The Murder of a Queen Bee (27 page)

Abby felt giddy. Her heart pounded like a thundering river. As he leaned in, Abby anticipated his kiss, but instead, he nuzzled his face against her neck, reached out into the darkness, and flipped on the light switch. Directly in her sight line, on a metal-framed utility shelf, rested the case of honey and six jars bearing her farmette label.

“Oh, you're good,” she said, at once relieved at what had not happened and at the same time wishing something had. “If you'll carry the case, I'll grab these jars.”

After they had loaded the honey into the Jeep, an awkward moment passed between them until the lightbulb in the shed sputtered off. They both turned to look at it. It flickered back on and then off again. A loud
pop
sounded, and the light went out.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I'd better turn off the juice. Don't want to burn down the shed,” Jack said.

Abby chuckled. “No, that would never do.” She reached down to stroke Sugar, who was pawing at her legs. “We'd better go,” said Abby, lifting Sugar's warm, round body into the Jeep. “I've got my pooch to feed, my chickens to check on, and honey jars to fill with what little honey I have in the house.”

“Well, if you must,” Jack said. “I could help, if you like.”

“Really? When did you last fill a honey jar?”

“Well, actually, never. But I'm a quick study. Besides, after we fill them, we can drive around delivering honey to all your customers, and I can amuse you with stories. So, what do you say?”

Abby thought about his proposition.
A sexy guy who tells the truth, is willing to help, and takes direction. What's not to like?

“I'm game. Do you think you can find your way to Farm Hill Road? Turn right and look for the mailbox with the chicken on it. Actually, it's a rooster with tall tail feathers, but it marks my driveway. If you can get there by eight o'clock in the morning, I'll have coffee ready and some killer apricot honey bread in the oven.”

Chapter 19

For a flock of appreciative clucking followers,
sprinkle dried mealworms over a dish of greens.

 

 

 

A
t first light, Abby ran the water in the tub of her new master bath, but the water from the spigot remained as cloudy and slightly greasy as the previous time she'd cracked it on. It dawned on her that the water had to run awhile to get rid of the flux from the new copper pipes. It was normal with new piping. Still, she wasn't about to turn on the jets. But as she thought about it, maybe a bath wasn't such a good idea. Jack might arrive early, before she had prepped everything. After turning off the water and dashing to the guest bathroom, she showered and did a quick blow-dry of her hair.

Choosing a lightweight turquoise summer knit dress with hidden pockets, a scooped neck, and a flared skirt, Abby pulled it over her head and stepped into a pair of black flats. She gathered her reddish-gold locks and anchored them with a black elastic band at the base of her neck. Finally, she put on her favorite turquoise, amethyst, and seed pearl earrings and then admired her image in the mirror. She hoped the look would please Jack.

After tying on a clean white pinafore apron, she began to load the dishwasher with jars and screw-top lids, rather than the ring lids she used for jam. Abby set the dishwasher running through its hottest cycle, but then she heard a ruckus from the chicken house. Dashing out the patio door and across the lawn, she saw a small fox pawing at the structure's window.

“Oh, no, you don't,” she yelled, plucking two apricots from the tree and lobbing them at the fox. The fox leaped from the henhouse and scampered up the chain-link fence.

Abby stood in the chicken run until the hens had settled down. The black-and-white wyandottes resumed their alto-toned, gravelly
g-rack
,
g-rack
,
g-rack
. The white leghorns clucked in a higher pitch. Blondie, the Buff Orpington—who could be a broodzilla when she was in her broody cycle—began scratching a hole for her dirt bath. And Houdini, the rooster, let go a shrill, yet manly
cock-a-doodle-doo
. Abby knew they wanted out of the run to free-range forage, but that wasn't going to happen while there was a predator in the area. Where there was one fox, more were likely, perhaps a den of them. She could still see the fox sitting on its haunches on a hill at the rear of the wooded acre. No way was she letting her feathered friends out today. Abby checked the feeder hanging from its chain and the water dispenser. Both were half full, so Abby left the run and returned to the farmhouse.

Back inside the kitchen, she turned on the oven and set about making a batch of apricot honey bread. With the three loaf pans in the oven for the next thirty minutes, Abby carried a chair over to the washer and dryer area. From the top shelf, she took down two cardboard boxes, each holding a dozen jars of apricot jam. She set the boxes on the dining-room table.

After putting the chair back from the washer and dryer area and tucking it under the dining table, Abby then returned to the kitchen. She poured a cup of nuggets into the dog food bowl and fresh water into the canister of the water dispenser. Next, she made a pot of coffee. When it was ready, she poured herself a cup and leaned over the counter with a pencil and paper to write out the sequence of her honey and jam deliveries, starting with the chief's at the police department.

