by Meera Lester
“Did you catch her name?” Abby asked. Such details could be significant.
“Let me think. Dorothy, Deidre . . . No, it was Dori something.”
“Purchase anything?”
“No. She wanted silk. I tried to tell her the quilts I carry are all made of colorfast cotton or lightweight wool. The quality and craftsmanship are superior. If she wants silk, I told her, visit a specialized bedding shop elsewhere in the county.”
“Could you describe her?”
Edna Mae removed her wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Lemme see. About five feet ten inches, or so . . . platinum-colored hair with dark roots. I’d say she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Oh, and that animal-print dress she wore wouldn’t have required more than a yard of material to make. You could almost see her V-Secret.”
Abby smiled. “That’s funny.”
An amused Edna Mae put her glasses back on and pointed to the diagram again. “This crisis will pass, Abby, so let the police do their job, and you get to work on this quilting pattern. It’ll take your mind off that nasty business. Now, look. See how the whole thing increases to this point and then decreases starting in the very next row?” she said, tapping the paper. “That row there is exactly the midway point in your quilt. Use this legend as your guide, your blueprint. When you follow it correctly, you’ll end up with a gorgeous quilt.” She folded the pieces to put them away and then remembered something. “Wait a minute. I recall there’s a picture of it in here somewhere.” Rummaging through the box of fabric, she located a clear plastic bag with a folded sheet of newspaper inside. She pulled it out.
Abby watched Edna Mae unfold and spread the newspaper on the countertop. Next to a half-page ad picturing the quilt, the headline read OUR QUILT COLLECTION—BEYOND COMPARE. The slug line at the top noted that the date was Wednesday, March 24, 1993, and the paper was the Kansas City Star.
“Would you look at that?” said Edna Mae. “Can’t you picture that quilt all finished and covering your bed?”
Abby nodded but wasn’t so sure. Maybe the pattern would grow on her. Or not. She was still thinking about Dori.
Edna Mae refolded the paper and slipped it back into its plastic sleeve. “This box came from an estate sale in the Midwest. Quilters are not the type of people to stop in the middle of a project. That puzzles me.”
Abby arched a brow. Really? People move. Get sick. Lose interest. Die. Don’t they?
The older woman pushed back her glasses and pulled her sweater a little tighter around her buxom body. She leaned in to study the key for the diagrammed pattern. “It’s fairly straightforward. There are only five variables of the squares—light green, dark green, light yellow, dark gold, and a floral print of all those colors. You’ll need to pull the stitches out from here on.” Edna Mae reached for a red pincushion and took a large pin with a yellow plastic head and marked the spot. “It’s working a puzzle, isn’t it? Five different pieces are rather like five suspects or five clues that you have to place correctly in your mystery for the proper solution to appear. And just like with a mystery, sometimes you have to start over at square one.”
“Thanks,” said Abby, thinking it wasn’t that great of an analogy. “When you told the police about Jake and the woman, did they think it might be important to their case?”
“I don’t know. They listened, wrote a note, and that was that.” Edna Mae flashed a smile.
“Good that you reported it,” said Abby. “I don’t keep up with Officer Petrovsky and Sergeant Nowicki as much as I used to. As you know, I’m not a cop anymore. I’m a farmer lady.”
“True,” said Edna, putting the items back in the box. “If you have trouble with the pattern again, bring the quilt back. I’m happy to help.”
After leaving Edna Mae’s shop, Abby put the quilt box back in her Jeep and strolled up the street and entered the Las Flores Police Department. At the glass partition, she asked to speak to Chief Bob Allen.
“He’s out,” said the fresh-faced uniformed officer behind the window.
“Then I’ll talk to the guy heading up the investigation into the Jake Winston murder.”
“Lieutenant Sinclair? Is he expecting you?”
“No.”
“The nature of your business?” The woman drilled Abby with a stare.
Abby hoisted her daypack a little higher on her shoulder. “I have information for him about the murder.”
