A Hive of Homicides

by Meera Lester

  Prepare the cookie dough. Combine the sugar and butter in a large mixing bowl and cream until smooth with an electric mixer. Add the eggs and vanilla to the mixture and beat until well blended. Stir the flour, baking powder, and salt into the sugar-egg mixture.

  Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill the dough for 1 hour, or roll the dough into balls, cover tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerate overnight.

  Bake the cookies. Preheat the oven to 400. Roll out the chilled dough on a floured surface until the dough is ¼- to ½-inch thick. Cut it into the desired shape using a cookie cutter.

  Place the cookies 1 inch apart on an ungreased baking sheet, and bake for 6 to 8 minutes, or until golden brown and no longer springy to the touch. Transfer the cookies to a metal rack and allow them to cool completely.

  Meanwhile, prepare the royal icing. Combine the confectioners’ sugar and egg whites in the small bowl of an electric mixer. Using the paddle attachment, beat the sugar-egg mixture on the mixer’s low setting until moist. Add the lemon juice and beat on medium for 4 minutes. The icing should appear light and fluffy. Tint the icing with food coloring, if desired.

  Decorate the cooled cookies with the icing. Or if you wish to decorate them later, the icing can be stored, covered with a layer of wet paper towels and then plastic wrap, for up to 24 hours.

  Makes 5 dozen cookies

  Chapter 13

  Few things in life stink more than fresh manure,

  a rotten egg, or a rush to judgment.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  The earsplitting cackle of chickens brought Abby to an abrupt awakening at six thirty. It was still semi-dark out. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she rolled out of bed and pulled back the sheer curtain at the window to see the cause of the commotion. A small gray fox standing on its hind legs clawed at the double layer of poultry wire over one of the chicken-house window frames. And it wasn’t the first time she’d seen that fox or the only time it had tried to break in.

  After throwing her pink fleece robe on over her cotton pajamas and plunging her feet into the garden clogs she’d left by the slider, Abby ventured into the breaking dawn. Sugar followed right on her heels. Concerned about the dog’s welfare, Abby grabbed Sugar’s collar and coaxed her pooch back to the safety of the farmhouse. “Extra hugs and a treat when I get back, sweetie.” But Sugar was not interested in promises of later rewards. She pawed the slider and protested by barking.

  An Arctic chill assaulted Abby. She shivered against the bone-chilling cold that penetrated her nightclothes. Cinching her robe tighter, she peered toward the chicken run. The fox could have been passing through her property if it lay between its hunting areas, but it seemed more likely that the animal had remembered her chickens from a previous visit.

  Trapping and transporting the fox to another territory meant it would have to defend itself in a new location while disoriented. Abby dismissed that idea as a bad option. “Oh, boy, what am I going to do with you?” she uttered under her breath. “I sure hope you haven’t dug a den or found another predator’s hole and taken up residence nearby.” Abby could think of only one remedy for getting rid of the unwanted fox—saturate the mouth of the hole that the fox was using as a den—if she could find it—with urine-soaked kitty litter. Where was she going to get that? She could use noise maybe. There might be fallout from angry neighbors, but if it meant the fox would leave, it was a risk she’d willingly take.

  After taking the metal garden trowel on the patio table and grabbing the lid from the galvanized garbage can, Abby levied several hard whacks of the trowel against the lid. The animal took notice but didn’t retreat. Instead, it lunged around, searching for another way in, and then resumed clawing. Abby banged. The fox clawed. Frustrated, Abby set out over the wet grass, hammering the lid as she marched forward.

  The fox rushed the fence and scrambled over the wire and down the other side. Watching the streak of gray lope away, Abby remembered her grandmother Rose’s admonition to keep still and think fast when a cunning fox was around. Of course, her Scots-Irish grandmother’s advice was often laced with a little Celtic folklore that involved tall tales about foxes as shape-shifters. Still, her grandmother Rose was right about one thing—one must keep her wits about her when a predator fox was on the prowl. Watching the animal take refuge under Henry Brady’s RV, Abby’s hope surged that the ugly vehicle would be leaving, too, but she worried that Henry unwittingly might drive over the poor creature. Well, there was nothing she could do about that now.

