by Meera Lester
Zach looked wide-eyed at Abby. “Dobbs is not a killer. I am not a killer. I have to get back to work.”
Abby reached out to shake Zach’s hand, but he turned to walk back to the projection room. Following him to the stairwell, safely away from Philippe, Abby said, “Sorry about that, Zach. Mr. Bonheur is still grieving the loss of his brother. We thank you for your time.”
Abby left the theater and caught up with Philippe just outside it. They walked in tense silence past the patisserie, with its CLOSED sign on the door.
Philippe started to speak, stopped, and then pulled up short, put his hand on her arm, and looked into her eyes. In a shaky voice, he asked, “Dobbs killed my brother, didn’t he?”
“Hard to say, Philippe,” Abby answered. She tried to sound reassuring. She reminded herself that the man’s dark mood and sudden angry outburst were understandable. His heart was raw. The emotional suffering he had to endure over the loss of his brother could truly be understood only by a professional or someone going through the same thing.
He let go of her arm and walked on.
“According to the police report, Mrs. Dobbs provided an alibi for her husband,” Abby said gently. She caught up with him and walked in lockstep. “Dobbs and your brother argued, yes, but that could be a motive to evict someone, not murder him. Dobbs could simply have chosen not to renew the lease, which is what he was doing. We need to find out the truth. When we have the truth, it will all make sense.” She touched his arm. “I don’t mean to upset you, but I think it might be wise for me to speak to Dobbs alone.”
Philippe’s lips tightened. He exhaled a heavy breath through his nose. He nodded.
Abby hoped his recent outburst had defused the anger. Zach hadn’t made a big deal about the sudden aggression, and he hadn’t threatened to press charges. As they turned the corner, Abby thought Philippe seemed more forlorn and desperate than ever.
Shaking his head, he muttered, “Je suis désolé.”
“No need to apologize, Philippe. Anger comes after shock. It’s the second stage of grief. You just let off a little steam. It’s understandable. You want answers. I do, too.”
He nodded again. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not if you can do it while we walk.” Abby checked her watch. “I want to question Dobbs and also get over to the jewelry store before it closes, and then I’ve got to get back to the farmette to see what, if any, trouble Sugar might have gotten into while I was gone.” This is where you offer to take the dog, Philippe. You could use some unconditional love. That’s what dogs give. Abby wondered if she should say aloud to Philippe what she was thinking.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut while you talk with Dobbs,” Philippe said.
Abby looked at him curiously. Hadn’t he heard her say she wanted to talk with Dobbs alone? “What say you hang out for a few minutes at Maisey’s, while I do a knock and talk with Dobbs?”
“You think I’ll overreact again?”
“No,” Abby lied. “It’s just that I’ve got a hunch Dobbs will be more likely to open up to me if you—being the dead man’s brother—are not present.”
“Oh, I see. So what is Maisey’s?”
“A fabulous pie shop, owned and run by an equally fabulous person named Miss Maisey Mack.”
Philippe took a long drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth, away from Abby. “I cannot think. And these feelings make me crazy.”
“Pie will help,” Abby told him. “It’s a comfort food. Does wonders for me when I’m in a funk.” She escorted Philippe through the screen door and into the long, narrow confines of Maisey’s, where the tables were small, the space was tight, and the round counter seats were mostly taken by the establishment’s loyal customers, the local Rotary Club members, and seniors to whom Maisey provided late lunch–early bird dinner specials. The seductive scent of freshly brewed coffee and hot apple pie wafted through the establishment. Abby fought the urge to join Philippe. Maybe she’d have a cup and a small piece of pie after she’d met with Dobbs. For now, she’d introduce Philippe and resist the temptation to sit a spell and chat with Maisey.
