The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  * * *

  The drive into the mountains before sunset had always seemed romantic to Abby, especially in late spring. She likened it to an arty Italian film with evocative cinematography—you could almost smell the earth, warm and fragrant with hedge roses, ripe grapes, and wild thyme. You could almost see a light sifting of dust floating over the patchwork hills and the medieval stone houses in villages where bell towers rang out the canonical hours. The mountains soon worked their magic on Abby. So peaceful and absorbed in thought was she that she nearly missed the big red barn turnoff, hitting the brakes just in the nick of time.

  Only too eager to stretch her legs and sniff the environment, Sugar leaped from the Jeep as soon as Abby had opened the door. Jack jogged down to the mailbox and greeted her with a bear hug. Sugar yipped until Jack held out his hands, palms down, for her to smell. Her tail began to wag.

  “Have I passed her sniff test, Abby? Or should I be afraid she’ll take my ankle off when I stand up?”

  “Oh, please. She weighs thirty-five pounds. How could she possibly hurt a big guy like you?”

  “Yeah, well, I can think of some ways. It’s the ones at the knees you have to watch out for . . . never know which spot they’ll go for.” He grinned and tried stroking Sugar’s head, but she wouldn’t back away from him.

  “She’ll settle down,” said Abby. “Do you see that shed over there? You’ve got the key to it, I hope,” said Abby as she advanced on the path past the mailbox.

  Jack abruptly stood from where he’d squatted to pet Sugar. He reached into his long, straight-leg jeans and fished out a silver ring with several keys. “Let’s find out.” They walked over to the shed, with Sugar leading the way, nose to the ground.

  “Gosh, why does it smell like a garbage dump?” Abby asked.

  Jack wrinkled his nose. “That would be because it is. The landlord stacks his refuse bags next to that black barrel. There he incinerates them.” Jack tried a key in the padlock. It released. After removing the lock and unlatching the door, he pulled the door open and waved Abby inside.

  “Why let the bags just pile up like that so near the cottage?” said Abby. “You’d think there would be—”

  “Rats?” Jack asked.

  Sugar’s shrill, high-pitched yip-yip-yip interrupted.

  “Yes, rats,” Abby replied, hurrying over to quiet Sugar. “No. Get outta there. Now.”

  Sugar pawed at the mound of plastic and paper bags of refuse. Abby tried grabbing her, but Sugar leaped from her reach, dashed to the other side of the bags.

  “If she comes this way,” Jack said, “I’ll try to snatch her.”

  “It could be a rat or a mouse that’s got her so excited,” said Abby. “She’s definitely more interested in the garbage than the treats in my pocket. If I gave her a treat now, it would just reinforce the barking behavior.”

  “Oh,” Jack said, tapping his temple. “Now you’re going all dog whisperer on me. Brilliant. So what’s your strategy?”

  “Beats me,” said Abby. While she considered her options, Sugar plowed through the pile, knocking over bags, causing their contents to spill out. She leaped up and raced after a field mouse zigzagging toward the mailbox, up the path, and under the cottage.

  “Over soon,” said Abby. After a few minutes of frantic barking, Sugar abandoned the mouse to sniff around the bushes at the entrance, where the cats had undoubtedly marked their territory. “Oh, my gosh, Jack,” Abby said, looking at the strewn contents of a bag near his feet. “Don’t move.”

  Jack frowned, as if he feared the escaped mouse had a companion that was about to disappear up his pants leg. “What? That broken teacup?” He reached down.

  “No. Don’t . . . don’t touch it,” Abby demanded. “That teacup is one of Fiona’s. I recognize it because it belongs to that set of china I helped you pack up.”

  “So it is. Good eye.”

  “I’ve got a hunch the detectives will want to check out the items in that bag—the cup, those wadded paper towels, and that disposable cup with the Smooth Your Groove logo.”

