on that braid, then,” Abby said in jest.

He smiled broadly, with amusement lighting his eyes. “You know I'm pulling your leg, right?”

Abby pursed her lips to keep from saying what she was thinking.
Oh, believe me, I know when you're pulling my leg.
She felt a little giddy.

Jack turned the safe upright and took a look at the numeric pins of the combination. “I'll punch in Fiona's birth date, but I'm going to need that key in your pocket,” he said.

He spun through the numbers of the combination. Then he slid the key Abby handed him into the lock. It clicked and released. Jack let go a high-pitched squeal.

Abby jumped. “You scared me. What was that?”

“That, my girl, was the sound of happiness, the kind of joy that screams for a wee bit of bubbly.”

“Shouldn't we see what's inside the safe first?”

“Right, you are. Come to think of it, I don't have anything with bubbly. Beer either. Rain check that idea,” he said.

“Let's take the safe to the living room,” Abby suggested. “We can examine the contents there without worrying about anything flying down that floor hole.”

“Good on you, Abby. Always one step ahead.”

After pulling Abby to her feet, Jack reached for the metal fire safe and carried it to the couch. He parked himself with the safe on his lap, then patted the couch seat beside him. “Come sit here.”

Abby positioned herself right next to him. When he flipped open the safe's lid, she took note of a few papers, a framed picture, and a small ledger. The white envelope marked with the word
WILL
caught her eye. “You should open that,” she said. To her surprise, he handed it to her.

“It saddens me to see it. I can't imagine she had much to leave anybody. And I would so much rather have her than a token of her life.”

Abby lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope, pulled out the document, and read it. “I don't know if you'll welcome this news or not, but she left you the botanical shop. It says here that you can keep it or sell it to pay off the five-year loan she secured to start the business.”

“Running a shop? I don't think I'm cut out for that sort of thing.”

“Tom gets her jewelry,” said Abby. “Well, I guess there's no surprise there. He already has it . . . or had it. I guess Lidia Vittorio at Village Rings & Things has it now.”

Abby felt Jack push against her to look at the will. The warmth of his body was a tad unsettling, but she continued to read and share Fiona's bequests and instructions with Jack. “Says here there's a life insurance policy for fifty thousand, with Tom as the beneficiary.... Oh, but there's a proviso.” Abby pointed to a line near the bottom of the page. “Tom gets the money only if he leaves the commune.” Abby cocked her head to look at Jack. “Fiona seemed intent on Tom making a clean break with that cult. Perhaps she grasped better than anyone else what an isolated life he lived up there, with Hayden Marks and Premalatha Baxter dictating when and where he could go and taking his hard-earned wages.”

Jack asked her in rapid-fire succession, “So how could the commune loan Fiona money? Do you think the leader wanted it paid back right away and knew about that policy? Do you think they could seize Fiona's insurance money from Tom to settle the debt?”

Abby looked astounded at Jack's insightful perceptions and chose her words carefully. “I think it's not only possible but also probable. And to answer your question about how Fiona could get a loan from the commune leader and his minions in the first place, I'd say they've got lots of money, unlike before. Fiona told me that before the previous leader returned to India, the community scraped to get by. Now the commune organization finances legitimate businesses, like Smooth Your Groove and Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. As a nonprofit, they seek and get donations. Let's not forget the residents who work and contribute their wages, and their families who lend support.”

Jack nodded. A muscle quivered in his jaw. He reached into the safe and took out a silver filigree frame that held a photograph of Fiona, bedecked in a red scarf and hat and throwing a snowball. Tom, bundled in a pea jacket, jeans, and muck boots, apparently had been hit by a snowball and stood sideways, with his hands in a defensive position. “Check out Red Riding Hood and her wolf having fun in the snow.” He peered closely at the image. “Looks like the picture was taken up here, behind this house. See all those Christmas trees? A whole section of them.”

Abby pulled the frame toward her to inspect the photo's background more closely. “You're right. I wonder who took this picture. Dr. Danbury?”

“But surely, it doesn't snow here in the mountains, with the ocean just over those ridges, about thirty minutes away?”

Abby released her grip on the picture frame. “Sometimes it does.”

Jack thumbed through the ledger. When a folded sheet of paper fell out, he handed it to Abby and continued to examine the ledger entries. “These entries make no sense. Just numbers and notations, with no documentation key for deciphering anything,” he said.

Abby unfolded the sheet of paper and quickly read it. “Well, this explains a lot. That ledger belongs to Laurent. Probably, it was what he was looking for when he burgled her shop.”

Jack's brows shot up. “So that's why she went to all the trouble to hide it in the safe under the house.”

Abby nodded. “I'm speculating about this, but perhaps Fiona wrote out this letter as a means of self-protection. If anything untoward were to happen to her, somebody at some point would discover this and learn the truth. She's telling us from the grave what she feared could happen. The letter explains that she knew what Laurent was doing and accuses him of stealing from her and selling illegal drugs. He packaged them in tins, otherwise used for mixtures of blended herbs and cut tobacco marinated in molasses, which are smoked in hookah pipes.”

