The Murder of a Queen Bee (22 page)

Chapter 15

When the old honeybee queen dies, the first
new queen to emerge from her cell will sting
the other queens to death; only one queen
rules the hive.

 

 

 

A
bby stood in the apiary, with her hands clutching the metal lid of the new hive box. Her psychic and emotional equilibrium had been knocked out of balance. Irrational as she knew it to be, she had somehow managed to turn the anger she felt toward Clay inward, blaming herself. Why had she let him convince her they could pick up the pieces and move forward? Why had she believed him, instead of trusting her own intuition? Why, when her heart had finally healed, had she set herself up for disappointment? She didn't need Clay, she didn't need any man, and the years he was gone had taught her that. Besides, there were other men around, like Jack or Lucas.

The sound of the bees, their vibration, and the smell of their honey comforted her so much, she'd lost track of how long she had remained near the hives. More than anything else, she wanted to avoid Clay. She would not literally or telegraphically communicate her disappointment. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he still had the ability to wound her.

Leaving the comforting presence of the hive, Abby returned to the house and gathered her clothes for the funeral. She carried them into the small bathroom. After showering and drying off, she slipped into a belted, knee-length black dress with cap sleeves and a wide cowl collar, and French heels with ankle straps. She twisted her reddish-gold mane into a French twist, anchoring it with pins and a hair clip embellished with roses worked in marcasite. She decided to keep her makeup understated. She applied an ivory foundation over her face and chose a lipstick and blush in a tangerine hue to complement the color of her blue-green eyes. A pair of silver and onyx drop earrings and dark sunglasses completed the solemn, respectful look she sought.

Driving the Jeep along the silent black ribbon of asphalt to Las Flores, Abby thought about Tom and Fiona. Their love might have seemed true and strong to Fiona, but if it were, indeed, so strong, why wouldn't Tom break his ties to the commune? Why had he sought a divorce instead? Abby could only imagine what their relationship might have been like as best friends, lovers, spouses . . . and now he was left to bury her. Tom probably felt guilty, as if his leaving had led to her death.
How do you go on after something as horrible as that?
She thought about two lines in a poem by Henry Scott Holland, long since dead himself:
There is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

Abby hit the scan button on the radio until she found some agreeable music to keep her company on the way into town. After arriving at her destination, she dashed up the steps of the Church of the Holy Names and hurried into the narthex. Girding herself against the guilt she felt for lapsing in the religion dutifully instilled in her, she dipped her finger in the basin of holy water and made the sign of the cross. Her French heels clicked against the patterned marble floor as she approached the glass doors to enter the nave of the church. She strolled into the interior, now bathed with light streaming through old-world-style stained-glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross. The doors creaked shut behind her.

Father Joseph had already led the procession of the flower-draped coffin and the congregation down the aisle and was sprinkling the holy water. The church smelled of lemon-scented wood polish, candle wax, camphor, and the scent of flowers—gardenias, lilies, lavender, and sweet peas. As she approached the altar, Abby spotted Jack, paused to make a slight bow before the altar, and then sidled over to the pew. She genuflected and trod softly over to where Jack sat with his hands in his lap.

“Hi,” she whispered, scooting into the seat.

Attired in a white button-down dress shirt, a black suit, and a black-and-gray-striped tie, Jack looked up and acknowledged her with a smile. Despite the somber occasion, he exuded masculine vitality. Squeezing her hand, he whispered back, “Thanks for coming,” and then, “Your cheek looks puffy. . . . How's the eye?”

Abby lifted her sunglasses so he could see the black and deep red circle surrounding it. She watched Jack's lips tighten into a thin line. He hung his head, as if he blamed himself for the whole affair. After the opening song, for which they stood, and the prayer that followed, Abby stole a glance at those gathered behind them. Tom sat two rows back, flanked by Premalatha Baxter and Dak Harmon. They stared at the coffin. Tom's puffy red eyes and grim expression seemed to reflect a man lacking a rudder and floating adrift in dangerous waters. He looked over at Abby. Apparently sensing her concern for him, he touched his heart with his hand and nodded.

