A Beeline to Murder

by Meera Lester

  Philippe’s voice dropped slightly, as if the edginess he’d felt over the problem had somehow dissipated by talking it over with Abby. “My father says perhaps it would be best to bury Jean-Louis here. My mother is in the hospital—complications from her late-stage Parkinson’s disease.” He hesitated and then added, “My father doesn’t want to leave her. What if something happened to her while he is here? Abby, he isn’t in the best health, either. This overwhelms me. I need your help.”

  “Of course. You have it, Philippe.” Abby hurriedly created a mental checklist. Contact Shadyside, the local funeral home. Choose a burial site. Plan a wake. Or consider a graveside service. Find out if videotaping is permitted. How else could Philippe’s parents witness their youngest son’s final send-off?

  Staring at a pile of freshly deposited chicken droppings, Abby heard herself say with more optimism than she felt, “Don’t worry, Philippe. We’ll work this out.”

  When Abby had finished cleaning and refilling the chicken watering canister, she gathered the eggs and, deep in thought, walked back down the gravel path to her farm kitchen. On any other day, she would check the ripeness of the apricots and peaches, count the number of fruits on her White Genoa fig tree, and note the swelling and striping of the Fuji apples, espaliered against a wooden trellis. But the state of her orchard seemed less important than the state of mind Philippe had worked himself into as a result of inaction.

  Inside the kitchen, Abby fed Sugar and sank onto a high stool next to her unfinished cup of coffee. She would at least allow herself time to drink the rest of the coffee, though she wished she had a linzer cookie—her favorite—to go with it. Then she needed to make some calls to the local funeral home, check on Etienne’s new alibi details, see if she could plug the hole in Willie Dobbs’s alibi, and then hook up with Philippe to search his brother’s apartment for anything of relevance to the case. But no two ways about it, Sugar needed a bath. The dog stank. Sensing she would regret it, Abby resolved to let the doggy bath wait.

  Her first call was to the morgue to make sure that Philippe had his facts straight and that he could take the body. He could. The next call was to Shadyside Funeral Home, a full-service facility that offered everything from picking up the body to preparing it for viewing and burial and conducting chapel services. Several funeral services were already scheduled for that week at Shadyside, and the facility’s director told Abby that staffing-wise, they were stretched thin. But they would try to accommodate Abby and Philippe’s needs. The director offered an option: a viewing of the body at 2:00 p.m. and a graveside service at 4:00 p.m. at the small Catholic cemetery next to the Church of the Pines, which was about a mile out of town, up the mountain. There were no cemeteries in town, except for the historical one, because of local zoning laws and also concerns over flooding. Part of the town, where the creek ran through, was a designated floodplain. No one wanted buried caskets to rise up and float during seasonal floods.

  Abby called Philippe. Would he and his parents object to a wake at the funeral home and a graveside service at the Church of the Pines? She figured Philippe would at least want to see the location first. Her call went to voice mail, so Abby left a message. While she waited for him to return her call, Abby dialed Kat to ask about rendezvousing at Dobbs’s estate.

  “But it’s my day off,” Kat protested.

  “I know,” Abby replied, “but Dobbs and I have already had a run-in. If he’s there, he might call the cops. If I bring my own cop friend, maybe he’ll be a little more helpful and a little less aggressive. And you know I’ll make it up to you.”

  “How? I already have a year’s supply of honey.”

  “Okay, no honey. What else?”

  “Stand in for me on a dinner date with Bernie.”

  “Now, why in the world would I do that?” Abby felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “He doesn’t do favors for nothing. Remember all that evidence bagged and tagged at the pastry shop? You know that evidence is supposed to be logged in by the investigating officer. So, Bernie helped me out. I was drowning in paperwork and had to write my report. I owe him dinner.” Kat was beginning to sound a little whiny.

  “Arghhh. You told him you would take him to dinner?”

