by Meera Lester
“She could have dropped it while visiting the chef on another occasion.”
“True, but my instincts tell me different.” Popping a mint into her mouth, Abby said, “This is where Otto could be effective in unearthing her whereabouts in the wee hours of the morning, what she was doing, and what she was wearing when Jean-Louis died. I’m thinking she got a call from someone who thought they could solve her problem by making it seem that the chef had become deeply depressed, depressed enough to hang himself.”
Kat said, “Makes sense, but who would make that call or even know how to reach her in the middle of the night?”
“Whoever it was most likely accompanied Eva to the pastry shop. We know she needed muscles to lynch him.”
“Ah,” Kat said, “so the chef would see Eva’s face and open the door to her.”
“Exactly,” Abby said, checking out Philippe, who was staring back at her.
“Probably,” said Kat. “So she went there to convince the chef not to go to the Caribbean with her husband, and when he wouldn’t agree, she murdered him?”
“Oh, this is where it gets muddy for me,” Abby said. “Maybe Otto could grill Jake, see if he’ll turn on Eva . . . or maybe he could call Eva in, insinuate that he knows about Jake and the chef’s little affair, and make her think we are hot on her trail. She’s too calculating to spill, but if she doesn’t lawyer up, we might get her to reveal something or keep her talking long enough to analyze her behavior. Of course, we could hope for a confession,” said Abby. “We know her marriage to Jake gave her access to power, privilege, politics, and all sorts of people. All that access would change, and a scandal would ensue, if Jake revealed his secret.”
“So if Eva knocked off the chef, who was her accomplice?” Kat asked.
“My guess . . . she called in a favor from a local biker, an ex-felon, or a gangbanger—someone who knows how to get things done, inside or out. I suppose it could also have been a hit for hire. Either way, I think she was there with an accomplice.”
“She’d have her pick of thugs hanging out at the Black Witch, right next door to the pastry shop,” said Kat.
“Yes, and I’d love to know if the killer’s epithelials are on the twine. You did say the twine you found in Dora’s bag was a long piece with a knot. I’ve seen those newspaper bundles with a double length of string,” Abby said.
“Yes, but multiple people would have touched it—surely the killer, but also the newspaper carrier, and let’s not forget Dora.”
“No, maybe not Dora. Well, yes, she would have touched it, but she almost always wears those ridiculous white gloves from the last century. The news guy’s skin cells certainly would be found. But the killer’s cells are likely there, too, unless he wore gloves,” Abby stated. “As for the newspaper carrier, he is not really a person of interest, because we know from a pastry shop neighbor on the back side of Lemon Lane that a thump was heard around five a.m., possibly the newspaper hitting the sidewalk. We also know from the call the newspaper carrier made to dispatch that his car was nearly hit by Etienne, who ran that stop sign around four thirty a.m. So, although the deliveryman would have touched the twine to tie the bundle, his alibi of running a route is airtight, and he has no motive for murdering the chef.”
“All good points. But what about that Vieillard fellow?” Kat seemed to be anticipating Otto’s skepticism, since Otto was the acting chief now, working directly under Chief Bob Allen’s authority.
“Since you asked, Vieillard is really Jake Lennahan. It is a name that Jean-Louis used as a term of endearment to keep the identity of his secret lover private. You know how Jean-Louis was about giving other people pet names. Jake was older, but only by five years and two days, and he was still in the closet, so to speak.”
“The possibility has crossed my mind that Jake might have framed his wife,” Kat said. “How would you refute that?”
Abby laughed. “He couldn’t have known that his note would fly out of the coffin. A handwriting sample will prove Jake wrote that note. His wife killed his lover. We have to find out who helped her do it.”
“Yeah, so I’ll bring her in for an interview. But before I go, I need to tell you that there’s talk concerning you.”
“What kind of talk?”
“I guess the questions you’ve been asking are beginning to make some low-life types nervous.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“To start with, associates of Dora from the encampment under the creek bridge. Word has got around that you’ve been looking for the murderer among our citizens, and you know how paranoid the winos down there can get. They think one of them will be wrongly fingered for it. Then there’s the buzz at the Black Witch, among the bikers.”
