The Murder of a Queen Bee (8 page)

Abby shook her head. “According to Fiona, he liked smoking herbs through a hookah. Less harsh on his vocal cords. Apparently, among the young Haitians in North Miami, where Laurent grew up, the herb of choice is
Cannabis sativa
. From what Fiona said, he was always careful never to overdo, as he had a thing about alertness. Relaxed was okay, but losing control was not. And he was a controller.”

“So he used marijuana. Did he also sell it?” Nettie asked.

“Possession with intent to sell is a felony under health and safety code one-one-three-five-nine,” said Kat.

“Now I know this isn't my imagination. I feel itchy all over,” Nettie said, running a finger around the neck of her uniform shirt.

Kat might have been looking at Nettie, but her thoughts were clearly somewhere else. “So, Abby,” Kat finally asked, “are you trying to make some linkage here between Laurent's weed smoking, the nicotine patch, and Fiona's murder?”

“We're trained, are we not, to allow the evidence to lead us to a conclusion. Not sure yet,” said Abby. “But if he smokes dope, you've got to wonder if he's got a criminal past. You know as well as I do that drugs and alcohol are often linked to violent crime.”

“So true,” Nettie said. “So maybe drugs played a role in her murder.”

“And yet he's not the only person in Fiona's world who smokes.” Abby dabbed the perspiration from the corners of her nose and her forehead with her shirttail.

“Yeah?” Kat's eyebrows shot up. “I'm listening.”

“I heard Premalatha asking Fiona for a special blend of smoking herbs this past Saturday,” Abby revealed.

“Oh.” Kat's eyes grew wide. “And what time was that?”

“Two-ish.”

“Did she walk in with anybody?”

“The guru's bodyguard Dakota, or Dak, as he calls himself, was with her,” Abby said. “You know him. He's heavyset, with a stocky build. Tats all over. Never says anything, never smiles, and never looks you in the eye. But here's what's interesting. Why would Premalatha ask for smoking herbs when the commune doesn't permit smoking?”

Nettie stepped back and swatted at a cloud of gnats. “Maybe for the teacher, Baba. Unlimited power must be nice.”

“So you think Baba sent his bodyguard and manager to buy herbs?” Kat asked.

“Maybe,” replied Nettie. “And that's not a crime. But which herbs was Fiona blending for smokes?” asked Nettie, stepping back some more and waving away the gnats.

Abby said, “Skullcap, marshmallow, uva ursi . . . I think there might have been others. I never actually heard anyone ever asking for weed or cannabis. And I do not believe Fiona would get mixed up with anything like that. That would be so out of character.”

Kat asked, “So Premalatha and Dak were asking Fiona for smoking herbs. Anything else you haven't shared?”

Abby thought for a moment. “Fiona said she was temporarily out of stock and offered to mix a version of the compound if they could wait a day. Premalatha didn't want to come back.” Looking straight at Kat, Abby took a deep breath and asked, “What's Premalatha and Dak's alibi for the morning Fiona was murdered?”

Kat shot her a quick warning look but answered, “They vouched for each other.”

Abby shook her head, inhaled deeply. “Well, that Premalatha is one cold fish, and I think there was no love lost between her and Fiona.”

“Why do you say that?” Kat asked.

“On the way out of the store on Saturday, she paused at the door and asked Fiona, ‘What did he ever see in you?'”

“He . . . ? Who was she referring to?” asked Nettie.

Abby shook her head. “Don't know.”

Nettie mused, “But ‘What did he ever see in you?' sounds like a jealous barb over a man.”

Kat withdrew a notebook from her shirt pocket and flipped through the pages. “So, the men intersecting Fiona's life included Laurent, the ex-boyfriend, and Tom, the soon-to-be ex-husband. There's her brother, Jack, and her landlord, Dr. Danbury. The former teacher is out of the picture, but we still have Hayden Marks and Dak, the bodyguard.”

Abby looked out over the deep blue lake. “So if a man was the reason Fiona was killed, you'll have to find a linkage between the two women and the men they both knew. Just out of curiosity, what was Premalatha's alibi for the time Fiona died?” Abby asked.

“The guru vouches for Premalatha, and she alibis Dak,” Kat replied.

Nettie chimed in. “They eat lunch together, but all the other stuff, like meditating, doing yoga, or reading, they do alone. But as commune manager, Premalatha always supervises the preparations of the guru's meals.”

“They were all together in the dining hall at twelve thirty,” Kat said, adding, “This business of meditating in your room leaves everyone essentially unaccounted for until those lunch preparations start. It's proving difficult to nail down the commune contingent, but we're working on it.”

