A Hive of Homicides
Page 15
She watched Henry drive his Ford F-150 into the driveway, overgrown with dried stalks of star thistle and wild oats from all the horse manure spread around the property last year to keep the weeds down. Behind the truck, he towed a seventeen-foot RV with peeling paint and windows that looked like they’d been soaped and left to dry. Instead of parking on the concrete slab hidden from view, he parked beneath the eucalyptus trees near where the old water tank once stood. Dust clouds rose from the double wheels of the RV. Abby marched halfway across the weedy acre in Henry’s direction, covering her nose with her arm against the dust.
She halted in mid-stride when she realized Henry had brought friends. Following the RV into the desiccated drifts of weeds were two guys in a Chevy Silverado and another man in a gray beater with the truck hood and a door primed but not painted. She hadn’t noticed the country music playing from the beater truck, but now the driver turned the volume to a deafening level. The music’s bass boomed. Abby could feel it in her gut. She decided in the interest of self-preservation, it would be wiser to offer a friendly greeting to Henry and find out what was going on before she got up in his face about what looked to be the start of a party.
Seeing her approach, Henry called out, “Morning, Abigail. Nice to see you again.”
“Uh-huh.” Abby tapped her fingers against her ears, hoping Henry would realize they could not converse with the music at that volume.
Henry waved his arm and yelled at the guy in the beater truck. “Yo, bro, cut that damn radio. Can’t hear myself think.” Addressing Abby again, he said, “He doesn’t mean to be rude, but then again, he doesn’t concern himself much with what other folks want.”
Abby arched a brow but said nothing. She plunged her hands into her sweater pockets and waited for Henry to explain why he and his pals had come, although parking the RV, she surmised, was the likely reason.
“Hope we’re not bothering you,” Henry said when the radio volume had dropped. “We’re here to load up our gear and guns.”
That Henry’s pals had climbed out of their trucks but kept their distance had not escaped Abby’s notice. “Folks who live out here like it quiet, Henry—”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. Prying my recreational vehicle from the wife’s clutches proved worse than I’d ever imagined. But now the Prowler’s cleaned up and ready for the road,” he said, his tone reflecting a sense of pride.
Giving Henry a look of surprise, Abby said, “You named your RV?” She stared at the two tanks of gas tied with bungee cords, and the duct tape holding pieces of trim in place.
“Yep. Good one, huh?” He drilled her with a look of self-importance.
Oh, jeez, like I could care. On the other hand, I don’t much like the idea of you coming and going and bringing your buddies back here. Abby forced a smile. The time had come to face reality. The tranquility she’d enjoyed from that empty wooded acre likely had come to an end.
She hadn’t thought much about the possibility that the heirs might allow friends to use the place. It wasn’t any of her business who came or went back there, and she chastised herself for feeling so territorial. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the drama Henry must be going through with his divorce. The loss of a mate was tough, especially during the holidays. She got that. But she doubted these guys cared a fig about stewardship of the land, the protection of animals, or the level of noise they made.
“So . . . hunting trip, huh? Be gone long?” Abby dug the toe of her garden clog into the plant detritus.
It’ll be a short trip,” said Henry. “We’re leaving before dawn tomorrow. Be back before you know it.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. She waved it away. He lit one for himself.
Turning her face away from the smoke he blew in a thick cloud, Abby uttered a silent curse that these four fellas had messed up an otherwise fine morning, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Henry took a long drag off his cigarette. “Holidays are no big deal. Wife has cut me out of her life, and fine by me.” He blew a couple of smoke rings. “I’d rather spend Thanksgiving with my buddies in any case. But these guys are married, and there’ll be hell to pay if they aren’t back for their kids.” He blew smoke through the side of his mouth and grinned.
“Uh-huh.” Abby looked over at Henry’s friends, who stood together in a pack. They smoked their cigarettes near the beater pickup. Then she saw they had popped open tabs on cans of beer. Seriously? At ten in the morning? Get real.
