by Meera Lester
Also by Meera Lester*
A Beeline to Murder (A Henny Penny Farmette Mystery)
*available from Kensington Publishing Corp.
The Murder of a Queen Bee
Meera Lester
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Meera Lester*
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Acknowledgments
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Notes
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Meera Lester
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2016945053
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3913-2
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2016
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-914-9
eISBN-10: 1-61773-914-6
Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2016
For my Scribe Tribe,
my readers,
and all the mystery writers—past and present—whose
books have inspired me.
Chapter 1
Speaking of flowers, behold the deadly beauties
that hide in plain sight.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Abigail Mackenzie reached across the lace cloth covering her patio table, lifted a corner of the bread from a bite-size tea sandwich, and grimaced. The bread had dried out, and the lettuce clinging to the mayonnaise had gone as limp as a rag in a wash bucket. If the egg salad filling had gone bad, it would be the final straw. Pretty much everything that could go wrong on this day had.
Heaving a sigh, Abby let go of the bread and sank back into the patio chair. She locked eyes with Katerina Petrovsky, her former partner with the Las Flores Police Department. When Abby left the force to buy and renovate the old farmette, they’d stayed best buddies, and when the situation warranted it, they still had each other’s backs.
“Don’t say it, Kat.”
Ignoring the peeved expression on the face of her blond, blue-eyed friend, Abby stewed in silence. It was the hottest day in April, but for Abby, it had been raining cow patties from heaven. The intimate luncheon for Fiona Mary Ryan, who had wanted to talk to Abby as soon as possible without saying why, had seemed in jeopardy when Abby discovered dead bees at the base of her hives. Worker bees were a tidy bunch; they kept the hives clean and clear of bee corpses. Large numbers of dead bees at the hive entrances had meant Abby would have to open the hives and check them. Several neighbors in rural Las Flores kept bees. It wasn’t unheard of for marauding bees to take over a hive, often fighting it out at the entrance. It was something Abby hadn’t personally witnessed, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.
Flinging open the door to the garden shed to retrieve her beekeeper basket containing her suit and smoker, Abby had recoiled at the stench of a dead rodent. Forgoing the rodent problem to assuage her concern about the honeybees, she had spent the next couple of hours smoking the bees and examining the ten frames in each hive. Relieved that there hadn’t been a rogue bee invasion, Abby had searched for an increase in mites or anything else that might explain the die-off. Finally, it had dawned on her that farmers within a five-mile radius might have applied insecticide on their fields or chemicals harmful to bees on their garden plants. And folks wonder why the honeybee population has been diminishing. When food prices hit sky high, maybe then everyone will take the issue more seriously and realize how much we need our pollinators.
After disrobing from the beekeeper’s suit and pulling off her jeans and T-shirt, Abby had showered the smoke scent from her body and hair. She negotiated a quick wardrobe change into sandals and a seventies-inspired peasant dress. Although she wasn’t too crazy for the dress, with its embroidered detail on the bodice, she knew Fiona would love it. She wove her reddish-gold hair into a shoulder-length braid and secured the end with an elastic band. After sliding a chocolate sheet cake into the oven, Abby was setting about making the tea sandwiches when she heard Kat calling from the farmette driveway.
Finally, it seemed that the negative energy of the day had shifted into positive territory. Grateful for an extra pair of hands, Abby tossed a pinafore apron to Kat and put her to work dressing the table with a cloth of ivory lace and matching napkins. They laid out silver serving pieces and arranged the food—egg salad tea sandwiches, bowls of freshly picked strawberries, a rich chocolate sheet cake, and an antique sugar bowl filled with crispy gingersnaps. The tea in the vermeil pot smelled fragrant with leaves of spearmint and lemon balm, lavender buds, calendula flowers, and chamomile—Fiona’s favorite. All that remained was for her to show.
Abby chitchatted with Kat—first about the flapper-girl haircut Kat now sported and then about the upcoming county fair and whether or not Abby should enter her honey and jams—and the time passed quickly. But all that talking made Abby thirsty, and she soon realized she’d forgotten to set out the water pitcher and glasses. After hustling back to the kitchen, she rinsed and cut a lemon into thin slices before dropping the slices into the clear glass pitcher and adding water. Glancing at the wall clock on the way back outside with the pitcher and glasses, Abby frowned, pursed her lips, and blew a puff of air. Fiona was over an hour late.
“What do you think’s keeping her?” Kat asked.
“Darn if I know.” Abby set the pitcher and glasses on the table. She dropped onto a patio chair, leaned back, and surveyed the surroundings.
The backyard ambiance of her farmette created the perfect setting for a tea party. Blossoms and birdsong in the apricot and cherry trees seemed to proliferate. The tall tea roses held aloft large peppermint-striped blooms. The verdant lawn appeared as green as a hay field in spring. Cream-colored flowers dotted the blood orange, tangerine, and lime trees, their scent permeating the backyard with sweet, citrusy fragrance. Quite possibly, her garden had reached its zenith on this very day. Abby secretly smiled at the notion that despite a shaky start, the day had turned so lovely. The garden seemed as pretty as a Monet painting, and the luncheon would be something that she and Fiona and Kat would talk about for a very long time—whenever Fiona managed to show up.