  After checking the poultry wire over the chicken-house windows to assure herself that her small flock would remain safe, Abby turned back to the warmth of her farmhouse. She would permit the fox a Thanksgiving Day reprieve and search for its den some other time.

  After attaching the lid to the garbage can, Abby laid the trowel on top, yawned, and took one last whiff of the pungent pine and wood-smoked air before heading inside. She grabbed a biscuit for Sugar and allowed the pooch to find her treat in her bathrobe pocket.

  “See there, big girl, I keep my promises. Now, go and enjoy your biscuit while I check the TV for the weather. I don’t want a freeze to take out my citrus trees.” After stifling another yawn, she dropped a slice of bread into the toaster, made coffee, and then went to the living room and hit the ON button of the TV remote.

  “Police confirm it’s a local winery worker who’s been found dead at the regional park reservoir,” the anchor said.

  If she felt sleepy before, Abby was now wide awake and tuned in. The reporter promised to return after the commercial break with the weather and traffic. Abby hustled from her living room/dining room back to the kitchen. There she poured her coffee and slathered butter and jam on the toast. A moment later on the couch, with a cup of coffee in hand and a plate of toast on her lap, Abby intently watched the images on TV. Two men lifted the stretcher bearing the victim’s body into the rear of the coroner’s van. The camera panned back to the on-scene reporter and Chief Bob Allen, who were standing by the dock where Abby and Emilio had recently sat together, discussing his conflict with Scott Thompson. Abby munched her toast and listened to what her old boss, Chief Bob Allen, had to say.

  “We have recovered a body. It’s female. Gunshot to the head. We’re withholding the name of the deceased until we can notify the family. There’s a press conference at four. That’s all.” The chief stepped away from the microphone.

  Hoping for more details, Abby was disappointed that the reporter lobbed the conversation back to the meteorologist. She heard “frost tonight” before she hit the OFF button on the remote. As she sat still as a stone, her thoughts swirled. Another winery worker shot in the head. Wow.

  Abby raised her coffee cup to her lips and sipped one mouthful after another as she tried to make sense of the bizarre development. She rose and carried the cup and plate into the kitchen, where she deposited them in the sink. Beyond the greenhouse window above the sink, she stared at a family of crows sitting atop the pine tree. For most wineries, the work was seasonal, swelling during harvest season and slowing after. So how many winery workers had the winery employed this time of year? Had they all been working a shift on the night of Jake’s murder? If not, who hadn’t been there? she wondered. Abby looked over at her incident poster. The only winery personnel names on it were of those working the event the night of the murder. Abby realized she needed more information. After grabbing her phone from its charger on the kitchen counter, she texted Kat. Can we talk?

  Kat texted back. Not now.

  Abby chewed her lip. Should she ring Otto? Or maybe just drop by the police station? He was working this case, too, albeit it was likely from a different angle. A plate of homemade cookies might get him to share info. At the very least, she would try. But to Emilio’s place first. She had to know more about the sous-chef and whether or not Emilio knew where the woman was. Surely he could shed some light on that subject.

  * * *

  An hour later, Abby pulled in front of
Luna Varela’s Spanish-style bungalow with the Jeep’s front seat loaded with the gift boxes and a wrapped paper plate full of cookies for the cops. The Jeep’s dashboard clock read ten o’clock. Abby took a quick look at a message she’d got from Kat. Leaving the crime scene. Dori Langston was shot in the back of the head and dumped.

  Execution style? Abby knew if the body was dumped at the site, the crime happened somewhere else. With a professional hit, the killer would shoot but would not move the body. Point of fact, Jake was shot and left in the car. But Dori was shot and moved. So moving a body would take some thought, time, effort, and possibly advanced planning. Why do that? Not to get caught, for sure. But perhaps the killer feared the cops finding a personal connection between them.

  Abby’s thoughts continued streaming around unanswered questions: Two killers or only one? Were the killings by a professional or an amateur? If Jake had been the killer’s first victim, was the killer learning as he continued his crime spree? And if the two murders were for revenge, what was the killer’s anger, resentment, or grudge all about? Which begs the question of how many workers were employed by the winery and where they all were during Jake’s death and Dori’s murder. Who would know this? Don Winston would have access to the employee roster for that day. Of course, the police would already have asked for it.

  Jarred from her thoughts by a hand waving in her peripheral vision, Abby yielded to the distraction. Luna Varela was standing at her front door, signaling Abby to join her in the house. Abby reached for the cookies and a bouquet of late-blooming red roses. She got out of her Jeep.

  Hustling up the walkway, she called out, “Happy Thanksgiving, Luna.”

  “Same to you. I saw you drive up. Come in.”

  She hurried up to the dark-eyed young woman and handed her the flowers and the box of cookies. “A little something for you.”

  “How sweet, Abby. Thank you.”

  Abby suspected that if anyone knew where Emilio was on this chilly holiday morning, it would be his sister. “What’s the chance Emilio is here? I drove by his place, and he didn’t answer my knock.”

  “He’s not here. Is it important that you find him?” Luna gestured for Abby to lead the way inside the house. The scent of coffee permeated the Varelas’ living room. From the kitchen, the loud outburst of a child’s giggling told Abby that the toddler was up and having breakfast, perhaps with her parents.

  “I’d like to talk to your brother again. And, yes, it is kind of important.”

  Luna’s expression darkened. “Should I be worried?”

  “There’s been another murder,” said Abby, breaking the news as gently as possible.

  Luna’s free hand flew to her mouth. “Who?”

  “The winery’s sous-chef, Dori Langston.”

  Luna collapsed onto the couch, still clutching the flowers and the box. Her eyes widened in fear. “You can’t believe Emilio knows anything about that.”

  “Well, I’m not convinced he does or doesn’t. I just want to talk with him before the police do another knock and talk, which I’m sure they will.” The stricken look on Luna’s face made Abby wish she’d kept the information to herself.

  “This is terrible. Why is this happening to our family?” a stricken Luna asked.

  Abby tried to soften the blow. “I’m so sorry, Luna. Here I’ve gone and upset you, when that was never my intention. I’ll find Emilio. No worries.” Like it or not, she’d created drama, and now she needed to extricate herself. “I should go. Will I see you at the hospital later, visiting Paola?”

  Luna looked bewildered. “Yes, I suppose.” It seemed clear that she was still thinking about Emilio.

  “Great. I want to see our girl, too. Hope to catch you there.” Abby turned to leave, but Luna grabbed her arm.

  “Should I call a lawyer? I mean . . . for Emilio?” Abby hesitated and swallowed hard. “I’m afraid that’s Emilio’s decision. Talk with him.” She left as quickly as she’d entered the house.

  After dashing back to her Jeep, she pulled out onto the street and headed straight for the Las Flores Police Department. Eight minutes later, she strolled into the lobby with the plate of cookies. Waving to the ladies in Dispatch, she walked over to the speaker in the glass window. On the other side of the window, Nettie was tidying up some paperwork while a uniformed county sheriff’s deputy looked on, apparently waiting for her to locate some document he needed.

  “Good morning,” Abby called cheerfully, holding up the plastic-wrapped plate of cookies.

  Nettie, who handled records keeping and patrol when she wasn’t doing the CSI work for the department, looked up. Her eyes brightened. “Well, hi there, Abby. I didn’t know you were coming by.”

  “Working the holiday sucks. Been there, done that, so I brought your gang some cookies.”

  “Super.” Nettie plucked the document from a pile she had been searching through and handed it to the deputy. They both headed for the security door that separated the visitors’ lobby from the rest of the facility.

  As the sheriff’s deputy walked past her to exit the building, Abby met Nettie at the doorway and handed her the plate. “Any chance I could speak to Otto?”

  “He’s prepping for an interview.”

  “What about Kat?”

  “Expected back any minute.”

  Abby swallowed hard against her next idea, as unpalatable as it was. “Lieutenant Sinclair, maybe I could speak to him for a minute?”

  “Took an early lunch and went for his run along the creek to clear his head. And the chief is with the mayor right now.”