Jack arrived punctually at eight o'clock that morning, dressed in a T-shirt featuring a blue morning glory and, beneath the image, its identification,
Ipomoea tricolor
. He wore tan cargo shorts and sand-colored lace-up espadrilles. His hair lay in loose curls across his forehead, making him more boyish-looking than usual. Sugar behaved as if Jack had become her best friend; her tail wagged wildly when he strolled into the yard through the side gate. Abby didn't try to conceal her delight at seeing him, too. She gave Jack a quick hug and offered him a tour of her farmette, with Sugar bounding happily around them.

His face beamed a smile as his gaze swept over her property. “Oh, yes, Abby. Show me this place you've created out of an old field,” he said happily.

At the Black Tartarian trees, he picked a bright red cherry with a hole in its side. “Oh, well, what's a small peck out of the side of an otherwise perfectly good cherry? I don't mind sharing with the birds,” he said, then popped the cherry in his mouth and promptly spit out the seed.

At the row of early bearing peaches, he gently squeezed three golden fruits until he was satisfied he'd found the ripest specimen. He offered it to Abby. When she shook her head, he peeled off the skin, ate the peach with relish, and tossed the pit to the ground. They walked a short distance farther and reached the apple trees.

He gave her a sexy look. “I feel like I'm in the Garden of Eden,” he said. “But the temptress hasn't offered me the apple.”

Abby laughed. “You'll have to wait.”

“Oh, isn't that always the way? Eve didn't hesitate to offer one to Adam.”

“She would have if they were standing by this tree.”

Jack's expressive eyes danced as he regarded her quizzically.

“Well, just look at them,” said Abby. “They're the size of acorns. These apples won't be ripe until autumn.”

“Autumn, you say? What a pity. I might be gone by then.” His eyes regarded her, as if he was gauging her response.

Abby dropped her gaze.

“Or I might just stick around.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Abby teased.

His eyes locked onto hers with seemingly seductive intention. “No, not at all. By autumn, your apples might not be the only sweet thing I taste in your garden.”

“Oh, my,” said Abby, pretending to fan away her fluster with the skirt of her apron. “I think we've dallied long enough. Better have our breakfast and hit the road, or I'll be late with my deliveries.”

* * *

Inside the lobby of the Las Flores Police Station, with the honey order for Chief Bob Allen's wife, Abby overheard two female dispatchers arguing. Apparently, they were both dating the same man.

“Yeah, well, he is serially monogamous,” the older of the two women asserted.

“You think I don't know what that means?” said the younger dispatcher, running her fingers through her edgy bicolored black-and-platinum hairdo. She flipped her hand dismissively toward the other woman. “He dumps his current girlfriend to pursue a new one. I'm the new one.”

“Don't get your hopes up, love. He hasn't dumped me yet, and I don't intend to let him.” The beads braided into her mocha-colored hair gave the older woman an exotic look. “You forget, I'm from Colombia, and there we fight for our men. I'm telling you it's not over until I say it is.”

The tone of the argument quickly escalated. Abby frantically pushed the buzzer on the wall, waited, and pushed it again. Nettie appeared on the other side of the glass window, her forehead creased in a frown. Alarmed and shaking her head, apparently at the argument, she told Abby through the speaker, “Be right with you.”

Abby pointed to the counter and motioned for Jack to put the case down next to the jars she'd already placed there. They waited as Nettie disappeared and returned with Chief Bob Allen. He went over to the dispatchers and called out the warring women.

“Who were they arguing over?” Abby asked Nettie as the chief took each woman aside for a talk.

Nettie rolled her eyes. “Bernie in the evidence room.”

Abby burst out laughing. “You're kidding, right?”

Nettie shook her head. “Mr. I'm here for a good time, not a long time.”

Abby shook her head and feigned a serious look as the chief looked over at her. The room became as quiet as a hot jar of jam before the seal popped.

“This way,” the chief said after he opened the security door for her and Jack to enter. “My office is down here at the end of the hall. Officer Petrovsky and I have been interviewing a suspect in your sister's death, and I'd like to fill you in, Mr. Sullivan.”

“A suspect? Any chance it's Premalatha Baxter?” asked Abby.

He nodded, leading them to the institutional chairs opposite his massive desk. “She denies any knowledge of the murder.” The chief motioned for them to set the case and the jars on the desk and take a seat.

“You have proof to the contrary?” asked Jack.