“Right. I’ll let the lieutenant know you’re here. Name?”
“Abigail Mackenzie.”
Seconds later, the latch on the door clicked, and the female officer held the door open and invited Abby into the same hallway she’d trod down countless times in years past on her way to the break room, the interrogation rooms, and the chief’s office. Almost immediately, Sinclair appeared from the men’s room down the hallway.
“Oh, Lieutenant,” the fresh-faced officer called out. “Got a minute? Abigail Mackenzie here says she has information about your murder case.”
“In here,” Sinclair said. With his gruff tone, unshaven gray-streaked beard, and heavy-lidded eyes, he looked and sounded like a man who desperately needed sleep and was getting by on caffeine. He held open the door to the first interrogation room.
Abby walked in.
“Sit there,” he commanded.
Abby slid into an institutional chair, aware that it was the seat most often occupied by those suspected of breaking the law rather than upholding it.
Sinclair, middle-aged and tall—standing at least a foot taller than Abby’s five feet three inches—wore wrinkled gray dress slacks, a white oxford shirt, and a blue striped tie, its knot loosened. His light gray eyes and crew-cut gray hair gave him a weary, washed-out appearance, made worse by sallow circles beneath his eyes. To Abby’s dismay, he closed an open file on the desk and slid some other manila folders across pictures and data sheets. If there were documents, images, or files relating to the Jake Winston murder investigation on his desk, he apparently wanted to make certain she didn’t see them, at least not yet. “What do you have?”
“It might not be significant,” said Abby. “But you’ll be the judge of that.”
He stared at her. Silent. Waiting.
She repeated the information that Edna Mae had told her. “Naturally, you’ll want to get Edna Mae’s statement firsthand rather than relying on hearsay.”
“I know how to do my job, Ms. Mackenzie.”
“Of course you do. I just meant—”
“Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Abby, chalking up his ill temper to lack of sleep. Abby decided she’d ask him a question, anyway. “I was wondering if the killer left evidence at the scene, like a bullet casing or—”
“You can stop right there. What we know about this case is none of your business. Chief Bob Allen has briefed me on your service here. I’ve also heard that you don’t seem to have a problem inserting yourself into an active investigation. I can’t help it that you still have close friends in the department and somehow find out information before anyone else does, but that doesn’t mean I like it. You made that call to dispatch in the nick of time to save your friend Paola Varela’s life. That does not entitle you to special consideration. It certainly doesn’t give you the right to learn insider information about this case. You’ve given us your statement. So I’ll just say this once. Stay away from the Jake Winston murder case.”
Abby sat in stunned silence.
He drilled her with a steely-eyed stare. “In general, I’ve found that when people take an undue interest in an active case, it generally means they have an ulterior motive or something to hide.”
“Oh, please. Don’t be ridiculous.” Abby felt her pulse quicken. Her stomach knotted. She rose. He remained seated. She glared at him, wondering if she should just say what she was thinking. You don’t treat witnesses this way. In a clipped tone, she said, “You’re right about me not being a cop. But as an ex-cop, I know that alienating people around you who might
be able to help solve the case, disregarding relevant information, and badgering a key witness are no way to launch a murder investigation.” Surely he didn’t already suspect that she intended to do her own secret investigation, or did he?
Abby jerked open the door and stormed down the hallway. She had no more time to waste on a tired cop who seemed intent on asserting his authority but doing it in a way more suggestive of having a chip on his shoulder and an attitude to go with it, rather than using a thoughtful, more professional approach. Maybe he was just having an off day. Or was tired. Or he was suspicious of her showing up with a possibly spurious detail from a third party.