“Please don’t use those beer cans for target practice back here,” Abby said in the sweetest tone she could summon.
Henry looked surprised, as though he hadn’t thought of that. “Oh, heck, no.”
“I’d better go, let you all get to your packing.” After turning back toward her farmette, Abby strode through the weeds to her side of the chain-link fence. Rather than allow disappointment to overtake her and further ruin what was left of the morning, she would do her chores and check the mail. Last day for it, since tomorrow was Thanksgiving.
After pouring crumbles into the chickens’ hanging feeder and filling their water canister from the water hose, she inspected the hives, which she’d covered with blankets now that the nights had turned colder. Then it was back to the patio. There she grabbed her coffee mug from the table, opened the slider, and stepped into the kitchen. Sugar managed to squeeze between her feet as she walked to the sink with the mug.
“Good grief, sweetie. I know you’re hungry,” said Abby, “but I won’t get that bowl filled any faster if you knock me to the floor.” Sugar slapped her tail against Abby’s legs as she poured kibble into the dog bowl.
With the dog fed, Abby walked out to Farm Hill Road and opened the mailbox. Amid the bills, she found a postcard from ethnobotanist Jack Sullivan. After turning it over, she read the message.
I’m having a pint of plain and thinking of you, as it’s coming on Thanksgiving there in a wee bit. Now, don’t you be losing faith in our friendship, Abby. I know I’ve not written until now. But Borneo is keeping me busy. If you’d be so kind as to write me back, I’ll take it as a sign to keep oiling the hinges of our friendship so we can hang together. Happy Thanksgiving. Jack.
Abby grinned as she reread his note. She could almost hear him saying the words in that feigned Irish brogue of his. The memory of her previous case was a bittersweet one. Jack had sought her help after his sister Fiona’s death. He’d told her once, “Get your wild on, Abby.” She chuckled at that memory and wondered if there was anything about Fiona’s murder that could somehow help her understand and sort out Jake Winston’s death. Fiona had been a free spirit, living an unconventional life on her own terms. Jake Winston also was guilty of that. Live by your choices. You might die by them, too.
Abby entered the house and propped Jack’s card on her antique Queen Anne chest. In the kitchen, she pulled out the cookie sheets, wondering how long it would take for a package of cookies to reach the island of Borneo. If she mailed them on Friday, wouldn’t he get them by the end of the year? Regardless of how long it might take, Abby decided to send him some. She upped the count of cookies needed to five dozen—for Kat, Paola, the Varela family, and Jack Sullivan.
After washing and drying her hands and tying on an apron, Abby removed a large mixing bowl from the cabinet. Then she took out the bag of cookie cutters she kept in an old bread box. Reaching into the fridge for the butter and eggs, she heard her cell phone sound with Kat’s ringtone. After removing the phone from her sweater pocket, she slid a finger over it to answer the call.
“Ten guns that crazy woman has in her condo. Can you believe it, Abby? Ten. And thousands of rounds of ammo. So I asked her, ‘Why the arsenal?’” Kat’s tone sounded frustrated.
“Whoa, little missy. Back up the train for a minute,” Abby said. “Who are we talking about here? And BTW, isn’t it customary to say hello first?”
“Yes, so hello. I’m talking about Brianna Cooper, that graphic designer at the Country Schoolhou
se Winery.”
“Okay, what did she say when you asked her about her guns and ammo?”
“Said she’s a serious collector. Goes to the range every month and fires off two or three hundred rounds. According to her, she needs lots of ammo for plinking, competition shooting, and hunting.”
“So she collects and shoots. Unless one or more of those guns are illegal, she has the right.”
“True, but she withheld information about having those guns. She lied about her alibi. She lied about the nature of her relationship with Jake. It’s frigging aggravating to have people who, instead of wanting to get a murderer off the streets, stonewall us with lies.”
