A Beeline to Murder

by Meera Lester

  “You have another reason for wanting to do this, I think.”

  “Well, I suppose not to do it would be to miss an opportunity.”

  “Opportunity for what?”

  Abby thought about how to say it as simply as possible without sounding callous.

  Philippe looked at her, his expression alert and serious.

  “The burial might bring together people who knew him, customers, friends, and . . .” She stopped herself from saying the words “the killer,” quickly adding instead, “A lover.” But she did not want to begin a discourse about how a lover—jealous, controlling, or in an affair that ended badly—could be the same person as the killer.

  Spotting the pastry shop on the left, Abby drove past it and made a U-turn. After parking in front, she asked Philippe to unearth the small box of supplies she kept in the car for her farmers’ market events, when a sign for something might have to be quickly drafted. Using a purple marker on white paper, she printed the details of the graveside service and invited all who had known the chef to attend.

  Philippe took the marker from between her fingers, added a quick sketch of a toque blanche, and wrote his brother’s birth and death dates just below it. Satisfied that there was nothing more to say, they taped the notice to the pastry shop’s plate-glass window.

  “Let’s stop by the DIY center for some boxes and head over to your brother’s apartment, grabbing sandwiches on the way,” Abby suggested in a cheerful voice once they were back in the car.

  Philippe nodded and buckled up. As Abby steered the Jeep away from the pastry shop, he lamented, “My heart feels as heavy as stone. I don’t know what called Jean-Louis to this place, but I do know he loved it here.”

  “Really?” Abby said, popping a mint into her mouth.

  “Yes, really. He said the climate was quite like the Mediterranean. He loved the farmers’ markets, where the ingredients are the freshest—farm-fresh eggs, organic fruits and nuts, especially the almonds, and the local honey. He raved about your honey. His favorite, you know.” He touched her hand where it rested on the console. “And I’ve yet to taste it.”

  Abby’s stomach tightened. Is that a couched desire expressing itself? She looked over at him, but Philippe’s attention had already turned to the spectacle outside his window. Abby recognized the bicyclist with the two dogs before and behind him on the bike seat The trio disappeared down the asphalt path leading away from Main in the direction of the park. Abby felt her temperature rising. “I’m so going to report that guy.”

  Tips for Making Lavender Flower Essence

  Flower essences carry a light scent, one that is not as potent as that of essential oils, but they can still be used in aromatherapy to reduce stress and restore a sense of calm. To make a flower essence, you’ll need sterilized bottles with stoppers or caps, tweezers, a glass bowl to hold the petals, sterile water, and brandy (as a preservative). Wear nitrile gloves, because touching the utensils and ingredients with your hands can potentially contaminate them.

  1. Pluck one half to one cup of lavender buds, using tweezers, if necessary.

  2. Put the buds petals in a glass bowl.

  3. Cover the buds with sterile water.

  4. Leave the lavender water in direct sunlight for three hours.

  5. Fill the sterile bottles half full of brandy.

  6. Strain the lavender water and pour it over the brandy to fill the bottles.

  7. Insert the stoppers in the bottles or twist on the caps.

  8. Label the bottles LAVENDER FLOWER ESSENCE and include the date.

  Chapter 13

  Red wine remains drinkable for decades because the tannins in it act as a natural preservative; however, the wine must be properly bottled and stored.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  Abby removed the flatbread wraps from the paper bag, while Philippe located glasses in the upper cabinet of Jean-Louis’s small galley kitchen. Philippe had insisted on having their meal while sitting at a table, not in the car, a habit of Americans he found barbaric. After removing the fistful of napkins thrown in the bag at the Las Hermanas Healthy Food drive-through, Abby peeled back the wax paper on one of the steaming hot chicken wraps and inhaled the scent of the chipotle chilies, black beans, avocado, sweet corn, and tomatoes stuffed in with the grilled chicken, as if sniffing alone could quell her growling stomach.