  “It’s what he wanted! Abby . . . girlfriend! Just tease him. Tell him you’re skipping dinner and going straight to dessert. Then take him for a scoop of ice cream and use that stupid line he uses on women. ‘I’m here for a good time, not a long time.’ ” Kat chuckled. “It might work.”

  “Not funny,” Abby said. “It’s you he wants to go out with, not me.”

  “Do I have to remind you that we are talking about Bernie here, a guy who would go out with a Saint Bernard if it wore a bustier?”

  Resigned that this was an argument she couldn’t win, Abby asked, “If I agree to that date with Bernie, will you meet me at Dobbs’s place in twenty-five minutes?”

  “No problem.”

  “Okay. Let’s rendezvous in front of the guard gate.”

  “I won’t be in uniform,” Kat reminded her.

  “It doesn’t matter. Dobbs knows you.”

  Before dressing, Abby brushed pearlescent finishing powder and a softly colored peach blush on her face, then dabbed a bit of gloss on her lips. She chose a conservative black skimmer dress and a black summer sweater with white piping at mid-elbow, a black headband, and black flats—simple attire, but appropriate for pinning down Dobbs’s alibi and then calling on the priest and the funeral director.

  A half hour later, she wheeled the Jeep in front of the Dobbses’ electric wrought-iron gate with the ostentatious D emblem. Kat’s silver Datsun roadster, restored with a new engine, was parked along the stone wall that was part of the guardhouse. The guard was standing outside and was already talking with Kat, who looked like a teenager in her blue-green print sundress, which hit her at mid-thigh, exposing lean, muscled legs from daily runs.

  Seeing Abby drive in, Kat hurried over to greet her. Running her fingers through her blond tresses, which had been cut in an edgy style and moussed, Kat said, “You dressed up for a knock and talk?”

  “No, I dressed for a visit to check out a cemetery with Philippe.”

  “Oh, gotcha,” Kat said. “Well, you look . . . solemn.” She changed the subject. “Dobbs isn’t here. I’ve already explained to the guard that this is an informal investigation. I asked for a little of his time and promised him we would be brief.”

  “I appreciate that. Thanks,” Abby said. She followed Kat to meet the six-foot uniformed security guard, who was cleanly shaven and wore his brown hair in a crew cut. He stood as straight as a hoe handle.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” the guard asked politely.

  “Well, first of all, thank you for your time.” Abby handed him her card. “Five days ago, between three and six in the morning, Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur died in his pastry shop. He and your boss, according to some eyewitnesses, argued prior to the chef’s death. Do you know where your boss, Mr. Dobbs, was during those early morning hours?”

  The guard studied her card, looked up, and replied, “Most likely, he was asleep up at the big house.” He walked into the guardhouse and slipped her card into a drawer.

  “Is there any way to prove it?” Abby asked, motioning Kat to follow her and the guard into the narrow room equipped with surveillance monitors.

  The guard sighed. “Not sure. I don’t get here most mornings until seven, and I go home around seven at night. But Mr. Dobbs, when not away on business, is always here at night. He prides himself on being a real family-type man.”

  “Is there a night guard on duty?” asked Abby.

  “No, ma’am. For night security, we rely on the gate and house alarms and surveillance equipment.”

  “So, are there cameras inside the house?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Inside and out.”

  “In the vicinity of the owners’ bedrooms?”

  “Yes . . . at each end of the hallw
ay.”

  “Any chance,” Abby asked hopefully, “that I could take a look at what your surveillance shows? I’d like to verify where Dobbs was when the chef died.”

  “No, ma’am, I couldn’t let you do that. It’s against the rules.”

  Abby didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with the guard, but how to tactfully persuade him?

  “What if you looked the other way?” Abby asked. “Or what if you stepped outside to smoke? I mean, with your back to me, how you could be expected to know what I could or could not see?”

  “I don’t smoke, ma’am. It’s a nasty habit that shortens your life. As for what you want to see from the surveillance, it’s irrelevant, since I can’t show it to you without my boss’s permission. And I have to log in your visit here. He pays me to keep track of who has been on the premises.”

