by Meera Lester
“What say let’s meet around seven o’clock?” Abby took her eyes off the road for a moment to assess Philippe’s response.
He sighed and said with resignation, “Bon.”
Abby sensed that his mood had shifted as she drove toward the lodge. Staring straight ahead through the fan-shaped clearing the wipers left on the windshield, presumably at the wet sidewalks and empty streets, Philippe looked as forlorn as a stalk of corn standing alone in a stripped field.
Tips for Treating a Bee Sting
• If you are allergic to bee stings, seek emergency help immediately. Treat a sting in or on the mouth, nose, or throat as an emergency, because it can result in swelling that interferes with breathing.
• Remove the stinger immediately by scraping the sting site with your fingernail or using tweezers. When the stinger goes into the skin, it releases venom, which can cause a reaction, including localized stinging, burning, itching, swelling, and redness.
• Apply ice to the sting site to reduce the body’s inflammatory response.
• Apply hydrocortisone cream to the sting site.
• Take an oral antihistamine, such as diphenhydramine, but always check with a doctor before taking any medication.
Chapter 7
Move chickens and bees at night; when they awake in the morning, the move is a fait accompli.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Abby understood why Philippe might think it silly that, when returning him to the lodge, she kept the boxes of his dead brother’s property instead of giving them to him. For Abby, the choice was clear. Until she could prove whether or not Jean-Louis had been murdered, she needed custody of those items.
Waving good-bye to Philippe as he ascended the Las Flores Lodge steps, she wheeled out of the parking lot and drove back to her farmette. By the time she was guiding the Jeep down the gravel driveway, wheels crunching over the bits of stone, Abby could see a spectacular rainbow unfolding over her garden, which was located next to the chicken house. Above the little structure, a pair of red-tailed hawks circled on the updrafts. Abby hoped Houdini had alerted the chickens of the danger and had hustled them into the wire enclosure, instead of adopting what Abby called “the freeze position,” which he often did, looking like a ridiculous feathered statue standing on one leg.
After locking her car, she went in search of her flock of chickens and found them already inside, on the roost. The little hens huddled against Houdini, who had assumed his usual position on the highest rung. Abby smiled. Attaboy. She began counting off the chickens. A little lady on each side is three, and three on the roost below makes six. A full house. Good night, chickens. Good night, Houdini.
Abby slid the bolt on the door to the chicken house into place and dashed to the farmhouse. Stripped out of her sopping clothes and wrapped in a towel, she searched her closet for something appropriate to wear for dinner. From a plastic hanger, she pulled a top with a built-in bra and paired it with a simple self-lined lace skirt, both black. Dressing took less than a minute. Now, what could she do with her wild, frizzy hair? Abby decided to hide it in a French twist. With her hair pinned in place, she applied a coat of dark mascara to her lashes, brushed her cheekbones with a dusty-rose blush, and applied her favorite pale fuchsia lipstick and gloss.
From three small perfume bottles sitting on her dresser, she chose Nuit de Noel, a perfume that had made its debut in 1922. Kat, who was as crazy about items from the Jazz Age as she was those from the Victorians, had introduced her to the fragrance. It had become Abby’s favorite scent, with its notes of rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, and oakmoss. One squeeze of the pump distributed just enough. Abby slid her feet into a pair of mules with black-and-white stacked heels and grabbed a pair of beaded chandelier earrings and a white sweater. She gave Sugar a pat on the head, dashed out the door, and climbed in the Jeep.
At the end of the driveway, she braked hard to avoid hitting a tractor pulling a sickle bar mower. It finally inched past as her cell phone chimed. Patience, Philippe. I’m on my way. The tractor driver waved. Abby waved back.
“Abby here,” she said into the phone, wishing the old man on the tractor would goose it.
“Hey there.” It was Kat’s voice. “You still have a friend or two in the department, and we have got your back. Check your mailbox.”
“As it so happens, I’m next to it. What am I looking for?” Abby asked, hitting the button to lower the window before stretching her hand out to retrieve the mail.
