by Meera Lester
Abby pinched the fingers of her kidskin gloves and pulled off one and then the other as she waited for him to say something. Reaching behind her neck, she felt for the zipper that secured the net-covered topee. With a tug, the zipper advanced and then stopped, meeting resistance.
“Well, this is embarrassing.” Abby struggled to move the zipper. “I think it’s caught. Oh, dang. I’m trapped in here. Lucas, could you . . . ?”
“Sure,” he drawled.
She turned her back and used her finger to point to the problem. Lucas put his hands against her neck. She felt him tugging, pulling on the net, causing her topee to shift sideways on her head.
“If I pull too hard, it might make a hole a bee could get through, but if I don’t, I might not be able to free this net from the zipper track.”
“That’s okay, Lucas. I can fix the hole.”
As his fingers patiently worked the zipper, Abby thought about how any other man might have just yanked the zipper, using brute force in a knee-jerk reaction to her being trapped. She liked the way Lucas weighed the outcome and took his time. Slow hand, gentle touch. Patience. Such lovely qualities in a man.
Lucas finally slid the zipper around past her chin and guided her back around to face him before lifting the hat off her head. “Fixed. No damage.”
“And I can breathe again.” Abby shook loose her hair and ran her fingers through the reddish-gold mass to smooth it. “Much better.” Heaving a sigh of relief, she looked up. Her eyes met his gaze. “Thank you, Lucas.” She unzipped the suit, let it fall to the ground, and stepped out of it.
He nodded.
“What brings you here?” Abby asked, pulling the hem of her blouse outward from her damp skin, to which it was stuck, and flapping it a bit to circulate some air.
Lucas stood tall and unassuming. His wide shoulders, long legs, and calloused hands gave him the appearance of being all rancher, but his eyes—light brown, the color of sunlit creek water—were the eyes of a poet. He now gazed at her. Abby hoped her own eyes weren’t revealing the intense feelings that his presence called forth in her . . . feelings Abby couldn’t understand. It was as if she and Lucas shared some ancient connection that defied any kind of logical explanation.
“Passing by. Thought I’d stop.”
“Oh?” Abby liked his voice—deep, resonant, and gentle, like a country singer’s.
“You got chickens.” His tone was matter of fact.
Abby arched a brow. “Yeah . . . and?”
“I know that from how much feed and corncob bedding you buy for them.”
Cocking her head askance and giving him a “So what’s up with that?” look, she asked, “Really?”
“Well, not that I . . . Well . . . I checked to see if you might need me to deliver. . . .” He cleared his throat. “I just thought you might . . .”
Abby smiled sweetly, hoping it would ease his awkwardness.
Lucas changed the subject. “I brought you egg cartons and jars for your honey.” He jerked a thumb toward his truck. “I’ll get them.”
Abby folded her bee suit and waited. Lucas Crawford dropping by, bearing gifts . . . and driving his little ole red pickup again . . . Now, what’s that all about?
Lucas strolled back and set a cardboard box on the ground at her feet. Abby counted six egg cartons and three jars with metal lids.
“Nice. I’ll put them to good use.”
“You need anything from my store? I’m headed that way. I could drop it on my way home tonight.”
“Can’t think of a thing, Lucas.” She grinned. “And you already know I’ve got plenty of chicken feed.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged and flashed a quick, disarming smile. An awkward moment passed. A sudden seriousness dampened his expression.
“Is there something else, Lucas?”
He lifted his hat and brushed back a shock of curly brown hair before pulling the hat forward again in a single smooth sweep. His jaw tensed. “Heard you’re looking into the death of the pastry shop baker.”
“Uh-huh.” Abby wondered why it mattered. “Who told you?”
“Dispatcher. I called the cops this morning, after I rode the ridge, checking on the fencing in the woods up there. Stumbled upon a marijuana grow plot.”
“On your land?”
“Yep. Dialed the cops. Took a while, but we took down the field.”
“Any idea who owned the plants?”