“And what about her husband, Tom Davidson Dodge?” Abby asked. “I'd be curious if he slept at Fiona's the night before her death.”

“He did. He says he left her in bed at six forty-five Sunday morning for a job on the other side of the summit. The work involved renovation for a local winery. The thing is,” Kat said, “that the winery has been closed for a few weeks. No one can vouch for him until around nine.”

“So no other persons of interest, no promising leads?” Abby asked.

Kat sighed and shook her head. The chatter on Kat's radio had picked up. She frowned as she cocked her head toward the radio to zero in on dispatch's message. Looking intently at Abby, she said, “You must have spooked Timothy Kramer. He has evaded the BOLO, and now his cabin is on fire. Cal Fire's on the way, and Nettie and I have got to go.”

Abby nodded, and her heart raced at the implications. Another fire perhaps deliberately set. Now, what exactly was Kramer trying to hide? Abby's thoughts ran rampant. There was no way to know for certain that he had set the fire. But if he had, why would he do that, unless he was attempting to cover up something? she mused as she watched Nettie and Kat get into the cruiser.

Kat started the engine and prepared to make a U-turn. She stopped for a moment, rolled down the window, called out, “No telling where Kramer is now, Abby. I can count on you, right? To go straight home?”

Smiling to reassure Kat, Abby replied, “That's a ten-four.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Abby drove along Chestnut. She wheeled into the parking lot of Smooth Your Groove, where she bought a cup of green tea with blended mint and almond milk. Rather than nursing her tea in the smoothie shop, she opted to stroll four blocks down Chestnut to Main Street to take a look in the window of Fiona's shop. She had a lot to think about, and a walk would be just the thing to clear her head.

Passing Lidia Vittorio's jewelry store, Abby resisted the urge to check out the latest marcasite offerings. With no money to blow on earrings, she avoided looking at the window displays. Next, she strolled past Cineflicks and peeked at the latest consignment displays in the window of Twice Around Markdowns. Finally, standing in front of Ancient Wisdom Botanicals, she wondered how to gain access to Fiona's shop without breaking the law. But as she stood before the door with the
CLOSED
sign facing the street, she could see someone had turned on the interior lights.

After depositing her smoothie cup in the nearby trash receptacle and tightening her grip on the shoulder strap of her purse, Abby pushed against the door handle. To her surprise, the door creaked open. Tiny bells on a red ribbon announced her arrival. New Age instrumentals played softly in the background. Fiona had programmed the music to come on when she flipped on the shop lights.

Abby called out a greeting. “Hello. Anybody here?”

No answer.

Her senses went on high alert. She stepped across the welcome mat and ventured past a bamboo table display of soaps wrapped in paper and tied with twine. Well, this was odd. Who was in the store, and why weren't they answering her shout-out? Suddenly, Abby felt a little shiver. The soft lights and the soothing New Age music did little to calm her nerves. Inching forward, she eased past a large display of Ayate washcloths, loofahs, and aromatherapy massage oils. Instinctively, her right hand reached for a weapon on a duty belt she no longer wore. She heard a snap.

“Hello. Who's there?” Clearly, she was not alone. She quickly considered possible intruders. Fiona's husband, Tom, topped the list. Jack, Fiona's brother, surely had a key. What about Laurent? Fiona had said he'd come here whenever they fought.
Who else?

She crept past a rounder of all-natural fabric clothing. She slipped past a bookcase tightly packed with new and used books on the culinary, medicinal, and apothecary uses of herbs. Rounding another glass display case, Abby saw bottles of essential oils, a selection of teas, and a basket of herbal smudge sticks tied with red cotton thread. She bumped the basket with her elbow and quickly righted the smudge sticks and the boxes of tea.

At the shop's rear on Lemon Lane, a dog sounded an alert, barking incessantly.

“Hello. Anybody back there?”

Abby stepped into the room at the rear of the shop that served as Fiona's office. File cabinet drawers stood open. Manila files and their contents lay strewn about on the black metal surface of the desk. Upon spotting the back door slightly ajar, Abby hurried over and yanked it wide open. She saw Laurent Duplessis dashing toward a green sedan with a dented front fender. He tossed a black briefcase across the driver's seat to the passenger side before jumping in and starting the engine. The car lurched forward, engine revving, tires squealing.

Abby raced into the cloud of exhaust. Wildly waving her hand in the air, she yelled, “Hey . . . stop.... Somebody stop him!”

