A Beeline to Murder

by Meera Lester

  “Sugar, come here.” Abby flashed the light around the yard. She spied Sugar at the back gate, where the raccoons must have come onto Abby’s property. “Sugar! Come here, girl. Come.” Oh, good grief, dog. Tune me out, as you always do.

  Abby returned to the kitchen and fished some doggy biscuits from a canister. Maybe one of these babies will bring you back. Abby found her shoes, slipped her feet into them, and walked toward the back fence, where Sugar stood on her hind legs, pawing at the fence. She leaped backward. Barked. Pawed some more.

  “Look. Look what I have here,” Abby said as she walked toward the back fence. “Doggy biscuits. Come get ’em.”

  Sugar took a flying leap at the fence, knocking over a pottery saucer filled with water. Now the poor animal had drenched herself. Abby shined the light at the back of the gate and saw another raccoon cowering in a half-turned position, as if ready to run. It would not be good for either Abby or the half-pint-sized dog to be trapped between two groups of coons. Abby dropped the biscuits, lunged, grabbed Sugar, and carried the wriggling, wet, yapping dog to the safety of the farmhouse.

  Back inside, Abby flipped on the light and looked at the clock. It read 5:30 a.m. The raccoons would leave before sunup—they were shy creatures who foraged at night. Most likely, their den was close by, probably on the deserted property in back of the farmette. Abby had noticed lately that the fresh water she put in the birdbath each day would go muddy overnight—a sure sign of raccoons on the prowl. They liked washing up.

  Sugar was now dripping on the clean kitchen floor. When Abby grabbed a towel to dry the dog, Sugar darted from Abby’s arms and made a mad dash for the couch pillows, where she threw her body upside down and sideways, wiggling in delight. Next, she dried her ears and head, rubbing her wet fur against Abby’s new throw rug, and when Abby lunged to capture her, Sugar flew to the bedroom and dried her dirty paws on Abby’s white sheet and hand-embroidered quilt.

  “Dang it, Sugar. If there was the slightest chance I might have gone back to bed, it’s not possible now! Thanks to you the bedding has to be washed. And just FYI, that is my grandmother’s quilt.”

  Sugar cocked her head to look at Abby.

  Like you care. “Arghh!”

  Abby pulled the sheets from the bed and the pillowcases off the pillows and threw them into the washer. At least an early start meant she could get some chores done before the funeral. She made a pot of coffee, dressed in work clothes, and pulled her copper-colored hair into a ponytail. Coffee cup in hand, she headed to the back part of the property to pluck some squash for dinner and the last of the spring peas—vines and pods—to throw to the chickens.

  At the chicken house, she spotted Henrietta already on the nest. The bantam rooster Houdini was in a mood and jumped on the back of Henrietta’s sister—who was too quick for his advances—before settling on one of the brown hens, who was larger, slower, and more submissive. The hen shrieked her objections in ear-piercing squawks as Houdini mounted her, and then she wriggled out from under him after he had had his way with her. The proud Houdini pranced around the pen, his chest out and his iridescent blue-green tail feathers flicking. The poor hen ruffled her feathers, squawked for a while, and proceeded to find a quiet corner where she could scratch and peck in peace.

  Abby watched Houdini strut the cock walk. “You think you are such hot stuff, but here’s a news flash, Mr. Dandy in Short Pants. Fertilizing eggs produces roosters as well as hens. Trust me, you don’t want more roosters in the henhouse. You remember Frank, don’t you? After a rooster half his age almost did him in, we had to find him a new henhouse with some ladies who were, let’s just say, getting up there in years.”

  Houdini defiantly flew up to a fence post and let go a gravelly cock-a-doodle-doo, which sounded to Abby a lot like “Not listening to you-ooo.”

