A Beeline to Murder (19 page)

“I’ve got to look at this from every possible angle,” Abby said. Then she added, “If Eva Lennahan and her husband, Jake, took Jean-Louis on vacation, why didn’t she mention that when she met you and offered her condolences yesterday at the Shakespeare Festival? Another thing . . . Why do you think there is no image of her anywhere in all those pictures of that tropical vacation? To me, that’s just weird.”

“Couldn’t there be a logical explanation?” Philippe asked, arching his brows.

“Well, yes, I suppose Jake could have invited Jean-Louis as his guest as a thank-you for all the work he’d done on Eva’s political fundraisers. Or maybe the trip involved guy-only activities, and Eva opted out, knowing she wouldn’t be welcome. Or maybe she did go, but with other people to other functions.”

“All are possible.” Philippe’s eyes were fixated on Abby.

“What I find curious is that Jean-Louis did not post any of these photographs on his social networking page. Did you see any of these or other images of this man on Jean-Louis’s laptop?”

“Non. Not that I recall.”

Abby’s cell phone vibrated on the table. She answered it and smiled when she heard Lidia’s voice. She was most likely calling back about the man who had brought in the earrings for repair.

“Abby, dear, I located that receipt. The handwriting is a little difficult to decipher, but it looks like Lemadan or Lenadan.”

“Could it be Lennahan?” Abby asked, pulse racing.

“Well, I suppose it could be, dear.”

“Lidia, if the rest of the name is there, would you please read it to me?”

“Oh, there’s no rest of the name, dear. Just the initial J. and a phone number.”

 

 

¾ cup chipotle chilies in adobo sauce, mashed
3 tablespoons honey mustard (or to taste)
2 flatbreads
1 warm rotisserie or grilled chicken, shredded or cubed
½ cup warm black beans
½ cup warm cooked sweet corn
½ cup diced fresh garden tomatoes
½ cup diced red onion
Several sprigs of fresh cilantro, minced

 

Chapter 14

If you want to lower your cholesterol, decrease your stress level, and improve your blood pressure, adopt a dog.

 

 

A
bby awoke hours before dawn. In the dark, she lay unmoving . . . listening. It was hot, stiflingly so. A sound had awakened her—a long creak. Then a thud. Someone or something was on her roof.

Even groggy, Abby remembered the ladder that she had propped against the south side of her house, where she had torn out a paper-wasp nest a week ago. She had left the ladder there, intending to pick the ripe figs and then cut the branch overhanging the roof. The last thing she needed was a colony of roof rats. But she had never gotten around to finishing, and the ladder was still there, waiting.

She eased off the mattress, feeling chilled in her short cotton gown, and searched for her flashlight on the bedside table. Her fingers soon touched the grooved metal. Leaving the flashlight turned off so it wouldn’t signal to the intruders that she was on to them, Abby felt her way in the dark along the hallway wall and over to the kitchen sliding-glass door. Sugar was not to be left behind. She bounded off the foot of the bed and shot past Abby to the door, her strong tail rhythmically smacking the wall.

“You stay here. Guard the inside. I’ll be right back.”

Sugar was having none of that. She squeezed right through the door, between Abby’s legs.
Whatever!
Abby slipped outside, then limped, barefoot, along the gravel path to the ladder. She climbed up it until her fingers felt the edge of the roof. Sugar had bounded off into the black night, whining and sniffing. Suddenly Abby brought the light beam up and shined it across the roof. The blinding light exposed the black, banded eyes, the white-tipped ears, and the ringed tail of a raccoon on a predawn raid with her three youngsters. The mother coon was standing on her hind legs, reaching upward for the figs and knocking some down in the process. Abby swore under her breath and backed away down the ladder. It was never a good idea to get between a wild coon and her cubs, especially when they were dining on their favorite food. Abby didn’t mind sharing, but she could have done without the startling fear that a dangerous man might be on her roof.

“Sugar, come here.” Abby flashed the light around the yard. She spied Sugar at the back gate, where the raccoons must have come onto Abby’s property. “Sugar! Come here, girl. Come.”
Oh, good grief, dog. Tune me out, as you always do.

Abby returned to the kitchen and fished some doggy biscuits from a canister
. Maybe one of these babies will bring you back.
Abby found her shoes, slipped her feet into them, and walked toward the back fence, where Sugar stood on her hind legs, pawing at the fence. She leaped backward. Barked. Pawed some more.

“Look. Look what I have here,” Abby said as she walked toward the back fence. “Doggy biscuits. Come get ’em.”

Sugar took a flying leap at the fence, knocking over a pottery saucer filled with water. Now the poor animal had drenched herself. Abby shined the light at the back of the gate and saw another raccoon cowering in a half-turned position, as if ready to run. It would not be good for either Abby or the half-pint-sized dog to be trapped between two groups of coons. Abby dropped the biscuits, lunged, grabbed Sugar, and carried the wriggling, wet, yapping dog to the safety of the farmhouse.