She pulled up, breathless, retrieved the little spiral notebook she habitually kept in her shirt pocket, and jotted down the license plate number. Turning back, she quickly returned to Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. As she stood in the middle of Fiona's office, staring at the mess, her imagination conjured a visual of what had just happened. Laurent Duplessis had been searching the small office, but for what? Had he found it?

The way Abby saw it, Laurent looked out for Laurent. With Fiona, he had had a free and easy lifestyle. He could wake up whenever he wanted. He could smoke dope as he liked, and he could hang out at the beach. He could party and play drums half the night and then waltz back into Fiona's cottage when he got hungry or needed sleep. What a deal. Maybe the best one Laurent had ever had. Most women would have kicked him out long before Fiona had. When she finally ended Laurent's free ride and broke things off between them, she still helped him find a place to live—the apartment above Twice Around Markdowns.

Walking to the front of the store, Abby took out her cell phone and tapped the number for the Las Flores PD. “Abigail Mackenzie here. I want to report a crime,” she said. “Ancient Wisdom Botanicals on Main Street has just been burglarized.”

Chapter 6

Honeybees have five eyes—compound eyes
on either side of the head and three small
ocelli on top—enabling them to see
ultraviolet light and detect color.

 

 

 

W
ithin minutes of Abby's call to the Las Flores PD, two officers arrived on scene and secured Ancient Wisdom Botanicals.

“You are positive the man you saw was Laurent Duplessis?” one uniformed officer asked.

“Yes,” Abby answered.

“And he was definitely inside the shop?” the other asked.

“Well, I can't say positively. I believe so,” she replied. “My friend Fiona never left drawers open and file folders strewn all over the place. When I spotted Duplessis, he was the only person I saw out back, and was running like his tail feathers were on fire.”

Abby patiently answered every question put to her until they got another call from dispatch. Watching the cops get into their cruiser, she considered briefly chatting up Laurent's landlady but just as quickly dismissed the notion. The cops would certainly do a knock and talk in their follow-up. If she preempted them, they'd surely see it as interference.

Standing in the sunshine on Main Street, Abby glanced up at the sign above the door of Ancient Wisdom Botanicals and wondered if someone new would buy the place. She couldn't imagine Fiona's brother hanging on to it. According to Fiona, he was more at home in rain forests and living amid primitive cultures than modern ones. Maybe that store space was jinxed. Previously, it was the site of the pastry chef's murder. With the chef's death, Las Flores had lost its innocence. Now, once again, a killer was on the loose in their lovely small town.

Abby felt hot. Her skin prickled. Was it the afternoon heat or a hormonal response to all the drama?
Whatever.
She slipped out of her long-sleeved shirt, exposing bare shoulders except for the straps of her turquoise tank top. She tied the shirt around the waistband of her jeans, pulled her thick hair into a more secure ponytail, and began walking back toward Lidia Vittorio's jewelry store, where Main intersected Chestnut. Maybe she'd get the Percy Sledge CD from the glove box and during the drive home listen to it to get into the mood for her date with Clay.

A smile slipped across her lips as she remembered how Clay had called her in the first weeks after she'd moved to the farmette. He'd dialed her on his way to buy lumber at the big-box DIY store. Wrist deep in the dirt where she had been harvesting garlic, Abby had shaken off the soil from her hands to take his call. He'd told her to tune in to the local radio station and then had hung up. Abandoning the bulbs on yellowed stalks, Abby had walked to the patio and turned on the radio in time to hear the refrain of “When a Man Loves a Woman.” Even thinking about that moment brought a smile to her lips. It was the first time Clay had put words to his feelings for her, albeit through song lyrics belted out by another man. But that day her knees had gone weak as she listened.

As she approached the corner of Main and Chestnut, Abby felt a newfound sense of joy and hope bubbling through her being. How wonderful it would be if that old excitement she used to feel with him could be rekindled.

“Abby, wait up.”

Turning, she saw Clay jaywalking across the street, dodging a car, to catch up with her. He wore a baby blue polo shirt, open at the neck, slim jeans, and loafers.

“Just thinking about you,” she remarked with a smile. “What brings you to Main Street? Visiting old haunts? Renewing old friendships?”

Clay flashed a disarming smile. “And why not? I made a lot of friends here. I can't believe how many people missed me.”

Her smile withered.
Does it always have to be about you?
“Look, I haven't forgotten our date tonight. You did say six o'clock, right?”

“Yeah, but seeing as how you are already here . . . got a minute? I've got something to show you.”