  “Well, it’s your boss that concerns me. I want to clear him as a suspect in this murder investigation. I bet he would appreciate your help in doing that.”

  “He might. But Mr. Dobbs has never mentioned anything about being a suspect. As far as I know, the police haven’t come calling, so unless one of you has a badge, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

  A tense silence ensued as the guard did a stare down with them. Abby steadied herself against the side of the desk, her gaze sweeping the room as she tried to come up with another approach. Finally, she said to the guard, “I guess this is where I open my purse and flash my badge. Except I don’t have one.”

  The guard, who stood with his back to Kat, pivoted stiffly and swept his hand toward the door. Kat reached into her purse and took out her badge. She held her shield on its leather holder in the guard’s face. He looked at it closely.

  “So this is police business,” said the guard.

  “Well . . . ,” Kat began.

  Abby spoke before Kat could characterize the visit as unofficial. “Why else would we be here?”

  The guard relaxed. “Why not show me your badge right off?”

  A quick smile flitted across Kat’s lips. “Some guys are intimidated by lady cops. But I can see you aren’t one of them.”

  The corners of the guard’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Of course not.”

  “Well, it’s clear,” Abby noted when they had finished looking through the images, “that the maid has brought a glass of milk or something on a tray to Mr. Dobbs.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t sleep,” Kat said and then pointed to the screen. “But check out that smile when he opens that door. Time stamp says four forty-six a.m.”

  “Well, dang it, that nails his alibi. When the chef died, Dobbs was with the maid. Dobbs could have just told me as much.” Abby sighed.

  “You might say something to the missus,” Kat said.

  The guard piped up. “She’s new. Mrs. Dobbs brought her on staff three weeks ago.”

  Kat smiled. “I’ll bet she warms the mister’s milk just the way he likes it.”

  The guard cleared his throat and, avoiding eye contact with both of them, loosened his tie.

  Abby looked at them with amused bafflement. When the guard again gestured toward the door, she followed Kat out of the guardhouse.

  Kat said, “You’d think the missus might worry about that pretty little chicklet in the house, visiting hubby’s room before dawn. If I were married,” she said, emphasizing the word were. She paused. “I’d never hire household help that looked better than me in a uniform.” She flashed a flirty smile at the guard.

  He cracked a smile, too, but then grew serious. Addressing Abby, he said, “The maid doesn’t leave the room until five forty-five a.m. That suggests they were in there together for about an hour.”

  Abby asked, “Is the maid working today?”

  The guard shook his head. “Day off.”

  “You have my card. Ask her to call me,” Abby said, extending her hand. “Thanks.”

  Walking Abby back to the Jeep, Kat asked, “With Dobbs out of the lineup, who else are you looking at?”

  “It’s a short list, growing shorter, without prospects. I’ll be checking out the bar’s regulars, like Sweeney and the bartender. I’ve got questions for Dora, since she may have seen something, but you guys didn’t get much from her in the way of information, so I’m not too optimistic. She could have seen something she’s not telling us about.”

  Kat scratched her head. “Maybe Chief Bob Allen is right, Philippe is wrong, and it’s a suicide, plain and simple.”

  “Well, I don’t agree with that, either,” said Abby. “Etienne verified he was blackmailing the chef. And he started that vicious rumor. And, as you know, in a small town, gossip spreads like wildfire.” Abby sighed heavily. “I’m just going to keep digging. Philippe and I are going through his brother’s apartment later today. Maybe we’ll turn up something there.” Abby unlocked the Jeep. She touched Kat’s arm. “Before I go . . . what can you tell me about Eva Lennahan’s work with prisoners?”