Back inside, Abby flipped on the light and looked at the clock. It read 5:30 a.m. The raccoons would leave before sunup—they were shy creatures who foraged at night. Most likely, their den was close by, probably on the deserted property in back of the farmette. Abby had noticed lately that the fresh water she put in the birdbath each day would go muddy overnight—a sure sign of raccoons on the prowl. They liked washing up.

Sugar was now dripping on the clean kitchen floor. When Abby grabbed a towel to dry the dog, Sugar darted from Abby’s arms and made a mad dash for the couch pillows, where she threw her body upside down and sideways, wiggling in delight. Next, she dried her ears and head, rubbing her wet fur against Abby’s new throw rug, and when Abby lunged to capture her, Sugar flew to the bedroom and dried her dirty paws on Abby’s white sheet and hand-embroidered quilt.

“Dang it, Sugar. If there was the slightest chance I might have gone back to bed, it’s not possible now! Thanks to you the bedding has to be washed. And just FYI, that is my grandmother’s quilt.”

Sugar cocked her head to look at Abby.

Like you care.
“Arghh!”

Abby pulled the sheets from the bed and the pillowcases off the pillows and threw them into the washer. At least an early start meant she could get some chores done before the funeral. She made a pot of coffee, dressed in work clothes, and pulled her copper-colored hair into a ponytail. Coffee cup in hand, she headed to the back part of the property to pluck some squash for dinner and the last of the spring peas—vines and pods—to throw to the chickens.

At the chicken house, she spotted Henrietta already on the nest. The bantam rooster Houdini was in a mood and jumped on the back of Henrietta’s sister—who was too quick for his advances—before settling on one of the brown hens, who was larger, slower, and more submissive. The hen shrieked her objections in ear-piercing squawks as Houdini mounted her, and then she wriggled out from under him after he had had his way with her. The proud Houdini pranced around the pen, his chest out and his iridescent blue-green tail feathers flicking. The poor hen ruffled her feathers, squawked for a while, and proceeded to find a quiet corner where she could scratch and peck in peace.

Abby watched Houdini strut the cock walk. “You think you are such hot stuff, but here’s a news flash, Mr. Dandy in Short Pants. Fertilizing eggs produces roosters as well as hens. Trust me, you don’t want more roosters in the henhouse. You remember Frank, don’t you? After a rooster half his age almost did him in, we had to find him a new henhouse with some ladies who were, let’s just say, getting up there in years.”

Houdini defiantly flew up to a fence post and let go a gravelly cock-a-doodle-doo, which sounded to Abby a lot like “Not listening to you-ooo.”

When the chicken chores were finished, Abby walked past the open-pollinated corn patch. The ears were filling out nicely, but some were covered in ants. The ants had to have a food source, a fact that worried Abby and prompted a closer look. Colonies of corn leaf aphids had formed, their numbers no doubt amplified by the extreme heat and the dry soil, and the ants were feeding on the sticky honeydew produced by the aphids. She spotted a couple of ladybugs and hoped for lacewings, the natural predator of the aphids. Their presence suggested there was potentially an eco-balance in place, but she still might have to mix up a quantity of insecticidal soap. What she didn’t want was a major infestation that she couldn’t control. But harsh chemicals and poisons would harm her bees. She’d deep soak the corn patch with water and keep a close eye on the pest problem.

Her next stop was the garden. The eggplants were plump and had turned from white to shiny dark purple, almost matching the Ananas Noire heirloom tomatoes. Abby plucked the biggest tomato she could find. Back in the farmhouse, she washed and cut the tomato, then tossed it into a bowl, along with slices of Armenian cucumber, red onion, baby spinach, pine nuts, and feta cheese, which she spritzed with basil-infused olive oil and vinegar. Perched on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, she bit into the crisp Greek salad. Two bites later, her cell phone rang. Philippe was calling to tell her not to pick him up. He’d meet her at the funeral home.

“Afterward, shall we take one car up the mountain, Abby?”

“Why not?” she replied, trying to crunch a piece of crisp, cold cucumber quietly.

“Then would you mind driving? I find those switchbacks daunting.”

“Uh-huh.” She swallowed the mouthful of salad and held the phone away from her mouth as she chugged some iced green tea to wash down the lump.

There was a pause.

Philippe said, “A staff member of Shadyside Funeral Home called and asked me to meet her earlier today. She wanted to know Jean-Louis’s favorite music. She also wanted pictures of him for an audiovisual tribute to Jean-Louis. This idea, it made me crazy at first. But then I searched for images of my brother on my laptop. I took Jean-Louis’s phone to her. She removed the pictures. Wait until you see what we’ve made.”

