by Meera Lester
Abby looked past the cosmos to the forty-something, tall, dark-haired man with silvery threads of gray at his temples. Casually dressed in jeans and penny loafers without socks, he held his sport coat in the crook of an arm while his other hand squeezed a tiny ball of fruit hanging on the two-year-old blood orange tree. The sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled up, exposing lithe forearms.
“A man that good looking has to be married,” Kat whispered.
“Is he?” Abby whispered back.
Kat shrugged and kept walking.
When the man spun around to face them, Abby noted the family resemblance to Chef Jean-Louis but also that drawn, haggard look that took over a healthy face when someone suffered a shock or was grief stricken.
“Philippe Bonheur,” the man said, extending his hand to Abby.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Kat said, “I’ve got to check in with dispatch.” She walked a discreet distance down the gravel driveway and stopped at the mailbox, which was mounted on a fence post. Abby could tell from the way Kat was leaning her head in toward her shoulder that she was talking on the two-way.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bonheur.” Abby tried to say his name correctly, to pronounce it Bon-NEUR, but it didn’t sound right to her. She’d nearly failed high school French. “Abigail Mackenzie.” She extended her right hand but yanked it back when she noticed dirt clumped under her nails and streaks of soil still on her palm and wrist. “Sorry . . . I . . . I wasn’t expecting anyone to show up at my door. I’ve misplaced my gardening gloves.”
“It’s no problem, mademoiselle.” Philippe clasped her hand, then pulled it back into his and shook it firmly. His red, puffy eyes dominated his gaunt face, which sported a day-old beard and a weak smile.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Bonheur.”
“Thank you. C’est une affaire terrible.” His voice broke from a sudden huskiness as he lapsed into his native language.
Abby’s heart sank. She hated to see an obviously strong, healthy man in such terrible pain. Empathy had been the bane of her life, especially in police work. Kat had once told Abby that her personal sense of outrage on behalf of the victims and their families was why she was so good in law enforcement. But Abby too keenly felt the pain of the victim, sometimes feeling compelled to work a case as if it were personal, when her primary task was simply to keep her personal feelings in check and just do the job.
Now, as Abby observed Philippe Bonheur struggling to show composure under the most trying of circumstances, she inhaled a long, deep breath and heard herself ask politely, “Mr. Bonheur, how can I help?”
“This Chief Bob Allen, you worked for him?”
Abby nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“I will speak frankly. I do not agree with Chief Bob Allen and the coroner. Suicide? Non. I tell you, it was not. It was murder!”
At that moment, Kat returned. She thrust her hands into her uniform pants pockets and leaned against the cruiser, swatting occasionally at a bee if it flew too close.
“But how can you be so sure?” Abby looked directly into his eyes, thinking their hue lighter than the new leaves on her apple tree.
“I know my brother.” Philippe Bonheur reached into his white dress-shirt pocket, removed a silver lighter and a small box, and opened the box. It was lined in foil and contained cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” Not waiting for her reply, he plucked out a cigarette, flipped open his lighter, set fire to the cigarette tip, and inhaled a deep, long drag.
Abby took a step backward. Seriously?
A sheepish expression claimed Philippe’s countenance, as if he had picked up on her thought and now felt awkward about smoking.
“You Californians, you do not like smoking, c’est vrai?”
Abby nodded. “Some of us don’t.”
Philippe took another long drag of the cigarette and then flipped it to the ground. “Jean-Louis tells me on the phone about a man named Dobbs. They argued about the patisserie lease.”
“Yes, I know about that.” Abby asked, “Was your brother assaulted by him?”
“No.”
“Well, then, perhaps they ironed out their difficulties.” Abby was starting to wonder if Philippe could tell her anything, anything at all, that could convince her that the case had merit.
Philippe looked at her incredulously and shook his head. “Jean-Louis, he tells me about a man who attacked him behind the patisserie.”
“When did that happen?” Abby asked, looking for a response from Kat, who had folded her arms across her chest and was listening intently.