“That report you wanted.”
“Oh, really? Chief Bob Allen said I could be waiting awhile for it.” Abby grasped the large manila envelope and pulled it into the car.
“Yeah, well, he underestimates Nettie. That woman may be slow on crutches, but she’s got the fastest fingers in the department when it comes to computers. Thank her for the report. I had business out your way, so I just delivered it. Enough said. Dispatch is calling. Got to go.”
“Thanks, Kat.”
Abby guided the Jeep behind the tractor until it was safe to pass. She hit the gas and fairly flew down Farm Hill Road toward town. At seven o’clock, she knocked on the door of Philippe’s room.
“Abby, come in,” Philippe said after opening the door. Two fingers of his left hand supported a bite-size square of cheese speared on a toothpick. The other hand, now no longer swollen, clasped an empty plastic wineglass. His black brows furrowed. “This cheese is terrible.”
Abby quickly assessed him. He was still attired in the crisp white shirt and pleated gray slacks he’d worn for their earlier meeting, but otherwise he appeared as fresh as if he’d just stepped from the shower. She couldn’t deny that his vitality and magnetism attracted her, but she was determined to keep her feelings in check. Her heart hadn’t yet healed from the abrupt ending with Clay. Surely it would be possible to enjoy Philippe’s company without any emotional involvement. She hoped so, but judging from the effect he had on her, limiting their relationship to business only might prove challenging.
“Well, I see the lodge hasn’t skimped on the portions,” Abby teased. “Let me take you someplace where we can get a decent meal.”
“Ah, Abby, you are an angel.” Philippe’s dark expression melted into a smile.
Abby laughed. “Yeah? Well, I am also an exacting taskmaster. So we’ll eat, and then we’ll work. What do you say?”
“Bon.” Philippe grinned broadly. He dropped the cheese into the wastebasket and plucked his tie and jacket from the back of a chair.
“Take the jacket, in case it gets cool, but you won’t need the tie where we’re going,” Abby advised. “Dress is California casual at Zazi’s.”
At the bistro, they chose a window seat, where they could watch the sun setting over the mountains to the south of the town. Abby pointed out a rectangle of shimmering light near the top of a peak and explained that the sun was bouncing off a row of windows probably the size of her entire farmhouse.
“Rarified air up there, Philippe,” she explained. “Wealthy people who can’t live without their twenty-four rooms, swimming pool, tennis court, and maids’ quarters. Some of the properties even have their own wineries.”
She reached for the wine list and slid her finger halfway down to one of the listings. “For example, this wine comes from the vineyard of the Stanton Brothers. No one really listens to their music anymore, but a generation ago, they were a popular duo who played banjo and guitar.” She slid her finger a bit farther along. “And this one is from the personal cellar of a local Olympic tennis player. She donates the proceeds to breast cancer research. Oh, and this one is from the Lennahans’ vineyard. Once a year Eva and her husband, Jake, open their home for a wine tasting and food affair to raise money for their favorite charities. Hers happens to be children with incarcerated parents, and his, I’m told, is human rights.”
“This is all very intriguing, Abby, but j’ai faim.”
“Sorry. I’m starving, too.” She placed the wine list aside, picked u
p the menu, and took a moment to glance over it.
“Do you see something you like?” Philippe asked, almost pleadingly.
“Uh, the white bean soup with organic wilted greens. It’s the best. They serve it with an absolutely yummy crostini of melted goat cheese, tomato, and basil.”
Philippe nodded approval. “Something else?”
“Then, how about the lamb shanks rubbed with rosemary, garlic, and thyme? It comes with fingerling potatoes and a salad of spring greens spritzed with olive oil and raspberry-infused vinegar.”
“A shank of anything sounds good. I place myself in your hands, Abby. My mouth, it waters already. The time is right for a glass of wine also, is it not?”
“Of course. Would you like to try something from a local winery, a Napa Valley offering, or perhaps an import?”
