The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  “Well, dear, it sounds like you are working awfully hard.” Lidia turned her attention to Clay. She smiled broadly, revealing the stains of habitual tea drinking on her uneven lower teeth. “Perhaps your friend Calhoun here could help you out.” She smiled, as if she was conspiring with him in some grand scheme.

  Abby looked at Clay. His face instantly wreathed in a boyish grin; his dark eyes gleamed due to his apparent happiness that Lidia had remembered at least part of his name.

  “Oh, I’m itching to help her,” Clay said.

  Abby’s brow arched upward.

  Clay thumped the glass display and spoke in a voice tinged with excitement. “I’ve got plenty of ideas for fixing up the place,” he said. “Starting with ripping out that master bath. From the looks of it, that bath was an afterthought to the old bunkhouse. I wouldn’t be surprised if the back of the shower stall was breeding mold.”

  His remark seemed unduly critical, but Abby believed he meant to emphasize his vision for making the place pretty and more functional. She sighed. “What do you expect of a two-room farmhouse built in the late nineteen forties?”

  Clay said, addressing Lidia, “What Abby needs is a bathroom with a marble floor, a couple of big view windows, and a spa tub with jets.”

  As much as Abby liked that idea, she wished Clay would use a little more restraint in his conversations with townspeople with whom she would have relationships long after he had taken off again. Lidia didn’t need to know how dilapidated the farmhouse was. It would only give her reason to worry about Abby. Locals took a strong interest in the welfare of their own. That was just the way small towns were.

  What was clearly apparent to Abby now was that the drill and the tool cabinet Clay had brought to the farmette had been part of his plan all along to ingratiate himself back into her life. So be it. If he insisted on building a new master bath, she’d be an idiot not to let him. And while he was at it, he could finish her kitchen, too. Then, immediately, Abby felt guilty for having such thoughts. The less emotional, more rational side of her mind took over. Give him a break. Accept him for who he is. Or end it. But stop punishing him.

  “I saved it for Calhoun,” Lidia said, winking at Clay and leading them to a glass display case. Lidia’s bony fingers unlocked the case and pulled out a small box. She set it on the counter and opened it, exposing a pair of earrings. She picked up a hand mirror.

  Abby’s heart skipped. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the earrings. A chiming sounded as customers entered the shop, but nothing could draw Abby’s attention from the gold earrings in the shape of honeybees before her. Each bee’s eyes were small cabochons of aquamarine. Diamond chips formed the head. The thorax was embellished with citrines, while the embellishment for the wings and dark brown abdominal bands featured chocolate diamonds.

  “Excuse me, will you?” Lidia said. “I’ll just see what the other customer wants. Be right back, dear.”

  “Of course,” said Abby, taking the hand mirror from Lidia. She held an earring against her left ear. “Oh, my gosh,” Abby remarked. “These are exquisite.”

  “The eyes there,” Clay said, pointing to the bees, “are roughly the same color as yours.” He seemed quite pleased with himself for noticing.

  “Ha. I wish,” Abby said. She peered at the shade of blue green, but she secretly liked the red in the citrine and its smoky-brown undertones, because she could see them reflected in her hair where she stood under one of the counter spotlights. “These beauties do not go with my old shirt and faded jeans.” Abby lingered a moment longer in front of the mirror, holding first one earring up to her ear and then the other one to her opposite ear. Finally, she sighed. “I’ve never seen such lovely earrings.”

  “Let me buy them for you,” Clay said.

  A beat passed. Abby thought for a millisecond. They were over-the-top beautiful, but with a thousand-dollar price tag, they were also expensive. And where would she ever wear them? He would spend his money, and the earrings would sit in her jewelry box. “How sweet of you to offer, Clay. I don’t know what to say, except, well, I really couldn’t accept them. They’re lovely but too pricey.”

  Abby placed the earrings back in the open box and then reached for his hand and wrapped her palm around it. Looking into his wide-set dark brown eyes, she said softly, “You don’t have to buy me presents. People should be able to find their way back. . . .” The words trailed off into a sigh. “How can I say it?”

  I don’t want to hurt you, but why rush us into beginning again? she thought.