Outside, Abby leaned against the streetlamp post. You’ve dealt with Sinclair types before. Why let him get under your skin? And ditto for responding so sharply to Edna Mae. Abby struggled for composure, trying to make sense of her overreaction. Back in the day, her fellow cops could always count on her to remain calm, clear eyed, and focused in any situation. Maybe Edna Mae was right. Maybe she ought to talk to someone about the reactionary feelings she seemed unable to control. Abby made a mental note to get checked out when she had more time and money. In the meantime, she would rely on her herbal remedies and teas to calm her frazzled nerves. And she’d find some paper and make an incident poster on which to list relevant facts, list the people in Jake’s orbit, and create a timeline. As she uncovered more information, she’d add it to the poster and start making linkages. Taking action rather than doing nothing would help her face the darkness within that was robbing her of peace. Of that, she felt sure. And sooner or later, the killer’s name would emerge.
After hoisting a case of honey from the passenger seat of her Jeep, Abby walked into the kitchen of Zazi’s bistro and handed the chef the jars of honey with an invoice. After they’d settled up, she returned to her Jeep and drove to the post office to retrieve her business mail. And then it was on to the DA’s office to see if she could pick up some part-time work over the holidays. After being told that the DA didn’t have any new work for her and probably wouldn’t have any until after the New Year, Abby left and steered a course to the pie shop.
“Here you go, Maisey. Six jars, eight ounces each.” Abby set the carton on the counter. “This is a little earthier tasting than my spring honey,” she explained. “That’s because in the fall, my bees gathered pollen from mostly star thistle, eucalyptus blooms, and whatever else they can find in addition to the lavender. But a lot of my customers favor the autumn honey.”
Maisey pulled a jar from the box and inspected it. “Oh, it’s a lovely color. Six jars. Was that all I ordered? What was I thinking? Already the holiday pie orders are rolling in. Next chance you get, bring me another six, will you, Abby?”
“You got it.” Abby grinned and presented the invoice. While Maisey wiped her hands on the apron covering her floral-print dress and then counted out the payment from the cash drawer, Abby admired the wide assortment of pies in the display case.
“Here you go. Sixty dollars.” Maisey picked up a napkin holder that needed filling. “So, how have you been, Abby?”
Abby slipped the money into her blue zippered banking envelope and tucked the envelope back into her daypack. “Guess I can’t complain.”
“Now, you’re not being entirely truthful, are you?” Maisey’s look challenged Abby to be more forthright.
“Okay, so I’ve been better,” said Abby.
Narrowing her eyes and lowering her voice, Maisey put her hands on her hips, leaned in, and said, “We’ve all heard about the murder up at the Country Schoolhouse Winery. You found the victims. I forget who it was who told me one of those shot was your truffle-maker friend. So how can you trivialize it? Of course you can complain. That must have been horrific for you.”
Feeling as though she were walking on an emotional tightrope, Abby tried unsuccessfully to push back tears. With her moist eyes shimmering, she looked at Maisey and said, “I’m not dealing with it very well. Maisey. I just want my old self back.”
Maisey walked around and encircled Abby with her arms, embracing her like a mama bear enfolding her cub. “Well, where did she go, darling?”
Abby buried her face against Maisey’s apron and mumbled, “I don’t know. Honest to God, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Six Facts about Honeybee Queens
1. A healthy bee colony will have roughly forty thousand to sixty thousand bees but only one queen.
2. A queen bee lives between three and four years and can lay a million eggs during her lifetime.
3. The queen mates a few days after she emerges from her birth cell.
4. She stores a lifetime of sperm in her body from her mating flight with drones.
5. A honeybee queen controls hive activity through chemical messages that dictate bee behavior.
6. If the queen dies, the worker bees will ensure the hive gets a new fertile queen by feeding a diet of royal jelly to a selected female worker.
Chapter 4
Hang near-empty frames of honey near the
hives for hungry bees to clean.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
“Give me a minute, Abby,” said Maisey. The proprietress strolled from the pie shop counter to the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. “I swear, these old bones are creaking from the changes in the weather—fog and rain one day, sunny and warm the next. Let’s sit a spell and catch up. Pie’s on me.” Maisey walked back behind the counter and brought out two white coffee mugs.
