by Meera Lester
The flashlight went dark. The window rolled up. The car inched on. Abby crawled on all fours to the truck’s rear and peered into the darkness and fog, attempting to get a look at the license plate before the fog hazed over it. She watched the older-model, light-colored sedan brake and turn left, but not before Abby spotted the broken or missing lens cover of the passenger side taillight. When the driver gunned the engine, the tires screeched onto the country road, and the car fishtailed into a getaway.
She exhaled a breath of relief. After blotting her bruised and bleeding knees with her silk dress, Abby struggled to stand upright. She found her purse, and clutching it, she limped toward the incline—in the direction of the shot. She moved as stealthily as possible with her broken heel, not daring to call out Emilio’s name.... There might be another shooter. It was unlikely, but then again . . . Who or what had the perp been targeting?
Parked beneath the pale light of a pole lamp, Abby spotted a car with the driver’s side door open. A Ford Escort. Paola’s? The hair stood up on the back of Abby’s neck. Adrenaline rushed through her. Her hobbling gave way to a limping run. She could see the driver slumped over the wheel. As Abby got closer, she realized that the driver was motionless, as if in a deep slumber. It was Jake. Her gaze moved to the passenger, crumpled forward, as if in a defensive position. The pole lamp splayed light into the car’s interior, illuminating Paola’s head, which was slumped in a weird position, the red hibiscus still perfectly pinned into her chignon.
Abby’s heartbeat pounded. She stifled a cry. Choked back tears. No time to cry. Think. Assess. What’s happened here? Abby had heard only one shot. Of that, she was certain. One shot, two vics. Only one explanation. The bullet entered and exited Jake’s head and struck Paola. Abby felt for Jake’s pulse. Found none. After hustling to the other side of the car, she opened the door with her wadded dress skirt. Reaching toward the dash and feeling for a pulse on Paola’s wrist, Abby feared the worst. Then . . . Oh, God in heaven, yes. A pulse. Weak and thready, but palpable.
“Paola, can you hear me? It’s Abby. Please, please hang on. I’m going to get help.”
Abby’s thoughts raced. My phone? Where is it? Oh, no. Coat pocket. Hannah took it. Run. Abby kicked off her heels and sucked in a sharp breath at the cold, wet sensation on the bottoms of her feet. With purse and shoes in hand, she sprinted barefoot on the frosty pavement back to the kitchen—breathing steam into the frigid night air like a life depended on it and knowing it did.
Inside the kitchen, Abby dashed to the phone she had seen on the back wall, by the door. Trying not to fumble the receiver, she hastily tapped in the number of the emergency dispatch.
A female voice asked, “What’s your emergency?”
Abby replied, “This is Abigail Mackenzie. One gunshot fired at the Country Schoolhouse Winery. Back lot. Two vics. Male dead, female alive, barely. Notify police of a one-eight-seven, and send an ambulance.”
Jicama and Persimmon Salad
Ingredients:
1 small head romaine lettuce, leaves rinsed and patted dry
2 Fuyu persimmons
½ small jicama
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lime juice
1 teaspoon honey
½ teaspoon kosher salt (or to taste)
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper (or to taste)
¼ cup toasted pepitas (optional)
Directions:
Tear the lettuce leaves into bite-size pieces and place in a large salad bowl. Set aside.
Peel the persimmons and cut them into ½-inch half-moon slices. Next, peel the jicama and cut it into matchstick-sized pieces. Arrange the persimmon slices and the jicama matchsticks atop the reserved lettuce. Set the salad aside.
Combine in a small bowl the olive oil, lime juice, honey, salt, and pepper. Whisk vigorously until the dressing is well blended.
Drizzle the dressing over the reserved salad and toss it to coat evenly. Sprinkle the salad with the pepitas, if desired, and serve at once.