“They got a problem with me trying to figure out what happened to Chef Jean-Louis?”
“It doesn’t take much to get them riled. I’m told Sweeney didn’t like the cold shoulder you gave him the night he was mouthing off in the bar. He told his drinking buddies that if he ever gets you alone, he’s going to teach you a lesson. Plus, you’re a former cop, and you’ve been meddling in his business.”
“What business?”
“Drugs, blackmail, flavor of the month.”
“Well, that just tells me that Etienne is a rat. He’s the only one I’ve asked any questions about drugs. Etienne was the blackmailer. I’m surprised that Sweeney, as homophobic as he is, would have any association with Etienne.”
“Just watch your step. And keep me on speed dial.”
“Sure. And thanks, Kat, for the heads-up.”
Abby looked through the windshield. “Oh, before I go, I think Jean-Louis was drugged. You agree?”
“Well, something kept him from fighting off his killer.”
“We still have the cup from the ivy shelf of the baker’s rack.” Abby straightened in the seat. “Maybe it has a print on it. Or traces of what was in it.”
Kat sighed heavily. “I’ll get with Otto, pressure him to reopen the case and bring in Eva and Jake for questioning. Meanwhile, I’ll get started on that twine and the cup. You’ll need to bring back the evidence boxes.”
“Right. So, I’ll let you get started. Philippe is waving a glass of champagne at me. We’re at Zazi’s for a quick dinner, and then I’ve got to get back to the farmette to check on the dog and my chickens.”
“OMG, Abby! You are with a gorgeous man, and all you can think about is your chickens? I seriously don’t understand you,” Kat chided. “I’d be more interested in that lovely French Canadian rooster showing me his wattle and spurs than in trotting home to Henrietta, Heloise, and Houdini on the roost.”
Abby grinned. “You’ve got a point there. Catch you later.”
Despite Kat telling her to keep her phone handy, Abby tucked it into the glove compartment. She didn’t want phone calls or other interruptions as she methodically laid out her theory for Philippe during dinner.
Crossing the street, Abby caught sight of Philippe waving to her and pushing back his chair. Suddenly, to her right, an engine revved. Abby watched as Philippe walked to the glass door and pushed it open. Wheels squealed, and a car shot past in a blur. Alarm bells sounded as Abby lost her footing and fell between the cars parked parallel in front of Zazi’s. In milliseconds, Philippe was at her side, his strong arms lifting and supporting her until she was able to stand on her own.
“That idiot almost killed you! Are you hurt?”
Abby shook her head. “It’s broad daylight.... Probably just a teen driver with a lead foot,” she said reassuringly. But Kat’s warning popped into her mind. If someone was delivering a message, Abby had certainly gotten it.
When they were seated, Philippe handed her a glass of chilled bubbly. Reaching for his own glass and lifting it, he said, “To Jean-Louis. He was—”
The petite, dark-haired waitress arrived, bearing a white scallop-patterned plate with steaming oysters. She set the plate before them and offered freshly cracked pepper, which neither Philippe nor Abby
wanted. With the cheerful command “Enjoy,” she left them.
Abby waited for Philippe to finish his toast to his brother, but he now focused all his attention on the steaming oysters.
“To Jean-Louis, who touched us all with his joie de vivre!” Abby said, lifting her glass.
“Oui,” said Philippe, clinking his glass gently against hers. He sucked in a mouthful of champagne, then picked up Abby’s plate to serve her a large-size grilled oyster on the half shell.
Abby poked her small fork into the sizzling mollusk and carried the bite to her mouth. It was succulent. “Delicious,” she said. “I can’t think of anything so absolutely scrumptious and sensuous, can you?”
Philippe finished his bite, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and leaned forward until he was eye to eye with her. He whispered seductively, “Ah, oui. I can imagine. It remains an experience for us to share, n’est-ce pas?”
Abby’s second forkful froze in midair. What should she say? Fanning herself with her napkin, she reached for her glass of champagne. “Is it hot in here?”