  “Clues?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s probably a long shot. Just the same, I’m calling it in.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Abby and Jack stood near Dr. Danbury. Still in a stupor, the doc had stumbled outside to watch the police retrieve the plastic bag and its contents. He wore a wrinkled short-sleeve cotton shirt under farmers’ overalls. His oiled silver hair lay flat; he seemed to need his cane to stand upright. By the time the two cruisers pulled away, the sun had dropped low behind the blue-green mountain ridges. Fog like fingers of smoke inched through the dark valleys below. Dr. Danbury asked Abby if she and Jack would like to come over and help him finish a bottle of a local vintner’s pinot noir.

  “I’ll have to pass,” Abby said. “Thanks anyway. But, Doc, do you mind if I ask a question?”

  “Be my guest,” he said, using a ropy-veined hand to smack an insect that had alighted on his hairy arm.

  “Do you remember seeing Fiona on the morning she died?”

  “Nope. Couldn’t have,” the doctor replied.

  “Why is that?” Abby asked.

  “I stayed overnight in Las Flores. My son’s got himself a nice condo. It’s right downtown. His fiancée and I took him to the country club to celebrate.”

  “Yeah? If I may ask, what were you celebrating?”

  “His birthday. I spent the night on his couch.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t much like driving in the dark.”

  “And that’s your Volvo there?” she said, pointing to his wagon. “What about that ATV in your garage? Does anyone ever take it out for a spin?”

  “Nope. Got it for my boy four or five years ago. He used to tear all over the mountain. Not now. His girlfriend never went in for that sort of thing.” He paused. “You interested in buying it?”

  Abby smiled. “Nah. Just curious. So, to be clear, you weren’t here during that twenty-four-hour period when Fiona died?”

  “Nope.”

  “And none of your neighbors have reported seeing anyone messing around on your property?”

  “Nope. That neither.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “S’pect the wine’s breathed plenty long enough now,” Dr. Danbury said. “You joining me or not?”

  Abby shook her head. Jack had walked a few paces away to gaze at the rising full moon as the curved sliver steadily ascended to become a luminous golden disk. “Dr. Danbury wants to know if you’d like to have a drink with him, Jack.”

  “Oh, no. Thanks, Doc.” Jack turned to face them. “Abby and I are going honey hunting.”

  Apparently, Jack’s remark made no sense to the doctor, who spun around and walked with his cane back to his door.

  When the doctor had left them, Abby said, “I kind of like the honey-hunting idea. It sounds like we’re primitives going out to find hives in the wild.”

  “It might interest you to know that in Nepal, there is an ancient tradition of gathering honey from the hives of wild bees. Honey gatherers have two tools—rope ladders and long sticks . . . well, three, if you count smoke—to raid the hives on towering cliffs. It’s risky.”

  “Luckily, we won’t need ropes, smoke, or sticks. And we don’t have to go far, just to that shed over there,” Abby said with a grin. She took hold of his arm and steered him toward the shed.

  “Did you know the largest honeybee in the world is the Apis laboriosa, and it’s found in Nepal?” Jack asked.

  “I did not,” Abby replied as they approached the doorway of the shed. The shed’s exterior was illuminated by moonlight, but the interior was as dark as a covered well. “Did you know it’s next to impossible to find the honey in the dark?” She was about to add, “I’ll just get my flashlight from my pack,” when he pulled her into an embrace.

  “Who says I can’t find honey in the dark?” He tilted her face upward. His fingers trailed along her cheek.

  Abby felt giddy. Her heart pounded
like a thundering river. As he leaned in, Abby anticipated his kiss, but instead, he nuzzled his face against her neck, reached out into the darkness, and flipped on the light switch. Directly in her sight line, on a metal-framed utility shelf, rested the case of honey and six jars bearing her farmette label.

  “Oh, you’re good,” she said, at once relieved at what had not happened and at the same time wishing something had. “If you’ll carry the case, I’ll grab these jars.”

  After they had loaded the honey into the Jeep, an awkward moment passed between them until the lightbulb in the shed sputtered off. They both turned to look at it. It flickered back on and then off again. A loud pop sounded, and the light went out.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’d better turn off the juice. Don’t want to burn down the shed,” Jack said.