“I hear you.” Abby took a package of butter and the carton of eggs from the fridge and set them on the counter.
“But you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone, will you, Abby?”
“Oh, stop. We’re in the same boat on that score. You know I won’t. So what’s got Brianna Cooper under your microscope?”
“Well, it has a little something to do with an eight-by-ten package of compromising pictures of her and Jake. Then we found some regular transactions from his bank account into hers that don’t match her payroll checks. She’s turned over the pictures. We know she was blackmailing him. She denies it, of course, and swears she didn’t kill him.”
Abby breathed in a sharp breath and let it go. “If he was paying up, why would she kill him and stop the money flow?”
“Who knows? She says he paid her to pose for pictures. . . wanted to improve his photography skills. Is that lame or what?”
“Well, for sure, Jake was one weird character. And the people around him, except for the Varela family, were equally strange.” Abby put her cell on speaker. She removed a measuring cup from a drawer of baking utensils and took the bag of flour out of the pantry. Placing it on the kitchen counter, she opened the bag and measured out five cups of flour into the mixing bowl. “So I take it you’re still looking for a suspect gun?”
“All but one of Brianna Cooper’s guns are accounted for. She says she loaned it to a cousin for target practice. He lives in Idaho,” said Kat. “She could be lying about that, too.” Kat’s tone sounded frustrated. “Tedious, girlfriend. Really tedious tracking these details.”
“I hear you. When I get bogged down, I do something physical, like hacking away on a brush pile or treating myself to a tea and pastry break.” Abby reached for the container of baking powder and took out the measuring spoons.
“I’d like to bust something right now,” Kat said.
“Seriously? Then why not do some of your kickboxing after work today? Exercise clears the mind and diminishes stress.”
“Can’t. Lieutenant Sinclair has me tracking down Brianna Cooper’s cousin. We’ve got to eliminate him and locate that gun. Could be a late night.”
“So, you’re no longer scrutinizing Dori Langston?” Abby took a five-pound bag of sugar from the cupboard.
“Not again with the sous-chef, Abby.”
“Kat, I can’t shake the feeling that somehow she’s connected.”
“So you’ve told me. And I will ask for the umpteenth time. Explain to me how she could be in two places at once.”
“You know I can’t, but—” Abby was about to reveal that she saw Dori Langston hooking up with a guy in a suspicious vehicle after leaving the Pantry Hut. And then she wanted to tell Kat about her encounter with Lucas Crawford’s sister and the EMDR stuff, but Kat cut her off.
“Oh, hold on, Abby. I’ve got an incoming from dispatch. I’m going to mute you. Be right back.”
Abby heard a female voice start briefing Kat through her radio. Then silence. A moment passed and then another. Kat clicked back into their conversation.
“Abby, we’ve got a floater in the reservoir up by the Country Schoolhouse Winery.”
In disbelief, Abby stared at the granulated sugar. “Male or female?”
“Jane Doe. And not dressed for a walk around the reservoir in November.”
Abby’s thoughts swirled. “Identifying marks?”
Kat said, “Butterfly on her neck. Tall woman. Light hair.”
Abby’s fingers tensed around the bag of sugar. “Dori? You know, I’ve seen a butterfly tattoo. Yes, now I remember. When you and I were filing out of the church after the wedding vow exchange between Jake and Paola. It was on the neck of a tall woman with platinum hair.”
“Yeah?” Kat said. “Fits with it being Dori Langston, doesn’t it?”
Abby inhaled sharply. She knew the cops would need a positive ID and cause of death and would be calling in Millie Jamison, the coroner. “Has anyone reported Dori missing?”
“No.”
“Jeez, if it is Dori, that means two of the Country Schoolhouse Winery workers are now homicide victims. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Abby.
“The deaths are linked—oh, you bet. I’d like to get into it with you, Abby, but seriously, I’ve got to run.”
