The Murder of a Queen Bee (23 page)

“Oh, you know who I'd choose. What's your point?” asked Abby.

“I don't have enough patience for a Darcy type—the handsome, secretive fellow who can't be pushed, the one who takes his own sweet time about everything.”

“So your fling is over?”

“What fling? I would not describe what happened—or, more correctly, did not happen—as a fling. I don't think anyone has a fling with Lucas Crawford.” After folding her napkin into what looked like a piece of bad origami, Kat fixed her attention on the waitress, who was approaching with their drinks.

The waitress slapped three more napkins down on the table and set the drinks on them. “Anything else?” she asked, taking the bills Abby had placed on the table and counting out the change.

Kat hesitated and then asked, “Will Santiago be tending bar tonight?”

The waitress shook her head. “Dunno. I just got here myself. I can check for you.” She sauntered away.

As if preparing for an affirmative answer, Kat slid her hands over her new Roaring Twenties haircut. “Oh well.”

Jack returned, swung a long leg over the bar stool, and slid onto it.

Kat lifted her glass. “Here's to the past remaining in the past. I, for one, am always ready for a new beginning.”

Catching a glint of interest in Kat's eyes as she tapped her glass against Jack's, Abby lifted her glass and said, “New beginnings.” Then she did something that surprised even her. She reached for Jack's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Chapter 16

Watch out if your rooster lowers his head and
struts around you—take it as a sign of fowl
aggression.

 

 

 

T
ires crunching against gravel alerted Abby that someone had rolled into her driveway. She had been sorting snap peas on the patio but got up to greet her visitor as Sugar bounded across the yard with a
yip
. When the dog's tail began waving, Abby knew it was a friend, not a foe, who'd come calling at her farmette. Still, Houdini, who could never be accused of shirking his duty as a rooster, hustled the hens—whom Abby had let free range in the yard—closer to the chicken coop.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Kat called.

“Hey, yourself . . . What brings you all the way out here?” Abby picked up another pea, ran her nail along the ridge to open it, dropped the four peas into a bowl, and discarded the shell in a basket on the ground.

“I had to take care of some business out this way, and now I am on my way back to town. But I thought since I was so near, I'd quench my thirst and see that master bathroom Clay's been working on. Where is he, anyway?” Kat sank into a patio chair.

Abby arched a brow. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“No. Just curious,” Kat said, stretching out her long legs.

“I suppose he's somewhere in Las Flores.”

“How did he get there? Your Jeep is parked out front.”

“His truck. Five minutes after the transporter arrived this morning and unloaded his pickup, Clay hopped into his truck and told me he was going to buy four recessed-light kits and a bathroom exhaust fan. And he suggested that when I'm done sorting the peas,” she said, laying aside the basket of shells and the bowl of peas, “I could go ahead and finish hanging the drywall.”

“How nice of him to give you something to do . . . because everyone knows you have way too much time on your hands,” said Kat.

“Yeah, well, it was just the smaller pieces of drywall. It's done. He's gone. And, frankly, I hope he stays gone for a while. I could use some thinking time. Sweet tea?”

Kat smiled. “Oh, I thought you'd never ask. I'm wilting in this heat.”

Abby traipsed into the kitchen. She took out a couple of tall glasses, filled them with tea from the fridge, and plopped in sprigs of mint from the plant in the garden window. After stepping back out through the open slider and screen door, she handed a glass of tea to Kat.

“You said you were around here on business. What kind of business?” asked Abby, sitting back down and touching the cool glass to her warm cheek.

Kat took a swig of sweet tea before answering. “A garbage truck nearly sideswiped a cow on Farm Hill Road.”

“Sheesh, that could have been disastrous,” said Abby before taking a sip. Using her forefinger, she pushed the mint sprig deeper into her glass.

“Turns out that heifer belongs to your handsome neighbor, Lucas Crawford. When I told him one of his cows had escaped from its pasture and a garbage truck had narrowly avoided hitting her, he showed more animation than when we shared ice cream in town. I watched him swing upon that horse of his faster than a felon on a jailbreak.”

Abby smiled at Kat's analogy. “Oh yeah? Horse, huh?”

Kat looked off philosophically. “Damn fine man, that Lucas. Too bad we couldn't get a little something going.”

“Yeah, too bad,” Abby said in sympathy, feeling secretly delighted, but not wanting to telegraph it to Kat. She took another sip of tea and turned her gaze toward the hill and Lucas Crawford's old gray barn.

The chatter coming through Kat's radio drew Abby's attention back. The dispatcher was asking for Kat's location.