  When the chicken chores were finished, Abby walked past the open-pollinated corn patch. The ears were filling out nicely, but some were covered in ants. The ants had to have a food source, a fact that worried Abby and prompted a closer look. Colonies of corn leaf aphids had formed, their numbers no doubt amplified by the extreme heat and the dry soil, and the ants were feeding on the sticky honeydew produced by the aphids. She spotted a couple of ladybugs and hoped for lacewings, the natural predator of the aphids. Their presence suggested there was potentially an eco-balance in place, but she still might have to mix up a quantity of insecticidal soap. What she didn’t want was a major infestation that she couldn’t control. But harsh chemicals and poisons would harm her bees. She’d deep soak the corn patch with water and keep a close eye on the pest problem.

  Her next stop was the garden. The eggplants were plump and had turned from white to shiny dark purple, almost matching the Ananas Noire heirloom tomatoes. Abby plucked the biggest tomato she could find. Back in the farmhouse, she washed and cut the tomato, then tossed it into a bowl, along with slices of Armenian cucumber, red onion, baby spinach, pine nuts, and feta cheese, which she spritzed with basil-infused olive oil and vinegar. Perched on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, she bit into the crisp Greek salad. Two bites later, her cell phone rang. Philippe was calling to tell her not to pick him up. He’d meet her at the funeral home.

  “Afterward, shall we take one car up the mountain, Abby?”

  “Why not?” she replied, trying to crunch a piece of crisp, cold cucumber quietly.

  “Then would you mind driving? I find those switchbacks daunting.”

  “Uh-huh.” She swallowed the mouthful of salad and held the phone away from her mouth as she chugged some iced green tea to wash down the lump.

  There was a pause.

  Philippe said, “A staff member of Shadyside Funeral Home called and asked me to meet her earlier today. She wanted to know Jean-Louis’s favorite music. She also wanted pictures of him for an audiovisual tribute to Jean-Louis. This idea, it made me crazy at first. But then I searched for images of my brother on my laptop. I took Jean-Louis’s phone to her. She removed the pictures. Wait until you see what we’ve made.”

  “Philippe, it sounds lovely. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “It is beautiful.”

  “So, see you there.” Abby understood that many things could facilitate coping and healing. Working on something that celebrated his younger brother’s life—even against a time constraint—might help Philippe begin to heal his grief. And a memorial in the form of an audiovisual tribute might help him gain closure. She liked the idea that Philippe would have emotional support, and found herself actually looking forward to the closure the ceremony would provide.

  Abby showered and changed. In fact, she was in such a good mood, she decided to take the last of the salad to the chickens and check to make sure all the gates were shut so Sugar could romp out back while Abby was gone. Turning the corner past the flowering purple wisteria and the blooming Iceland roses, Abby looked around for the dog. She soon spotted Sugar digging like crazy, dirt flying high behind her long white legs, in the very patch where Abby had newly planted the beans.

  Abby dropped the plastic container of salad remnants, rushed to the bean patch, and found it totally destroyed. She soon spotted a long ridge in the dirt and volcano mounds of freshly dug soil. A mole. It had to be a mole; gopher mounds were crescent shaped. Abby stared at the dog. “I don’t know who upsets me more—you or the mole.” She looked around for the beans, which were now scattered on top of the dirt. “Ooh, you little brat.”

  She pulled the dog away from the mounds and carried her back to the house.

  “You’re in big trouble, little girl.” She pulled the patio door ajar so that Sugar could come and go as she pleased. “Just don’t take down the rest of the farm while I’m gone,” she admonished.

  Abby pulled up to Shadyside Funeral Home at 1:30 p.m. Finding a parking space proved difficult. After three times around the lot, she gave up and parked on the street. Shadyside’s director had warned her that the funeral home had two funerals scheduled that afternoon, so she shoul
dn’t have been surprised that the lot was so full. She made her way into the chapel area.

  Sprays of white lilies, roses, and gardenias were positioned on either side of the doorway. As Abby stepped inside, she was shocked to see how many more arrangements lined the interior walls, creating a lush floral backdrop for the casket. Pristine white orchids with a startling reddish-purple hue staining the inner edges of the blooms rested in pots atop faux marble columns at the head and the foot of the casket. Who had sent such an abundance of beautiful flowers? And where was Philippe? she thought.