  “Time . . . I just need time, Clay. That’s all I ask.” She squeezed his hand and found it eager, warm, and willing to hold hers. She searched his expression for signs he understood her confusion.

  Although he nodded in acquiescence, his expression seemed to have darkened. He pulled his hand away and busied both hands with rearranging the earrings in the box. With resignation written all over his expression, Clay finally closed the lid.

  Abby turned to see where Lidia had gone. And when had Tom Davidson Dodge entered the store? Abby watched Tom, thin-boned in a T-shirt and jeans, with a navy watch cap hiding a head of curls, take several items from his brightly striped Peruvian bag. He set them on the counter’s glass surface. Lidia emerged from the back room with a vial of liquid and a scale in her hands. She faced Tom on the opposite side of the counter.

  Tapping Clay on the arm, Abby placed a finger against her lips and cocked her head in Lidia and Tom’s direction.

  Tom held up a braided gold chain with a Celtic cross dangling from it.

  Abby sucked in a deep breath. Oh, my gosh. You can’t be pawning Fiona’s favorite necklace. If that isn’t coldhearted, what is?

  Tom placed the necklace on the counter and reached into the bag again. He plunked a wedding ring set next to the necklace. Then he reached into the bag again and pulled out a silver cuff bracelet embedded with semiprecious stones. Abby watched Tom look for a reaction from Lidia.

  “They belonged to my late wife,” Tom said in a soft tone. “Heirlooms they were, she told me. The rings have to be worth a small fortune. She said they once belonged to her great-grandmother from County Kerry.”

  “Well, yes, that would make them estate pieces, wouldn’t it?” Lidia smiled politely. “The necklace has a solid resale value. However, gold is not worth what it was a while back. How much do you want for everything?”

  “I was thinking ten grand,” Tom replied.

  “Oh, dear, that would not be possible. Even if they were worth that—and I don’t believe they are—I’d have to pass.” Lidia laid aside the loupe she’d picked up, and stared frankly at him. “You do understand that I have to resell these items for a profit.”

  “Yeah. So then what could you give me?” Tom asked.

  “Well, let me see.” Lidia stroked her lower lip with a forefinger. “Gold is going for slightly more than a thousand per ounce, but a lot depends on the purity and the weight of your pieces, of course.” She reached under the counter and pulled forth a scale, then set the rings on it and noted the weight. Then she pulled a vial of liquid from under the counter and placed a drop on the rings. She repeated the process for the gold necklace before returning the scale and the small vial to the shelf beneath the counter. Lidia picked up the loupe and used it to study the Celtic cross. “The craftsmanship is superb. Would you take six hundred for this?”

  Tom seemed antsy, shifting his weight from side to side. “I guess so. What about the other stuff?”

  Abby looked at Clay, shook her head slowly, and raised her hand, palm to the floor, to indicate that they should stand down and stay quiet.

  Fiona had confided in Abby that the Celtic cross necklace was worth close to two grand. Lidia was driving a hard bargain. The fact that Tom would accept less than half of what the object was worth perplexed Abby. Did he not know the value, or was he just desperate for money? What alarmed Abby more was why Tom was hawking the jewelry in the first place. It was behavior that was
unbecoming, to say the least, and highly suspicious, since those valuable pieces had belonged to his dead wife. That raised a whole bevy of questions about who would profit most from her death. Was he Fiona’s designated heir? Who had her will?

  Abby motioned for Clay to follow her. They left the bee earring box on the counter and quietly walked out of the jewelry shop into the sunlight. From down the street wafted the scent of red beans, rice, roasted jalapeños, and grilled sausages, reminding Abby that she had long ago digested the peanut butter toast she’d had for lunch. She disregarded her hunger and hastened toward the traffic light.

  “Abby, hold up. Zazi’s is open,” said Clay, his voice tinged with hopefulness. “What say we grab a table and you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Later, later.” Abby kept up her brisk walking pace. The traffic signal flashed the white pedestrian walk light and sounded the familiar ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Abby raced across the intersection. She gestured to Clay to catch up. After dashing inside the Dillingham Dairy building, the first floor of which was taken up by police headquarters, she headed straight for the window where a male police officer staffed a desk behind bulletproof glass.