  “Maybe I could help?” Nettie asked, eyeing the cookies.

  Just then Kat’s voice sounded from behind Nettie in the corridor. “Which interview room, Nettie?”

  “One,” Nettie called back.

  Leaning in and glancing past Nettie’s shoulder, Abby peered in the direction from which she’d heard Kat’s voice. She saw Kat escort Emilio to an interview room after entering from the station’s rear, where a jailer kept watch over two twenty-four-hour holding cells and a booking room.

  “I’d better go,” said Nettie, as if afraid of being caught dawdling instead of doing her job.

  Abby nodded. “I’ll pick up my plate tomorrow.”

  “With any kind of luck, we’ll have a confession by then.”

  As the security door clicked shut behind her, a shiver shot down Abby’s spine. God, I hope not Emilio’s.

  Jobs Honeybees Do

  In the complex community of a honeybee hive, there are tens of thousands of bees. Some beekeepers assert that a healthy hive can have forty thousand-plus bees. The vast majority are infertile female bees, referred to as workers. There are also males, called drones. Some of the worker bee tasks are as follows:

  • Foragers and scouts: gather nectar, pollen, and water

  • Nursemaids: feed the queen and the larvae

  • Builders and cleaners: create the wax and build cells and keep the hive clean

  • Guards: seal the hive openings from intruders

  • Bouncers and undertakers: evict the males from the hive in the late autumn, when they are no longer necessary; clean away bee corpses from the entry of the hive

  Chapter 14

  Honeybees are calm when the scent of their

  queen indicates she is strong and healthy; agitation

  comes when the queen becomes old,

  diseased, or injured and her scent wanes.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  In the antiseptic-scented room, Abby gazed upon her friend Paola, lying asleep in the freshly made hospital bed. Where the small flap had been removed from her skull to create a brain/bone window, her head had been wrapped with a fresh dressing. The doctors, Abby learned, had frozen the skull bone and would reattach it with screws approximately six weeks after their patient had been discharged home. But that discharge, according to the family, wouldn’t come for another week. For now, Paola’s long black hair had been cut and plaited int
o two short braids that barely touched her shoulders. For Abby, Paola still exuded a beautiful vulnerability as she rested against white cotton pillows.

  After placing her gifts of a magazine and the box of cookies on the bedside table, next to the plastic water pitcher, Abby eased down into the worn leather armchair next to Paola’s bed. The quiet whir of a bathroom fan, turned on and forgotten, created white noise that invoked a monotonous yet peaceful ambience. Within minutes of her arrival, however, Abby heard the voice of the hospital operator cut through the paging system as she asked for an X-ray tech to report to the ER.

  Paola’s eyes fluttered open. She stared blankly at Abby. Seconds ticked away and then her lips formed a faint smile of recognition.

  Gently grasping the hand that had apparently once supported an IV needle but had become infiltrated and now appeared swollen and bruised, Abby asked, “So . . . how are you, sweetie? Cómo estás?”

  Paola touched her tongue to her dry lower lip and pointed to lemon glycerin swabs in sealed packets on her bedside table. Abby stood up and plucked one from a plastic cup that held three. She ripped open the packaging and stroked the swab across Paola’s cracked, dry lips. After pressing her lips together, Paola said in a hoarse voice, “I’m alive.”

  Abby slipped the swab back into the cup. “And so you are. Happy to hear it.” Abby had tried to sound cheerful. But as she sat back down in the chair and gazed at Paola, she soon realized a gloom had settled over her friend.

  Paola’s features contorted slightly, reflecting concern. “The night you found me . . . did you check on Jake, too?”

  “Of course I did.” Abby struggled with what to say next. Had Paola been lying there all these weeks, thinking otherwise? “He was already gone, sweetie. I’m pretty sure it would have been quick.”

  Paola’s dark lashes swept over her cheeks. A tear rolled down her cheek and disappeared into a braid. Abby pulled a tissue from the box on the bedside table and dabbed it at Paola’s eyes. What could she possibly say to ease the pain? Abby remained silent to allow Paola time to take in the information.