The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  After some deep breathing to calm down, Abby remembered that Clay had mentioned his truck would arrive on Saturday. By her rough calculations, he’d likely be free to leave on Tuesday or Wednesday. Clay must have had a pretty good idea of his exit date from the moment he waltzed into her house. Abby wished he could have just been straight about it, could have told her the truth. Why had he felt it necessary to give her the “I can’t live without you” speech? And she’d bought his act, which lessened her guilt about spending so much time on Fiona’s murder case and with Jack. Fuming inside, Abby decided to let the future unravel. Why confront Clay when she wasn’t thrilled to be in this relationship, anyway? Maybe the wisest thing would be to remain civil and keep up appearances until he left. She hated dramatic scenes and honestly just didn’t have the energy to “go there.”

  The next day, before sunup, Abby checked on Ruby after feeding and watering the chickens. The Rhode Island Red hen had no problem running to the feeder or following Abby around in the run. Perhaps Clay had misread Ruby’s walk or imagined a problem when there wasn’t one. However, the bee swarm was another story. Abby thought about not bothering to ask him to help her and trying to retrieve it herself. But it was too high. She needed a pair of helping hands. Luckily, he was nearby and eager to assist. Perhaps he felt guilty about surfing the Internet for a new paramour, she thought.

  Abby donned her beekeeper’s suit and positioned the empty hive box under the swarm. Without a second suit for Clay, she relegated him to remaining on the ground while she climbed the ladder and, on her cue, to pulling hard on the rope to dislodge the bees. Worried that the bees might also just fly off, Abby devised a means to try to capture the greatest number of them and, hopefully, the queen for her hive. In the garden shed, she located a five-gallon plastic bucket and cut away the bottom. Using duct tape, she attached a black plastic contractor’s bag to the bottom opening, and using wire and a couple of screws, she connected an extendable painter’s pole to the bucket’s top rim.

  Pulling her elbow-length goatskin gloves over her bee suit sleeves, she told Clay what he needed to do. “Stand to one side, and when I give you the signal to pull, give the rope a hard yank.” Abby hustled up the ladder and positioned the plastic bucket on the pole directly beneath the swarm after extending the pole to reach the swarm. She made a motion like pulling on a bell and readied the makeshift swarm catcher.

  Clay jerked so hard, he snapped off the end of the limb. Luckily, most of the swarm dropped into the bucket and right on down into the contractor’s bag, just as Abby had envisioned. She descended the ladder, struggling not to drop the bag of bees, while Clay took off running. Thousands of bees, still sensing the queen’s pheromones, which were telling them to swarm, encircled Abby.

  “Get farther back,” she called to Clay. She could see angry scout bees buzzing past him as he watched the spectacle.

  Abby turned the makeshift swarm catcher upside down and shook the bees into the empty hive box. She adjusted the box’s position so its opening faced the tree that had just held the swarm. That would make it easier for the bees still circling to find their way into their new home. After laying aside her makeshift swarm catcher, Abby walked over to the patio and retrieved ten wax frames, drained of honey and previously cleaned by the bees. These she inserted into the hive box. Slowly, she slid the lid along the box top, leaving a two-inch gap for any bee laggers to make their way in.

  With the bees dealt with, Abby unzipped her suit and stepped out of it. She folded it and placed it in the large basket that held the smoker, pellet fuel, the powdered sugar medicine, the hive clamp, and the wax scraper. She took the basket of materials and the swarm catcher back to the apiary. Before returning to the patio, she dropped to her knees by a raised bed and picked some fresh strawberries for breakfast.

  “So what’s your plan today?” Clay asked after they’d dined on yogurt, fresh berries, and toast spread with homemade apricot jam. “I feel bad that we’ve hardly spent any time together.” He handed Abby his empty yogurt bowl. She set it on hers, strolled to the sink, and placed the bowls alongside the mugs of coffee and glasses of juice they’d drained.