“Yes, Mr. Sullivan, we do. Her fingerprint was on the broken teacup that Mackenzie's dog uncovered. We were able to match the one on the teacup with prints in the state's system because of a background check on Ms. Baxter when she applied for work in a casino. We can also tie her to the burning car crime scene through that nicotine patch that Mackenzie found in the nearby weed patch. Claims she is a closet smoker, mostly herbs through a water pipe but also tobacco. She conceals her habit and also the patch she wears to quit.”

Abby felt pleased but maintained a solemn expression. “But, Chief, Fiona knew Premalatha smoked. She had to know, because Premalatha and Dak stopped by Ancient Wisdom Botanicals, asking for an herb blend for smoking, the day before Fiona died. I was there and saw the exchange. Fiona told Premalatha that the blend was out of stock.”

“Yes. I read your statement. We're convinced that we've got your sister's killer, Mr. Sullivan, but we know she had to have help moving the body. We're still piecing that part of the case together.”

“But you have Dak Harmon in custody,” said Abby. “He's got to know what went down.”

“He's not saying. We read him his rights, and he lawyered up.”

“Isn't it true that the two of them were providing alibis for each other? They were at the commune that morning. They had lunch there together with the leader and everyone else.”

“True,” said Chief Bob Allen. “Premalatha told us that around ten thirty on the morning Fiona died, she tried to phone Fiona to apologize for their public argument at the smoothie shop. Her cell phone records indicate that she made that call.”

Abby had a sudden thought. “How long was their conversation?”

“Less than two minutes.”

“Okay, I'm going to suggest something,” Abby said. She then phrased her theory with flattery for the chief. “You've probably already thought of this, but here goes. What if Premalatha went to the cottage and gave Fiona poison in a cup of tea or in a smoothie she prepared in a Smooth Your Groove cup? I've been reading up on this, and Jack knows about it, too. This poisonous plant called monkshood has pretty flowers, but all parts of the plant, including the roots, are poisonous. Let's say that Premalatha makes a tincture from the plant, which they grow up on the commune land, and puts the drops in the tea or the smoothie. Then she convinces Fiona to taste a smoothie recipe she'd like Fiona to approve for the smoothie shop. Seeking Fiona's approval might have gotten the result she intended. That is, for Fiona to taste the smoothie. Maybe Fiona already had a cup of tea, and Premalatha doctored it, too, or perhaps Premalatha made her a cup of tea if Fiona complained of not feeling well after tasting the smoothie.” Abby took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Go on,” said the chief. His elbows rested on his desk, and his thumbs and forefingers pressed against each other.

“To create an alibi for herself, Premalatha uses her cell phone to call Fiona. Getting a message, she listens and maybe leaves one for Fiona. All the while, she's standing right there in the cottage as Fiona is dying. Then Premalatha cleans up, putting everything in that trash bag to toss onto the refuse pile where Dr. Danbury stores his trash to be incinerated. And since Dr. Danbury spent the night in Las Flores, celebrating his son's birthday, there was no one else at the estate the morning Fiona died.”

“That's right,” said Jack. “Tom told me he'd asked permission from Premalatha to go to Fiona's cottage that night to discuss their divorce. Also, he said he had that winery renovation job to go to early the next morning . . . the morning Fiona died.”

“For your sister,” Abby said, glancing over at Jack, “it was just a stroke of bad luck that no one was on the property that morning. Premalatha had already decided it would be the last time Tom would spend the night with Fiona.” Abby exhaled deeply and looked back at Chief Bob Allen.

“I'm still listening.” The chief leaned back in his chair and quietly tapped a finger against his desk.

“I think that Premalatha and her accomplice loaded Fiona's body in her car. They took two vehicles to Kilbride Lake. There they placed Fiona into the driver's seat but forgot to adjust the seat forward so Fiona's feet could reach the gas pedal. Premalatha is roughly five feet, nine inches. Fiona was about five-three.”

“Uh-huh,” said the chief. “And so . . .”

“So, Premalatha and her accomplice set the car on fire to get rid of the body and any trace evidence,” Abby said. She looked over at a stone-faced Jack before continuing. “They ride back to the commune, leave their vehicle, probably a motorcycle, in the woods near the commune. That way, they can part company and slip onto the grounds unnoticed from different directions, as if they'd been present at the commune all morning.”

Chief Bob Allen had been staring intently at Abby as she spoke. He sniffed deeply. “Initially, we thought Dak Harmon might have helped move the body. That partial tire print at Kilbride Lake has some similarities to the tread on the tires of the mountain garage loaner motorcycle—the one he uses when his is in the shop and the same one he rode to your house, Abby.”

Abby sat a little straighter.
Thought it might.