“Philippe, it sounds lovely. I can’t wait to see it.”

“It is beautiful.”

“So, see you there.” Abby understood that many things could facilitate coping and healing. Working on something that celebrated his younger brother’s life—even against a time constraint—might help Philippe begin to heal his grief. And a memorial in the form of an audiovisual tribute might help him gain closure. She liked the idea that Philippe would have emotional support, and found herself actually looking forward to the closure the ceremony would provide.

Abby showered and changed. In fact, she was in such a good mood, she decided to take the last of the salad to the chickens and check to make sure all the gates were shut so Sugar could romp out back while Abby was gone. Turning the corner past the flowering purple wisteria and the blooming Iceland roses, Abby looked around for the dog. She soon spotted Sugar digging like crazy, dirt flying high behind her long white legs, in the very patch where Abby had newly planted the beans.

Abby dropped the plastic container of salad remnants, rushed to the bean patch, and found it totally destroyed. She soon spotted a long ridge in the dirt and volcano mounds of freshly dug soil. A mole. It had to be a mole; gopher mounds were crescent shaped. Abby stared at the dog. “I don’t know who upsets me more—you or the mole.” She looked around for the beans, which were now scattered on top of the dirt. “Ooh, you little brat.”

She pulled the dog away from the mounds and carried her back to the house.

“You’re in big trouble, little girl.” She pulled the patio door ajar so that Sugar could come and go as she pleased. “Just don’t take down the rest of the farm while I’m gone,” she admonished.

 

Abby pulled up to Shadyside Funeral Home at 1:30 p.m. Finding a parking space proved difficult. After three times around the lot, she gave up and parked on the street. Shadyside’s director had warned her that the funeral home had two funerals scheduled that afternoon, so she shouldn’t have been surprised that the lot was so full. She made her way into the chapel area.

Sprays of white lilies, roses, and gardenias were positioned on either side of the doorway. As Abby stepped inside, she was shocked to see how many more arrangements lined the interior walls, creating a lush floral backdrop for the casket
.
Pristine white orchids with a startling reddish-purple hue staining the inner edges of the blooms rested in pots atop faux marble columns at the head and the foot of the casket. Who had sent such an abundance of beautiful flowers? And where was Philippe? she thought.

Abby walked over to the casket. A peaceful-looking Jean-Louis was visible from the head to just below the waist. The bottom half of the casket was covered by a massive spray of white lilies. Philippe had dressed his brother in a tropical-print shirt of muted colors, which made Abby smile. Jean-Louis looked like a carefree young man napping on his favorite beach on the island of Hispaniola.

“Chef Jean-Louis,” Abby whispered, leaning in. “Just so you know, I was on time for the last honey delivery.” Unexpectedly, a shiver shot up her spine. Abby tensed as she stared at the corpse. His features, once so expressive, seemed intensely somber now, as if holding a secret. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. “I hated finding you like that.” The back of her eyes burned as she stifled the cry building within. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell the bees about your passing. I’ll have to tell them, although I guess I’m more of a bee whisperer than a talker.” Abby’s lip quivered. “You know, they sometimes”—her voice cracked—“sometimes sing to me.” She swallowed a sob and sniffed hard.

“My grandfather, may God rest his soul, now, he was a bee talker,” she explained. “He was the one who told me that when someone close to the bees dies, the bees know. They sometimes fly away with the spirit of the dead. Listen, Chef, I don’t want to lose my bees, so if they fly off with you, please tell them to come home to the farmette.”

The tears that had welled now trickled over her cheeks. Abby dabbed them away with the backs of her hands. “Once we get you tucked in, I’ll open the hives, I promise, and whisper what they surely already sense. You know they liked having you visit them. I’m going to find out who did this to you, Jean-Louis. I promise.”

“Abby,” Philippe’s voice called out softly.

Abby quickly wiped the tears and turned to greet him.

Philippe took her in his arms and held her close.

Abby felt her heart aching, her stomach knotting. Even as she told herself to hold it all in, a sob erupted.
Pull yourself together.
From Philippe’s warm and sheltering embrace, she began to draw strength and calmness.

“Philippe, he’s so beautiful, so peaceful,” she said when they parted. “And the flowers are exquisite. Your doing?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand.

“Non. They have been delivered with cards, all but this one.” He reached out and touched the spray of white lilies tied with ribbon that lay atop the casket. “The staff told me a thin man in a dark suit and sunglasses brought these. There are also two roses just there, where the casket lid comes down. He laid them in a way, it seems, to suggest that Jean-Louis carry them into the afterlife.” Abby knelt down to see the two roses for herself and then stood up again, facing Philippe.

“Do you know who that man might be?”

“Non. He requested time alone with Jean-Louis. The staff told me that he sobbed so hard, they brought to him tissues and a glass of water.”