“But of course,” he replied. He riveted his gaze on her, eased back in his chair, and dropped his napkin over his lap. His grin deepened, accentuating the chiseled angle of his jaw. Apparently, he was enjoying his ability to fluster her.
It was too late to take the question back. Abby wished she had a mask handy to hide behind—one that covered the whole face, like Carnival dancers wore. It was work to keep tamping down the currents of desire this French Canadian kept igniting in her. The sheer animal magnetism he generated when he turned on the charm was becoming almost impossible to resist.
Abby reminded herself of the boundaries she had set. But as her will weakened, she wondered if holding firm was still necessary. He’d hired her to prove his brother’s death was a murder, and she’d pretty much figured out who killed Jean-Louis. There were still loose ends, of course, but she was confident that she’d have all the details figured out in short order. Philippe would be on a plane in a day or two. She’d most likely never see him again. So . . . was it still necessary to honor the boundaries between client and investigator?
As they dined on creamy bean soup, Abby recounted her theory. Philippe listened thoughtfully.
“When will you know for sure?” he asked when she was finished.
“Soon,” Abby said. “I hope very soon.”
After Zazi’s, they walked slowly past the storefronts along Main Street, looking into the windows of each one. Passing a display table in front of Horace’s New and Used Books, Abby stopped to thumb through a couple of cookbooks, taking particular notice of a copy of Julia Child’s first book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It bore evidence of heavy use—food stains, underlining, and erasure marks. But given the closeout price of one dollar, Abby took out her wallet. Philippe shook his head and took the book from her, then paid for it, along with a back issue of American Art Review magazine that had caught his attention. Carrying their purchases in his left hand, Philippe put his free hand on the small of Abby’s back and guided her to an antique store window that displayed an Arts and Crafts–style chest with Van Gogh’s sunflowers painted across all four drawers.
“Ooh, I love it,” Abby said, pressing a finger against the window. “You know, sunflowers are the honeybees’ favorite food.”
Philippe smiled.
Crossing Oakwood Way with the light, Abby slipped her arm into Philippe’s and remained on high alert for speeding cars. Within minutes, they walked into the pie shop, just as Maisey was emptying a pot of stale coffee.
The apron-bedecked Maisey, looking like a full-figured southern belle with not a white hair out of place, ambled over to the counter. “Well, hello, you two. What can I get you?” Before either Abby or Philippe could answer, Maisey said, “I know you love my bourbon pecan pie, Philippe, but I served up my last piece an hour ago. Could I interest you in a dish of rhubarb fool or maybe a serving of date crumble?”
Philippe looked perplexed. “I regret I do not know what fool or crumble is.... Perhaps you have something chocolate?”
“Why yes, I do. A piece of flourless chocolate cake coming right up. I’ll just plate it for you.”
Philippe nodded.
“I’m not too hungry, Philippe,” Abby said. “Shall we split it?”
“Oui. Good idea.” Philippe led her to the counter. Abby assumed he preferred the counter since they could include Maisey Mack in their conversation while she finished her chores.
After Maisey served them, Philippe took one bite of the flourless chocolate cake and declared, “Oh, how I love a woman who knows her way around a kitchen.” He directed his remark at Maisey but winked at Abby. “It is amazing, n’est-ce pas, how cooks create sensuality with food and capture a man’s heart? He eats, and his mind, it spins, and his heart, it pounds.” He sighed. “His waistline, alas,” he lamented, “it grows.”
Abby and Maisey laughed.
Philippe continued. “Women and witches cast spells with food.”
“Why, Philippe,” Maisey asked, smiling, “are you saying someone has cast a spell on you?”
Philippe’s eyes locked with Abby’s. With a pronounced exaggeration, he said, “Oui, this must be what has happened.”
“Then I’ll have the rest of that chocolate cake,” Abby said, playfully reaching for the dessert plate.
Philippe let go a boyish laugh and pulled the plate closer to his chest, apparently to protect it from further incursions by Abby’s fork.
Abby raised her fork, as if ready to do battle. “Sir, you play with fire.”
