A Beeline to Murder (24 page)

“One-eight-seven is the code for homicide. So who was murdered?”

Philippe shook his head, stared at the phone, and said nothing. After a few seconds passed, the text ringtone sounded again. “Eva Lennahan,” Philippe said.

Abby let go an audible gasp. Her thoughts spun.
Our prime suspect? Oh, that’s not good.
Her lips tightened. She shook her head in disbelief.

At the sight of two police officers running onto the patio, Abby heaved a sigh of relief and gave them her gun. She would gladly let them do their job securing the scene and taking her attacker, whoever he was, into custody. She knew that once the scene was secured, the cops would let the paramedics in to check her out. She felt wracked with pain from the assault, particularly the blow to her cheek.

The sun rose through the thicket of trees behind the chicken house. Houdini began his crow-off with a neighboring rooster farther down Farm Hill Road. While Philippe petted Sugar and Lucas helped the male cop handcuff and lead the skinhead to the patrol car, Abby gave her statement. By then, the place was swarming with cops, first responders, firemen, and paramedics—all of whom knew Abigail Mackenzie as formerly one of their own. When the female officer asked about discharging the weapon, Abby carefully explained how terrorized she had felt, how she had feared for her life.

“I was standing about here, facing him, when I made the split-second decision to fire off a round. He’d threatened to kill my dog,” Abby explained. “I imagine the casing went down five to six feet to the right, most likely parallel to the roses, perpendicular to the patio. It’s got to be somewhere in the grass there.” She tried to stand but suddenly felt quite weak. Maybe she just needed coffee.

As if reading her mind, Lucas returned, put a warm, reassuring hand on Abby’s shoulder, and said, “You look like you could use a cup of joe, Abby. Your pot in the kitchen?”

Abby nodded. “You can find the canister of beans, already ground, in the upper cupboard nearest the sink.” She sank into the rocking chair on the patio.

Philippe drew close and knelt at her feet, his hands on the handles of the rocker. “Ma chérie, are you in pain? Your face, it has a deep cut.”

Before Abby could respond, a paramedic, dressed in a blue uniform with reflector stripes on the sleeves and a lapel badge that spelled
DOTTIE
, rushed over to treat her. “Excuse me, please,” she said to Philippe, who moved aside. The paramedic dropped her medical pack on the patio table and leaned down to have a closer look. After opening the pack, she took out some tweezers to pluck out bits of debris from Abby’s cheek. That done, she turned back to her pack and began removing items, such as alcohol prep pads, hydrogen peroxide, iodine, antiseptic cream, gauze, and tape.

Philippe moved to the other side of the paramedic. He watched intently as the woman pushed aside her stethoscope and pulled on latex gloves to examine the laceration on Abby’s cheek.

“Could you give us a little room here?” the paramedic asked Philippe.

“Oui,” Philippe said. “I am not leaving you, Abby, but I do not want to be in the way. And the sight of the blood, it makes me queasy,” he said sheepishly. “I will check on the bees and give you a few minutes. Hmm?”

“Thank you, Philippe.” Abby watched him stroll in the direction of the apiary.

“Are there other cuts on your body?” the paramedic asked.

“Scratches, mostly on my extremities, from my rosebushes,” Abby replied.

“How did you get the cut on your face?”

“During the attack, I was punched.”

“Oh, that’s awful. I hope that lowlife gets what’s coming to him. What about pain in your head and neck? How does it feel when I move it from side to side like this?” Using her hands, the paramedic gently moved Abby’s head from left to right and up and down.

“Feels kind of stiff, like I’ve been manhandled.” Abby managed a weak smile.

The paramedic checked Abby’s pulse and listened to her heartbeat and breath sounds. Waving a light into and away from Abby’s eyes, the paramedic began asking a series of questions. “Do you know your name? The president’s name? Where you are? What day it is?” Abby knew they were standard questions paramedics used to assess a patient’s orientation and level of consciousness.

After correctly answering Dottie’s questions, Abby said, “Look, I know the drill, but I don’t need c-spine. I don’t need transport. I’m fine.”

The paramedic reached into her bag and pulled out a small sealed package. “These should help with the pain. Refusing transport is your right; however, your cut could use a stitch.”