  Abby walked over to the casket. A peaceful-looking Jean-Louis was visible from the head to just below the waist. The bottom half of the casket was covered by a massive spray of white lilies. Philippe had dressed his brother in a tropical-print shirt of muted colors, which made Abby smile. Jean-Louis looked like a carefree young man napping on his favorite beach on the island of Hispaniola.

  “Chef Jean-Louis,” Abby whispered, leaning in. “Just so you know, I was on time for the last honey delivery.” Unexpectedly, a shiver shot up her spine. Abby tensed as she stared at the corpse. His features, once so expressive, seemed intensely somber now, as if holding a secret. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. “I hated finding you like that.” The back of her eyes burned as she stifled the cry building within. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell the bees about your passing. I’ll have to tell them, although I guess I’m more of a bee whisperer than a talker.” Abby’s lip quivered. “You know, they sometimes”—her voice cracked—“sometimes sing to me.” She swallowed a sob and sniffed hard.

  “My grandfather, may God rest his soul, now, he was a bee talker,” she explained. “He was the one who told me that when someone close to the bees dies, the bees know. They sometimes fly away with the spirit of the dead. Listen, Chef, I don’t want to lose my bees, so if they fly off with you, please tell them to come home to the farmette.”

  The tears that had welled now trickled over her cheeks. Abby dabbed them away with the backs of her hands. “Once we get you tucked in, I’ll open the hives, I promise, and whisper what they surely already sense. You know they liked having you visit them. I’m going to find out who did this to you, Jean-Louis. I promise.”

  “Abby,” Philippe’s voice called out softly.

  Abby quickly wiped the tears and turned to greet him.

  Philippe took her in his arms and held her close.

  Abby felt her heart aching, her stomach knotting. Even as she told herself to hold it all in, a sob erupted. Pull yourself together. From Philippe’s warm and sheltering embrace, she began to draw strength and calmness.

  “Philippe, he’s so beautiful, so peaceful,” she said when they parted. “And the flowers are exquisite. Your doing?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand.

  “Non. They have been delivered with cards, all but this one.” He reached out and touched the spray of white lilies tied with ribbon that lay atop the casket. “The staff told me a thin man in a dark suit and sunglasses brought these. There are also two roses just there, where the casket lid comes down. He laid them in a way, it seems, to suggest that Jean-Louis carry them into the afterlife.” Abby knelt down to see the two roses for herself and then stood up again, facing Philippe.

  “Do you know who that man might be?”

  “Non. He requested time alone with Jean-Louis. The staff told me that he sobbed so hard, they brought to him tissues and a glass of water.”

  “Did he tell them his name?”

  Philippe shook his head. “He stayed a short time. That is all.”

  At that moment, a lithe, petite woman in a navy shirtwaist dress and pearls walked through the chapel door. As she approached, Philippe introduced her as Brenda, the coordinator he had been working with.

  “We have some business to complete,” he explained.

  Abby excused herself and walked to the back of the room, set her phone to video record mode, and waited to see who else would show up. When Brenda left, Philippe sank into the chair nearest the casket to receive the condolences of those attending the viewing. He’d told Abby that if no one showed, the two of them would watch the tribute and drive up the mountain for the burial, then share a simple meal afterward to celebrate Jean-Louis’s life.

  From somewhere beyond the chapel, a clock sounded two chimes. At five past the hour, the mayor and the city manager filed in, followed by Nettie, who spotted Abby and nodded. Nettie would not be there except by order of Chief Bob Allen, and Abby knew that Nettie would be watching and listening and reporting back to the chief any relevant information that the police chief should know about. The three spoke to Philippe, waved to Abby, and filed by the coffin before taking a seat. Word traveled fast in a small town, but Abby hadn’t realized just how fast and what the impact would be. Others came. Many others. Abby recognized customers, pastry shop workers, suppliers, and business associates among them, but there were also people she didn’t know, presumably from the art and culinary worlds of San Francisco.

  Abby was not surprised that mayoral candidate Eva Lennahan—who once had called Jean-Louis “the most talented pastry chef in town”—was a no-show. Hopeful that the man in the dark suit, the bearer of white lilies, might return, Abby kept a watchful eye on the door as the lights dimmed for the audiovisual tribute.