Maisey, a large, fiercely independent woman who was always dressed in a frilly white apron and who treated her regular customers and out-of-towners alike as family, took a liking to Philippe right away. That meant Philippe would most likely get his coffee and pie free since it was his first time in the shop, and he would also discover Miss Maisey Mack’s incredible storytelling skills. The woman possessed a veritable encyclopedic brain when it came to local history. Assured Philippe would be well cared for, Abby headed off in the direction of the Dobbs Land Development office in the historic bank building.
“Is he expecting you?” The woman inquiring was a statuesque brunette and was wearing a blue summer suit with a matching silk blouse and pearls. She peered at Abby over silver wire-rimmed glasses.
“No.” Abby proffered a business card and waited. She took a brochure from the stack on the reception area table and quickly perused it. The land development company not only helped clients find and purchase land but also handled farms and commercial and residential properties. When a man’s voice addressed her in one of the friendliest tones she’d ever heard, Abby looked up.
“Well, come on in, little lady. Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No thanks.” Abby followed Willie Dobbs into his office and took a seat in the chair reserved for clients.
“What type of land are you looking for?” Dobbs was a heavyset, balding man with puffy cheeks and a rounded chin. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt, forgoing a business tie for a black leather bolo with filigree tips and a large silver eagle clasp.
“I’m not in the market for land, Mr. Dobbs,” Abby said, taking note of the length of the bolo and deciding it was too short to hang anything bigger than a box of bird suet.
“That right? Then what can I do for you?” He dropped into the high-backed red leather chair that dominated his smallish office and his antique letter-writing desk.
Abby removed a pen from her shirt pocket and a notepad from her pants pocket. “I am a private investigator, Mr. Dobbs. I just want to ask a couple of questions about your tenant Jean-Louis Bonheur, recently deceased.”
Dobbs’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his hands over his ample belly, exposing thick fingers, swollen knuckles, and a black and shiny thumbnail.
“I hear he strung himself up.”
“That seems to be the gossip going around. His brother has hired me to look into it. He just wants to be sure that nothing has been overlooked by the police, what with our department being so understaffed and all.”
Dobbs unclenched his hands and leaned forward, drilling Abby with a severe look. “You got five minutes. That’s all the time I intend to give this mess.”
“So you didn’t like him?”
“No, and I told him so.”
“You didn’t want to renew his lease?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Should be obvious! This town is like a small business, and business is always about economics and image. His kind is not the image we want here.”
“When you say ‘we,’ who do you mean?”
“Mayor, town council members, and the good people who make up our chamber of commerce.”
“But isn’t it true that Chef Bonheur’s business was thriving?”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. People lined up to experience the novelty of what he was doing there. There was plenty of talk about that cream puff.”
“The talk I’ve heard is that he was a hard worker, trying to make a go of it,” Abby said in a cool tone. She decided to try to bait Dobbs. “It couldn’t have been easy for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like anywhere else, Las Flores has good people. But some folks will never change, you know, people who are bigoted, like rednecks, racists, misogynists, and homophobic folks. You’re not one of them, are you, Mr. Dobbs?”
Dobbs blanched. He glared at her in silence.
Abby pressed on. “Sir, on the morning—early morning— of the day your tenant Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur died, where were you between four and six o’clock in the morning?”
“What are you getting at? You think I killed that fairy?”
“Did you?”
“Wanted to. Didn’t.”
“Your wife is your alibi, according to what you voluntarily told the police. Is that still your statement?”
“What’s your point?”
“Just that I noticed also on the report, your wife mentioned your snoring and sleep apnea.”
“So?”
“She said sometimes you use a CPAP machine, in case during sleep you forget to breathe. So you don’t sleep in the same room as your wife, do you? I mean, that noise—the machine, your snoring, and all. Your wife cannot say for certain that you were actually home at the hour the chef died, can she?”
Abby watched as little red dots emerged and patterned his forehead and cheeks. Bristling, he lumbered upward, pointed to the door, and said in an icy tone, “You can direct any further questions to my lawyer. Get out.”
Abby stood up, put her pen and pad away, and walked out. She heard the door slam behind her. A picture went askew on the wall of the reception area.