Abby’s gaze swept the fifties malt shop decor, which Maisey kept scrubbed to a high shine. “I don’t think pie is what I need, Maisey,” said Abby. She dropped her daypack on the floor and climbed onto a worn red-leather stool at the counter. With Kat working long hours on the murder case, Abby had decided not to burden her with her at times seemingly irrational feelings. And even though Maisey would be a sympathetic listener, Abby didn’t much like talking about emotional stuff. To her, that was akin to exposing a nerve in a root canal. And, besides, her grandmother’s voice was ever chiming at the back of her mind: Be steady, my girl, and this, too, shall pass. But it hadn’t. And maybe it wouldn’t.
Maisey poured coffee into Abby’s mug. She put a slice of pie on standard white restaurant ware for Abby and slid a fork next to the plate. “Dive into that mile-high meringue there. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Abby picked up the fork and poked at the pie. “You sound like my grandmother.”
“Honey, where I come from, there’s nothing like pie to fix what’s troubling you. And that’s not meant as a platitude. It’s just a low-country recipe for feeling better when nothing else is working.” Maisey sat down on a stool next to Abby. Her contagious smile could have reassured a death row inmate that all would be right in the world as long as there was time for pie and coffee.
Abby pushed her fork into the soft golden peaks of meringue, cut down through the custard-type filling and the crust, and then lifted the pie-laden fork to her lips. “Tastes like lemon.”
“You see,” said Maisey. “That just goes to show you that you can’t judge a thing from the surface. You’ve got to dig deeper. That there is vinegar pie.”
“Really? Can’t taste the vinegar.”
“Of course not. You’re not supposed to. That recipe has been in my family for generations.” Maisey lifted the pot and poured herself a cup of coffee. “We always made raisin and vinegar pies for the wake after someone had passed on. The women in my family called them funeral pies.”
“Lovely. I just wish I had more of an appetite.” Abby set aside her fork. “I’m sorry, Maisey, but I can’t eat more.”
Maisey stirred two spoons of sugar into her coffee. After taking a long, slow sip, she put the mug back down and stared at Abby. “How long has this been going on? The not eating.”
Oh, brother. Must we leap right into it? Abby sucked in a deep breath. She shifted her attention to the glass-enclosed pie display so she wouldn’t have to see Maisey’s eyes, her e
xpression etched with concern. As Abby’s thoughts flew to Paola, crumpled in the semi-dark car, next to her dead husband, a wave of nausea swept over her. “I suppose I lost it the night I found the two of them in the parking lot. It turned into a very long night. There was food—a lot of food—but I couldn’t eat it. Anxiety and nausea got in the way. Still do.”
“Talk to me, Abby. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Already, her mind reeled with befuddlement, doubts, and fear.
“Why don’t you begin with when these symptoms started?”
After blowing a small puff of air between her lips, Abby asked, “Maisey, have you been at someone’s side while they’re dying?”
Maisey nodded.
“Imagine the sheer terror of having someone point a gun at you and say, ‘Time’s up.’ When it happens to someone you’re close to, you try to make sense of it. You feel guilty that you weren’t taken, too.”
“Are you talking about your younger brother now or Jake Winston’s murder?”
“Both, I guess. I know how horrible I felt when my brother died. I see Paola as a sister. Now she’ll go through that terrible emptiness, the anger, and the guilt. It’s all so senseless.” Abby took a sip of coffee and stared at a tiny bubble in the white meringue.
“Abby, dear, all who are born will die, and the good Lord knows the exact moment when each child will return. You have to take comfort in that.”
“If only everyone had faith as strong as yours. I think of Jake and Paola staring into the killer’s face. The window was down on the driver’s side. They were sitting in the car, getting ready to join the party. The killer wasn’t about to let that happen. Was the shooting a punishment for Jake’s cheating ways? I don’t know. And what if Jake couldn’t help himself, couldn’t control his behavior? Don’t know that, either.”
“What do you mean by his lack of control?” Maisey raised a quizzical brow.