“A week . . . two or three weeks ago. My mind does not think so well now.” Philippe ran his hand through his hair. He seemed to be struggling with how best to express what he wanted to say. He finally spoke. “My brother, he was not like everyone. People did not understand him. Some did not like him, because—”
Abby waited for the words that did not come. “Did Jean-Louis’s family . . . did they know . . . Did you know he was gay?”
“Oui.” Philippe seemed relieved that she had said what perhaps he could not. “We know. Jean-Louis feared for his life sometimes. That man who attacked Jean-Louis, he rode a motorcycle. He called my brother names. Jean-Louis followed him into the bar one night. They argued. The bartender made them leave.”
Abby zeroed in on that detail. “And that man assaulted Jean-Louis?”
Philippe nodded.
Abby looked over at Kat. “Police report filed?”
Kat shook her head. “Nope. First I’ve heard of it.”
Abby addressed Philippe. “Any chance you got the name of that biker from Jean-Louis?”
“He never told me.”
“How about the name of the bar?”
“The Black Wench or Witch . . . something like that.”
The only bar in Las Flores. Abby considered how desperate Philippe must feel. How hard he must be searching his memory for names and situations that might prove his brother was the victim of an enemy. She gauged the distance between her dusty gardening shoes and the discarded, still smoldering cigarette, reminding herself to dispose of it properly once he and Kat had left. Unconvinced that a biker, landlord, or any local had killed Jean-Louis, Abby couldn’t shake the feeling that suicide explained the death. And without a good motive or a prime suspect, there didn’t seem to be any good reason for her to take the case, despite details about the local bar and its mostly biker patrons. Details anyone could know.
How she hated these situations.... How many times can you say, “Sorry for your loss,” before it begins to sound like it’s just an excuse to end the conversation so you can go back to your life?
Philippe inhaled deeply. “Jean-Louis. . . .” His voice became husky. “He mentions to me friends, too.”
Abby smiled at him reassuringly. “I’m sure Jean-Louis had many friends in Las Flores.”
Philippe’s haggard face managed a weak smile.
“Can you recall any of his friends’ names?” Abby asked.
“Charles, Joseph, Patrick, and someone he called Vieillard, ‘old man’ in English.”
Abby shot a quizzical look at Kat, who had flipped open a small notebook to jot down the names. Abby wondered if the word might mean a man who was older than Jean-Louis or if the chef had used the word as a term of endearment.
“Did your brother often use pet names for friends?” asked Abby.
“Oui. Vieillard. A nickname, perhaps?” Philippe brushed his fingers against a tuft of hair over an ear, where a honeybee had just alighted.
“Don’t move,” Abby quickly cautioned. “Just try to be still. If you swat at it, it will sting you.”
“Arghh,” Philippe growled. He followed her directions, staring intently into her eyes, apparently awaiting a sign that the bee might depart.
Abby moved a step closer to him, watching closely as the bee took its time exploring. The insect must have found Philippe’s cologne to its liking. And what wasn’t to like? High notes of mint and basil coun
terbalanced with a woodsy undertone and a hint of musk. Attractive to her, attractive to the bees. Abby considered what it would feel like to have her face as close to Philippe Bonheur’s as the bee was. She slowly lifted her hand, thinking of how she might help the little insect on its way, but at just that moment the bee’s tiny body waggled. The honeybee flew upward, turned in midcourse, and headed in the direction of the hive behind the weathered wooden fence.
Philippe relaxed his posture; his attention again became fixed on Abby. “Surely, you do not raise these . . . these abeilles?”
Abby nodded. “Honeybees.”
“It is dangerous, n’est-ce pas?” He looked over at Kat. Kat shrugged, as if she couldn’t understand Abby’s love for bees, either.
Abby smiled disarmingly. “No. It’s not dangerous. I love the bees and their honey. Actually, no one appreciated their honey more than Jean-Louis.” She decided to ask a point-blank question. “Was there someone who disliked Jean-Louis enough to want him dead?”
Philippe rubbed an unshaven cheek, as though thinking about the question. “Jean-Louis, he tells me he thinks his business partner or someone—how do you say?—détourné de l’argent.”