Suppose that went as expected. Abby checked the time on her watch and picked up the pace back to Maisey’s. Dobbs, as everyone knew, lived in a sprawling gated ranch house on a road that meandered around the other side of the foothills to the east and south of Lucas Crawford’s ranch. Maybe there was an alarm system, a gate watchman, or cell phone records she could check to help her nail down Dobbs’s alibi. But not now. It was on to the jewelry store by way of Maisey’s.
Swinging open wide the pie shop door, Abby spotted Philippe at the counter, hunched over a half-eaten piece of low-country bourbon pecan pie, the house specialty.
“Sit yourself down right there, darlin’, next to your handsome friend,” Maisey called out in a silky alto voice. “I’ll just fetch the pot.”
“Oh, thanks, no, Maisey. We’ve got to get to the jewelry store.”
“Are you sure?” Maisey asked.
Abby raised her wrist in front of Philippe and tapped her watch.
“Well, of course you are,” Maisey said. “Shopping for something special?” The genteel woman from South Carolina wiped her hands on her apron, waiting for a reply, but Abby pressed her finger and thumb together and traced a line across her lips, indicating they would remain sealed.
“I ain’t being nosy. It’s just been a while since you been by, Abby. I want to hear what’s going on with you and your new life out there on the farmette. We got some catching up to do.”
“Yes, but another time, Maisey. We’re on a mission and a tight schedule. I’ll tell you about it the next time I come in for pie.”
“Ooh, sounds good.” Maisey flashed a wide grin. “So, off with you two.”
After slipping her arm through the crook of Philippe’s elbow, Abby gave a gentle tug and felt Philippe resist as he scarfed down one more bite. He stood, wiped his mouth, and stretched out his hand to grasp Maisey’s. Philippe pulled her large, long fingers to his lips. “The pie, Madame Maisey . . . it is the best I have ever eaten.”
Abby stood silent. Boy, somebody’s mood has changed.
“How about a box? I can wrap it for you,” Maisey offered.
“No, no, merci. We will return, won’t we, Abby?” Philippe announced, grinning broadly.
“Yes, we must.” Abby winked at Maisey and led Philippe from the pie shop.
“Didn’t I tell you pie would help?”
Maisey’s Low-Country Bourbon Pecan Pie
Ingredients:
4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter
1 cup packed brown sugar
3 large eggs, beaten
½ cup dark corn syrup
3 tablespoons bourbon (for that extra brown sugar, caramel, and vanilla flavor)
½ teaspoon salt
½ cups toasted whole pecans, plus 1 cup, coarsely chopped
One unbaked 9-inch pie crust (either your own recipe or store-bought)
Directions:
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over low heat. Whisk in the brown sugar, eggs, corn syrup, bourbon, and salt until well combined. Remove the saucepan from the heat. Fold in the whole pecans.
Pour the filling into the prepared pie crust. Sprinkle the chopped pecans over the filling and bake for 50 to 60 minutes on the middle rack of the oven. After 15 minutes, cover the pie with foil to prevent the crust and nuts from burning. Test for doneness by pushing a toothpick into the center to make sure the filling is set in the middle. Remove the pie from the oven and let it cool before serving.
Serves 4 to 6
Chapter 10
Boxed and jug wine are fine as long as you never drink or cook with a flawed wine.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Tucking the evidence envelope containing the earring found near Jean-Louis’s body into a pocket of her pea-green cropped pants, Abby held it there as she dashed across Main and darted into Village Rings & Things. Philippe walked briskly beside her, keeping pace despite the humongous piece of pie he’d just devoured. The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows of the store, glancing off the surfaces of glass cabinets, shimmering displays of gemstone jewelry, and shiny mirrors. The pleasing scent of cedarwood and citrus permeated the interior. On any other day, Abby would stroll straight to her favorite area, the marcasite display case . . . but not today. She wanted to interview owner Lidia Vittorio about that earring. . . and her timing seemed near perfect; there were no customers inside the store.