  “You might want to let the homicide team know that the husband of Fiona Ryan is pawning her jewelry at Village Rings & Things across the street!” Abby exclaimed, sucking in a deep breath. “It’s just a hunch, but he could walk out of there with enough moola for a flight to Timbuktu. Just so you know.”

  Tips for Inspecting a Honeybee Hive

  Make routine hive inspections. Conduct inspections every ten days. Changes in the apiary can happen quickly. When inspecting a hive, approach it from the rear or the side and do the following:

  • Check for dead bees at the front of the hive. This is normally not a grave concern; however, a large pile of dead bees could indicate a recent pesticide poisoning.

  • Look for spotting in the area at the front of the hive and also on the hive boxes. Spotting is an indication of illness in the colony.

  • Ensure that the hive entrance is open to permit easy access for the bees during the honey flow, when pollen-laden bees fly fast toward the hive.

  • Lift the hive up to assess its weight; a heavy hive indicates a hefty honey store.

  • Check for overcrowding and, if necessary, add a second story to the hive to accommodate the increasing population, or the bees will swarm.

  • Reduce the hive entrance to a small opening if you suspect that predators or bees from other hives are robbing the hive. This is often indicated by bees darting back and forth or fighting in front of the hive.

  • Observe worker bees pushing out dead bees to clean the hive. This is normal.

  Chapter 7

  Thyme spices up vanilla cake. Lavender glorifies

  pudding. Basil intensifies butter, and rosemary

  elevates potato. But what herb knits a broken

  heart?

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  With Clay’s hand on her elbow, Abby walked out of the Las Flores Police Department and reentered the late afternoon light filtered through the crepe myrtle trees along Main Street. Friday afternoon pedestrian and street traffic had gotten worse now that the days were growing longer and the weather had turned warm. Summer hadn’t officially arrived yet and wouldn’t for a few weeks, but people in the outlying valley towns had already begun their summer caravans through Las Flores and the mountains to the beach communities. Every weekend, the traffic would back up for miles.

  “How do you know the jewelry that guy was pawning belonged to his dead wife? Did he kill her?” Clay asked, releasing Abby’s elbow to take her hand. They strolled toward the crosswalk. “What say you bring me up to speed while we eat?” he said. “I’m starving.”

  Abby pulled Clay to an abrupt stop. “Could you give me forty-five minutes? I’d like to run home, shower, and change first.” She cocked her head slightly to one side. “It’s been one thing after another, and I’ve been out in the heat all day. I’d like to clean up, slip into something a little more feminine.”

  He leaned down and kissed her neck. “Not necessary.” He was smiling, but Abby could tell he didn’t want her to go. “You look fine, and we’re already here.” He glanced at her sideways and thumped the pedestrian walk button on its metal pole with the side of his hand. “And regardless, Zazi’s has a restroom. Can’t you freshen up there?”

  Abby flinched. He’d missed the point. She wanted to hear their song on the drive home. She wanted to wash and primp and feel pretty again. She wanted a sentimental and sexy reunion. It had been so long.

  “Jeez, Clay, we weren’t even supposed to meet for another hour.” Abby flashed her sweetest smile. Noticing his jaw tensing, as if he was holding back his growing frustration with her, Abby let her smile fade. She tried another approach. “I have an idea,” she said. “While I pretty myself up, you grab a stool at the bar at the Black Witch and have a glass of that Kentucky bourbon you like so much. I’m sure the boys around the dartboard will want to hear all about your travels.”

  “Probably,” Clay said. “But I thought you would.”

  Ouch. His remark stung, but Abby wasn’t about to let him see her react.

  After a moment of tense silence, he said, “If it’s so important to look good while you eat, Abby, then, by all means, go on home. Don’t worry about me. I can find some way to cool my heels.” His eyes darkened. Abby recognized his shifting mood.

  She stared at the concrete. The pedestrian walk light began flashing, accompanied by the ding-dong repeatedly sounding, but neither she nor Clay moved.