While Kat rambled on about the handsome new hire at the fire station, Abby strained to hear the sound of a car approaching on Farm Hill Road. As it sped past her farmette, Abby’s thoughts ticked through plausible reasons for her friend’s tardiness. If there had been an accident, surely someone would have called, since Kat routinely chatted up the police dispatcher ladies, and they always seemed to know how to reach her. And if Fiona had fallen ill, she would have answered when Abby phoned the cottage and the botanical shop Fiona owned. Abby quickly abandoned the idea that Fiona had suffered an accident while out searching for herbs, since she no longer hiked much in the mountains after
being assaulted by a stranger. And if she did go out alone looking for wild herbs, she always took her cell phone. She hadn’t answered that, either. So one glaring possibility remained—Fiona had bailed on their luncheon.
As her concern shifted to irritation, Abby grasped the stand of the patio umbrella and gave it an aggressive twist. With the shade now covering the food and Kat’s side of the table, Abby moved over next to her former partner, leaving the spot in the sun for Fiona. Good thing Fiona loved the heat. Eyeing the herb garden from a new vantage point did little to assuage Abby’s frustration. And her frustration level was rising by degrees, like the heat of the day. As if mirroring her mood, the drifts of lemon balm, elderflower, skullcap, sage, oregano, motherwort, and other herbs seemed to struggle to stay upright in the partial shade under the late April sun.
Kat finally spoke. “She might be helping somebody. You know what a sucker she is for every Tom, Dick, and Harriet with a sob story.”
“True,” Abby conceded. “She helped me a lot when I dawdled over whether or not to plant the herb garden—you know herbs can take over a place. I do appreciate how she spent hours with me discussing the culinary and medical uses of them. And it was her idea to put in a miniature medieval garden in raised beds, laid out with a Latin cross design. She was the one who found the illustration in an old gardening book.” Abby waved her hand toward a cluster of raised beds on the east side of her property. “The garden was pretty this morning. Now it looks wilted.”
“Oh well.” Kat crossed her legs, repositioning the napkin over her lap.
Abby heaved a sigh. Okay. Not interested. So luncheon tea parties are about delicious food, polite manners, and convivial conversation. Move on. Abby changed the subject. “Fiona told me she’d recommended my honey and herbs to some of the local businesses,” said Abby. “Already, Ananda Bhojana, that new vegetarian eatery, and Smooth Your Groove, the smoothie shop run by those commune people, have placed orders. And Fiona is stocking my honey in her Ancient Wisdom Botanicals store on Main. I mean, she gets a lot of traffic from Cineflicks, Twice Around Markdowns, and even the Black Witch.”
“You don’t say. The Black Witch, the only bar in town and a biker bar, to boot. Bet they don’t buy much honey. I mean, how many mixed drinks use honey as an ingredient?” Kat asked. She seemed unimpressed.
“Well, there’s the Bee’s Knees. It uses gin, lemon juice, and honey syrup.” Abby struggled to think of others.
Kat rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Abby. Can you see a biker strutting up to the bar and ordering a Bee’s Knees?”
“Point taken,” said Abby.
In silence, the two sat staring up into the towering peppertree at the center back of Abby’s property line. The tree’s lacy green fronds and bracts of newly formed red berries hung in perfect stillness. Now and then a berry dropped into the chicken run.
“You ever grind those peppercorns?” Kat asked.
Abby nodded. “Once. Too much work. You have to clean, toast, and roast them first.” Her stomach growled, long and loud.
“Sounds like you’re as hungry as I am,” said Kat.
Abby pushed a springy forelock of her reddish-gold hair away from her face and cupped a hand over her light eyes to gauge the position of the sun. “Where on God’s earth can Fiona be? We could get sunburned out here without hats. Maybe we should move the food inside. Darn it all! Everything was perfect an hour ago.”
Kat leaned forward. “My advice, girlfriend, call or text one more time, and if she doesn’t answer, we will eat without her.”
“If she didn’t answer the six previous calls, what makes you think she’ll pick up on the seventh?” Abby snapped, even as she tapped Fiona’s number on her cell again and listened for one, two . . . five rings, with no answer.
“The tea is tepid,” Kat said, touching the pot next to the perfusion of orange nasturtiums in a widemouthed jar. “Dried bread, soggy sandwiches, and tea that probably should have been iced to begin with—”
“Oh, Kat, for goodness’ sake, please stop grousing.”
“Guess the heat and hunger are making a beast of me. I’m losing all sense of civility,” said Kat.
“Well, you’re not alone. My feathers couldn’t be any more ruffled than if I were a hen with an egg stuck in her butt,” said Abby.
Kat flicked at a small insect moving on the strap of her blue cotton sundress. The tiny creature spread its wings and flew away.
Abby blew air in exasperation. “It won’t hurt you.”
“How would I know?” Kat snapped. “There have been two cases of West Nile virus already reported in the county.”
“Mosquitoes,” scoffed Abby. “West Nile is carried by mosquitoes, not ladybugs.”
“Whatever,” said Kat. “I don’t rehabilitate bugs, like some people.” She rolled her eyes at Abby.
They sat in tense silence. Kat shooed the flies.
Abby fumed. After a couple of minutes, she reminded herself that there might be a good reason for Fiona being late. It served no good purpose for her to be locking horns with Kat.
“Sorry to be so testy, Kat,” said Abby. “I’m worried and annoyed at the same time. I was in Fiona’s shop yesterday and reminded her of our tea luncheon. I can’t believe that in only twenty-four hours, she could forget. And . . . it’s not like her to bail.”
“I hear you, girlfriend.” Kat used her napkin to wick away the moisture collecting on either side of her nose. “Okay, so here’s an earthshaking idea—maybe she’s in a funk. You did say she had hit the big four-o, right?”
“Yeah, but that was a week ago, and, anyhow, the forties are the best years of a woman’s life.”
“According to?”
Abby gave her a quizzical look. “Lidia.”
“Vittorio?” Kat asked incredulously. “The old lady on Main, with the jewelry store?”
“The same.”
“Yeah, well, Lidia should know. From the looks of her, she’s hit the big four-o twice already. Maybe three times.”
“Oh, please. Even if she is retirement age, she’s still working. And Main Street hasn’t exactly attracted a Ralph Lauren Home store, an upscale art gallery, or an artisan chocolate shop. Lidia and her handcrafted jewelry shop are our town’s best hope for a bit of class now that the patisserie is gone.”
“Suppose you’re right about that.”
Abby decided to wait five more minutes. Then she and Kat would devour the food and enjoy the rest of the day. Maybe they’d go antiquing. It would be Fiona’s loss, and she’d have some explaining to do when they next saw each other.
“Fiona’s store is nice in a hippie, Zen kind of way,” said Kat. “But it bothers me that it occupies the same space as where the pastry shop used to be. I can’t go in there without thinking about Chef Jean-Louis. Her herb-inspired, nutrient-dense, gluten-free, low-salt, low-taste bars made of who knows what can’t compare to our late chef’s exquisite madeleines.” Kat reached for a tea sandwich. She parted the bread and tossed the lettuce onto her plate before taking a bite. Chewing, she said, “I think Fiona’s a hippie, living in the wrong era.”
Abby stared incredulously at her friend for throwing aside the lettuce. “Seriously, Kat?”
“What?” Kat asked. “Your chickens will eat this, won’t they? Even if there’s mayo on it?”
Abby shook her head. “Whatever.” She reached for the pot and poured herself a cupful of tea. “Fiona sells good stuff. Almost everything is eco-friendly. And she isn’t a hippie.”
“Well, she dresses like one.”
“In fairness, she wears those bohemian circular skirts, because that’s the way the other women in the commune dress. You must have seen them. Some work here in town.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been up to their compound, if you can call it that. We’ve had a lot of complaints. The families in those mountains do not like the drumming, chanting, and clapping. They complain of harmoniums droning on endlessly. And they don’t like the weekly bonfires. They’re afr
aid that one of these days a spark will ignite the mountain. It’s a tinderbox up there, Abby. You know that.”
“Maybe in summer . . . not right now,” Abby said. “I was just up there last week with Fiona, checking on the progress of the commune gardens. From bio-intensive double digging to planting heirloom seeds, she’s taught those devotees everything she knows. The gardens are lush and green and thriving. But don’t take my word for it. You should go see them. The gate to their property is always open.”
Kat stopped chewing long enough to say, “Nah.” She wrapped a blond lock of hair behind her ear and pushed back her bangs, as if preparing to lean forward and do some serious damage to the pile of sandwiches. “And you couldn’t pay me to live there. As far as I can tell, the place looks like a dumping ground of old buses, RVs, and shacks.”
Abby corrected her. “The guru has a nice house.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Kat said.
Abby shrugged. “The gardens produce an abundance of organic vegetables. The commune residents have opened their facility to people who want to view and purchase the produce. They’re also selling it along the roadside up there. Fiona told me the gardens are what she loves most about the place.”
“If she loves them so much, why isn’t she still living there?” Kat poured herself some tea and stirred in some milk.
“She moved into the cottage on Dr. Danbury’s estate because she can’t stand that guy in charge at the commune.” Abby finished drinking her tea. She placed a silver tea strainer over her porcelain teacup, reached for the pot, and poured its lukewarm tea through the strainer into her cup.
“You mean Hayden Marks?” asked Kat.
“He’s the one.” Stirring a spoonful of rose-infused sugar into her tea, Abby said, “Got himself appointed the successor when the old guru left for India. But according to Fiona, Marks modified his predecessor’s teaching to make it more understandable to Westerners, and then he changed how the commune worked, establishing a hierarchy of power, with himself as the supreme authority.”