Serves 4
Chapter 3
Your dog will guard your house and chickens
but never your snack.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
The whimpering of her darling dog Sugar—who didn’t understand why her owner was so distressed—reminded Abby to snap out of her despair any way she could. When she’d rescued Sugar after the town’s pastry chef met an untimely demise, Abby hadn’t fully understood how to be a perfect dog parent. Still didn’t. She reckoned it would be a lifelong learning endeavor. But even so, she took a therapeutic comfort in the dog’s companionship as she fed Sugar a treat and munched on a piece of dark chocolate, as if it could shift her hormones into feel-better mode.
She hadn’t slept after being questioned by the police. She’d driven Kat home and returned to the farmette and crawled into bed and stayed there well after sunup, despite not being able to sleep. Mid-morning, tired and bleary eyed, Abby made her way to her garden. Behind the last corn row, she picked a bunch of late-blooming sunflowers and put them in a cobalt-blue vase. She took the arrangement to the hospital intensive care unit, hoping to see Paola. The ICU supervisor explained that visitation was limited to immediate family only—two at a time, and then, only five minutes of each hour. Furthermore, flowers and live plants were not permitted. Abby sank into a chair in the empty waiting room. Holding the vase of blooms in her lap, she closed her eyes and pondered the intangible and yet impenetrable wall that now existed between her and Paola.
Abby prayed for Paola’s speedy recovery. Not only because her friend deserved a beautiful life—certainly that—but also because Abby hoped Paola would be able to bring absolute clarity to what had happened the night before. Initially, Abby had felt sure about what she’d seen and heard, but later, she hadn’t been as positive. At times during the night, she had felt so muddled of mind that she wondered if she hadn’t imagined some of the details.
The arrival of the elevator brought Abby to a wide-eyed attention. She watched as a nurse hurried inside the carriage and pushed a button. The doors closed. Alone again, Abby toyed with the idea of investigating Jake’s death on her own. No one could know, of course, not even Kat. Chief Bob Allen had made it clear that if Kat did any more favors for Abby, it could mean losing her job. And if discovered, Abby, too, had plenty to lose, including her friendships with the coroner and the cops she’d once worked with who were still on the force. The chief would not tolerate anyone meddling in an active murder investigation. End of story.
The next day, Abby again drove to the hospital, believing that she would be allowed in to see Paola with Luna, who visited Paola every day. Even if Paola could not respond, she could hear and perhaps recognize Abby’s voice as Abby whispered words of comfort and prayers for healing. But the nursing staff remained firm about adhering to the established protocols, and Luna had arrived with Eva. The nursing staff knew they were sisters. Even when Luna tried to persuade the nursing staff that Abby was more of a sister to Paola than a friend, the nursing supervisor remained unconvinced that it was reason enough to break the rules. On the third day after the murder, Abby asked Luna to keep her informed about Paola’s progress via a daily phone call, and Luna agreed.
For the rest of the week, Abby spent as many daylight hours as possible working around the farmette. The murder dominated her thoughts as she planted bunching onions, radishes, and chives, along with some leafy lettuces and spinach in cold frames. Uncertain of how she would use river rock in her landscape, she restacked the pile under the elm tree in front of her house. And she clipped away the wild side shoots of the Japanese wisteria that were taking over the side gate trellis. Always, her mind returned to questions about who had a motive to kill Jake and critically injure Paola. Abby believed that seeing Paola could help reduce the anxiety she felt daily, but a visit to her friend wouldn’t happen until she was out of the ICU and into a step-down unit. Soldier on, Abby kept reminding herse
lf.
The narrative of Jake and Paola’s married life might have been tempestuous, but it didn’t support a case of murder-suicide, and the police had found no gun at the scene. Every question Abby conceived returned in a circular fashion. Who had a motive to murder Jake, and was he even the primary target? Did the killer know Jake would be driving Paola’s car that night? Had the murderer intended to kill Paola? Had Paola offended a town merchant in that dispute over rental space she wanted for a truffle shop? Could that have driven someone to murder? Could the killer have shot Jake before realizing that Paola wasn’t driving her car? How had the killer convinced Jake to lower the window on such a cold, foggy night? Did the killer know Jake? Or Paola? As Abby knew, Paola didn’t have an enemy in the world, so why would anyone want to hurt her? None of it made any sense.