A few townspeople and Main Street shop owners had come to pay their respects, but it still wasn't much of a crowd. Abby spotted Kat, dressed in a tailored suit, at the back of the nave and a man Abby didn't recognize but suspected was an undercover cop, across the aisle from Kat. Abby took comfort in the knowledge that cops often showed up at wakes, the funerals of homicide victims, and celebrations of life gatherings. They would come not only to observe the friends and family of the deceased, but also to notice if one or more of the individuals in attendance were suspects or persons of interest. No place was sacred if cops had sufficient reason to arrest someone.

The church secretary stepped before the podium situated on the right side of the church, in front of the baptismal font. Pushing back her short, gray hair to tuck the tips of her wire-rimmed glasses behind her smallish ears, she began her reading. The woman's monotone set Abby's thoughts adrift . . . back to happier times when she and Clay were both on the same page about their feelings for each other. But, like a meteor in the night sky, that love—if it truly ever was that for him—had flamed out. At least this time, Abby knew the way forward. This time, she would be the one to sever the fragile thread that held them together. She forced her thoughts back to the funeral.

After listening to the readings from the Old and New Testaments, Abby heard the double glass doors at the back of the nave creak open, and she turned to see Laurent Duplessis slide into a pew. Later, during Father Joseph's short homily about the gift of life and the inevitability of death, she heard the doors open again. Someone had either come in or gone out, but since the priest was looking right at her, Abby didn't turn around.

By the time the Mass had ended and they'd caravanned to the graveside at the Church of the Pines—roughly a mile from town and up a mile or so in the mountains—for the final Rite of Committal, Abby noticed Laurent Duplessis had not come to the site. Then Father Joseph spoke. “The earth is the Lord's and all it holds, the world and those who live there.... Who can stand in his holy place? The clean of hand and the pure of heart . . .” At one point, Tom cried out in aching agony, his lament sounding sorrowful enough to summon Fiona's spirit. Abby trembled and fought against the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Despite her eyes brimming with tears, she saw Premalatha reach out for Tom's arm to steady him. He jerked from her touch.

After the recitation of a psalm, there were other prayers. Then a parishioner played a haunting rendition of “Amazing Grace” on the uilleann pipes. Six men lowered the casket into the ground. And then . . . it was over.

After the commune people had left and the few townsfolk had departed, Jack thanked Father Joseph and left the grave diggers to do their work. As he'd ridden with Abby and Kat to the cemetery, Jack remained only long enough to say a private good-bye and then rejoined the two women at the Jeep.

“So what now?” Jack asked. He rubbed the right jaw of his cleanly shaven face as his question was met with Abby's silence and Kat's blank stare. He sighed and said, “In our family's ancestral village generations upon generations ago, according to my grandparents, we'd lay out our deceased family member in nice clothes for the final viewing. The menfolk would arrive, their pockets bulging with bottles of spirits. The women would make food enough to feed half the county, and then we'd open a window for the spirit to depart. Of course, if the wind was wailing and the rain sheeting, we would crack that window a wee bit, but only for as long as we thought the spirit might be around. We'd eat and drink . . . mostly drink . . . and tell stories about the times we'd spent enjoying that person's company.”

Jack paused to chuckle. “Mind you, sometimes this would take all night. Come morning, with our heads pounding from hangovers, we'd drag ourselves to the church for Mass and then follow the casket, the poor deceased's body bumping along the country road to the cemetery. We'd face that freshly dug hole and lay our loved one in it.” He paused again, this time looking wistfully toward the sky. “Then we'd drink some more. At least, that's the way it used to be.”

“Sounds like we should have a drink,” Abby said.

“Couldn't hurt,” Kat agreed.

“And what about your associate, Kat?” Abby asked.

“He's busy back at the church,” Kat replied.

“Busy? Doing what?” Jack asked.