“Not a clue. Wondering if maybe you heard something, you being an investigator and all.”
“I’m only doing investigation part-time. My work here on the farmette keeps me pretty busy and to myself.”
“Those grass growers are not going to be happy when they find out their plants are gone.” His brow furrowed. “People like that don’t take kindly to losing their cash crop.”
Abby couldn’t suppress another question. “Who owns the property adjacent to that fence line of yours?”
“Businessman named Dobbs . . . Willie Dobbs.”
“Have you called Dobbs to tell him what you found?”
“No.” Lucas’s angular jaw tensed. “Not too fond of that guy. I’ve been fighting him over a housing development he wants to build next to my ranch—luxury homes. If he prevails, I won’t have a moment of peace, and neither will my cows. Might have to sell, and I don’t want to do that.”
Abby nodded her head in understanding.
His eyes narrowed. “I like it the way it is. Quiet. Smells like wild thyme and chaparral thickets. Stands of old oaks and buckeye trees. Plenty of pastureland for cattle grazing. Nothing bothers, except for coyotes occasionally making a ruckus. It’s pretty peaceful. Know what I mean?”
She smiled.
Letting go a heavy sigh, Lucas said, “Dobbs doesn’t care about our farms and ranches. I’ve heard he’s trying to buy the votes of council members to win against me. I wouldn’t put it past him getting an ex-con or somebody to plant that grass on my property. Cops haul me to jail . . . well, then, I’m out of the way for a while.”
Abby sighed. “Hard to believe. It used to be idyllic here. No crime to speak of in Las Flores, and now a murder and someone starting a marijuana operation on your property . . . like I said, hard to believe.”
Lucas looked straight at her, his light eyes softening, almost conveying tenderness. “It got me thinking . . . you living alone and all.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and studied his boots, as if he felt vulnerable about sharing his thoughts. An awkward beat passed. “Just do me a favor, Abby. Lock your doors.”
“Sure thing, Lucas. And I know you’re just on the other side of that there hill.” She pointed east.
The corners of his mouth crinkled in amusement.
Abby sensed a longing in Lucas. Like a thistle floating in the air, it was almost imperceptible, but she could see—for a moment, anyway—a tender vulnerability in his eyes.
“Thank you for your concern, Lucas. Means a lot.”
He nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and strolled back to his pickup. After sliding onto the seat and slamming the door shut, he leaned an elbow over the window and called out, “Stay alert, Abby. You know as well as I do that bad people can hide in plain sight, and you don’t need a reason to call me.”
Nodding, Abby waved as Lucas drove off down her driveway. Lucas did not wave back, but his words “You don’t need a reason to call me” vibrated through her being. Quiet, serious Lucas, with that deep, resonant voice and unassuming manner, had suddenly and unexpectedly set her heart aflutter.
She stood there, her mind on the man in the truck. Suddenly, Lucas pulled back into view, giving Abby a start. He was backing up his truck to accommodate a car barreling down the drive. It was Philippe, who’d steered his rental car off the blacktop road and onto Abby’s driveway, right in Lucas’s path. It was either the pickup or the mailbox—unless Philippe yielded the right of way. Which he didn’t. So Lucas had to back up.
Abby watched as the Frenchman and the cowboy faced off, and smil
ed as the two men inched their vehicles past each other in an automotive stare down. Her mailbox was safe—at least for now.
Honey Body Wash
Ingredients:
1 cup oil (sweet almond, sesame, grapeseed, or light olive oil)
½ cup honey
½ cup liquid castile soap
10 to 20 drops scented essential oil (lavender, rose-geranium, sandalwood, ylang-ylang, or your favorite oil)
Directions:
Pour the oil in a medium-size mixing bowl. Add the honey, soap, and scented oil and gently mix with a spoon to blend.
Pour the body wash into a clean jar with a lid or a pretty bottle with a stopper.