With her mind preoccupied with this troubling new situation, Abby was hardly in the mood to make cookies. Still, she would stand down, stay away from the crime scene, and let Kat get back to her when she could. In the meantime, Abby reasoned that baking would give her hands something to do while she mentally reviewed all the facts and tried to figure out if she’d misinterpreted some piece of information and how this new complication might fit into the case. She walked back to her incident poster, picked up a felt pen, and wrote victim next to Dori Langston’s name under suspects. She drew in the simple shape of a butterfly next to the name.
Around twelve o’clock, as the baked sugar cookies were cooling, Abby spotted Henry Brady making a beeline through the weeds toward her chicken run. Abby wiped her hands on her apron and walked out to meet him before he stepped a foot onto her farmette.
“So . . . I’m about to split,” he said. “My friends left already. Look, is there any chance I could leave my extra RV key with you?”
“No chance,” said Abby, turning her head slightly so she wouldn’t have to smell the scent of booze and chain-smoked cigarettes. She wondered if he’d left the butts on the ground. “I don’t want that responsibility.” Abby wasn’t against helping out a friend, but she hardly knew this guy. “Try a magnetic key box,” she said. “Just stick it to the undercarriage.” She glanced past him, expecting to see a pile of beer cans, too, but didn’t spot any.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Henry shot back in a tone tinged with sarcasm, “but only an idiot would do that. Why not hang a sign, too, for any burglar intent on swiping my vehicle?”
“We haven’t had any burglaries out here,” Abby said. “And besides, your RV is locked behind a chain-link fence, hardly in a high-target area.”
He seemed vexed. “Wife always called me an airhead because I have trouble keeping track of things. Lost more keys than I can count. Couldn’t you just hang it up somewhere and forget about it until I come around to get it?”
Abby wasn’t sure why she felt so put upon. It wasn’t a big request, like asking her to donate a kidney or something. The simple truth was she didn’t want to be the keeper of the key to Henry Brady’s RV. But apparently, neither did his buddies, because if it was so important that a trusted other party hold on to his extra key, then surely he’d already asked them.
His jaw had set into a firm line beneath his unshaven cheek jaw. “I’d be grateful if you’d just hang on to it until the hunting trip is over.” He dropped his smoldering cigarette butt into the dirt and crushed it with his boot.
Abby tensed. “So when is that again?”
“Back after Thanksgiving weekend. I’ll get it from you before I take off again.”
“On another hunting trip?” Abby asked, buoyed by optimism that he’d soon be gone again.
“After this trip, I’m moving up to Bellingham, Washington, up by the Canadian border. I’ll need the RV to haul my stuffed trophies. That’s all I’m getting out of the divorce settlement with the drama queen.”
“Thanks,” said Henry. After giving her the key, he turned and walked back to his truck. Abby watched him take out his cell phone and call someone. They chatted a few minutes. After that, he slid the cell into his pocket, locked the gate with the chains, and drove away. Her gaze swept back to the Prowler parked in the open. What happened to stashing it where I wouldn’t have to see it? Figures. Abby bent down and picked up Henry’s cigarette to deposit in her trash.
Pushing Henry from her thoughts, Abby walked back to her kitchen. Despite the positive changes she felt from the EMDR, a low-level anxiety plagued her. Knowing she would be seeing Olivia in a few days for the next in her series of weekly treatments, Abby tried to ignore it. She would do some deep breathing and meditation to calm down later, as Olivia had counseled her to do. For now, she would mentally tick through the questions for Chef Emilio Varela tomorrow. Time he shed some light on his now-dead sous-chef and his missing gun.
Easy Sugar Cookies
Ingredients:
Cookies:
2 cups granulated sugar
1½ cups butter
4 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
5 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
Royal Icing:
1-pound box (3½ to 4 cups) confectioners’ sugar
3 large egg whites
lemon juice squeezed from one large de-seeded lemon
Food coloring (optional)
Directions: