by Meera Lester
Clay’s expression darkened. “Believe me, Abby, when I say that no matter what I did or where I went, I felt an aching. Couldn’t get rid of it. I know this is probably hard for you to accept. I had a longing that kept turning my thoughts to you and this place.” His eyes conveyed unmistakable sadness.
Her resolve weakened. “Oh, Lord, Clay. Why couldn’t you have just let things be?” Frustrated, she reached past him for the bottle of Napa Valley cabernet she kept on the counter, pulled open a kitchen drawer, and handed him the opener and the bottle. She collected two wineglasses from a shelf and gave one to him. Holding the other glass for herself, she waited while he poured the garnet-colored liquid.
“Shall we drink to our reunion?” he asked. His eyes crinkled, as if he was smiling with renewed hope.
Abby felt momentarily baffled that his mood could switch so suddenly and now seem so buoyant under the circumstances. She considered her confused state. “How about we drink to clarity and trust? We’ll need those for any salvage operation, if there’s to be one.”
She knew he understood that he might have ruined the relationship they had shared by his secrecy and the callous way he’d left. If they were to give love another go, it required a new paradigm.
Clay clinked his glass against hers. “Nice bouquet, lovely taste,” he remarked. “Just like you.”
Abby smiled in spite of herself and walked outside to check on Sugar. The dog bounded across the backyard, after a squirrel scampering on top of the fence, which Abby called the wildlife superhighway. The afternoon sun had disappeared behind the ancient towering pine. Its soft light, shining like a halo, splayed across the patch of green lawn, the raised beds of yellow and orange nasturtiums, and the bright green citrus trees interposed between the beds.
Sighing, Abby sat down in her grandmother’s rocker and rhythmically rocked, staring at the fig, with its fruits beginning to swell. By late summer, they would become dark, aubergine globes, supersweet, ready for the picking. She wondered if he would be gone by then.
Clay sank into a patio chair opposite her, long legs stretched out, wineglass balanced on his thigh.
“At first I could only dream that you’d come back,” Abby said, tearing her gaze from the figs to look directly at Clay. “Back then, I was in a terrible state. Days and weeks passed with no word from you. Hope faded that you’d ever return. I threw myself into the farm-work. Lord knows, there was plenty of that.” She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled.
Clay didn’t flinch or break eye contact with her. He listened, jaw tensing and relaxing.
“The first winter was the hardest. Not a lot to do with the bees and the garden during the rainy season. But now it’s a new spring. I’m back in my skin, feeling like my old self. And my heart . . . Well, I guess it’s grown stronger.”
Clay nodded. “I’m sorry I put you through all that.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Abby. “What we had, Clay, that was special. I’ve thought about what I might feel when you returned. Joy, certainly, but also a sense of dread.”
“Dread?” His brow shot up in surprise; his expression darkened. He sipped his wine, swallowed, and leaned forward to place his hand on her knee. “Why dread, Abby?”
Her heart raced. Her breath quickened. There was nothing to lose by holding her feelings inside. “Because, Clay, I know what’s coming.”
Honey-Drizzled Grilled Figs
Ingredients:
Extra-virgin olive oil, for preparing the grill
⅓ cup plain goat cheese (or try herbed goat cheese as a
variation)
8 ripe fresh figs (Brown Turkey figs work best)
8 slices prosciutto
⅓ cup raw honey (Henny Penny organic honey preferred)
Directions:
Prepare the grill by brushing the grill grates with extra-virgin olive oil.
Fit a pastry bag with a medium round tip, and fill the bag with the goat cheese. Puncture the bottom of each fig to permit the insertion of the pastry bag tip.
Insert the pastry bag tip in a fig and gently squeeze the bag, pushing about 2 teaspoons goat cheese into the center of the fig. Do not overstuff, as this will cause the fig to split. Arrange the stuffed fig on a plate and repeat this process until all the figs are stuffed.
Heat the grill to medium-hot. While the grill is heating, wrap a slice of prosciutto around each stuffed fig.
Grill the figs for 2 to 3 minutes, flipping them once. Remove the figs from the grill to a clean plate, drizzle them with honey, and serve at once.
Serves 4 (2 figs per person)
Chapter 5
The rooster may raise a ruckus, but it’s the hen
that rules the roost.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Clay had flustered her, but Abby was determined not to let that man confound her into losing the laser focus she needed to examine the place where canal patrol had found Fiona’s body. Fiona Mary Ryan deserved better. Abby had asked Clay to stay in town until they’d sorted out their feelings. After much discussion, which hadn’t ended until almost midnight, he’d agreed, but only if she promised to meet him for an early dinner the next day. He’d left her with the hot pink tool cabinet and a kiss before returning to Las Flores to book a room at the Lodge. Clay knew his way around town and her farmette. But she understood better than he that navigating the physical landscapes would prove far easier than the emotional terrain of her heart.
Abby pulled a hair clip from her blue-green work shirt pocket, and after flipping her head forward, she twisted her reddish-gold, shoulder-length mane out of her eyes. Bent over, hands on thighs clad in khaki-colored cargo shorts, she stared at the scorched earth littered with burnt wires and ash-covered shards of glass deposited by the towed car. Thank goodness she’d left Sugar at home, safely locked in the backyard, with plenty of water and food and access to the house. She hadn’t planned to be long and wanted neither distractions nor the curious pooch pawing through the crime scene.
Fiona’s body had been sitting upright behind the steering wheel, with her hands at her sides. Abby recalled that the seat hadn’t appeared close enough to the pedals for Fiona’s feet to touch them. Fiona was petite, about the same height as Abby’s five feet, three inches. Someone taller must have driven Fiona’s car to the site and erred by not returning the seat to the correct position for Fiona to drive. And if the killer had made that error, perhaps he or she had made others.
Abby stood and shielded her eyes to sweep the wilderness around her. Such a lovely, forlorn place—the type of place a hunter might enjoy, a bird-watcher would like, or lovers would meet for a private tryst. Her thoughts kept returning to the locals: they knew the terrain and the access roads. The killer might also be a woman in Fiona’s orbit. Who stood taller than she had? Abby sighed in exasperation as she realized that almost everyone in town stood taller than Fiona had. Her thoughts went to the time line. Perhaps she would try persuading Kat to share the names of the people who saw Fiona in her last twenty-four hours.
As Abby thought about it, she realized she was one of them. She’d last seen Fiona alive on Saturday, when she’d driven into Las Flores to drop off the ribbon-tied sample jars of honey that Fiona sold in her botanical shop. Besides delivering honey, Abby had reminded Fiona about their luncheon the next day. When Fiona had excused herself to prepare a bank deposit, Abby had drifted around the shop for a few minutes, looking at the sale items. She recalled looking up when the ribbon of bells had jangled as Premalatha Baxter, the commune manager, and Dak, the new guru’s bodyguard, stepped through the large glass door. Premalatha had asked Fiona about some herbal smoking compound that was out of stock. It had seemed an innocuous request at the time, but the exchange was puzzling. The commune didn’t allow smoking.
Noon approached. Under the heat of the midday sun, Abby continued walking a grid pattern, searching. The tall grass led her thoughts to weed control and herbicides. Fiona would never use anything toxic on her plants, but Abby knew mo
untain families might. They could be a stubborn lot—liked doing things their way. They didn’t like being told about the dangers of misusing fungicides, herbicides, or pesticides, regardless of what modern science had revealed about human health risks. They also didn’t much like having a commune in their midst. They had made no secret about that, either. The doc and others knew Fiona’s past included time spent in the commune. The locals didn’t mingle with the commune residents. What if the killer was a local, knew the mountains, knew Fiona, and had tampered with her garden or herb patch by using an herbicide? Missing was a motive. Disliking someone because of where he or she used to live hardly qualified.
Meandering through stands of red-bark madrone, manzanita, and tan oak trees and finding little of interest, Abby was considering abandoning further searching when she noticed an old footpath overgrown with weeds that led up a slight incline. With dried leaves crunching under her hiking boots, she followed it. She soon realized that unless Fiona had been searching for trilliums, wild huckleberry, or poison oak, she wouldn’t have found herbs here. The more Abby looked around, the more convinced she became that this was a place chosen by the killer to hide his crime and not one that Fiona would have visited by choice.
Peering into a growth of poison oak and California broom, Abby spotted a paper smaller than a business card caught at the base of some weeds. Peering intently at it, Abby soon realized it was a medicinal patch, like one that could deliver a dose of nicotine. It looked like it had been recently dropped or discarded. Abby covered her mouth with her hand, and she considered whether or not it might be evidence. Deciding to mark that site so she could find it later, Abby propped a stick against a bush near the patch.
After hurrying back to the Jeep, she retrieved her cell phone from the console, found Kat’s contact stored in the phone, called, and waited. “It’s me again, Kat,” she said. “I’m at the Kilbride Lake site. Who’s running the investigation into Fiona’s death? The county sheriff or Las Flores Police?”
“We are. Naturally, our investigation is cooperating with the sheriff’s office. Why?”
“I wanted to notify the correct authority,” Abby said. “I have a medicinal patch, like a smoker might wear.”
“Really? Did you know Fiona to smoke?” Kat asked.
“No,” Abby said. “But she told me once that Tom had tried to quit a few times.”
“Did Fiona ever mention him using those patches?” Kat asked.
“No, but this patch might have relevance to the case. It’s just a hunch.”
“Yeah, well, let me get there and see for myself where you found it and what kind of shape it’s in. Goes without saying . . . Don’t touch it. Oh, and, Abby, be careful. We’ve issued a BOLO for Kramer. Our uniforms went to the area where the cabin is located, but he’d hightailed it out of there.”
“I promise to keep looking over my shoulder until you get here,” said Abby. “Let’s hope your BOLO gets him found and into custody.”
Abby knew that Kat would have to call county communications to get clearance to be dispatched to collect the evidence, and that this could take a minute or two. Time dragged. She took a picture of the evidence with her cell phone and waited some more. If Kat couldn’t get away, Abby would send the photo by text or e-mail. But she didn’t have to wait much longer. Eventually, Kat arrived. She wasn’t alone in the cruiser. She’d brought with her Nettie Sherman, the Las Flores PD’s only crime-scene technician. Abby had worked with Nettie, too, but hadn’t seen her in a while. The last time was at police headquarters when Abby had been working a case, and Nettie had been hobbling around on crutches following knee surgery. Now Nettie hopped out of the cruiser like a new cadet.
Abby smiled and walked over to the women. Nettie looked svelte, having shed some pounds from her five-foot-seven frame now that she could run again. She could almost pass as one of Kat’s relatives, with her jade-green eyes and hair the color of pine nuts. She wore her longish bangs teased off her face today and sprayed in place.
“Hi, ladies,” Abby called out. “Good to see you, Nettie. Knee all healed?”
“Just about.” Nettie held a large manila-colored evidence envelope, its bottom flap already secured with red sealing tape printed with EVIDENCE, CITY OF LAS FLORES POLICE DEPARTMENT.
“So, Chief Bob Allen has reassigned you back to CSI now.” Abby grinned broadly. She knew how Nettie had hated that temporary desk job. But after her knee injury, she had had to be reassigned somewhere.
“Yep. Finally. That so-called light-duty desk job he gave me until my leg healed turned out to be the longest six weeks of my life. He had me hobbling to that damn coffeepot and the records room all day long. I hate to say it, but there were times when I found him more noxious than the scent of skunk on my mailbox post. And he had the gall to suggest that now that I was working at a desk, I could assume some other tasks, like repositioning the speed-trap trailer to slow traffic along Main and doing some DUI checkpoints. If you ask me, his micromanaging is off the hook.”
Abby laughed. “Oh, Nettie, I feel for you. Can’t say I miss working for the chief. So am I right that you are now the community service liaison, the CSI tech, and the property officer assisting Bernie down in the evidence room?”
Nettie shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “Complaining doesn’t help,” she said, adjusting the camera strap over her right shoulder. “Chief told me women multitask better than men. He said he meant it as a compliment, but we both know it was a lame excuse to give me more work.”
“You just have to hang in there,” Kat said with indifference. “He’ll forget about you after a while, and it’ll be someone else’s turn to feel his wrath.” Sniffing and gazing into the distant forest like a preservationist studying a stand of old-growth trees, Kat added, “It’s what we all do.”
Everyone fell silent. A beat passed.
Finally, Kat said to Abby, “Okay, eagle eyes. Let’s get to it.”
“This way.” Abby walked toward her marking stick. Kat followed. Nettie brought up the rear.
After they’d covered a short distance, Kat said to Abby, “Thanks for that tip on Kramer. I’m curious to see what a search of his cabin turns up.”
After handing Kat the evidence envelope, Nettie took camera shots of the patch at various angles and then realized she stood in a growth of poison oak. “Oh, my gosh. Is this what I think it is?” Her eyes widened in a fearful expression. “I’m allergic. Good Lord, it’s everywhere. I know this is my job, but if I go into that area, I’ll be out on sick leave, suffering for who knows how long.”
Kat tucked the evidence envelope under her arm and stuck out her free hand to pull Nettie from the growth. “Come on out. I’ll get it.”
“I’m sorry,” Nettie said, trudging a yard or two away.
“If I didn’t trust your sixth sense, Abby, I’d be leaving this trash right where it lies.”
Abby nodded. “We can only hope it has a fingerprint, some sweat for a DNA test, a strand of hair or fiber, something with a linkage to Fiona.”
“But it wouldn’t be the first time that trash found at a crime scene was just trash,” said Nettie. “On the other hand, sometimes you think a thing isn’t important, and it ends up breaking open the case.”
Noticing Kat’s short sleeves, Abby removed her work shirt and handed it to Kat. “Slip it on. It might be a tad short, but no need to expose your bare skin to the poison oak. If you brush against it and get some of the oil on you, I’ve got vinegar in my Jeep you can use to remove it. It’s an old Girl Scout trick. I’m not immune, but I don’t seem to get those itchy, weeping blisters. Apparently, Nettie does. Just avoid touching it.”
Kat slipped her arms into the sleeves of the work shirt and then slid her fingers into the nitrile gloves she kept in a holder on her duty belt. Gingerly reaching into the poison oak, she retrieved the white patch and dropped it into the evidence envelope.
“I can’t imagine any woman in her right mind traipsing around up
here alone,” Nettie said as the trio walked back to the cruiser.
“Who says she was alone?” Kat chewed her lower lip, as she did when she was trying to puzzle through something. “She might have arranged to meet someone.”
“All we know is that somebody killed her,” Abby said. “We don’t know where, how, or who.”
Kat said, “She had lots of friends, some, admittedly, rather strange.”
“Yeah,” said Nettie, slapping at the small flies lighting on her as she walked. “Like her current squeeze, Laurent Duplessis.”
“They broke up a while ago,” Abby said, correcting her.
“Whatever,” said Nettie. “Strange coupling, if you ask me, but there’s no rhyme or reason to why some people are attracted to each other.”
“True,” said Kat. “But you have to marvel that in the midst of building a botanical business, she still managed to have a social life.” Kat opened the cruiser door and placed the evidence envelope inside the vehicle. She slammed the door and walked to the shade. There she sipped water from a bottle she’d retrieved from the car. Nettie got a bottle for herself and handed one to Abby.
Abby chafed at Kat’s comment. The implication was that if Fiona could have a social life, why couldn’t Abby? Kat was a study in contradictions—being a cop who tended to keep a low profile about her police work, she could also be a social butterfly. Abby wondered if Kat would ever understand why the farmette work offered a solitude that nurtured her, even if the work seemed never to end. Kat would probably never appreciate why Abby stuck with it when it generated so little money, and why Abby had so little time or energy to build social relationships or find romance. Only another person who loved living close to the earth, like a farmer or a rancher, could appreciate Abby’s lifestyle. Not everyone needed or wanted the world’s constant distractions and drama.