Abby sighed. It was useless to protest once Clay set his mind on something. Best to just go along. She nodded. “I'm game.”

He put his hand on her back at the waist and gently nudged her toward Lidia Vittorio's shop door. After pulling it open, he braced it with his foot while Abby walked through. In frosted diffusers with bamboo reeds on the countertops, the shop's signature scent of ginger and pear permeated the interior. Soft music and spotlighting that splayed off the highly polished surfaces created a welcoming ambiance for the handful of customers browsing the gem-studded offerings.

“My old eyes must be playing tricks on me,” called out Lidia. “Abby, dear, it's been such a long while.” Lidia wore a classic tailored black dress with a black lace Peter Pan collar. At the center of the collar, she'd pinned her favorite cameo. She wrapped her thin arms around Abby and hugged her tightly.

“What's kept you away, my dear?” Lidia asked, pulling back from the hug and holding Abby at arm's length to look at her. “Oh, to be young again . . . I dare say you don't need jewelry to enhance your beauty, like some do.” Scooping threads of silvery hair away from her face, Lidia pinched the strands together and tucked them back into her coiled braid, held in place at the nape of her neck by hairpins. “Sorry you missed our big sale on marcasite on Valentine's Day.” She smoothed her coif with her hands, blue veined, with tissue-thin skin, and nodded an acknowledgment to Clay.

At the mention of Valentine's Day, Abby flinched. “You couldn't feel any worse than I do about that, Lidia. I was elbow deep in bare-root season, and then in March I was spraying organic oil all over the fruit trees before they leafed out. And now that the weather has already turned warm, I'm expecting my bees to swarm.”

“Well, dear, it sounds like you are working awfully hard.” Lidia turned her attention to Clay. She smiled broadly, revealing the stains of habitual tea drinking on her uneven lower teeth. “Perhaps your friend Calhoun here could help you out.” She smiled, as if she was conspiring with him in some grand scheme.

Abby looked at Clay. His face instantly wreathed in a boyish grin; his dark eyes gleamed due to his apparent happiness that Lidia had remembered at least part of his name.

“Oh, I'm itching to help her,” Clay said.

Abby's brow arched upward.

Clay thumped the glass display and spoke in a voice tinged with excitement. “I've got plenty of ideas for fixing up the place,” he said. “Starting with ripping out that master bath. From the looks of it, that bath was an afterthought to the old bunkhouse. I wouldn't be surprised if the back of the shower stall was breeding mold.”

His remark seemed unduly critical, but Abby believed he meant to emphasize his vision for making the place pretty and more functional. She sighed. “What do you expect of a two-room farmhouse built in the late nineteen forties?”

Clay said, addressing Lidia, “What Abby needs is a bathroom with a marble floor, a couple of big view windows, and a spa tub with jets.”

As much as Abby liked that idea, she wished Clay would use a little more restraint in his conversations with townspeople with whom she would have relationships long after he had taken off again. Lidia didn't need to know how dilapidated the farmhouse was. It would only give her reason to worry about Abby. Locals took a strong interest in the welfare of their own. That was just the way small towns were.

What was clearly apparent to Abby now was that the drill and the tool cabinet Clay had brought to the farmette had been part of his plan all along to ingratiate himself back into her life. So be it. If he insisted on building a new master bath, she'd be an idiot not to let him. And while he was at it, he could finish her kitchen, too. Then, immediately, Abby felt guilty for having such thoughts. The less emotional, more rational side of her mind took over.
Give him a break. Accept him for who he is. Or end it. But stop punishing him.

“I saved it for Calhoun,” Lidia said, winking at Clay and leading them to a glass display case. Lidia's bony fingers unlocked the case and pulled out a small box. She set it on the counter and opened it, exposing a pair of earrings. She picked up a hand mirror.

Abby's heart skipped. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the earrings. A chiming sounded as customers entered the shop, but nothing could draw Abby's attention from the gold earrings in the shape of honeybees before her. Each bee's eyes were small cabochons of aquamarine. Diamond chips formed the head. The thorax was embellished with citrines, while the embellishment for the wings and dark brown abdominal bands featured chocolate diamonds.

“Excuse me, will you?” Lidia said. “I'll just see what the other customer wants. Be right back, dear.”

“Of course,” said Abby, taking the hand mirror from Lidia. She held an earring against her left ear. “Oh, my gosh,” Abby remarked. “These are exquisite.”

“The eyes there,” Clay said, pointing to the bees, “are roughly the same color as yours.” He seemed quite pleased with himself for noticing.

