A Beeline to Murder (23 page)

Chapter 16

Help your chickens through the annual molting process (when they lose feathers and stop egg production) by feeding them 20 percent more protein and reducing their stress.

 

 

A
bby abruptly awakened, alarmed, not knowing why. She soon realized the arm draped over her tummy wasn’t hers. She sucked in a surprised gasp. Philippe reclined beside her—one arm over her and the other cradling his pillow. Sugar had positioned herself in a ball, her back against the soles of Abby’s feet. Abby relaxed and thought about how the three of them had ended up on her bed . . . together.

After dinner and pie following the graveside service, she and Philippe had sipped cordials under the stars on the farmette patio. Her choice had been a late-season muscat; his, a brandy. When Philippe had complained of sleepiness due to the meal and an alcohol buzz, Abby had pointed the way to the bedroom. After all, she didn’t feel much like clearing the couch, which was covered in boxes of unopened bee supplies and the jars and egg cartons that Lucas had given her. While Philippe rested, Abby had reclined on a large pillow next to him. She had stroked Sugar as she’d explained to Philippe where the case was now headed. Within minutes, Philippe and Sugar had drifted off to sleep. Soon after . . . she had, too.

A grin parted her lips as Abby realized that at some point Philippe had reached over to draw her close. Trailing her fingers along his arm, she soon felt the fabric of his shirt where he had turned up the cuff.
Oh, jeez. We’re still fully dressed in our funeral clothes.
She suppressed a chuckle. So much for the long-awaited kiss and the sizzling whatever else that might have followed. She liked him, but he would soon leave for New York. He was a city boy, after all. Maybe this was the way things were meant to be.

Her thoughts settled peacefully as she listened to Philippe’s soft breathing and Sugar’s snoring. Beyond the window, the tinkling wind chime seemed to compete with the rustle of the fig tree leaves. A frog let go a trio of throaty croaks. All pleasant enough sounds, but what had awakened her? On the other hand, what did it really matter now?

Houdini crowed. Never quite sure why he felt the need to crow at all hours of the night, Abby wondered if he was experiencing a testosterone rush or if he was sounding the alarm about a prowling skunk or raccoon. Or maybe he had just heard another rooster cock-a-doodle-doing and was responding.
Whatever.

Guiding her fingertips along Philippe’s hand where it rested against her tummy, Abby touched the angled ridges of his knuckles and traced the prominent vein that ran along the top of his hand to the boundary of soft hairs covering his forearm. She felt utterly content, so much so that not even Houdini’s crowing could interfere with the secret pleasure permeating her being, except . . . Houdini hadn’t stopped crowing.
What is bugging that rooster?

A soft scuffle sounded on the gravel path alongside the house. Abby strained to hear it. For a long interval, she listened, on high alert, but the sound had ceased. She heaved a heavy sigh and settled back down. Then . . . a bottle rolled on the patio’s stone surface. Abby sighed in exasperation.
Those pesky raccoons are definitely back.

Checking on the raccoons wasn’t a good enough reason to leave the comfy bed, but as she thought about their tendency to riffle through anything and everything, Abby remembered the antique cordial glasses. She had left them on the patio table after Philippe had told her how sleepy he felt. The set of crystal, a gift from her grandparents, had been etched with an Edinburgh thistle pattern. So whether she wanted to or not, Abby felt she had to get up and save those glasses from the nocturnal bandits.

Easing Philippe’s arm off her midsection so as not to awaken him, Abby rolled to the edge of the bed, then felt for the flashlight and the fuzzy pink house slippers she kept under the bed. With the items firmly in hand, she quietly tiptoed to the kitchen sliding-glass door. The sudden slap of Sugar’s tail smacked her leg.

“Not this time,” Abby whispered sharply, dropping her slippers and sliding her feet into them. “I still haven’t recovered from your last go-round with those raccoons. You guard Philippe. Now stay.”