“It doesn’t matter. American wines are all terrible. So I am not particular.”
Although Abby disagreed with him on that point, she accepted his right to hold that opinion. She said, “Well, the menu suggests a cabernet, a zinfandel, or even a Ménage à Trois wine—a Napa Valley blend of three reds.”
She looked up over the menu to see Philippe gazing intently at her.
Noticing his square jawline and green eyes in the light of the setting sun, Abby felt her cheeks grow warm. Why was he looking at her with such intensity?
Leaning forward with a bemused expression, he announced softly, “I like red. In fact, it is my favorite color. . . . And . . . Ménage à Trois . . . hmmm.”
She reached for her glass of water and sipped. “Are you saying we should try it?”
“Oh, mais oui.” A glimmer of amusement lit his eyes.
Abby withheld comment, pretending to study the menu. The awkward moment passed. Her lips trembled as she suppressed a smile. Finally, she quipped, “I’m looking for a good dessert,” and she immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
“Ooh la la! The dessert. This is something I desire—a luscious mouth-size berry . . . a silky, warm custard . . . or something sensuous to the lips and tongue, perhaps covered in chocolate. Something we could nibble together.”
Abby’s cheeks burned. Her palms sweated. She wished for an on/off switch for her hormones. Spotting the petite, dark-haired waitress as she approached, Abby sensed a way to cool down.
The young woman removed a pen and an order pad from the pocket of her white apron and asked, “Ready?”
Abby pushed back her chair and stood up. “Oh, I’d say so. My friend will give you our order. I’ll just go and wash my hands. Back in a moment.”
Abby bolted from the dining room to the ladies’ room, passing the bistro’s kitchen, where the frenzied chatter and the frenetic pace of food preparation became a strong counterpoint to the peace and quiet of the powder room. After locking the door, Abby leaned against it and took stock of the rapid beating of her heart. Her thoughts spun from her giddiness. Her legs felt weak; her pulse thready. Her palms were damp. She turned on the faucet and plunged her hands under the cold water. Get a grip. He’s your client!
After drying her hands with a paper towel and then tossing it in the receptacle, Abby strolled back to the dinner table. With every step, she reminded herself to stay focused on the business she was hired to do.
Philippe, still sporting a sexy grin, poured the wine and handed her a glass.
Abby was ready. “Let’s drink to solving the riddle of Jean-Louis’s death.” She touched her glass to his.
“À votre santé,” he replied. Then in English, he added, “To your health. And bon appétit.”
Throughout dinner, she kept the conversation on topic, asking questions about Jean-Louis and his relationships. She asked for details of his personal life, such as his childhood in Montreal and the family art business in New York. She explored how the family came to learn that the young man was gay—a secret he had entrusted to Philippe when he was a teenager, but had revealed to his parents only in a private conversation several years later. Finally, Abby pointedly asked, “Who will profit from Jean-Louis’s death?”
To her surprise, Philippe answered, “Moi.”
“You? Why is that?”
“He decided to put my name in his will.”
Abby rested her fork on her plate. “As sole beneficiary?” She waited a beat to see if Philippe would elaborate.
“Oui.” Philippe wiped his mouth on his napkin before laying it back over his lap. “My brother believed in love. Oui, he had many lovers. Sadly, he had not yet found that one special person. I suppose he saw me as the responsible older brother. For him, it made sense to leave his things to me.”
“But young people don’t usually make wills. At least, not in my experience.”
“Well, that may be, but our father and mother wanted to draft their will, and we were together with the lawyer, a family friend, who said he would do it for all of us. I didn’t follow through, but Jean-Louis did.”
“When was that?”
“Maybe about two years and six months ago—the last time Jean-Louis visited New York. I remember it was Christmas . . . and I had just become engaged.”
Abby felt her heart pounding again. Engaged. So Kat was right to think he was attached. She took a moment to absorb this new information. “So, did he return for your wedding?”