  He let go a long, audible exhale. He stared at the tall building across the street. His lips tightened into a severe line, and then, after a beat, he said, “Go on home, Abby. I’ll see if Zazi’s can rustle up something to tide me over until you get back. I’m too eager, I guess. I just want to spend some time with you.”

  She knew this maneuver. He would tell her to do whatever she wanted, but if he didn’t also want it, he would make her pay for her choice by closing down emotionally. She hated his silent treatment. It was the classic passive-aggressive ploy. Abby shifted her gaze toward the theater marquee. A little foreign film from Hong Kong, In the Mood for Love, was playing for another week. Maybe she would see it. Maybe they would see it together. Or not.

  A struggle had begun between her heart and her mind. Clay had come back. He’d said he couldn’t live without her. Maybe she was creating an unnecessary problem. Surely she could set aside her desire to be romanced and just muster more generosity of spirit. But then again, if she gave in, wouldn’t they just revert to their old way of being together? Nothing would change. That wasn’t what she wanted for her life. If they were going to have a real chance of starting over and building a relationship that would thrive, this moment might be pivotal. Her thoughts raced as she remembered something Fiona had said about how two people could believe they loved and needed each other, but that didn’t necessarily mean that they should be together or that they would even find enduring happiness. Sometimes coming together was just to finish off karma. Fiona had pointed to her own failed relationship with her husband, Tom, as an example. An icy finger of fear suddenly twisted around Abby’s heart.

  “On second thought,” said Abby, “just forget about me getting all gussied up. We’ll just grab a seat at the picture window at Zazi’s, have a glass of old-vine zinfandel, dine on the bistro special, and watch the sun set on the mountains. Just like back in the day.” She’d gone an emotional distance with Clay. Her heart was stronger now. She could choose to appease him, but on her terms. She’d let him buy her dinner. But that was all.

  Clay locked eyes with her. The tension in his face relaxed as a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “That’s my girl. I don’t like the idea of a killer on the loose and you out there on the edge of town by yourself. Guess I’ve come back just in time.”

  Oh, really? You have no idea how silly that sounds, do you? “My neighbo
rs are great,” Abby said, thinking of Lucas, who lived up the hill from her farmette. “And I’ve got Sugar and my gun.”

  “So you don’t need me?” Clay said, as if she’d just rejected him.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Abby released his hand as they stepped into the crosswalk. She pulled the strap of her purse tighter against her shoulder as a sudden hot gust of wind kicked up. The trees planted along the sidewalk bent and swayed, strong yet pliant. We need to be like those trees, Clay, able to withstand whatever comes at us and still grow. I’ll have dinner with you, listen to your stories, and smile at your jokes. But when it’s time to go home, I’m going home alone.

  * * *

  Inside Zazi’s, Abby settled into the four-poster chair Clay had pulled out for her. She gazed out the bistro’s front window and decided to file their tension-filled exchange under “knee-jerk reactions” and let it go. The window afforded a view of Main Street and beyond to the south, where the blue-green mountains towered behind the red barrel-tiled roof of the centuries-old grain mill. The wealthiest Las Flores families chose the mountains’ southern slopes to build their mansions, up high, where the view overlooked the downtown. They hid their estates—some with vineyards—behind tall stone walls with gates. But the downtown merchants had a daily reminder that the mountains hid the nouveau riche. During certain times of the day, the sun would strike the glass windows on those lofty ridges, transforming the mountainsides into a mosaic of shimmering light, just as it did now under Abby’s pensive gaze.

  Clay ordered a bottle of zinfandel, touted on the wine list as having been produced from locally grown grapes on vines planted around 1910. The dutiful, dark-haired, white-aproned waitress who had encouraged Clay’s choice scurried away, then returned a moment later with the bottle and two glasses. She coupled the task of opening the bottle with a soliloquy on the importance of having the correct wineglass, because of how it directed the flow of the liquid so that it hit certain parts of the palate. In different ways, this enhanced an appreciation for the wine’s aroma and flavor. But opening the bottle proved impossible when the corkscrew malfunctioned. Clay offered to have a look; it seemed as good a moment as any for Abby to freshen up. She excused herself and left for the powder room.