“Inviting Laurent Duplessis down to our police station for a little chat,” said Kat. “Otto is probably having a go at Duplessis now.”

“To discuss the robbery or the murder?” Abby asked.

“That too.” Kat massaged the corner of her eye with her middle finger. “We had plenty of questions about that botanical shop burglary. Then Fiona's note that you brought to the station last night, thank you very much, raise more than a few questions, so we wanted to see what Duplessis had to say.” Kat flicked a speck of an undetermined origin from the shoulder of her dark suit jacket. “My shift ended a half hour ago, so what about that drink . . . ? Black Witch okay?”

Abby shot a questioning look at Jack.

“Sure,” he said.

Kat leaned closer to Abby and whispered. “The place has a new, superhot part-time bartender, who just might be working tonight.”

Abby's brow shot up. “Yeah? I thought you and Lucas Crawford . . .”

“Yeah, well, let's not go there.”

“Let's do,” Abby protested.

“Can it wait until you and I are alone?”

“Sure,” said Abby, all the more intrigued by Kat's reticence.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Abby parked the Jeep on Main and led Kat and Jack into the Black Witch. She threaded her way through the crowded bar and climbed onto a tall wooden stool near the dartboard and the back bathrooms. Kat took the other stool, while Jack dragged over a third, wiping peanut shells from its seat.

Kat surveyed the room. “I can't believe this place is so packed. Happy hour is still forty-five minutes from now.”

A bleach-blond waitress—one of the old-time workers at the bar—appeared. “What's your poison?”

Kat followed Abby's lead in ordering a glass of merlot. “Make mine a Celtic Barrel Burner,” Jack said.

Abby and Kat both snickered.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“Sounds as dangerous as a Kamikaze,” said Kat.

“Or a Revolver. We make those, too,” the waitress said. Her wrinkled lips parted into a tired smile. She spun around and wove her way back to the bar with the drink orders.

Jack removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt collar, shrugged off his jacket, and laid them on the stool. Rolling up his white shirtsleeves and exposing muscular arms covered in light hair, he leaned in and said, “If you ladies will excuse me, I'll make a quick trip to the men's room.”

When he'd gone, Abby nudged Kat with her shoulder. “Okay, it's just the two of us. Now spill.”

“What?” Kat's blond brow furrowed, as if she'd totally forgotten.

“You know what.” Abby eyed her intently. “You and Lucas Crawford . . . details, please.”

“Well, I'll be happy to provide the nonexistent details after you've told me the truth about that black eye.”

Abby touched the tender cheekbone just under the edge of the afflicted eye. “I thought you knew. I explained last night at the police station. Dak Harmon and I had a misunderstanding while I was visiting the commune, and we got into a tussle.”

“I just heard about the evidence you turned in, not the tussle.”

“The long and short of it is that Harmon got into a tizzy when I didn't jump at his order to get off the commune property. We got into a little shoving match, my eye got hit by an elbow, and I left with Jack shortly afterward. End of story.”

“No, not the end of story. I expect you to tell me what happened up there.”

“Honestly, Kat, nothing worth mentioning happened, and you are stalling. Jack can verify my story when he returns from the bathroom.”

Kat arched a brow and remained defiantly silent.

“I'm waiting,” Abby said.

Kat let go an exasperated sigh. “Lucas and I never even got out of the starting gate. Turns out we're ill suited.”

“But you liked him, set your sights on him.”

“Oh, yeah, well . . . ,” Kat said. She slipped off the dark gray suit jacket and laid it on her lap. She spent a few seconds fiddling with the Victorian floral pin at the throat of her crisp, buttoned-up white blouse. “It takes two, now doesn't it?” Her eyes swept the room and then went back to Abby. “You know me better than anyone else, so I'll use an analogy you'll instantly grasp. In Jane Austen's
Pride and Prejudice
, which guy would you fall for? Mr. Darcy, who has that quiet, smoldering intensity? Or the charming, seductive bad boy, Mr. Wickham?”