“Uh-oh,” Abby said with a frown. “Our illustrious police chief checking up on you?”

Kat nodded while pushing the button on her two-way. She gave her location as Farm Hill Road, between the Henny Penny Farmette and the Crawford Ranch.

Abby listened intently. The dispatcher requested that all available officers respond to a ten seventy-one near Ridge Top Road. Shock registered in Abby's body. Her pulse raced. That road intersected the main traffic artery near Dr. Danbury's cottage. Knowing that a ten seventy-one was Las Flores Police code for a shooting, Abby fought against mounting concern for Jack and the doc. She took a deep breath and reminded herself not to make assumptions or jump to conclusions.

“I've gotta go,” Kat said. She chugged down the rest of her tea before setting the empty glass on the table, said, “Thanks,” and sprinted back to her cruiser. Abby and Sugar followed.

“Kat,” Abby called out, “that's near Dr. Danbury's place.”

“Know it.”

Abby called out again as Kat climbed into the cruiser. “Text me. I'll be worried sick until you do.”

“Affirmative,” Kat called out. She started the engine and flipped on the lights and the siren. The cruiser's tires spun against loose gravel as the car tore out of the driveway and sped off.

Covering her nose and mouth with her hand against the cloud of white dust and listening to the siren's wail grow fainter, Abby stood rooted on the spot and fretted. A drive-by shooting was an all-too-familiar occurrence in nearby Silicon Valley, but in the mountain foothills of Las Flores, it was unheard of. Abby's thoughts turned to her recent altercation with the commune people. She texted Jack, but with no reply, she stood rooted in her driveway, in the hot sun, with a cold chill descending upon her like a vapor.

* * *

By nightfall, Abby still had not heard from Kat. Jack hadn't replied to her text, either. To keep from obsessing about the shooting, she busied herself by working on organizing receipts and stapling them to sheets of paper marked
HONEY/BEE EXPENSES, CHICKEN SUPPLIES, GARDEN EXPENDITURES
, and
RENOVATION/BUILDING MATERIALS
. Around eight o'clock, Clay strolled into the house with a pepperoni pizza, a bottle of a red blend wine, and an apology for being gone so long. Sugar still barked at him as if he were a stranger, but eventually settled down next to Abby on the couch.

“I've got the light and fan kits in the truck. Put out the pizza with some napkins, and I'll be right back,” Clay said, with a devilish grin.

Somebody's in a good mood.
Abby tucked the pages of receipts inside four manila file folders and carried them back to the small credenza in her makeshift office at the end of the hallway.

“I don't feel much like eating,” she said when Clay had finished lugging in the boxes from the supply store.

“Why's that?” he asked, putting the boxes on the floor next to the wall and proceeding to whip out his pocketknife to cut the foil from the wine bottle. He thrust the corkscrew into the bottle, twisted it a few times, and eased out the cork. After finding two wineglasses in the cupboard, he took them down and poured a splash of red into each.

“I guess you forgot that I'm not a fan of pizza,” Abby said, sliding into a chair next to his at the dining table and taking from him the glass of jewel-colored wine. She hesitated in telling him what was really on her mind—that she was worried about the shooting, Jack's safety, and the reason why Kat hadn't yet texted or called.

He shot a peculiar look at her and then reached for a large gooey slice of pizza. “Suit yourself,” he said and wolfed down the slice.

It had been four hours since Kat had been dispatched to the scene. Abby would never intrude when Kat was out on a call, but the waiting and not hearing from either Kat or Jack was crazy making. Now, after swallowing a small bite of pizza and telling Clay not to buy pizza again, because she could make a more wholesome version using garden herbs, homegrown veggies, and slices of fresh mozzarella and goat cheese, Abby felt the phone in her pocket vibrate. She dropped the pizza onto her plate, wiped her hands on the napkin, and plucked her phone from the ap-pliquéd pocket of her yellow print sundress. Finally, the update she had been expecting had come as a text. But as she glanced at the screen, Abby saw it wasn't Kat's message, but rather Jack's.
Tom critically wounded. Meet me at Las Flores Community Hospital.

Abby looked up at Clay, who seemed wholly occupied with pigging out on pizza and wine. He reached for the bottle and began to refill his glass. She put her hand over her glass, scooted her chair back from the table, and said, “None for me, Clay. Sorry, but I've got to go.”

Training his dark brown eyes on hers, Clay frowned and opened his palms in a gesture that suggested he was waiting for her explanation.