  Philippe seemed in no hurry to eat, taking an inordinate amount of time to select the perfect wine to pair with the wraps. And even before choosing the wine, he had sought appropriate music, even asking Abby for a suggestion.

  She had deadpanned, “You could try a little rap.”

  He had frowned.

  “Or hip-hop.”

  When he apparently didn’t get her humor, she confessed to not liking either style. “Why not surprise me?”

  Philippe had fanned through Jean-Louis’s CD collection and had popped into the player one of Maria Callas singing Puccini arias. When they’d first entered the kitchen, Abby had sensed a cold emptiness in the room, despite it being furnished and well stocked. But with the music, Abby felt an almost palpable energy shift.

  She hadn’t eaten all day, and for that reason, actually consuming the meal, for her, far outweighed Philippe’s desire for music, wine, and table settings. While Maria sang and Philippe perused his brother’s wine collection, Abby took the fragrant flatbread wrap—which already had her salivating—into Jean-Louis’s bedroom. With a gusto that would have embarrassed her were Philippe or anyone else there to see, Abby bit into the wrap without any concern about contaminating the scene. She felt confident that the police had already removed from the room anything that might have relevance, and, anyway, such items had been returned in the evidence boxes they gave to her and Philippe once the death was ruled a suicide.

  Feverishly munching, Abby studied the bedroom, hoping to notice something that would benefit her own investigation. Jean-Louis had painted his room a latte color, with bright white on the wood trim around the windows, on the crown molding, and on the closet doors. On the wall above a black-hued, Mandarin-style altar table—which stretched out long and low opposite the bed—hung a tasteful collection of framed black-and-white prints of some of Albrecht Dürer’s woodcuts. She remembered studying that artist in a high school art class. Ooh, I am liking this room, Jean-Louis. You definitely inherited that art gene. Everything you touched turned golden.

  Abby’s gaze move from the art to the bed, which was covered with a white cotton duvet with black piping, large black throw pillows, and smaller red silk ones that looked like giant roses. Next to the bed, on a white country French chest onto which had been stenciled a black paisley design with occasional dabs of red, perhaps to resonate with the silk pillows, stood a mahogany frame containing a photograph of a man with an engaging smile, large brown eyes, and thick, wavy hair. Now, where have I seen you before?

  “Philippe, can you come here? I want to show you something,” she called out.

  “I am searching for the corkscrew.” Philippe’s answer was punctuated by the banging of drawers as he opened and slammed them closed. “Ah, here it is.”

  Abby heard a pop.

  Philippe called out, “I found a fabulous French import. My brother had good taste. Not one bottle of American wine.”

  When he entered the bedroom, Abby pointed to the picture and asked him, “Do you know this man?”

  “Non. Must be a friend of Jean-Louis,” Philippe suggested.

  “Oh, I’d wager he was more than a friend. Who puts a friend’s picture in such a romantic frame and keeps it at the bedside?” She pulled the wax paper up over her flatbread wrap to protect it and handed it to Philippe. Then she carefully removed the picture from its frame and turned it over. On the back, in cursive, was written, Love, J.

  Philippe pointed to the writing. “Jean-Louis never signed with a single J. It was always J-L. Nor did he ever mention a friend . . . or, for that matter, a lover whose name began with J.” Where Abby
had pulled the wax paper up over the wrap, Philippe peeled it back down again, exposing a chunk of chicken.

  Abby studied the photo. “This man is very attractive, wouldn’t you say? His hair is crisply cut just above his shirt collar, like yours, only a little longer. Tailored black suit. White shirt with cuff links, no exposed buttons.”

  Philippe observed, “The red silk pocket square and the tie add just the right amount of color.”

  “So, he’s a power dresser. What else does this picture tell you?”

  Philippe peered closely at the image. “The background tells me nothing. Probably it is the sort of background screen a professional photographer uses. He looks posed. This is not a candid image. It is not art.”

  “Might it be a publicity photo?” Abby asked. “That’s what it looks like to me.”

  “For a company profile or a charity event . . . That would make sense,” Philippe said. He turned his attention to the wrap he was holding and slowly lifted it to his lips, as if to take a bite.