Makes enough luxurious scented body wash for four to five baths
Chapter 9
The next time you have a hankering for popcorn, try an heirloom, open-pollinated variety and compare the taste of it to movie-theater popcorn.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
The lobby of Cineflicks Theater smelled of hot butter and popcorn. The fresh-faced young woman with the dark hair and hoop earrings at the ticket window inclined slightly toward Abby. “How many?”
“Oh, we’re not here for the movie,” Abby said. Taking note of the woman’s name tag, she asked, “Could we see your manager, Ms. Gonzales?” Abby pushed her business card under the ticket window.
The young woman looked it over, rose, and disappeared from the booth. A moment later, she swung open the theater’s glass doors.
“He’s in the projection room,” the young woman explained. “I’ll have to go and get him.” A beat passed. She said, “Uh, I’m working the ticket window and the concession. . . alone. Don’t let anyone in until I get back. Okay?”
Abby nodded.
Laughter erupted from the wings beyond the two heavy doors. Abby looked over at Philippe. His cold expression had not changed since the driveway encounter with Lucas.
“Have you seen this film, Un virage pour le pire, A Turn for the Worse?” Abby asked. “The marquee noted it was a French film with English subtitles. Must be a comedy,” she said. Abby wondered if he would see through her lame attempt to engage him in banter, perhaps draw him out of his dark mood.
Philippe barked back, “No.” His expression remained unchanged.
Changing the subject, Abby pointed to the platters of pastries at the concession stand. “You know, Philippe, the brownies and cookies here are absolutely yummy. They’re homemade by the theater staff.”
His brow arched dismissively. “How charming.”
“And get this,” Abby continued. “You can buy a little card for ten movies and go straight inside without waiting in line. They just punch one hole for each film you see. You can buy another card for popcorn and soda. Buy five and get the sixth free. Cool, huh?”
“What can I say, Abby? Très provincial.”
Fine. We won’t talk. Abby studied the lobby layout. Philippe began to pace. She stole a look at him. He seemed agitated, like he was stewing. Well, she couldn’t blame him. The death of a loved one under questionable circumstances was a worrisome affair.
Ms. Gonzales reappeared with her manager. “This is Zachary Peale,” she announced before walking behind the concession counter.
Abby sized up Zach. She estimated him to be around six feet tall, maybe 150 pounds, if that. He could be in his late twenties. His stringy blond hair had been pulled into a ponytail. He wore cargo khakis, a tan Hawaiian-print shirt, and black Vans, worn thin over the small toe area. Probably needs a wider size, Abby reckoned.
She addressed him in her most courteous voice. “Is there some place private where we can talk?”
“Not really,” Zach replied. “Here or outside.”
Abby glanced back at the young woman. She was setting up another round of corn in the popper.
“Okay. Would you mind answering a few questions?” Abby asked, pulling a pen from her cream-colored shirt pocket and a notepad from her jeans pocket.
“Well, I’m really not supposed to leave the projection booth. It’ll have to be quick.” Gesturing toward the young woman, he said, “Just me and her here. We’re a person short.”
“Duly noted.” Abby locked eyes with him. “Did you know Jean-Louis Bonheur?”
“Cake boy?”
Abby glanced at Philippe, who looked tense, as though he felt outraged for Jean-Louis and perhaps for himself, as a silent witness to a conversation that so dishonored his dead brother.
“Yeah, I met him a couple of times,” Zach said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the corn popping.
“What was the occasion?”
“I smoke. He smokes. There’s a Dumpster out back. I take the recyclables and trash out. He takes the recyclables and trash out. So I’ve seen him.”
“We believe his death was a homicide. You know anything about that?”
“Not really, except for people gossiping while they wait in line.”
“What have you heard?”
“Good baker, but . . .” Zach stroked his Genghis Khan facial hair, as if doing so would power up his memory.
“But . . . what?”
“Different kind of dude from most.”
“How so?”
“Who listens to opera when you’ve got rock, hip-hop, blues, and bottleneck slide? He did crazy stuff.”