Philippe shot Abby a seductive look before lowering his gaze from her eyes to her lips and then farther down to her décolletage, where her dress suggested ample curves. “I can take the heat,” he said.
Abby glanced up at Maisey, who raised a finely arched brow. Looking back at Philippe, Abby positioned her fork on a napkin, cocked her head, and replied, “Oh, yeah?”
“I’ll just bet you can take the heat,” said Maisey, intervening. “But this little lady is known to pack the heat.”
The three burst into laughter.
As soon as the laughter had subsided and Philippe had enjoyed the last bite of cake, Maisey reached for the dessert plate and forks. “It’s on the house,” she said. “Now, scoot on outta here, because I’ve got to open early tomorrow. The Optimist Club is having their meeting at seven thirty in the morning, and I’ve got to get things ready. Lock that door behind you when you go, would you?”
Abby’s mood was buoyant. She walked arm in arm with Philippe back up Main Street and stopped in front of the Black Witch, where motorcycles lined the curb. When Philippe offered to buy her a drink, Abby decided it would be more intimate to have a drink on the farmette patio. Something inside her told her it was now or never. She took his arm and pulled him away from the Black Witch doorway.
“I made a promise to Jean-Louis. Would you like to help me keep it?” she said.
“But, of course.”
“Tonight?”
“I would do anything for you,” Philippe answered. His expression reflected a sweet tenderness.
The warm night air blowing through the open windows cooled Abby’s flushed skin, one reason she loved this drive from town to the farmette on hot summer nights. Another was the way the limbs and leaves of the tall eucalyptus trees lining the road danced in the moonlight to cast ghostly shadows across the asphalt. Even the scents on such a hot night were pleasing: the fragrance of the earth, warmed from the heat of the day, mingled with the perfume of wild indigenous plants and trees, like pitcher sage, wild thyme, the Jeffrey pine, sagebrush, and the California spicebush.
“What do you think of it here, Philippe? Do you like Northern California?”
“I like wherever you are.”
Abby felt flirty inside but tried not to show it. Philippe looked at her often, sometimes studying her for many minutes at a time before turning away when she looked back at him. The sexual tension between them cou
ld not be denied, yet they said little on the moonlit ride from Las Flores to the farmette. Sugar greeted them with a nonstop welcoming bark at the gate. Abby retrieved a rawhide bone from the metal garbage can just off the patio.
“Now, settle down,” she said, scratching Sugar behind the ears. Sugar tugged the bone out of Abby’s hand and trotted off, apparently content to gnaw on her treat far from the reach of human hands that might try to reclaim it.
“Ready?” Abby asked. “Watch your step.”
She led him to the apiary at the end of her orchard. From a distance, the hives appeared under the pale lunar light to be ethereal columns squatting on a platform, as though they might have once supported the ancient stone throne of a long-dead ruler. Abby had positioned the two stacks of white Styrofoam boxes evenly along a straight line, with roughly a foot of space between them. They were positioned in front of the fence, with six feet of unobstructed space in front, and were protected by a wooden roof, which kept rain and moisture off the hives.
Abby leaned down and placed her ear against one of the two hives to listen to the soothing hum of her bees. “They are all inside. It’s warm tonight, and the bees are cooling the hive. The honey flow has started.”
“Ah, oui?”
“Put your free hand on top of the hive there,” Abby instructed.
“You are certain about this?” Philippe asked, taking longer than necessary to do as she asked.
“Absolutely. You won’t be stung. Did I ever tell you that Jean-Louis had no fear of them? He loved not only the honey, but also the bees.” Placing her palm on the other hive, Abby reached for Philippe’s hand to give him courage. As her heart and mind focused on the task of putting her feelings into words, Abby spotted a guard bee fly up into the moonlight in front of her face, buzzing her, as if to greet the beekeeper; and then, just as quickly, it retreated to the bottom of the hive and disappeared. A lump formed in Abby’s throat. She swallowed hard and felt her eyes tearing. Her resolve hardened. She would not leave until she’d said the words. Finally, mournfully, she whispered, “Sweet bees, I have come with sad news. Our beloved pastry chef, Jean-Louis, has passed away.”