  “Hey, that’s mine.” Abby hurriedly laid the photo and the frame on the bed and reached for the wrap.

  Philippe, grinning, lifted it out of her reach. “Ah, but you gave it to me, n’est-ce pas?”

  “You have your own. In the kitchen.”

  “Yes, but we are in the bedroom, and now I no longer wish to return to the kitchen.” His expression remained mischievous as he watched her reaction.

  Abby’s eyes narrowed, and a devilish look came into them. “Philippe. You are messing with me!”

  “Is it that obvious?” he asked with a laugh, handing Abby the wrap. “Your wine, mademoiselle, has breathed enough. The table, it is set. We need only the stimulating conversation. Shall I regale you with stories of my youthful indiscretions?”

  Abby cocked her head to one side. Lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” She followed him to the kitchen, aware of her heartbeat quickening. What was it about this man that made her feel like a piece of malleable putty whenever he turned on that seductive charm? He could be so disarming and yet, at other times, tortured, distant, and confused.

  Although tempted to submit to the attraction, Abby always stuck to her ethical high ground. There were questions to be answered. He had paid her to ferret out the truth. She had the habit of always asking herself the worst-case scenario for what-ifs. What if she succumbed to the attraction and ended up having an affair with Philippe? If things did not work out between them, the worst-case scenario would not be two broken hearts; the worst-case scenario would be that a tangled personal relationship would alter Abby’s perception of the truth. Still, she reasoned that drinking a glass of wine while listening to Philippe’s stories might be just the thing to relieve the pressure of the past few days. And Philippe, for sure, needed a break.

  Philippe loosened his tie and removed his jacket as soon as they finished eating. They talked easily as they cleaned up the kitchen and threw away the garbage. Leaning against the sink, he removed his cigarettes and a lighter from his pants pocket and handed them to her.

  “I’ve decided to quit. You’re a good influence,” he said, grinning broadly.

  Abby tried to sound nonchalant, placing the items on the table. “Was it something I said?”

  He shot her an enigmatic look. “Not exactly.”

  “Then what?” Abby replied, with a puzzled expression.

  “I don’t know. Cigarettes are, for me, something to share with a woman after dinner, after a walk, after making love. But if you do not like smoking, then I must give it up.” Philippe’s eyes met hers.

  “No, you don’t,” Abby shot back defiantly. “Maybe I don’t smoke. But you do. Friends allow friends to decide for themselves.”

  “Is that what we are, Abby? Friends?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “For the Frenchman, there is none of this silly friends stuff like you have in that Harry and Sally movie. When a man with the French blood takes a woman to dinner, she must understand the signal he sends.”

  “What signal is that?” Abby asked.

  “La romance. What else?”

  Abby felt a warm flush creep across her face, burning her cheeks.

  “Oh, now I have embarrassed you,” Philippe said, waving his hands in the air. Apparently realizing that the timing was not right for that discussion, he said, “I will tell you about the first time I smoked. It was also the first time I kissed a girl.”

  Although hockey had been his favorite sport, Philippe said, he also had played middle school football, as a second-string quarterback. After the starting quarterback injured his throwing arm in an on-field crush during one game, Philippe had taken the field and thrown a game-winning touchdown. It happened only once, but the girls looked at him differently after that. One, especially, took notice.

  “Olivia,” Philippe said, “was a risk taker. She dressed provocatively in short skirts, tight sweaters, and lots of fishnet. She smoked. At a party with some friends, she led me outside and lit up. I tried it, too. I inhaled and held the smoke in my mouth and lungs, against the urge to cough. Olivia must have thought I was sexy, because she suddenly pushed against me and kissed me with her tongue in my mouth. When I exhaled and coughed violently, she asked what kind of French I was if I did not know how to French kiss.”

  Abby laughed.