The night-light under the microwave mounted above the oven gave off enough light for Abby to see on the counter the jar in which she kept a few baked dog biscuits in the shape of a bone. Retrieving one, she waved it under Sugar’s nose. The dog wasn’t interested. Abby laid the dog biscuit on the floor. Sugar ignored it. Stealing over to the patio door, Abby quietly unlatched it and opened it just a little. She held on to Sugar’s collar to keep the dog inside while she peeled herself out through the narrow opening. Sugar whined. She left the heavy glass door slightly ajar, certain that it was too heavy for Sugar to push and that the opening was too narrow for her to squeeze through. But Sugar was still able to sniff the raccoon scent in the night air. Immediately, she rose on her hind legs and began pawing and whining.

“Settle down!” Abby whispered.
Who am I kidding? Like you are ever going to listen to me.
The moon had set, taking with it that glorious silvery light it emitted, but the stars remained bright against the dark sky, and the breeze was gentle and warm. Abby almost wished that Philippe would awaken and that they could sit for a spell and maybe talk of dreams the way she and Clay used to do.
Nah, let him sleep. He’s probably as physically exhausted as he is emotionally.

She found the glasses right where she’d left them. Now to get them inside before the raccoons caught sight of her. But how to do it? Sugar was just waiting for that door to open. She was sure to dash right between Abby’s legs or jump up and knock the glasses from her hands. Already, Abby could hear a commotion on the side of the house. If the raccoons had knocked over that stack of five-gallon buckets she was planning to fill with frames of honey, it meant they were just around the corner. If they saw her, they could get mighty aggressive.

Not wanting to deal with Sugar while she carried her antique stemware or to alarm the raccoons in any way, Abby conceived another plan. She turned off the flashlight and reached for the glasses. Rather than trying to wiggle through that patio door and risk dropping them, Abby cradled the glasses to her chest and struck out barefoot through the wet grass. She headed past a row of white tea roses to a wooden bench. It was positioned between thickly canopied nectarine trees; the trees’ round, dark silhouettes looked like ancient beehives. After finding the basket of rags she’d left on the bench, Abby wrapped the stemware and slid it between the layers of cloth. She wedged the basket under the arm of the bench, eager to return to bed.

Hands seized her from behind. Abby’s heart thudded against her chest. Though she was filled with terror, the cop in her fought back. Her attacker clamped a hand reeking of stale tobacco over her mouth. Joining her two hands together for strength, Abby thrust her elbow toward her attacker’s face to break his hold. It didn’t work. She realized that he was taller, stronger, and that he outweighed her. She twisted her body, trying to break free. Her slippers came off as he pulled her through the roses to an open area of grass.

She was now in his stranglehold. Terror filled every fiber of her being. Abby squeezed her index and middle fingers together for strength and plunged them into the hollow of the man’s neck while she rolled in her shoulder to lengthen her arm and wrest herself away. Thinking she was free of his iron grip, Abby pivoted, intending to hit him with an eye gouge, followed by a groin kick. But before she could execute either maneuver, he sucker punched her in the face. Knife pricks of pain shot through her left cheek. Falling, Abby screamed in pain. It came out more as a breath than a sound. The man flipped her over. Dragged her farther. Straddled her.

“Don’t fight me.” His hand was again on her mouth. “You’re going to like it!”

Abby twisted her head. She prayed Philippe had heard her. Any second now, Philippe would flip on the lights, step outside. He would see she was in trouble. She could hear Sugar. The dog was agitated.

Sugar pawed the door. Lunged through the opening. Snarling and barking, she flew at the stranger. The man’s grip loosened, but he held on to Abby as they rolled in the wet grass. Sugar was unrelenting. The man let go. His arms and hands flailed against Sugar. The dog had his sleeve in her mouth. Sugar’s head twisted . . . made staccato movements . . . back and forth, like she was playing with a rag doll. She released his hand and bit his face. Then, when his hand flew up defensively, Sugar snapped at his fingers.

Abby crawled from the melee, screaming, “Philippe! Gun . . . bedside table!” She looked back at her attacker. The man had risen to a semi-sitting position, in a fight for his life as he wrestled with Sugar.

“Call him off!” he yelled.

Abby lunged forward. Crawled toward the patio.

The man screamed, “I’ll kill it!”