  Abby chuckled. “No, that would never do.” She reached down to stroke Sugar, who was pawing at her legs. “We’d better go,” said Abby, lifting Sugar’s warm, round body into the Jeep. “I’ve got my pooch to feed, my chickens to check on, and honey jars to fill with what little honey I have in the house.”

  “Well, if you must,” Jack said. “I could help, if you like.”

  “Really? When did you last fill a honey jar?”

  “Well, actually, never. But I’m a quick study. Besides, after we fill them, we can drive around delivering honey to all your customers, and I can amuse you with stories. So, what do you say?”

  Abby thought about his proposition. A sexy guy who tells the truth, is willing to help, and takes direction. What’s not to like?

  “I’m game. Do you think you can find your way to Farm Hill Road? Turn right and look for the mailbox with the chicken on it. Actually, it’s a rooster with tall tail feathers, but it marks my driveway. If you can get there by eight o’clock in the morning, I’ll have coffee ready and some killer apricot honey bread in the oven.”

  Apricot-Craisin Honey Bread

  Ingredients:

  Vegetable oil spray, for greasing the loaf pans

  1 cup diced dried apricots

  ½ cup Craisins

  ½ cup organic honey

  ¼ cup canola oil

  ⅔ cup boiling water

  2 cups whole-wheat flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon baking soda

  1 cup chopped unsalted pecans

  ½ cup evaporated milk

  1 large egg

  Directions:

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly spray three 6-x-3-inch loaf pans with the vegetable oil spray.

  Place the apricots and the Craisins in a medium bowl and add the honey, oil, and boiling water. Set aside and let cool.

  Meanwhile, sift together the flour, baking powder, and baking soda in a large bowl. Add the pecans.

  In a small bowl, whisk together the milk and the egg. Pour the egg mixture into the reserved apricots and Craisins and mix well.

  Add the apricot-Craisin mixture to the pecan-flour mixture and stir until all the ingredients are well combined.

  Pour an equal amount of batter into each of the prepared loaf pans. Allow the batter to settle. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes. Test for doneness by inserting a toothpick into the loaves. It should have no batter on it when extracted.

  Cool the mini loaves and then invert them onto a clean surface. Wrap them in foil. Let the honey bread rest overnight for the best flavor.

  Makes 3 loaves

  Chapter 19

  For a flock of appreciative clucking followers,

  sprinkle dried mealworms over a dish of greens.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  At first light, Abby ran the water in the tub of her new master bath, but the water from the spigot remained as cloudy and slightly greasy as the previous time she’d cracked it on. It dawned on her that the water had to run awhile to get rid of the flux from the new copper pipes. It was normal with new piping. Still, she wasn’t about to turn on the jets. But as she thought about it, maybe a bath wasn’t such a good idea. Jack might arrive early, before she had prepped everything. After turning off the water and dashing to the guest bathroom, she showered and did a quick blow-dry of her hair.

  Choosing a lightweight turquoise summer knit dress with hidden pockets, a scooped neck, and a flared skirt, Abby pulled it over her head and stepped into a pair of black flats. She gathered her reddish-gold locks and anchored them with a black elastic band at the base of her neck. Finally, she put on her favorite turquoise, amethyst, and seed pearl earrings and then admired her image in the mirror. She hoped the look would please Jack.

  After tying on a clean white pinafore apron, she began to load the dishwasher with jars and screw-top lids, rather than the ring lids she used for jam. Abby set the dishwasher running through its hottest cycle, but then she heard a ruckus from the chicken house. Dashing out the patio door and across the lawn, she saw a small fox pawing at the structure’s window.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” she yelled, plucking two apricots from the tree and lobbing them at the fox. The fox leaped from the henhouse and scampered up the chain-link fence.

  Abby stood in the chicken run until the hens had settled down. The black-and-white wyandottes resumed their alto-toned, gravelly g-rack, g-rack, g-rack. The white leghorns clucked in a higher pitch. Blondie, the Buff Orpington—who could be a broodzilla when she was in her broody cycle—began scratching a hole for her dirt bath. And Houdini, the rooster, let go a shrill, yet manly cock-a-doodle-doo. Abby knew they wanted out of the run to free-range forage, but that wasn’t going to happen while there was a predator in the area. Where there was one fox, more were likely, perhaps a den of them. She could still see the fox sitting on its haunches on a hill at the rear of the wooded acre. No way was she letting her feathered friends out today. Abby checked the feeder hanging from its chain and the water dispenser. Both were half full, so Abby left the run and returned to the farmhouse.