  As Philippe spoke of the adventures he’d shared with Jean-Louis while growing up in Canada and immigrating to upstate New York, Abby listened attentively. His younger brother, he said, had always been the better looking and more creative of the two. As children, they were very close, but in high school Philippe’s love of hockey consumed most of his free time, while Jean-Louis’s early interest in cooking developed into a full-blown passion for baking. Philippe stayed on a course plotted out for him through high school and college to take on the family business of art acquisitions and sales. During his college years, he studied art and business by day and worked in his parents’ gallery in the evenings and on weekends. Despite his early propensity for cooking, Jean-Louis surprised the family when he decided to immerse himself in the culinary world, eventually settling on pastry as a specialty.

  By the time Abby’s cell phone rang, playing the theme song to the TV series Cops—the ringtone that told her Kat was calling—she and Philippe had moved to the brown and cream quatrefoil-patterned couch. It was a little weird, making themselves at home in Jean-Louis’s apartment, but Abby soon acclimated, especially after Philippe had replenished their wine. Kat’s phone call interrupted Philippe’s story about when he was a teenager and was babysitting his ten-year-old brother while their parents went on an errand to the gallery. The boys wanted muffins and decided to make them. The batter was delicious, and the muffins would have been, too, had the oven not caught fire. The blaze singed Philippe’s eyebrows and caught the pot holders on fire before the boys managed to call for help. Although no serious damage was done, the kitchen smelled like burnt rags for weeks afterward.

  “That’s when I realized I could appreciate food without cooking it,” Philippe said with a smile. “It traumatized me.” He sucked in a mouthful of red liquid and held it in his mouth a long moment before swallowing.

  Giggling, Abby answered the incoming call.

  “What’s up, Kat?” Abby raised her wineglass and held it poised in position for a sip.

  “News flash, girlfriend. Our illustrious leader has been in an accident.”

  “Oh, no! Chief Bob Allen?” Abby asked. Gone were the giggles. Her expression grew serious. The chief had a tendency to be a bit of a hypochondriac, complaining about every ache, sniffle, or hangnail to anyone within earshot. Everyone knew that. Nobody cared. And to complain about a wart was just plain silly, given the serious nature of police work. But an accident, that was different. Rising from the couch, Abby asked, “Is he okay?”

  “Oh, good Lord, yes.” Kat chuckled. “He has been calling Nettie every five minutes from his hospital bed, with mostly complaints, a few orders. Ever th
e micromanager, he insisted on a police scanner at his bedside. Just can’t let go, even when it’s in his best interest.”

  “How did the accident happen?” Abby asked, giving Philippe a thumbs-up sign to indicate that the chief was okay.

  “You could say he got picked off at the pass by a fire truck.” Kat’s tone suggested she was into telling the story her way.

  “Be serious.”

  “I am. Dispatch got word of a fender bender up at Turkey Pass. Then a grass fire broke out. Oh, the chief was all over that. Jumped into his Tahoe to head up there. Never one to miss a photo op, and you know reporters listen to our scanners. He inched his car around some rubberneckers who had pulled off the road, but fire engine three—the pumper—came flying along. While trying to pass, the pumper hit the rear corner of Chief Bob Allen’s SUV. Over he went—twice—before coming to a halt in a ditch.”

  “Break any bones?”

  “One . . . a small one. Don’t laugh. His tailbone.”

  “Ooh, not good.”

  “Now we can legitimately use the words ‘chief’ and ‘pain in the ass’ in the same sentence.” Kat’s giggle erupted into laughter. “It’s how we all see him, anyway.” Her pitch rose several degrees as she talked through her laughter. “Can you imagine the one-liners going around the department?”

  Abby tightened her lips over her teeth, trying not to laugh.

  Philippe stared at her, a bemused expression on his face.

  Kat went on. “He has to sit on a doughnut for six months.”

  Abby doubled over in peals of laughter.

  Watching her lose control, a smiling Philippe shook his head, got up, and rescued the wineglass from her.

  Abby dropped onto the couch, in stitches. When she could talk again, she panted, “I’ll bet he can’t even see the irony in being such a pain in the butt . . . with all that pain in his butt.”