* * *
By Halloween, seven days after the murder, Abby had grown impatient to find out how Paola was progressing physically. She telephoned Luna and learned that Paola was in stable condition but that the doctors were keeping her in a medically induced coma to allow the swelling to subside. Luna told Abby that it could be weeks before her sister would regain consciousness—and then someone would have to tell Paola about Jake’s death.
Abby cringed at the thought of Paola trying to process the reality of what had happened, even as the poor woman was trying to recover and heal. Still, the cops would need to know if she saw the killer and who might have wanted to harm her and Jake. In the meantime, the knowledge that Katerina Petrovsky and Sergeant Otto Nowicki were on the case gave Abby some comfort. Those two, along with Lieutenant Sinclair, who was a new officer, and Chief Bob Allen, would be casting a wide net. Nettie, the CSI technician, and Bernie de la Cruz in the evidence room might also help with the case. Jake’s killer wouldn’t be on the loose for long.
Eager to resume her normal life, Abby decided to spend the day in town. The swelling beneath her eye had gone away. She dressed in one of her many plaid flannel shirts and jeans. She tugged on lug boots and slipped into an old leather jacket she’d bought several seasons ago at Twice Around Markdowns. On the way out, she wrapped a scarf around her neck and grabbed her daypack. After driving into Las Flores, she parked her Jeep on Main Street and dashed into Edna Mae’s antique store and quilt shop.
The scents of autumn potpourri, cinnamon, and apple cider permeated the brightly lit interior. Under her arm, Abby carried a cardboard box with an orange lid that contained an unfinished quilt from Edna Mae. Abby also had tucked into the pocket of her leather aviator jacket an eight-ounce jar of her Henny Penny Farmette trademark honey.
“I owe you this for the quilt pieces,” Abby said, pulling the jar from her pocket.
The big-boned woman, well past middle age, looked up from the spools of thread she had been organizing on a Peg-Board. “Well, thanks, Abby. I hope you didn’t make a special trip into town just to bring it?”
“No, not really. Now that the weather’s turned nice again, I thought I would run some errands on this lovely Halloween day. You know, like check my post office box, see if there’s any work for me at the DA’s office, and get my honey deliveries back on schedule. This jar comes from the fall harvest, so it’s darker in color and earthier in taste. I hope you like it.”
“Well, of course I will,” said Edna Mae. She gave Abby her full attention. “So how’s the quilting coming along, dear?”
Abby rolled her eyes. “I wish I could say it’s coming along, but that wouldn’t be the truth.... Something’s gone very wrong with the pattern.” She frowned. “And I’m not sure piecework suits me.”
Surprise lit the bright blue eyes peering from behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, let me see what you’ve done.”
Abby set the jar of honey aside on the glass countertop next to the register and opened the orange-lidded box.
Edna Mae examined the blocked pieces that were sewn together. “Oh, dear, dear. I see it. Your attention wandered right here.” A twisted, arthritic finger, its wrinkled knuckle swollen into deformity, pointed at a row of squares where the pattern clearly had changed. “But it can be fixed,” Edna Mae said in an optimistic tone. She picked up the large square and flipped it over. Then, shaking her head, she returned the piece to its right side.
“How?” Abby exhaled a long, deep breath. “Let me guess. I have to start over?”
“Well, yes, dear, you have to reestablish the pattern.”
Edna Mae reached into the box, beneath folded pieces of whole cloth and a pile of fabric squares, as if feeling for something. Eventually, she pulled forth a paper with shaded boxes and a key. “Now, dear, were you following the diagram?”
“Not really. The truth is, I never noticed it.”
“Never noticed it?” Edna Mae unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the counter. “That’s so unlike you, Abby. You notice everything.”
Abby thought of offering up an excuse to explain why she’d ruined the quilt pattern. Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe I was still obsessing over a murderer on the loose, she mused silently. In spite of the congenial and friendly manner in which Edna Mae offered advice, Abby felt her face flush warm. Her heart raced. There was no reason for the apprehension she felt, but it was there all the same.
Looking directly into Edna Mae’s bright, inquisitive eyes, Abby replied, “I guess I had murder on my mind.”
“We all have, dear. That manifestation of evil has marred our lovely little town. It’s just so terrible that you had to witness it. The whole downtown is talking about it.” Edna Mae took a white hankie from inside her sweater sleeve and blotted it against her nose. She slipped the hankie back into her pocket. “Not me, of course, but lots of townsfolk are saying that Jake Winston deserved what happened to him. Sorry to say.”
Abby felt her body tense. She quickly corrected Edna Mae about being an eyewitness. “I didn’t see the shot being fired or the person who fired it. I heard it.”
“But I thought you’d found the bodies.”
“Well, yes, I did, but I wish I’d never seen them that way.”
“I’m sure it was terrible for you.” Edna Mae’s energy shifted. Her tone softened. Reaching out an arthritic hand, she touched Abby’s shoulder.
Abby flinched without understanding why, and Edna Mae withdrew her hand. “It’s just wrong,” said Abby. “Nobody has the right to snatch away another person’s life. And Jake’s reputation aside, he didn’t deserve to die like some animal in a hunter’s gun sight. Paola didn’t deserve what happened to her. She’s an innocent in all this.”
“Some say she had a little something going with that barrel room worker. Surely, you’ve heard the talk, dear.”
Abby’s body tensed. “I don’t believe it. That’s just utter nonsense . . . gossip from people who have nothing else to gab about. Give me a break.”
Edna Mae’s shocked expression made Abby wish she could call back her words, start the conversation over. Her heart pounding like a hammer, Abby wanted to run straight out the door, but she managed through sheer will to remain rooted in place. What’s got ahold of you? Get a grip.
The lines in Edna Mae’s face etched themselves into a concerned expression. “Don’t take this the wrong way, dear, but you talk like you might have a smidgen of post-traumatic stress. You’re no longer on the force, now are you? You saw your friend Paola hanging to life by a thread. On the force, you could get some counseling. But now . . . I wonder, dear, is there anyone you can discuss this with? Talking can help, you know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Abby, not meaning for the words to come out so forcefully. She didn’t want to get into this subject with Edna Mae. The last thing she wanted to happen was for the locals to gossip about her mental state.
Edna Mae’s lips thinned as she appeared to be thinking through a new tack. “Look, dear, I’ve got some cider heating in the back, on a hot plate. Shall we have a cup?”
“No, but thanks, anyway,” said Abby. “I’m sorry for speaking so sharp
ly. I really should go.”
Edna Mae put her hand on Abby’s arm. “Oh, no, dear. Not just yet. Please. I need to tell you something that might be relevant. I’ve told the police already. It’s not hearsay. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Abby dropped her defensiveness. She waited for Edna Mae to reveal some little detail that would likely have no relevance to anything but the gossip the antique shop owner had been hearing and repeating.
“That man, Jake Winston,” said Edna Mae. “He came in here the day before he died.”
“I’m listening.” Abby stared intently at Edna Mae’s bright blue eyes behind her wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “Did he say why he’d come to a shop of antiques and quilts?”
The bell jingled on the front door. Two senior citizen quilters strolled in. One wore a quilted vest over her sweater. The heavier of the two wore a lightweight coat and walked with a cane. They called out their good mornings to Edna Mae and headed to the other side of the store.
As the women began thumbing through the first round rack of quilted shams on hangers, Edna Mae leaned in closer to Abby and whispered conspiratorially, “He asked me to show his young friend some of my Amish quilts. They’re collectibles, you know, and quite expensive. It cost me a lot to get them insured and shipped here.”
Abby’s antenna went on high alert. “Young friend, you say? A woman?”
“Yes, a woman. Jake’s interior decorator, I think is how he introduced her. Although I must say, the lady didn’t seem to know much about quilts.”