Abby searched her memory for the meaning of the phrase and then proffered an alternative in English. “Embezzled money?”
“Oui, embezzle, but Jean-Louis, he could not prove it.”
Abby sighed. Suspicion. Not the same as proof. She lifted the collar of her work shirt and shook it slightly to allow a bit of air to circulate over her flushed skin. “Truly, I wish I could help.” She knew it was not what the man wanted to hear. To avoid what she was sure would be a pleading gaze, Abby glanced over at Kat, who was staring at the ground, as if not wanting to telegraph her personal feelings about the case. “Look, we really don’t have much to work with here.” Abby straightened her spine, as if standing taller and stiffer would make her appear more resolute. “I try not to insert myself into police business. Chief Bob Allen would not welcome my intrusion, and, besides, he and I are not exactly buddies.”
A long and brittle silence ensued before Philippe said coldly, “It is not police business, not anymore. My brother, he tells me he was going to the Caribbean for his birthday. His good friend Vieillard had access to a yacht on the southeast coast of the Dominican Republic, near Casa de Campo. So, pardon me, mademoiselle, but does that sound like he intended to end his life?”
Logic compelled her to agree with Philippe Bonheur. People who were about to check out usually did not take a vacation first.
“Remind me of when Jean-Louis’s birthday is,” Abby said.
“July eighteenth.” Philippe glanced at Kat, apparently in an effort to gauge whose side she was on, but Kat remained silent, still staring stone-faced at the ground. An awkward and tense silence ensued.
“You are repairing this place, oui?” Philippe asked, apparently wanting to shift the direction of the conversation. He slid his fingers, with manicured nails, into his pants pocket and drew forth a folded piece of paper. He handed the paper to Abby. “It is not complicated.” His tone warmed slightly. “You help me. I help you.”
Abby opened the folded paper and stared at a check in the amount of ten thousand dollars. She took a quick, sharp breath. Granite countertops! Her heart raced as she pondered the possibilities of what else she could accomplish with that amount of money. Replace the shower-tub combo. Buy a rototiller. Pay the second installment of the property tax bill without having to sell the 1929 Duncan Phyfe dining table and chairs. Hire some help. As her mental list grew, so did Abby’s excitement, but she tried not to show it.
Running her fingers along the crease of the check, Abby thought about how Philippe Bonheur must have written that check before even meeting her. That could mean only that he and Kat had discussed what a money pit the farmette had become. Abby’s cheeks grew hot with humiliation. She’d have a chat with Kat later. For now, she reasoned she would take Philippe’s money as a fair wage for the time she would have to put into the investigation. And she would certainly ask him to take responsibility for Sugar—surely he would want to keep his brother’s dog.
“If I take your money, Mr. Bonheur, I ask only that you not talk about the case with anyone else. If your brother’s death is a homicide, we don’t want the murderer to know we are looking into this, at least not yet.”
A warm smile made its way across Philippe’s face. His eyes crinkled in an expression of joyful relief. “We have a deal?”
Abby nodded. “Seems so.”
“Oh, merci beaucoup.”
Abby needed to tell him that her investigation would stop if she discovered proof that his brother’s death was not due to foul play. But maybe now was not the time to go over her conditions. The poor man surely needed a bright spot in the darkness he was enduring.
“Look, I’m not making any promises, Mr. Bonheur, but—”
He interrupted, “S’il vous plaît, Philippe. We are friends now, non?”
Abby nodded. Suppose associates might be more correct, but whatever. “My friends call me Abby. I hope you will, too.”
Kat was already in the cruiser when Philippe extended his hand and surprised Abby with a vigorous, firm handshake. “Au revoir, Abby.”
Abby smiled sweetly. Okay, so bring up the dog issue next time.
