The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  “Indeed,” he said. “I should have thought of that. You know, it might be my favorite piece of clothing, that cap.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You’ve got to have your head covered if you are braving the cold wind in the high Andes.”

  “And when are you going there again?”

  “Maybe never. But you never know.”

  “So . . . let me get right to work on that braid, then,” Abby said in jest.

  He smiled broadly, with amusement lighting his eyes. “You know I’m pulling your leg, right?”

  Abby pursed her lips to keep from saying what she was thinking. Oh, believe me, I know when you’re pulling my leg. She felt a little giddy.

  Jack turned the safe upright and took a look at the numeric pins of the combination. “I’ll punch in Fiona’s birth date, but I’m going to need that key in your pocket,” he said.

  He spun through the numbers of the combination. Then he slid the key Abby handed him into the lock. It clicked and released. Jack let go a high-pitched squeal.

  Abby jumped. “You scared me. What was that?”

  “That, my girl, was the sound of happiness, the kind of joy that screams for a wee bit of bubbly.”

  “Shouldn’t we see what’s inside the safe first?”

  “Right, you are. Come to think of it, I don’t have anything with bubbly. Beer either. Rain check that idea,” he said.

  “Let’s take the safe to the living room,” Abby suggested. “We can examine the contents there without worrying about anything flying down that floor hole.”

  “Good on you, Abby. Always one step ahead.”

  After pulling Abby to her feet, Jack reached for the metal fire safe and carried it to the couch. He parked himself with the safe on his lap, then patted the couch seat beside him. “Come sit here.”

  Abby positioned herself right next to him. When he flipped open the safe’s lid, she took note of a few papers, a framed picture, and a small ledger. The white envelope marked with the word WILL caught her eye. “You should open that,” she said. To her surprise, he handed it to her.

  “It saddens me to see it. I can’t imagine she had much to leave anybody. And I would so much rather have her than a token of her life.”

  Abby lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope, pulled out the document, and read it. “I don’t know if you’ll welcome this news or not, but she left you the botanical shop. It says here that you can keep it or sell it to pay off the five-year loan she secured to start the business.”

  “Running a shop? I don’t think I’m cut out for that sort of thing.”

  “Tom gets her jewelry,” said Abby. “Well, I guess there’s no surprise there. He already has it . . . or had it. I guess Lidia Vittorio at Village Rings & Things has it now.”

  Abby felt Jack push against her to look at the will. The warmth of his body was a tad unsettling, but she continued to read and share Fiona’s bequests and instructions with Jack. “Says here there’s a life insurance policy for fifty thousand, with Tom as the beneficiary.... Oh, but there’s a proviso.” Abby pointed to a line near the bottom of the page. “Tom gets the money only if he leaves the commune.” Abby cocked her head to look at Jack. “Fiona seemed intent on Tom making a clean break with that cult. Perhaps she grasped better than anyone else what an isolated life he lived up there, with Hayden Marks and Premalatha Baxter dictating when and where he could go and taking his hard-earned wages.”

  Jack asked her in rapid-fire succession, “So how could the commune loan Fiona money? Do you think the leader wanted it paid back right away and knew about that policy? Do you think they could seize Fiona’s insurance money from Tom to settle the debt?”

  Abby looked astounded at Jack’s insightful perceptions and chose her words carefully. “I think it’s not only possible but also probable. And to answer your question about how Fiona could get a loan from the commune leader and his minions in the first place, I’d say they’ve got lots of money, unlike before. Fiona told me that before the previous leader returned to India, the community scraped to get by. Now the commune organization finances legitimate businesses, like Smooth Your Groove and Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. As a nonprofit, they seek and get donations. Let’s not forget the residents who work and contribute their wages, and their families who lend support.”

  Jack nodded. A muscle quivered in his jaw. He reached into the safe and took out a silver filigree frame that held a photograph of Fiona, bedecked in a red scarf and hat and throwing a snowball. Tom, bundled in a pea jacket, jeans, and muck boots, apparently had been hit by a snowball and stood sideways, with his hands in a defensive position. “Check out Red Riding Hood and her wolf having fun in the snow.” He peered closely at the image. “Looks like the picture was taken up here, behind this house. See all those Christmas trees? A whole section of them.”

  Abby pulled the frame toward her to inspect the photo’s background more closely. “You’re right. I wonder who took this picture. Dr. Danbury?”

  “But surely, it doesn’t snow here in the mountains, with the ocean just over those ridges, about thirty minutes away?”

  Abby released her grip on the picture frame. “Sometimes it does.”

  Jack thumbed through the ledger. When a folded sheet of paper fell out, he handed it to Abby and continued to examine the ledger entries. “These entries make no sense. Just numbers and notations, with no documentation key for deciphering anything,” he said.

  Abby unfolded the sheet of paper and quickly read it. “Well, this explains a lot. That ledger belongs to Laurent. Probably, it was what he was looking for when he burgled her shop.”

  Jack’s brows shot up. “So that’s why she went to all the trouble to hide it in the safe under the house.”

  Abby nodded. “I’m speculating about this, but perhaps Fiona wrote out this letter as a means of self-protection. If anything untoward were to happen to her, somebody at some point would discover this and learn the truth. She’s telling us from the grave what she feared could happen. The letter explains that she knew what Laurent was doing and accuses him of stealing from her and selling illegal drugs. He packaged them in tins, otherwise used for mixtures of blended herbs and cut tobacco marinated in molasses, which are smoked in hookah pipes.”

  Jack laid the ledger in the safe and leaned over to scrutinize the paper with Fiona’s handwriting that Abby held. “But how did he have access?”

  “He worked there for a while. Could have made a key.” Abby scooted to create a little space between herself and Jack and then twisted slightly so she could look directly at the handsome Irishman. “Don’t you remember the HELP WANTED sign in the botanical shop’s front window? Fiona was looking to hire a store clerk, but while she went through the interviewing process, she likely paid Laurent to help her.” Abby gazed into his blue eyes. “Come to think of it,” she said, “Fiona could not keep those smoking herbs in stock during his tenure, or at least that’s what she told me.”

  She stared again at the note in Fiona’s handwriting, with its explanation of the notations in the ledger. “Each type of drug had a code name, and the amount sold, the date, and the customer’s name. Premalatha’s name shows up a lot.”

  “I suppose she would have met Laurent at Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. Otherwise, how would their paths have crossed?”

  Abby chuckled. “Las Flores is a small town with a small-town consciousness. People know who the residents are and who the outsiders are. Whom to trust, and whom not to trust. It wouldn’t surprise me if the briefcase Laurent carried from Fiona’s shop contained his drug stash. Probably already had another place lined up. Just so he could keep doing business as usual. Fiona trusted him, but he was just using her.”

  “My sister trusted everybody,” Jack said with an exasperated sigh. “That was her undoing.” He crooked an arm around the back of his head and stared out the bank of windows that looked out over the distant mountain ridges.

  “The police will want to see this,”
said Abby. She carefully refolded the paper and placed it back inside the red ledger. As she did, a small object protruded from the bottom of the ledger—a necklace bearing a number eight charm. A cold shiver shot through Abby’s body. After pushing the necklace back into the ledger, Abby closed the safe’s lid and spun the tumblers. So . . . Fiona would have had insider knowledge about the significance of those necklaces. There was no need to burden Jack with an explanation about that now, she decided. That discussion could be put off awhile.

  Abby considered the slow and methodical way the commune had evolved under the tutelage of Hayden Marks. He used isolation tactics. Moreover, he wielded a renegade authority to dominate the community, performing sham marriages and forcing wedges between legitimate husbands and wives. Wasn’t that how many cult leaders gained control? Through dividing and conquering and also through isolating members from their families? Brainwashing certainly appeared to be the root of Tom’s plight. He had seemed too scared to leave. Abby sighed heavily.

  When she stirred to get up, Jack clamped his hand gently on her knee. “I know you need to go, but I don’t want you to. I like your company.”

  Abby arched a brow and grinned. “And I like yours, too, but . . .”

  “Well, there you go again with those buts.”

  “But, Jack, much as I’d love to hang out here, I’ve still got errands to run and dinner to cook and chores to do.”

  “Okay, then. Take me with you into town. I’ll get my rental car tonight, so you won’t have to deal with that tomorrow, before the funeral. But I’m going to ask for one more teensy favor. It’s important to me, and not just because it means a little more time with you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Fiona’s body is at the church. I wonder, do you think you could spare the time to accompany me there?”

  “Uh . . . um . . . I . . . uh—”

  “Somebody ought to say the rosary for her. . . .”

  How could they go into a church, the pair of them, looking like they’d just gotten the worst end of a street brawl? How could she possibly conceal her black eye and her cut face? In spite of those reservations, Abby couldn’t bring herself to say no. Her intention to help Jack through the awful process of dealing with everything while his heart was raw meant doing this, too, barring incapacitation. She wasn’t incapacitated. And Fiona wasn’t just a victim; she was a good friend. But now, with stops at the police station and the church, how would she explain to Clay why she’d gotten home so late?

  “I can’t go to church looking like this. I don’t suppose you have a shirt I could borrow? My blouse looks like I’ve been wallowing with a pig.”

  His expression brightened. “I’ve got shirts in the dirty, the dirty-dirty, and the dirty-dirty-dirty basket. From which basket do you want me to pull it?”

  Abby laughed out loud. “Oh, good Lord. Seriously, Jack? You don’t have a clean shirt?”

  “To do laundry, I have to be in the mood,” he replied with a boyish smile. “I’ve not been in the mood,” he said, laughing.

  “Oh, never mind.” She brushed her hands over her blouse, as if by some miracle, the soil from her wrestling with Dak could be rubbed out. “Let’s just go, but we have to drop that off at the police station first.” She pointed at the fire safe. “And let me answer any questions, if they arise, about why we look the way we do. Let’s just stick together. We don’t want conflicting stories out there, and for all we know, Premalatha and Dak could come here complaining that we assaulted them.”

  He rose and helped her to her feet. Then, without warning, he pulled her into a tight embrace. “Yes, on all accounts, especially about sticking together.”

  Abby’s legs felt like jelly. Her heart hammered. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and melted into the warmth spreading through her body in the embrace of his strong arms. What am I doing? She eased out of his arms and said, “What if the church is being used this evening? Sometimes the church allows a couple of other priests to hold charismatic Masses.”

  “Never been to one of those,” said Jack.

  “It’s Mass, but more like those held during the first centuries of the Roman Catholic Church, with lots of music, praying in tongues, and anointing of the sick with holy oil.”

  “Well, we can’t know until we get there,” said Jack.

  “You’re right about that. The church secretary will have gone home for the day, and I don’t think they put the dates for those special Masses in the church’s regular recorded messages.”

  * * *

  After explaining to the officer at the Las Flores Police Department how they came by the safe and how it was relevant to the open murder case, Abby drove Jack to Holy Names. The funeral home had delivered Fiona’s casket, which rested on a stand in a private area to the side of the cavernous interior. Only two other parishioners, whom Abby didn’t recognize, occupied the place. Jack and Abby lit candles and quietly said the prayers of the rosary. Afterward, Abby dropped Jack off where his car was parked near Tilly’s Café, made a quick stop for the nails that Clay wanted at the DIY center, and headed out of town to her farmette. Hoping to make it before dark, she arrived just after sunset.

  Sugar rushed toward Abby, and Clay called Abby’s name, as she headed toward the side gate to the backyard with her daypack and the box of nails. She frantically brainstormed simple explanations for why she looked as though she’d been in a brawl, without admitting she had.

  “Abby, the bees—” He stepped forward, looked her up and down. “My God, woman, what happened to you?”

  “Obviously, I ran into something. I can be a klutz at times . . . but do you mind waiting until breakfast for the highlights? I know I’m late, and I’m sorry.”

  “Fine. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Perfectly.” As much as she wanted to take a hot shower and to climb in bed, Abby knew Clay expected her to cook something. After all, he’d been working on her farmette all day. She’d have to praise him for whatever work he’d done in the master bathroom.

  “I know what it is to be drop-dead tired,” Clay said. He opened the gate, took the nail box from her, and set it on the ground. After drawing her into the yard and latching the gate, he embraced her tenderly, ignoring Sugar’s incessant whining for attention. Abby pulled away long enough to kneel and hug Sugar.

  “Good girl. I missed you, too. Settle down, now. Quiet.”

  Clay pulled her close again. “How about I tell you,” he whispered in her ear, “that I’ve already eaten and so have Sugar and the hens? I refilled the chicken feeder with crumbles, checked the water level in the dispenser, and brought in the eggs. And the bed’s already turned down.”

  “Music to my ears,” Abby whispered back. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she dared not close them out of fear of falling asleep right then and there, on her feet, in his arms.

  “Let’s go inside,” he murmured.

  “Mmm . . . yes. If we don’t, the mosquitoes will have us for dinner.”

  * * *

  Abby awoke from sleep as a breeze gusted through the harmonic chimes beyond the bedroom window. Lying on her back, with her head resting on the cool cotton pillow, she breathed in the scent of night-blooming jasmine and tuberose mingled with Clay’s citrusy aftershave. She could hear Sugar snoring like a big dog at the foot of the bed.

  Turning her head slightly, she opened her eyes to narrow slits. Clay rested next to her in a semi-upright position against a pillow, scrolling through images on his laptop screen. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she lay listening to his pattern of clicking and stopping before clicking again. It was kind of nice having his company, although it no longer felt as special as it once had. Still, he loved her and wanted to give her his life, or so he’d said. She would give their relationship a chance. Scroll . . . stop . . . linger. When Abby opened her eyes to see if he was shopping for building materials, her breath caught in her throat. He wasn’t shopping for building materials; he was shopping for a woman. Abby’s he
art scudded against her chest wall. Oh, no . . . no, no, no, Clay.

  Apparently unaware Abby was watching, Clay spent a minute more gazing at the woman with long raven-colored hair, who wore tight jeans and cowboy boots. The name Randi was printed in big sparkly letters on the paper fan she held, as if her very presence could turn up the heat. Clay clicked off Randi, only to pause again to view a woman with toffee-colored hair who wore red lipstick and a frilly knit shirt with an image of the state of Texas outlined on it. When he reached for his smartphone, Abby felt her anger rise like a simmering pot on the verge of a boilover. The Lone Star State . . . Oh, really? His next port of call? A new location, a new woman? She could hear him entering the woman’s information, or at least she assumed that was what he was doing. Abby closed her eyes, feeling too tired and too angry to confront him. She lay still as a corpse, listening to her heart gallop like a stallion fleeing a wildfire.

  As if mirroring her discord, the chimes clanged from a sudden wind gust. She rolled away from him to face the window, slowed her breath, and tried to center herself. Her mind struggled to process her discovery. What possible explanation could there be, except that he was surfing dating sites? Why are you so surprised? Despite what he said when he showed up here, he just needs a place to land between jobs. He must have figured he could rekindle your feelings for him faster than a rooster could hop a hen. Abby pulled the sheet over her eyes to blot her tears.

  She lay there for a long time, so long it seemed like several hours had passed since Clay had turned off his laptop and fallen asleep. Even after she’d reasoned through her feelings of betrayal, she couldn’t stop obsessing about exactly when he might leave her. He would have the electrical work on the master bath completed sometime tomorrow. The next day, most likely, he’d get the windows and insulation in place. Then the backer board would have to be installed before he could move in the jetted tub and the showerhead. He would need another day or so to hang Sheetrock. Hopefully, he’d stay long enough to tape and plaster the walls. That would leave her with sanding, tiling, painting, wiring the lights, and laying the floor—jobs he knew she could handle. It would just take some time. Oh, how perfectly he had played his hand. She wanted to punch him.