“No wedding.” Philippe stared at her with a curious intensity. “My fiancée . . . it was a big step. For her, too big, too soon.”
Abby exhaled a long, even breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Life goes on,” Philippe said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“So your brother’s business, investments, possessions—everything passes to you?”
“He was my family.” Philippe’s eyes narrowed. His expression hardened. “Oh, Abby, you cannot think that I . . . I. . . .” A sudden chill permeated his words, like frost penetrating pea shoots.
Abby remained still. For a long moment, she assessed him with a cool look.
Philippe swallowed the wine left in his glass, placed the stemware on the table, and pushed it back. Leaning in, his eyes locked on hers, he whispered in a husky voice, “I was three thousand miles away when Jean-Louis died. I worked very late that night because the next day was an important gallery opening for our client. When I was told that my brother had died, I took the earliest flight I could to come here.” He sat back and reached for his jacket, which he’d hung on a nearby empty chair.
For a second, Abby wondered if he was going to leave.
“Here,” he said, producing a piece of paper from the jacket’s inside pocket. “My airline ticket.”
She studied the ticket, noting that the dates supported his claim. Flashing a reassuring smile, Abby handed the ticket back. “I never doubted you.”
Philippe’s expression softened. A disarming smile played at the corners of his mouth. “So then?”
She replied, “So then . . . what?”
Philippe’s expression took on a devilish quality. “Dessert?”
Abby tried to suppress a giggle, but when Philippe burst into a deep, warm, raucous laughter, Abby couldn’t resist laughing out loud, too.
Hours later and long after the doors of the Las Flores Lodge library were closed and locked, Abby sat at the table in Philippe’s suite, poring over the police report Kat had delivered. Nothing stood out. The first page listed the required case number and the section code for the incident, 187 PC—murder. Of course, now the death had been deemed a suicide. The next page was filled with general information about the victim’s physical description. Of more interest to Abby were the narratives of the investigating cops and the information gained from interviews of neighbors and owners of businesses in the area. Abby thumbed through the neighborhood check sheets.
Abby stop perusing the documents to reread one entry.
A woman sleeping in the upstairs apartment over the architect’s unit behind the theater heard a scudding sound around 5:00 a.m., approximately the time the chef died, according to the coroner.
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Maybe something there, she thought.
Abby read through the statement she had given to Kat. She also read Kat’s and Otto’s narratives. Then she perused for the umpteenth time a two-page form that was broken into sections: investigative activities, physical evidence, victim vulnerability, victim actions, and solvability. Kat had checked the box entitled “significant physical evidence,” but as far as Abby could ascertain, the only evidence was the earring, the photos on the pastry shop wall, the worthless surveillance tape, and the box of recipes with the award in it. The boxes for blood and saliva were checked, but there was nothing marked for prints, weapon, clothing, hair, or bodily fluids.
If, as Chief Bob Allen had inferred, Jean-Louis had killed himself, the evidence pointing to that conclusion seemed scanty. She flipped to the report from the coroner’s office. No mention of an internal exam or a toxicology screen. The X-rays taken noted the ligature mark above the thyroid cartilage and the Adam’s apple, but neither the thyroid cartilage nor the hyoid bone was fractured, another indication that Jean-Louis had died by hanging, instead of from being strangled by a ligature. But no signs of a struggle. If he had been murdered, there would have been a struggle, surely.
Abby’s eyes burned with weariness. Her back ached. She locked her fingers behind her head and twisted her spine in one direction and then the other. The stiffness remained. Her tired eyes gazed at Philippe, who was stretched out on the couch, sleeping. He’d rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt to his forearms. His hands still wore the latex gloves she had insisted they use to go through the boxes of Jean-Louis’s possessions. With his left hand cradling his head, Philippe’s right hand rested over his midsection, rising and falling with each breath. Abby understood grief. The physical and emotional toll of it, the feelings of sadness and deep despair washing over mind and heart like rogue waves. She was sure Philippe needed rest. She’d let him sleep.