As Philippe slid into the passenger seat of the black-and-white cruiser, Abby caught a quick glimpse of a honeybee riding in on the back side of his shirtsleeve. Not wanting to race down the driveway after the police car, Abby hesitated briefly. She didn’t like the idea of Philippe swatting away at the poor insect, either, so she sprinted, calling out in her loudest voice, “Roll down the window.” But the cruiser had already passed the mailbox, turned onto Farm Hill Road, and sped away.
Tips for Relocating Bees
• Do not move a hive of bees until you’ve fulfilled the necessary requirements for them at the new location: a water supply with a pump, a platform on which the hive will rest, and a waterproof covering to protect the hive from rain.
• Make sure the hive faces east or southeast for maximum light, warmth, and dryness.
• Always move bees at night, after they have settled into their abodes.
• Insert pieces of foam in the mouth of the hive to seal the bees inside before the move.
• Remove the foam before you leave the new site so the bees can begin exploring and foraging with the first light of dawn.
Chapter 6
The simplest treatment for a bee sting is to get the stinger out.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Abby patted a fingertip of red-tinted gloss on her lips before adjusting the clip holding her swooped-up hair. By her estimation, she had transformed her usual farm-friendly look, perfect for selling her wares at the farmers’ market and visiting the feed store, into that of a fashionable sleuthing professional, or at least a reasonable facsimile. For the 1:00 p.m. meeting with Philippe, she didn’t feel a need to get too crazy with her hair and makeup. She had given a muscular brushing to her coarse, thick hair and had toned down her sunburned cheeks and nose-bridge freckles with pearlescent finishing powder.
Clothes were another matter. Farmwork was hard on clothes. Abby had a few nice things, but mostly her wardrobe consisted of jeans and T-shirts. She had two black suits for her sessions with the DA, several dresses, and a few skirts. She didn’t want to look too casual or too formal for her meeting with Philippe. After trying on several outfits, she’d selected her skinny, boot-cut black jeans, a crisp white blouse, a black jacket with red piping trim, and rooster-red flats. But, as she slid out of the driver’s seat in the parking lot of the Las Flores Lodge and looked at the sky, she regretted not grabbing an umbrella and different shoes. The red, silky fabric of the skimmers made them a pretty complement to her outfit, but they were not suited for the late May rain.
Slamming the Jeep door, Abby searched the sky for signs of impending sprinkles, which had been forecast for the afternoon. She coul
d only hope that the showers would stay north of the Golden Gate Bridge, but in the last hour, high wisps of vapor had thickened into chunky, layer-like cotton batting, which had increased in bulk until only a smattering of holes afforded glimpses of the blue sky behind.
Abby strolled toward the wide Spanish-style veranda of the lodge, where lemon trees potted in Italian terra-cotta lined the entrance. She half expected to see Philippe pacing. She was not immune to his physical attractiveness, but she found his impatience and indignant emotional fervor off-putting. A murder investigation required a calm, focused mind. Unrestrained emotions served only to muddle one’s memory, logic, and problem-solving ability. However, she reminded herself, he was duly grieving and deserving of her patience and understanding.
In her peripheral vision, something moved. She heard “Out of the way!” and jumped back against her Jeep. A bicyclist jangled a handlebar bell nonstop. The bike flew past. A small dog cowered in a basket in front of the bike seat and another little pooch perched precariously inside a wooden box mounted behind the bike seat. Despite the bicyclist maneuvering the bike around a curve at the end of the flat driveway, the dogs remained upright. The bike, the man, and his canine passengers disappeared after turning into the bike lane on Las Flores Boulevard beyond the gate. Those poor dogs. Abby thought fiercely about what she could do now to deal with the man. Finally, in resigned exasperation, she sighed. Don’t think I won’t report you, you idiot!
“Abby, bonjour. Comment allez-vous?” Philippe called to her over the racket of hammers and heavy equipment. The lodge was ground zero for construction, as some new bungalows were being built around its garden and pool. She turned and saw Philippe descending the stone steps, gesticulating wildly.
“Mon Dieu! Pouvez-vous me recommander un bon médecin?” he asked, shaking his hand, as if to dislodge something stuck to it.
“English, Philippe,” Abby told him. “In English, please.”
