A Beeline to Murder (18 page)

Abby tightened her lips over her teeth, trying not to laugh.

Philippe stared at her, a bemused expression on his face.

Kat went on. “He has to sit on a doughnut for six months.”

Abby doubled over in peals of laughter.

Watching her lose control, a smiling Philippe shook his head, got up, and rescued the wineglass from her.

Abby dropped onto the couch, in stitches. When she could talk again, she panted, “I’ll bet he can’t even see the irony in being such a pain in the butt . . . with all that pain in his butt.”

“Doubt it. Pushed out of a photo op by our engine three pumper, that’s gotta be a first,” Kat replied drolly. And they both lost it again. Gasping, Kat said, “That, my friend, is karma.”

“We shouldn’t be laughing at the poor guy. I mean, a broken bone.”

“Oh, you can bet he’ll be whining ad nauseum to anybody who’ll listen for the next year or two. Anyway, gotta go. Cruiser is coming out.”

“Where are you?”

“Down at the car wash. Chief says we got to have the cruiser cleaned, tank filled, and our shotguns and Tasers locked in the armory every night at the end of shift. Come on. Now, don’t tell me you’ve been gone so long, you don’t remember all his rules?”

“How could I forget?” Abby got up and walked over to the window, opened the blinds, and peeked out at the garden in the courtyard. “Hey, if you aren’t working tomorrow afternoon, Kat, join us for Jean-Louis’s graveside service . . . around four o’clock . . . Church of the Pines, off the road at the summit.”

“Yeah, I’ll see if I can get off.”

Abby clicked off the phone and stared into the small manicured garden beyond the apartment window. Light shimmered on the grass. A blue-tile pool looked so refreshing, it was hard to believe no one was using it. Next to the pool a patch of roses and two wooden benches created an inviting place to contemplate the meaning of life and how quickly it could be taken away. A staid white-haired lady sat on one of the benches, reading a paperback, her small poodle on a leash sunning at her side. A man strolled by, pushing a bike, his loose trouser bottoms tucked into his socks. Absent were the sounds of children laughing as they played. Children were not allowed in this quiet adults-only complex on a cul-de-sac, several blocks uphill from the main section of town. This was where Jean-Louis had chosen to live. It made perfect sense for someone who worked nights and slept during the day.

Abby turned away from the window to look for Philippe, and she found him sitting on his brother’s bed, head in hands. Sinking onto the bed beside him, she spoke in a tone that conveyed a settled calmness. “Hey, partner. You okay? What happened?”

Philippe shook his head, heaved an audible sigh. “Jean-Louis and I used to laugh like that. . . .” His voice trailed off.

Abby nodded, ready to listen if he wanted to talk. But he didn’t. She sat with him for a few minutes, looking over at the bookcase. Hardbound classics filled the top shelf. Below, oversize art books occupied the two lower shelves. Cookbooks and two shrinking green jade plants in clay pots and saucers filled the rest of the bookcase. Next to one of the plants, Abby spotted a phone charger.

“He had a terrific sense of humor. It put people at ease. But Jean-Louis, he was quick to anger. I never understood his emotional swings.”

“I know,” Abby said. “I once felt the wrath of his anger.”

After a moment, she got up and unplugged the charger. “But he had friends. How could he not? Shall we call them?” She dangled the charger in front of him. “We have his cell, and now its charger.”

Philippe’s expression brightened. He stood up, walked over to her, and cupped her chin in his hand. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for, Philippe.”

Abby took the charger to the kitchen. She went out to the car and returned with Jean-Louis’s cell phone. For the next two hours, Abby sat with Philippe at the kitchen table, scrolling through Jean-Louis’s phone directory, reading aloud the names and phone numbers while Philippe wrote them down on a piece of paper. Finally, they had compiled a master list from which they could start calling people.

“Those are all the numbers Jean-Louis saved in the various directories,” said Abby. “But there’s a starred number. Looks like one entry with a name spelled v-i-e-i-l-l-a-r-d. You mentioned this French name before?”

Philippe’s eyes met hers. “Abby, this must be the Vieillard that Jean-Louis mentioned to me on the phone—someone Jean-Louis said he had strong feelings for.”