  “Not much,” Kat replied. “She’s well respected. I think she heads a nonprofit that videotapes prisoners addressing their families. You know, they talk about their hopes, fears, and dreams, tell stories for their kids, even sing sometimes. The organization gives the tapes to the family. Seems like meaningful work. She has a lot of contacts in and outside of prisons and a huge fan base.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Jake Lennahan, businessman, spends a lot of time traveling. He financially backs lots of ventures. I think I heard he’s aligning with some backers to fund a resort of some kind. Don’t think he’s too involved with his wife’s political career or her nonprofit work. Keeps a pretty low profile.”

  “Well, thanks, Kat. I appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure . . . especially since it got me a date for the Friday night movies.”

  Abby had opened the car door but stopped short of climbing in. She stared at Kat in surprise. “The guard? He doesn’t seem your type.”

  “You never know.... He has a wicked sense of humor, likes garage sales and weight lifting.”

  “You found out all that while waiting for me for what? Five minutes?” Abby said in amazement. She sucked in a deep breath and let it go. “It occurs to me that you got something nice out of my invitation to come here, so how about letting me off the hook for that date with Bernie?”

  “Not negotiable.”

  “You want me to suffer, don’t you? For something so slight, I can’t even imagine what it is. I thought I was your best friend.”

  “You are. But you are my best friend who needs favors . . . often.”

  Abby sighed. “When you’re right, you’re right. But I can’t tell you how much I hate the thought of having to suck it up and deal with it. Anyway, Philippe is waiting for me, so I’d better be on my way.”

  After a quick wave good-bye, Kat strolled back. Abby watched her return to the guardhouse—chest out, boobs high, and a light swing to her hips, all, no doubt, to titillate the guard.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror as she made the turn onto the blacktop, Abby caught a glimpse of Kat and the guard laughing. Abby admired how easily Kat formed relationships with people, especially guys. When a love affair didn’t work out, Kat wasted no time getting right back into the game, looking for someone new. Her well-meaning advice to Abby after Clay had left was to move on. “You’ve got a blind spot where it concerns Clay Calhoun. Wake up, girlfriend. That hound dog is hunting again.”

  For the longest time, Abby had tried to shut out thoughts of Clay, but her memories of him, like water from a deep hidden spring, would surface and ripple outward into myriad what-ifs. What if he didn’t like the new job? What if he walked back into the farmhouse like he’d never left? What if he still loved her with the intensity he’d expressed that day in the kitchen, when he’d knelt before her, taking her hands in his? She had believed that day that his profession of love was the beginning of a proposal of marriage—one she would have accepted—but he’d been interrupted by a phone call, and for whatever re
ason, Clay never got around to finishing what he’d started.

  A week later, Clay had hugged and kissed her in front of the farmhouse, as though he would be back in time for dinner. He’d called ten times that day—at least once for every state he passed through. But when the calls stopped after a week, she called him. By then, she was angry at the man whose abrupt departure had left her feeling like a jilted lover. Her first call and all the subsequent ones went to voice mail. It made no sense. But in retrospect, she had learned something—her inner urge to be rooted and to nest was not his need. He suffered from a wanderlust that would ever urge him to seek out new and changing landscapes in the world.

  Tips for Drying Mint

  • Gather mint from your garden. Use shears to clip the stems close to the ground, as they will grow back.

  • Wash the mint, place it on a large absorbent bath towel, and gently dry it.

  • Gather the mint into bunches and tie the stems, cover each bunch with a small paper bag, and then hang the paper bags with cord, twine, or rubber bands in a well-ventilated place so that the mint air-dries.

  • Store dried mint in an airtight container in a cool, dark place.

  • Make tea using the dried mint leaves, or crumble some dried mint leaves between your palms and then sprinkle them on salad to season it.

  Chapter 12

  Each nostril of a dog’s highly sensitive nose can track separate scents, proving useful in helping humans find illegal drugs, locate dead bodies, and even detect cancer.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  Abby expertly guided the Jeep along the switchbacks, easily negotiating the curves of the two-lane highway from Las Flores to the forested summit of the coastal mountains. She stole a quick look at Philippe, whose face during the past few minutes had turned as white as a parsnip in April.