Lidia, emerging from behind a beaded curtain that only partially hid the back room where her husband, Oliver, did the cleaning and repair work, called out sweetly, “May I help you?” Standing next to the curtain and stroking the beads into stillness, she stared at Abby for a moment. “Why, Abigail Mackenzie, is it really you, dear? We’ve missed having you patrol our premises.”
Abby smiled. “I’ve missed seeing you.”
Lidia smoothed an imagined wrinkle from the black crepe dress enshrouding her petite frame. Her silver hair was swooped up tightly in a bun. She walked with the uprightness of a young tree, despite the osteoporosis that had forged a dowager’s hump over her upper back. After embracing Abby warmly, Lidia held her at arm’s length. “You look so healthy. I take it the police work is keeping you fit.”
“Well, I’m no longer with the police, although occasionally I do a little investigative work for the DA.”
“So that explains why you’re not in uniform.”
“True. I bought a farmette outside of town. It’s the farmwork that keeps me fit.”
“Well, nothing beats a homegrown tomato, dear.” With a sly wink at Philippe, Lidia touched the cuff of Abby’s shirt and added, “I’ve got a pair of Australian opal earrings with green pinfire streaks that would go beautifully with the color you are wearing.”
Abby chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”
Lidia turned her attention to Philippe. “You know, young man, I haven’t seen you around town lately, either.” She extended her hand to Philippe, who took her long, tapered fingers in his and bowed ever so slightly, evoking from Lidia a pale-lipped smile.
“Philippe Bonheur,” he said politely. “From New York. I am just visiting.”
Abby explained, “Philippe’s brother was the chef down the street who recently passed away.”
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Lidia’s tissue-thin, blue-veined hands inched upward to the diamond-studded cameo at her neck. After years of visiting the store, Abby had learned why the old lady wore that cameo every day, regardless of her attire. The piece had belonged to Lidia’s maternal great-aunt, the family’s matriarch. As a preadolescent girl whose mother had already passed, Lidia had been fascinated by the carved face of the jewelry
and had often touched it while sitting embraced by her great-aunt’s arms. The irony, Lidia had pointed out to Abby, was that surrounded as she was in the shop by exquisite jewels, the only piece she truly cared about was that cameo. Lidia believed it carried the same soothing vibration that her great-aunt had possessed.
Abby discounted the idea that a piece of jewelry could manifest a vibe but didn’t doubt the sentimental connection Lidia felt to the piece. But Abby hadn’t come to discuss Australian opals or Italian cameos. She wanted Lidia’s expert opinion about the earring she had found in the pastry shop, near the body.
“Philippe and I are looking into the circumstances of his brother’s death. You knew Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur, didn’t you, Lidia?”
“No, I don’t think we ever met. Bonheur, that’s French, isn’t it?”
Philippe’s expression warmed at the interest Lidia expressed in his family name. “We’re French Canadians.”
Before the conversation could veer off too much into the origins of names, Abby asked, “Is there any chance your husband might have known Philippe’s brother?”
“Not really, dear. When we are not here in the shop, Oliver and I keep pretty much to ourselves. Well, except for my quilting club on Tuesday evenings. And, of course, there’s Oliver’s investment group, which meets the last Wednesday of the month, after their power breakfast at the pancake house.”
Abby smiled and exchanged a quick look with Philippe. She pulled the earring from the police evidence envelope. “What about this? Have you seen this earring before?”
Lidia took the earring and turned it in every direction to scrutinize it.
“I’m not sure.... Something about it seems familiar.” She reached for the nearby velvet-covered board on the glass countertop and picked up her loupe. Holding the earring just above the black fabric, she peered through the loupe. “The facets are sharp, not rolled. The girdle is frosty. Oh, dear, the stone has a small crack.”
Philippe arched a brow, as if intrigued, and Abby shrugged. “What does all that mean?” she asked.