“Ha. I wish,” Abby said. She peered at the shade of blue green, but she secretly liked the red in the citrine and its smoky-brown undertones, because she could see them reflected in her hair where she stood under one of the counter spotlights. “These beauties do not go with my old shirt and faded jeans.” Abby lingered a moment longer in front of the mirror, holding first one earring up to her ear and then the other one to her opposite ear. Finally, she sighed. “I've never seen such lovely earrings.”

“Let me buy them for you,” Clay said.

A beat passed. Abby thought for a millisecond. They were over-the-top beautiful, but with a thousand-dollar price tag, they were also expensive. And where would she ever wear them? He would spend his money, and the earrings would sit in her jewelry box. “How sweet of you to offer, Clay. I don't know what to say, except, well, I really couldn't accept them. They're lovely but too pricey.”

Abby placed the earrings back in the open box and then reached for his hand and wrapped her palm around it. Looking into his wide-set dark brown eyes, she said softly, “You don't have to buy me presents. People should be able to find their way back. . . .” The words trailed off into a sigh. “How can I say it?”

I don't want to hurt you, but why rush us into beginning again?
she thought.

“Time . . . I just need time, Clay. That's all I ask.” She squeezed his hand and found it eager, warm, and willing to hold hers. She searched his expression for signs he understood her confusion.

Although he nodded in acquiescence, his expression seemed to have darkened. He pulled his hand away and busied both hands with rearranging the earrings in the box. With resignation written all over his expression, Clay finally closed the lid.

Abby turned to see where Lidia had gone. And when had Tom Davidson Dodge entered the store? Abby watched Tom, thin-boned in a T-shirt and jeans, with a navy watch cap hiding a head of curls, take several items from his brightly striped Peruvian bag. He set them on the counter's glass surface. Lidia emerged from the back room with a vial of liquid and a scale in her hands. She faced Tom on the opposite side of the counter.

Tapping Clay on the arm, Abby placed a finger against her lips and cocked her head in Lidia and Tom's direction.

Tom held up a braided gold chain with a Celtic cross dangling from it.

Abby sucked in a deep breath.
Oh, my gosh. You can't be pawning Fiona's favorite necklace. If that isn't coldhearted, what is?

Tom placed the necklace on the counter and reached into the bag again. He plunked a wedding ring set next to the necklace. Then he reached into the bag again and pulled out a silver cuff bracelet embedded with semiprecious stones. Abby watched Tom look for a reaction from Lidia.

“They belonged to my late wife,” Tom said in a soft tone. “Heirlooms they were, she told me. The rings have to be worth a small fortune. She said they once belonged to her great-grandmother from County Kerry.”

“Well, yes, that would make them estate pieces, wouldn't it?” Lidia smiled politely. “The necklace has a solid resale value. However, gold is not worth what it was a while back. How much do you want for everything?”

“I was thinking ten grand,” Tom replied.

“Oh, dear, that would not be possible. Even if they were worth that—and I don't believe they are—I'd have to pass.” Lidia laid aside the loupe she'd picked up, and stared frankly at him. “You do understand that I have to resell these items for a profit.”

“Yeah. So then what could you give me?” Tom asked.

“Well, let me see.” Lidia stroked her lower lip with a forefinger. “Gold is going for slightly more than a thousand per ounce, but a lot depends on the purity and the weight of your pieces, of course.” She reached under the counter and pulled forth a scale, then set the rings on it and noted the weight. Then she pulled a vial of liquid from under the counter and placed a drop on the rings. She repeated the process for the gold necklace before returning the scale and the small vial to the shelf beneath the counter. Lidia picked up the loupe and used it to study the Celtic cross. “The craftsmanship is superb. Would you take six hundred for this?”

Tom seemed antsy, shifting his weight from side to side. “I guess so. What about the other stuff?”

Abby looked at Clay, shook her head slowly, and raised her hand, palm to the floor, to indicate that they should stand down and stay quiet.

Fiona had confided in Abby that the Celtic cross necklace was worth close to two grand. Lidia was driving a hard bargain. The fact that Tom would accept less than half of what the object was worth perplexed Abby. Did he not know the value, or was he just desperate for money? What alarmed Abby more was why Tom was hawking the jewelry in the first place. It was behavior that was unbecoming, to say the least, and highly suspicious, since those valuable pieces had belonged to his dead wife. That raised a whole bevy of questions about who would profit most from her death. Was he Fiona's designated heir? Who had her will?