“And how do you feel about speaking to this Vieillard
?
” Abby laid the phone on the table and pushed it toward Philippe.

“What do I say?”

“Tell him who you are. Invite him to the burial.” Abby thought through possible scenarios. If Jean-Louis was romantically involved with Vieillard, the man might know something that no one else knew, some piece of information that could shed light on the senseless death.

Philippe dialed the number, listened for a moment, apparently to a message, and then began to speak. “Bonjour. It is I, Philippe. . . .” Suddenly, Philippe’s eyes locked with Abby’s. His expression went as flat as a fallow field and was just as unreadable. He laid the phone on the table, pushed back his chair, and scurried out of the room.

Abby snapped the phone to her ear in time to hear the beep signaling the end of the allotted time to leave a message. She heard Philippe bang something against a hard surface in the bedroom. Abby knew that men who were grieving often behaved differently than women. They sometimes dealt with their pain through anger. But what had set him off? It probably had been a bad idea to ask Philippe to make the call in the first place.

Philippe ambled back into the kitchen. “Everything in this room, this apartment, it screams Jean-Louis. Look there.” He pointed to the large wall calendar that displayed several months at a glance. “See the red circle? Jean-Louis’s birthday. See the red line with the word
départ
over the top? He was going away. Don’t you remember me telling you about his plans to go to the Caribbean for his birthday?”

“Of course I do,” Abby said. “The calendar date goes to your argument that his death was not due to suicide, since, clearly, he was planning something for the future. When we take the case back to the police, we will include that information. But we are not there yet. We have to deal with the burial service. Calling his friends seems unnecessarily hard on you, so how about I make the calls and you look for pictures, letters, trip itineraries, and tickets of any kind—personal stuff that could establish your brother’s relationships with others? If you feel up to it . . .”

He nodded. “I am angry that Jean-Louis is gone. I am angry that he will never celebrate another birthday. And I am angry that his murderer is still free.”

Abby redialed Vieillard, but there was no pickup and no greeting, just a beep. She called the other individuals on the master list. The majority of them offered excuses for why they couldn’t make the wake or the burial, some saying that it was too far, especially for those in San Francisco or Napa; that it was too late in the day; or that traffic on the mountain would be intolerable, as it always was on weekends, when inland-valley residents headed over the mountain to the beach towns. Others confessed that they had heard the rumor about the chef and expressed worry that further association in any way could compromise them. In the end, a loyal group of three said they would try to make it to the graveside service.

At a minute before eight that evening, the phone rang while it was still in Abby’s hand. She looked at the name that had popped up on the screen—Vieillard. Her heartbeat quickened. Philippe was beside her, sorting photos he’d found in a book about Caribbean cooking. Abby held the phone out so he could read the name.

Philippe dropped the pictures. He snatched the phone from her hand.

“Bonsoir. Philippe speaking.” Locking eyes with Abby, he listened and then raised his hand, palm out, as if to say, “The caller is not speaking.”

Twirling an open hand, Abby tried to get him to engage the caller in conversation.

“
Allô,
” he said. “It may seem strange that I answered Jean-Louis’s phone, but, you see, I am his brother, Philippe. I was calling you on his behalf.”

Abby stood up and stepped next to Philippe. She tapped the speaker button on the phone. The caller, although silent, remained on the line.

“You must know by now that my brother . . . recently died.” Philippe paused, drew a breath. “Sorry. As you can hear, I am quite emotional, and I apologize for delivering the news—if you did not know—and the invitation by telephone. But we bury Jean-Louis tomorrow, and it is my hope that you will join us for the farewell service.”

A deep masculine voice softly replied, “My condolences. Where is the service to be held?”

Philippe’s eyes grew large. When he shook his head in desperation, Abby thought,
Surely he hasn’t forgotten the name of the church?
She jotted the location and the time on a piece of paper and twirled it around so he could read it.

Philippe spoke haltingly into the phone. “The Church of the Pines in Las Flores . . . four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

Abby sat back down and spun her forefinger in repetitive circles, encouraging Philippe to keep talking while she wrote another note.