“Like what?”
“He put out water and dog biscuits for pooches. Gave coffee and pastries to the homeless. My boss said that if anyone was responsible for the wrong kind of people hanging around, it was the puff pastry next door.”
Abby glanced over at Philippe and quickly assessed his emotional response. What she saw concerned her. Philippe had folded his arms across his chest, as if defensively closing himself off to everything. Abby now regretted breaking her own rule about letting clients tag along. Philippe was stewing. She could only hope he would hold it together, because she had to press on.
“We’ve learned that Chef Jean-Louis and Willie Dobbs, your boss, argued prior to the chef’s death. Do you know anything about that confrontation?”
“Yeah, it was all about the lease renewal. My boss said he wouldn’t have signed that lease if he’d known the guy was . . . that way. The real estate agents set it all up, but once Dobbs realized to whom he’d rented the unit, he immediately regretted it. He wanted the chef gone. No way was he going to renew that lease.”
“Did you hear him say that?”
“Yeah, I heard him call the chef a Castro clone and say he wished he could string him up from one of those ceiling hooks that the bike shop owners left there when they moved out.”
Philippe dropped his arms and hastily searched his pockets. He retrieved his cigarette case, removed a cigarette from it, and began to tap it frantically against the case.
“No smoking allowed,” Zach said.
Philippe’s jaw flexed. He stared hard at Zach before putting the cigarette and the case back in his pocket.
Abby directed another question to Zach. “Hearing your boss make derogatory comments about the chef, what did you do?”
“Kept my mouth shut. I need this job. And, if I stay all summer, Mr. Dobbs will loan me the money for film school.”
“Do you know where Mr. Dobbs was around five a.m. on the day the chef died?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?” Abby asked.
“I don’t know.... His office . . . maybe?”
“Would that be the land development office in the old bank building?”
Zach nodded.
“Now think carefully.... On the day of the chef’s death, when did the last movie let out?”
“Around two o’clock in the morning. We had a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
Abby knew the film but didn’t think much of it, but perhaps it had relevance to the chef’s death. “Do you know this movie, Philippe?”
He stood with his hands in his pants pockets, shaking his head.
>
Abby explained. “I guess you could call it a satire on horror. Fans dress up like ghouls and vampires and participate in the action.”
“Dr. Frank N. Furter.” Zach said the name, taking care to enunciate it clearly. “He’s the doctor character, a transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania. We sell a lot of tickets on Halloween for that film.”
“Oh yeah?” Abby reckoned the young man’s sudden animation was the result of his passion for films.
“My boss doesn’t like that movie,” Zach explained, “but it brings the theater a wad of cash. The film’s darkness is one of the reasons why a lot of disenfranchised teens and young adults relate to it.”
Philippe had been staring at his Giorgio Brutini lace-up loafers. He shot a piercing look at Abby.
Abby didn’t like the look. One of the common emotions of grief was anger. She’d seen retaliatory anger on the streets. Cornered or not, angry men without appropriate outlets for defusing their anger could attack without warning. She worried that Philippe’s temper might have reached a tipping point. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Philippe lunged at Zach, grabbing a wad of the young man’s shirt in his fist.
“Dobbs murdered Jean-Louis, didn’t he? You helped him!”
Abby pushed herself between them. “Stop it!”
“Murder?” Zach’s face blanched. “No—”
“Oui, because Jean-Louis was different. And yet you show movies that are about vampires and transsexuals. You and Dobbs are hypocrites.” Philippe’s hand slapped Zach’s shoulder, causing the young man to stumble backward.
Abby lunged between them, planted her feet firmly on the floor, and pushed her backside against Philippe. He was forced to step backward. Abby quickly turned and faced him.
“Philippe, this is not helping.”
Zach said, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show is fiction—it’s satire. The audience pretends to be something they aren’t. The chef, however, didn’t pretend to be different. He was different.”
Abby grasped Philippe’s arm. “Don’t respond to that, Philippe.”