Jack laid the ledger in the safe and leaned over to scrutinize the paper with Fiona's handwriting that Abby held. “But how did he have access?”

“He worked there for a while. Could have made a key.” Abby scooted to create a little space between herself and Jack and then twisted slightly so she could look directly at the handsome Irishman. “Don't you remember the
HELP
WANTED
sign in the botanical shop's front window? Fiona was looking to hire a store clerk, but while she went through the interviewing process, she likely paid Laurent to help her.” Abby gazed into his blue eyes. “Come to think of it,” she said, “Fiona could not keep those smoking herbs in stock during his tenure, or at least that's what she told me.”

She stared again at the note in Fiona's handwriting, with its explanation of the notations in the ledger. “Each type of drug had a code name, and the amount sold, the date, and the customer's name. Premalatha's name shows up a lot.”

“I suppose she would have met Laurent at Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. Otherwise, how would their paths have crossed?”

Abby chuckled. “Las Flores is a small town with a small-town consciousness. People know who the residents are and who the outsiders are. Whom to trust, and whom not to trust. It wouldn't surprise me if the briefcase Laurent carried from Fiona's shop contained his drug stash. Probably already had another place lined up. Just so he could keep doing business as usual. Fiona trusted him, but he was just using her.”

“My sister trusted everybody,” Jack said with an exasperated sigh. “That was her undoing.” He crooked an arm around the back of his head and stared out the bank of windows that looked out over the distant mountain ridges.

“The police will want to see this,” said Abby. She carefully refolded the paper and placed it back inside the red ledger. As she did, a small object protruded from the bottom of the ledger—a necklace bearing a number eight charm. A cold shiver shot through Abby's body. After pushing the necklace back into the ledger, Abby closed the safe's lid and spun the tumblers. So . . . Fiona would have had insider knowledge about the significance of those necklaces. There was no need to burden Jack with an explanation about that now, she decided. That discussion could be put off awhile.

Abby considered the slow and methodical way the commune had evolved under the tutelage of Hayden Marks. He used isolation tactics. Moreover, he wielded a renegade authority to dominate the community, performing sham marriages and forcing wedges between legitimate husbands and wives. Wasn't that how many cult leaders gained control? Through dividing and conquering and also through isolating members from their families? Brainwashing certainly appeared to be the root of Tom's plight. He had seemed too scared to leave. Abby sighed heavily.

When she stirred to get up, Jack clamped his hand gently on her knee. “I know you need to go, but I don't want you to. I like your company.”

Abby arched a brow and grinned. “And I like yours, too, but . . .”

“Well, there you go again with those buts.”

“But, Jack, much as I'd love to hang out here, I've still got errands to run and dinner to cook and chores to do.”

“Okay, then. Take me with you into town. I'll get my rental car tonight, so you won't have to deal with that tomorrow, before the funeral. But I'm going to ask for one more teensy favor. It's important to me, and not just because it means a little more time with you.”

“And what would that be?”

“Fiona's body is at the church. I wonder, do you think you could spare the time to accompany me there?”

“Uh . . . um . . . I . . . uh—”

“Somebody ought to say the rosary for her. . . .”

How could they go into a church, the pair of them, looking like they'd just gotten the worst end of a street brawl? How could she possibly conceal her black eye and her cut face? In spite of those reservations, Abby couldn't bring herself to say no. Her intention to help Jack through the awful process of dealing with everything while his heart was raw meant doing this, too, barring incapacitation. She wasn't incapacitated. And Fiona wasn't just a victim; she was a good friend. But now, with stops at the police station and the church, how would she explain to Clay why she'd gotten home so late?

“I can't go to church looking like this. I don't suppose you have a shirt I could borrow? My blouse looks like I've been wallowing with a pig.”

His expression brightened. “I've got shirts in the dirty, the dirty-dirty, and the dirty-dirty-dirty basket. From which basket do you want me to pull it?”

Abby laughed out loud. “Oh, good Lord. Seriously, Jack? You don't have a clean shirt?”

“To do laundry, I have to be in the mood,” he replied with a boyish smile. “I've not been in the mood,” he said, laughing.

“Oh, never mind.” She brushed her hands over her blouse, as if by some miracle, the soil from her wrestling with Dak could be rubbed out. “Let's just go, but we have to drop that off at the police station first.” She pointed at the fire safe. “And let me answer any questions, if they arise, about why we look the way we do. Let's just stick together. We don't want conflicting stories out there, and for all we know, Premalatha and Dak could come here complaining that we assaulted them.”

He rose and helped her to her feet. Then, without warning, he pulled her into a tight embrace. “Yes, on all accounts, especially about sticking together.”

Abby's legs felt like jelly. Her heart hammered. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and melted into the warmth spreading through her body in the embrace of his strong arms.
What am I doing?
She eased out of his arms and said, “What if the church is being used this evening? Sometimes the church allows a couple of other priests to hold charismatic Masses.”