Philippe’s hand trembled as he held the phone to his ear. “Although I do not know you personally, your presence, I am sure, would have meant a lot to Jean-Louis. You were his close friend, n’est-ce pas?”

The man sniffed in that heavy masculine way and cleared his throat.

Philippe added, “The viewing will begin at two o’clock at Shadyside Funeral Home.”

Abby held up her note. She’d written,
Ask his name.

“Sir, if I may ask, what is your name?”

The phone clicked off.

Philippe laid the phone on the table, turned his head away from her.

Abby stared at the chiseled lines of his profile, saw his jaw grow tense. She reached over and gave Philippe a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You delivered the message. Hopefully, he will show up.”

Philippe ran his fingers through his thick black hair, leaned forward, and grabbed the large full-color Caribbean cookbook from the top of the stack on the table. He held it above the table and opened it, and pieces of folded paper, scribbled notes, recipes, and cards fell out. Philippe riffled through them, peering closely at those with any writing on them.

“Abby, look,” he said. “Everything written on these paper notes was written by Jean-Louis, except this address of a hotel in Santo Domingo.” He dumped two postcards out of a small paper bag, along with a receipt.

Abby examined the postcards. Each depicted an idyllic beach scene, and although they were purchased in an island shop in Santo Domingo, they were blank, never written upon or mailed.

“Abby, look at this,” Philippe said, animated again. He held up three photos, placing them side by side. They each showed Jean-Louis and the man whose photo stood in the ornate frame at Jean-Louis’s bedside. One image revealed the man and Jean-Louis on striped beach chairs on a private dock next to a wide swath of sandy beach dotted with palms. There appeared to be a large estate house behind them. The second image showed the two aboard a yacht, sipping from champagne flutes. The third image was darker than the other two and was similar to the one Abby had previously seen in the police files. It showed the two men on the deck of a boat in the open sea.

“There are eleven photos in all,” Philippe told her.

Abby dug through her handbag and took out a small magnifier. She looked at a fourth photo. It showed Jean-Louis and the mystery man fishing, naked to the waist and wearing flip-flops. It was the exposed biceps on both men that warranted a closer examination.

“Well, well,” she said. She touched Philippe’s hand and pointed to the picture.

“What? I see nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Look at the mystery man’s bicep.” Abby handed him the magnifying glass. “His tattoo looks like a six-nine or a nine-six on its side, depending on what angle you view it from. That is the astrological sign of Cancer. Jean-Louis was a Cancer. Would his friend get the same tattoo?”

“Perhaps he was a Cancer, too, and they got those tattoos together.”

“What if they became lovers on that trip? People get inked for all sorts of reasons. Maybe their identical tattoos pledged them to each other,” said Abby.

“C’est possible.” Philippe ran his hand through the curls at the back of his neck. “Good work, Abby.” He reached over and patted her on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger momentarily before pulling away.

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” Abby said. “I’m going to take a picture of this man’s face with my smartphone and text it to Kat to see if she knows or can find out who this guy is.”

“You think he’s from Las Flores?” Philippe looked at her with excitement in his eyes.

“Maybe. I don’t know if he’s local or not. I mean, I don’t know everybody in town. Used to when I worked my daily beat as a cop, but I pretty much stick to myself these days. As for this guy with Jean-Louis . . . I have a hunch that they were on vacation together. Those postcards and the photos suggest the Caribbean. This man J. could shed some light, I think, on that trip and maybe tell us where to find Vieillard.”

Philippe frowned. “Do you think Vieillard is responsible for Jean-Louis’s death?”

“Not wise to speculate on that yet. But Vieillard is a missing piece of this puzzle. I need to find out who he is and what his connection is to Jean-Louis’s life narrative.” Abby pressed the camera app on her phone and attached the picture to a text to Kat. The reply came back within minutes.

“Philippe, we got it!” Abby exclaimed. “The man in the picture with Jean-Louis is Jake Lennahan . . . Eva Lennahan’s husband.” Abby leaned back into the chair. “You didn’t put away the wine, did you? I think I need a refill,” she said, reaching for the pictures of the two men and the postcards.