  Back inside the kitchen, she turned on the oven and set about making a batch of apricot honey bread. With the three loaf pans in the oven for the next thirty minutes, Abby carried a chair over to the washer and dryer area. From the top shelf, she took down two cardboard boxes, each holding a dozen jars of apricot jam. She set the boxes on the dining-room table.

  After putting the chair back from the washer and dryer area and tucking it under the dining table, Abby then returned to the kitchen. She poured a cup of nuggets into the dog food bowl and fresh water into the canister of the water dispenser. Next, she made a pot of coffee. When it was ready, she poured herself a cup and leaned over the counter with a pencil and paper to write out the sequence of her honey and jam deliveries, starting with the chief’s at the police department.

  Jack arrived punctually at eight o’clock that morning, dressed in a T-shirt featuring a blue morning glory and, beneath the image, its identification, Ipomoea tricolor. He wore tan cargo shorts and sand-colored lace-up espadrilles. His hair lay in loose curls across his forehead, making him more boyish-looking than usual. Sugar behaved as if Jack had become her best friend; her tail wagged wildly when he strolled into the yard through the side gate. Abby didn’t try to conceal her delight at seeing him, too. She gave Jack a quick hug and offered him a tour of her farmette, with Sugar bounding happily around them.

  His face beamed a smile as his gaze swept over her property. “Oh, yes, Abby. Show me this place you’ve created out of an old field,” he said happily.

  At the Black Tartarian trees, he picked a bright red cherry with a hole in its side. “Oh, well, what’s a small peck out of the side of an otherwise perfectly good cherry? I don’t mind sharing with the birds,” he said, then popped the cherry in his mouth and promptly spit out the seed.

  At the row of early bearing peaches, he gently squeezed three golden fruits until he was satisfied he’d found the ripest specimen. He offered it to Abby. When she shook her head, he peeled off the skin, ate the peach with relish, and tossed the pit to the ground. They walked a short distance farther and reach
ed the apple trees.

  He gave her a sexy look. “I feel like I’m in the Garden of Eden,” he said. “But the temptress hasn’t offered me the apple.”

  Abby laughed. “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Oh, isn’t that always the way? Eve didn’t hesitate to offer one to Adam.”

  “She would have if they were standing by this tree.”

  Jack’s expressive eyes danced as he regarded her quizzically.

  “Well, just look at them,” said Abby. “They’re the size of acorns. These apples won’t be ripe until autumn.”

  “Autumn, you say? What a pity. I might be gone by then.” His eyes regarded her, as if he was gauging her response.

  Abby dropped her gaze.

  “Or I might just stick around.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” Abby teased.

  His eyes locked onto hers with seemingly seductive intention. “No, not at all. By autumn, your apples might not be the only sweet thing I taste in your garden.”

  “Oh, my,” said Abby, pretending to fan away her fluster with the skirt of her apron. “I think we’ve dallied long enough. Better have our breakfast and hit the road, or I’ll be late with my deliveries.”

  * * *

  Inside the lobby of the Las Flores Police Station, with the honey order for Chief Bob Allen’s wife, Abby overheard two female dispatchers arguing. Apparently, they were both dating the same man.

  “Yeah, well, he is serially monogamous,” the older of the two women asserted.

  “You think I don’t know what that means?” said the younger dispatcher, running her fingers through her edgy bicolored black-and-platinum hairdo. She flipped her hand dismissively toward the other woman. “He dumps his current girlfriend to pursue a new one. I’m the new one.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, love. He hasn’t dumped me yet, and I don’t intend to let him.” The beads braided into her mocha-colored hair gave the older woman an exotic look. “You forget, I’m from Colombia, and there we fight for our men. I’m telling you it’s not over until I say it is.”