“Fiona, the friend we buried yesterday . . . Well, now her husband has just been shot,” Abby said. “He could die.”

Clay's brow shot up, and then his expression turned into a scowl. “Let me get this straight. Just why do you have to go?”

“Because Fiona's family has asked for me. Look, I'm sorry. But these things happen.”

“Only to you, Abby. Only to you. You don't work for the police department anymore, and you're not a victims' advocate. I can't see any good reason why you have to go, unless it's to avoid being with me.”

“Good grief, Clay. This is not about you. And now isn't the time to cop an attitude. Save it for later.” Abby dumped her slice of pizza in the garbage and set her dish in the sink. She dashed to the bedroom for a summer sweater and her purse. Sugar, apparently picking up on Abby's anxiety, began to whine.

“You want me to drive?” Clay called out from the kitchen.

“No,” Abby replied, kneeling to hug Sugar. She returned to the kitchen with the sweater, her purse, and the car keys. “Do you mind if I leave Sugar here? I don't think hospital security will let me take her inside, and I don't want to leave the poor baby in the Jeep for hours.” Abby hurried back to the dining table to grab one of the six water bottles that she always kept in the bar area opposite the table. She resisted her natural inclination to tell him more about her plans; he hadn't exactly been forthcoming as to where he'd been all day.

Clay bit into another slice of pizza, took a moment to chew and swallow, and another few seconds to wash the bite down with wine. “You're planning to be gone for hours?”

Abby heaved an exasperated sigh. “I don't know. It could be a while.”

Clay stared at his pizza. “Fine. Leave me. Leave your dog. We're getting used to your absences.”

“That remark is so unnecessary, Clay. I'll be back as soon as I can. In any event, I'll text you.”

“Whatever.”

Clay's irritation riled her, propelling Abby out the door and to the Jeep. Inside it, she started the engine and reminded herself to breathe through her tension and to let it go. Clay had apparently forgotten that he was a guest in
her
house. Yes, she'd been away a lot, helping Jack clean out the cottage, attending Fiona's funeral, and now keeping a possible vigil at the hospital. Friends helped friends. And if Clay wanted to fault her for that, so be it. He was the darling boy child in his family, the bearer of the family's hopes and dreams, always getting his way. Abby reminded herself how self-focused he could be.
Well, the world doesn't spin around you, Clay. And I'm not thinking about you anymore . . . tonight.

At the first traffic light in town, Abby braked for the long red light and glanced down at the message from Kat on her phone screen.
Vic is Tom Dodge. Transported. Finished working the scene. Need to interview him.

The light changed to green, and Abby pushed hard on the gas pedal. The Jeep responded with a squeal of its tires. The hospital was still a half mile away. Abby wanted to get there as quickly as possible, but in one piece. Tom just had to pull through—the police would need to hear his version of the shooting. If he died, it would mean the already overtaxed LFPD would have two murders to investigate at the same time and Jack would have lost two family members. So occupied were her thoughts in making a linkage between Fiona's murder and the attempt on Tom's life that Abby nearly missed the turn into the hospital parking lot.

Not finding Jack in the waiting area of the emergency room, Abby approached the triage nurse, a perky young woman in green scrubs, and asked where she might find the patient with the gunshot wound who had been transported in earlier by paramedics.

The nurse trained her green eyes on Abby and asked, “Are you family?”

“I'm a friend meeting his family, who is already here,” Abby told her.

“They took him to the OR, second floor. There's a waiting room up there near the surgical suites, but if you hit the surgical ICU or ward, you've gone too far.” The nurse pointed to the gray door marked
STAIRWELL
. She then reached for a clipboard with paperwork for her next patient.

Abby hurried to the door, pushed it open, and entered the dank, cool stairwell, where she sprinted up the concrete steps. Pushing open the second-floor door and stepping out into a hallway, she saw a sign with an arrow indicating the direction to the waiting area. She spotted Jack pacing toward her. She dashed into his embrace.

He exhaled a long sigh. “Thank you for coming, my girl,” he said, stroking her hair. “Can you believe this?”

“Thank God it wasn't you,” Abby said, easing out of his embrace to glance toward the operating-room doors. The area smelled of air freshener, used to cover up the other disagreeable scents that permeated the environment, but Abby could still smell them—antiseptic mouthwash, hand sanitizer, iodine, alcohol, and stale coffee.

Jack led her to a dimly lit alcove with six identical chairs next to a small table, with a slew of magazines strewn about. He fixed his pale eyes on hers, as if anticipating a barrage of questions.