  The soft strains of “Vissi d’arte” from Puccini’s Tosca, coincided with an on-screen close-up of Jean-Louis. His large light brown eyes and dark brows dominated his angular face, made more so by a straight nose sans a bump or excessive fleshiness and his smiling Cupid’s-bow lips. The camera loved the handsome French Canadian immigrant who’d made Las Flores his final home. On film, he exuded vitality and a commanding presence. Abby marveled at Philippe’s selection of music. Of course, Jean-Louis would have loved hearing this aria again. Its opening line, “I lived for art, I lived for love,” encapsulated the narrative of his life. And as Chef Jean-Louis had once exclaimed, no one could sing Tosca like the incomparable Maria Callas.

  The sniffles and muffled cries Abby heard from where she stood at the back of the room tugged at her heart. There were moments during the twenty-two-minute tribute when she had to pinch her nose and squeeze her eyes shut against the tears that were welling. The sequence of shots depicting Jean-Louis at work in the pastry shop kitchen proved the most difficult for Abby to watch. The close-up of his fingers holding scallop-shell pans filled with freshly baked honey-almond madeleines brought new tears. And there, on the counter next to him, was his familiar vermeil teapot and a jar of Abby’s honey, with its unmistakable label, which captured the beauty of Henrietta, her favorite little Mediterranean hen.

  Other images depicted Jean-Louis and Philippe in a school yard, as adolescents, arms around each other, their school backpack straps draped over their shoulders. In a picture of the boys at an art show with their father, Abby could see the family resemblance. Yet another showed a teenage Jean-Louis outside a Parisian-style patisserie, studying the offerings through the glass window. There was an image of him with Sugar, the mini English pointer–whippet–beagle mutt, whom Jean-Louis had acquired after moving to Las Flores.

  The voices of Bocelli and Dion sang “The Prayer” as the last image lingered—a grinning Jean-Louis in his tropical-print shirt and hiking shorts, hands outstretched to heaven, standing atop the spillway of the Las Flores Reservoir. Jean-Louis’s tall, thin friend—perhaps less adventurous—stood nearby, as if ready to catch Jean-Louis in the event that he slipped. The haunting and unmistakable image of that friend—one Jake Lennahan—stuck with Abby like no other.

  As the lights went back on, a priest by the name of Father Joseph entered the room. He gently placed his hand on Philippe’s shoulder and asked if anyone wanted to share stories about Jean-Louis with those in attendance.

  Philippe rose and spoke endearingly about how the loss would affect him and his family. “My mother, especially, doted on him. He was born late in her life, and she always called Jean-Louis he
r late season surprise.” Philippe talked about how Jean-Louis had a guiding principle, which was always to put people before material possessions. “He lived as if tomorrow might never come,” Philippe said. Choking up, he added, “He believed it was how we all are meant to live.”

  When Philippe finished talking, there seemed to be a collective reluctance by everyone else to speak, but finally Tallulah stood. She spoke of using her empathic powers when she first interviewed for a job with the chef, and described how she sensed a deep vulnerability, which he would not discuss. “He told me once that prison takes many forms, that to be an artist is to be a pilgrim ever haunted by the thing that desires to be created.”

  A prayer followed and then the blessing of the body. During it all, Abby thought about Jake Lennahan, who was clearly the friend who had seemed ready to protect Jean-Louis, whatever the price. And now she was beginning to wonder whether the relationship Jake shared with Jean-Louis might have had a dark side.

  The Jeep radio was tuned to the weather report as Abby and Philippe drove to the Church of the Pines. The afternoon had become warm and muggy, and winds were kicking up. According to the local weather report, the easterly onshore breeze that served as California’s air conditioner had combined with a low pressure at the coast, causing the wind to gust up to forty-plus miles per hour at the crests of high hills and mountain peaks. A heavy fog would set in along the coast later that night, but inland areas, like Las Flores, would remain clear enough to view the full moon.

  At the grave site, the winds were already howling. Abby held on to the billowing overskirt of her black, cap-sleeved mourning dress and said to Philippe, “It’s ironic and sad that so many showed for the wake, but just you and I are here to see him off.”