Finally . . . Philippe appeared. “Mon Dieu! What is happening?” Apparently realizing the dire situation, he somehow remembered the garbage can where Abby kept rawhide bones for Sugar. Philippe lunged toward the garbage can and grabbed the large river rock anchoring the lid. He hurled the rock at the attacker. It hit the man’s shoulder. Abby’s attacker fell back in slow motion. Sugar, who had retreated momentarily, quickly pounced back on the man, snarling, her teeth exposed.

Abby crawled faster than a rabbit, pitched upward, and sprinted past Philippe as he reached for her. She raced to the bedroom. Grabbed the gun. Raced to the patio. Aimed up. Pulled the trigger.

Sugar yelped, darted a few feet away, and cowered as Philippe took cover inside the kitchen.

With her weapon trained on the man, Abby said in a steely voice, “Move, and I shoot to kill.” She walked backward and, without taking her eyes off the man, reached inside the kitchen to flick the outside light switch to the up position. The patio light went on. She could see her attacker now.

Heavyset, and wearing a T-shirt, a leather vest, jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a blue bandanna, he appeared to be a skinhead in his midtwenties. His clean-shaven face bore a long scar: it ran from under his left eye to his chin. Blood seeped from bite marks on his cheek and hand. He hawked up a mouthful of blood.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Abby ordered. To Philippe, she said, “Call the cops. Phone’s on the kitchen counter. Police are on speed dial.”

While Philippe worked the phone, Abby stood rooted in a shoot-to-kill position, one leg in front of the other, both hands on her weapon. “Who are you?” she asked.

The man stared at her in silence.

“Fine . . . Save it for the cops.”

From inside, Philippe asked her for the address; dispatch was on the phone.

After a few minutes, the skinhead spoke. His tone was still arrogant. “I’ll answer your questions if you let me go.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Abby kept her gun trained on him, not even moving when the raccoons began to scurry across the yard. The mama coon paused near the man, rose up on her hind legs, then dropped back down and retreated with her cubs to the abandoned property behind the fence. Philippe, visibly shaken, stepped out onto the patio and leaned against the wall. Sugar panted hard and then ran inside. Abby guessed it was to quench her thirst at the water bowl.

Minutes passed. The sky grew lighter. The stars dimmed. Houdini began his crowing routine. The next eight minutes seemed to Abby like an eternity. Then she heard wheels screeching on her gravel driveway. A car door slammed.
Can’t be the police. They can’t get here that fast.

A man called out her name several times. Abby recognized Lucas Crawford’s earthy baritone voice.

“I’m back here, Lucas.”

“I heard a shot,” Lucas said, stepping around the corner and onto the patio. “What’s going on here?” His eyes were trained on Abby, but then they shifted to the man on the ground, before finally resting on Philippe. “Couldn’t tell where it came from. Worried me,” Lucas said. He seemed to be sizing up the situation. “You got blood all over you, woman. You need medical attention.”

Abby nodded. “It’s on the way.”

“You friend or foe?” Lucas asked Philippe.

“Friend,
naturellement!
” Philippe replied.

“Right answer,” said Lucas. He turned to glare at the stranger sitting on the ground. “So what’s the story here?”

The man on the ground scowled in silence.

Abby doubted the man would talk, but she took comfort in the take-charge attitude that Lucas was showing . . . and also in the sound of approaching sirens. When the man refused to answer her when again she asked his name, she decided to fill Lucas in. “He attacked me. Fearing for my life and limb, I got my gun and fired off a round.”

“You want me to beat the daylights out of this piece of crap?” Lucas asked. “I could do it before the cops get here.” Abby couldn’t see it, but she guessed that Lucas had locked eyes with her attacker and was engaged in a stare down. Finally, Lucas said to Philippe, “I would have thought you would have already done that.”

“Let the police handle it, Lucas. From the sound of the sirens, I’d say they’re almost here,” Abby said.

Philippe was still holding Abby’s phone and jumped slightly when a text ringtone sounded and the screen lit up.

“That’s Kat’s ringtone,” Abby said.

“What does s-w-y-p mean?” Philippe asked, reading the phone screen.

“So what’s your problem?” Abby answered. “That’s what it means. Kat must have heard about the trouble here from our dispatchers putting the call out for units to respond.”

“There’s more,” Philippe said. “There’s a one-eight-seven at the Crow Ridge cutoff.”