  “’Fraid I’ll be gone most of the day, dealing with things in town again,” she said in a quiet tone. She avoided looking at him, hoping not to slide into the anger simmering under her calm exterior. “I’ve got to take care of some farmette business and attend Fiona’s funeral.” She changed the subject. “There are sandwich fixings and potato soup in the fridge . . . and don’t go claiming that you can’t cook, as it’s something we used to do a lot together.”

  “I remember,” he said, pinning her at the sink and slipping his arms around her. “When will you be home?”

  Abby shrugged. “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “Well, I thought that if I knocked off early, we could share a glass of wine and cook dinner together. After that, we could see what kind of trouble we could get into.”

  Perfectly understanding his intention, she nudged him back, reached for the tea towel, and began to wipe her hands. “I’ll let you know if I’m going to be later than seven o’clock.” She hung the towel over the oven door handle and leaned down to pat Sugar on the head.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m pushing you, Abby,” said Clay. “I can’t change what I did before, but I’m trying to make it up to you now.” His tone became animated. “You just wait. Your master bath is going to be so dramatic, it’ll stop traffic on Farm Hill Road.”

  “It’s a little early for such hyperbole, isn’t it?” She forced a smile. “But you must know that I appreciate your efforts, Clay. I am truly grateful.”

  Abby opened the patio slider and pulled back the screen door. Sugar bounded out, and Abby followed, then closed the door behind her, hoping Clay wouldn’t follow. Walking the farmette with Sugar had become one of the most relaxing things she did. Today, more than ever, she wanted to stroll solo through the orchard, past the raised beds of strawberries, over to the herb garden and the vegetable patch, and then back to check on the chickens and bees. Luckily, Clay didn’t follow, which, as she walked quietly with Sugar, soon brought Abby a measure of peace. She stopped to listen to a mockingbird sing its bright song—thweeet-thweeet-thweet, right-here, right-here, worky-worky-worky. A few minutes later, the nail-gun compressor started up, drowning out the bird’s song.

  Potato Soup with Fresh Herbs

  Ingredients:

  4 tablespoons unsalted butter

  1½ pounds russet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch

  dice

  1¼ cups chopped yellow onions

  1 teaspoon salt

  Freshly cracked black pepper, to taste

  3½ cups chicken stock

  1 tablespoon finely minced fresh herbs (equal parts parsley,

  English thyme, lemon balm, chives, and marjoram),

  plus a pinch for garnishing

  ½ cup half-and-half

  Directions:

  Melt the butter in a large heavy saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the potatoes, onions, salt, and pepper and gently stir to coat the potatoes with the butter. Cover and cook for 10 minutes.

  Add the chicken stock and the herbs to the potatoes, cover, and cook over medium heat until the potatoes are soft, about 15 minutes.

  Pour the potato mixture into a food processor or a blender and puree. Return the soup to the saucepan and stir in the half-and-half. Adjust the seasoning.

  Pour the soup into a tureen or soup bowls, garnish with the remaining herbs, and serve at once.

  Serves 4

  Chapter 15

  When the old honeybee queen dies, the first

  new queen to emerge from her cell will sting

  the other queens to death; only one queen

  rules the hive.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  Abby stood in the apiary, with her hands clutching the metal lid of the new hive box. Her psychic and emotional equilibrium had been knocked out of balance. Irrational as she
knew it to be, she had somehow managed to turn the anger she felt toward Clay inward, blaming herself. Why had she let him convince her they could pick up the pieces and move forward? Why had she believed him, instead of trusting her own intuition? Why, when her heart had finally healed, had she set herself up for disappointment? She didn’t need Clay, she didn’t need any man, and the years he was gone had taught her that. Besides, there were other men around, like Jack or Lucas.

  The sound of the bees, their vibration, and the smell of their honey comforted her so much, she’d lost track of how long she had remained near the hives. More than anything else, she wanted to avoid Clay. She would not literally or telegraphically communicate her disappointment. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he still had the ability to wound her.

  Leaving the comforting presence of the hive, Abby returned to the house and gathered her clothes for the funeral. She carried them into the small bathroom. After showering and drying off, she slipped into a belted, knee-length black dress with cap sleeves and a wide cowl collar, and French heels with ankle straps. She twisted her reddish-gold mane into a French twist, anchoring it with pins and a hair clip embellished with roses worked in marcasite. She decided to keep her makeup understated. She applied an ivory foundation over her face and chose a lipstick and blush in a tangerine hue to complement the color of her blue-green eyes. A pair of silver and onyx drop earrings and dark sunglasses completed the solemn, respectful look she sought.

  Driving the Jeep along the silent black ribbon of asphalt to Las Flores, Abby thought about Tom and Fiona. Their love might have seemed true and strong to Fiona, but if it were, indeed, so strong, why wouldn’t Tom break his ties to the commune? Why had he sought a divorce instead? Abby could only imagine what their relationship might have been like as best friends, lovers, spouses . . . and now he was left to bury her. Tom probably felt guilty, as if his leaving had led to her death. How do you go on after something as horrible as that? She thought about two lines in a poem by Henry Scott Holland, long since dead himself: There is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

  Abby hit the scan button on the radio until she found some agreeable music to keep her company on the way into town. After arriving at her destination, she dashed up the steps of the Church of the Holy Names and hurried into the narthex. Girding herself against the guilt she felt for lapsing in the religion dutifully instilled in her, she dipped her finger in the basin of holy water and made the sign of the cross. Her French heels clicked against the patterned marble floor as she approached the glass doors to enter the nave of the church. She strolled into the interior, now bathed with light streaming through old-world-style stained-glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross. The doors creaked shut behind her.

  Father Joseph had already led the procession of the flower-draped coffin and the congregation down the aisle and was sprinkling the holy water. The church smelled of lemon-scented wood polish, candle wax, camphor, and the scent of flowers—gardenias, lilies, lavender, and sweet peas. As she approached the altar, Abby spotted Jack, paused to make a slight bow before the altar, and then sidled over to the pew. She genuflected and trod softly over to where Jack sat with his hands in his lap.

  “Hi,” she whispered, scooting into the seat.

  Attired in a white button-down dress shirt, a black suit, and a black-and-gray-striped tie, Jack looked up and acknowledged her with a smile. Despite the somber occasion, he exuded masculine vitality. Squeezing her hand, he whispered back, “Thanks for coming,” and then, “Your cheek looks puffy. . . . How’s the eye?”

  Abby lifted her sunglasses so he could see the black and deep red circle surrounding it. She watched Jack’s lips tighten into a thin line. He hung his head, as if he blamed himself for the whole affair. After the opening song, for which they stood, and the prayer that followed, Abby stole a glance at those gathered behind them. Tom sat two rows back, flanked by Premalatha Baxter and Dak Harmon. They stared at the coffin. Tom’s puffy red eyes and grim expression seemed to reflect a man lacking a rudder and floating adrift in dangerous waters. He looked over at Abby. Apparently sensing her concern for him, he touched his heart with his hand and nodded.

  A few townspeople and Main Street shop owners had come to pay their respects, but it still wasn’t much of a crowd. Abby spotted Kat, dressed in a tailored suit, at the back of the nave and a man Abby didn’t recognize but suspected was an undercover cop, across the aisle from Kat. Abby took comfort in the knowledge that cops often showed up at wakes, the funerals of homicide victims, and celebrations of life gatherings. They would come not only to observe the friends and family of the deceased, but also to notice if one or more of the individuals in attendance were suspects or persons of interest. No place was sacred if cops had sufficient reason to arrest someone.

  The church secretary stepped before the podium situated on the right side of the church, in front of the baptismal font. Pushing back her short, gray hair to tuck the tips of her wire-rimmed glasses behind her smallish ears, she began her reading. The woman’s monotone set Abby’s thoughts adrift . . . back to happier times when she and Clay were both on the same page about their feelings for each other. But, like a meteor in the night sky, that love—if it truly ever was that for him—had flamed out. At least this time, Abby knew the way forward. This time, she would be the one to sever the fragile thread that held them together. She forced her thoughts back to the funeral.

  After listening to the readings from the Old and New Testaments, Abby heard the double glass doors at the back of the nave creak open, and she turned to see Laurent Duplessis slide into a pew. Later, during Father Joseph’s short homily about the gift of life and the inevitability of death, she heard the doors open again. Someone had either come in or gone out, but since the priest was looking right at her, Abby didn’t turn around.

  By the time the Mass had ended and they’d caravanned to the graveside at the Church of the Pines—roughly a mile from town and up a mile or so in the mountains—for the final Rite of Committal, Abby noticed Laurent Duplessis had not come to the site. Then Father Joseph spoke. “The earth is the Lord’s and all it holds, the world and those who live there.... Who can stand in his holy place? The clean of hand and the pure of heart . . .” At one point, Tom cried out in aching agony, his lament sounding sorrowful enough to summon Fiona’s spirit. Abby trembled and fought against the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Despite her eyes brimming with tears, she saw Premalatha reach out for Tom’s arm to steady him. He jerked from her touch.

  After the recitation of a psalm, there were other prayers. Then a parishioner played a haunting rendition of “Amazing Grace” on the uilleann pipes. Six men lowered the casket into the ground. And then . . . it was over.

  After the commune people had left and the few townsfolk had departed, Jack thanked Father Joseph and left the grave diggers to do their work. As he’d ridden with Abby and Kat to the cemetery, Jack remained only long enough to say a private good-bye and then rejoined the two women at the Jeep.

  “So what now?” Jack asked. He rubbed the right jaw of his cleanly shaven face as his question was met with Abby’s silence and Kat’s blank stare. He sighed and said, “In our family’s ancestral village generations upon generations ago, according to my grandparents, we’d lay out our deceased family member in nice clothes for the final viewing. The menfolk would arrive, their pockets bulging with bottles of spirits. The women would make food enough to feed half the county, and then we’d open a window for the spirit to depart. Of course, if the wind was wailing and the rain sheeting, we would crack that window a wee bit, but only for as long as we thought the spirit might be around. We’d eat and drink . . . mostly drink . . . and tell stories about the times we’d spent enjoying that person’s company.”

  Jack paused to chuckle. “Mind you, sometimes this would take all night. Come morning, with our heads pounding from hangovers, we’d drag ourselves to the church for Mass and then fol
low the casket, the poor deceased’s body bumping along the country road to the cemetery. We’d face that freshly dug hole and lay our loved one in it.” He paused again, this time looking wistfully toward the sky. “Then we’d drink some more. At least, that’s the way it used to be.”

  “Sounds like we should have a drink,” Abby said.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Kat agreed.

  “And what about your associate, Kat?” Abby asked.

  “He’s busy back at the church,” Kat replied.

  “Busy? Doing what?” Jack asked.

  “Inviting Laurent Duplessis down to our police station for a little chat,” said Kat. “Otto is probably having a go at Duplessis now.”

  “To discuss the robbery or the murder?” Abby asked.

  “That too.” Kat massaged the corner of her eye with her middle finger. “We had plenty of questions about that botanical shop burglary. Then Fiona’s note that you brought to the station last night, thank you very much, raise more than a few questions, so we wanted to see what Duplessis had to say.” Kat flicked a speck of an undetermined origin from the shoulder of her dark suit jacket. “My shift ended a half hour ago, so what about that drink . . . ? Black Witch okay?”

  Abby shot a questioning look at Jack.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Kat leaned closer to Abby and whispered. “The place has a new, superhot part-time bartender, who just might be working tonight.”

  Abby’s brow shot up. “Yeah? I thought you and Lucas Crawford . . .”

  “Yeah, well, let’s not go there.”