“No, I really don’t want to go to the hospital.” Abby didn’t feel it necessary to explain why she hated hospitals. She just did. And not just because of the failed surgeries on her thumb, but also because in her former line of work, it was the place of endings. Cops died. Perps died. Witnesses passed away before they could testify. Oh, sure, plenty of local women went there to give birth, but Abby had never seen that. She just didn’t like the place. It was that simple.

“Okay, but if you are going to decline our offer of a ride in the ambulance, you’ll have to sign a release form,” the paramedic told her as she finished taping the butterfly closures across the cut on Abby’s cheek. As soon as Abby had signed the release, the paramedics left along with the first responders, cops, and firemen.

Lucas strolled out from the kitchen with a mug of coffee and handed it to Abby. He went back into the kitchen, brought out the pot and two empty mugs, and set them on the table. “For your other friend,” said Lucas, adding in a disapproving tone, “The one who lets a lady rescue herself.” He poured coffee for himself in one of the mugs and sat down on a patio chair. Abby didn’t say anything. What could she say?
That’s not fair. . . . Philippe was asleep in my bed. Uh-oh, might not be a good idea to tell him that.
Abby inhaled deeply, stared up at the clusters of red berries on the towering pepper tree, and said, “Great coffee, Lucas. Thank you for making it.”

“I can cook, too,” he replied.

She smiled.

Sugar had gotten her drink and then had remained at Abby’s side after the attack. She had growled occasionally, as if to continue expressing her dislike for the man who had attacked Abby. Now that he was gone, the dog, who had been panting like crazy, had taken an interest in Abby’s house slippers. The slippers were old. And letting the dog chew them was a small enough gesture of appreciation for Sugar saving her life.

Abby and Lucas quietly sipped coffee, watching Sugar. The mutt quickly abandoned the shoe chew to chase a hummingbird that had zoomed past, apparently to lap nectar from the tubular flowers of the trumpet vines.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lucas said. “I’ve got a single-action revolver in my gun safe that I could loan you until you get your gun back.”

“Really? It’s a tempting offer, Lucas.” Abby thought about it for a moment. She liked the idea but suspected that she might not be able to handle it as easily as her own gun.

As if reading her thoughts, Lucas said, “I’d be happy to offer some pointers.”

“I’d need target practice, for sure,” Abby said, thinking it could be fun to shoot cans off a fence with Lucas or fire at the range. But then again, a single-action revolver required manual cocking. Lucas would pretty readily pick up on her gimpy thumb action. Still, how cool it was that he had offered to loan her
that
gun. A shot from it could take down a 250-pound attacker, even if he was high on drugs.

“Think about it. Let me know,” he said in his deep country-singer voice.

Abby stared at the hills, which were now ablaze with color and which, only hours ago, would have looked like camelback humps in black. Her thoughts returned to the skinhead. She wondered who he was and why he’d come all the way out to her farmette to attack her. She was dying to call Otto to find out what the cops knew, but she would make the call when she was alone, after Lucas and Philippe had gone. This was personal.

“Looks like you got yourself a pointer there, judging from the liver spots.” Lucas stretched out his long, jeans-clad legs and crossed his feet, one worn cowboy boot over the other, and sipped his coffee.

“Well, Sugar actually belonged to someone else, but . . . her owner isn’t coming back,” Abby said, then took a swig of her coffee and thought that it had never tasted so good. But as she thought about Sugar, it seemed to her that the poor dog really had no one but Abby. Abby had a debt to pay to Sugar. And just like that, she decided she would care for the mixed-breed canine for the rest of the dog’s life.
What is that . . . ? Fourteen . . . fifteen years?

“I could use a good bird dog,” Lucas said. “Take her off your hands . . . train her. Get you a proper guard dog, if you want.”

“Well, I appreciate your offer, Lucas. I really do. But I think Sugar and I are destined to be together. ”

His light brown eyes stared straight out over the back property. “Glad to hear it. A woman living alone out here . . . Well, you know how I feel about that.”

“Yes, and I appreciate that you came straight to my farmette as soon as you heard the shot. A lot of folks live along Farm Hill Road, but you are the only one who checked on me. You’re a wonderful neighbor, Lucas. I hope you know that.”

He took another swig of coffee and locked his soulful eyes with hers. After a long beat, he said softly, “Maybe sometime we could—”

“Your bees, they are happy today, Abby,” Philippe cried out exuberantly. “And the coffee smells great.” He strolled back to the patio, a broad grin creasing his face, apparently unaware that he had interrupted Lucas in mid-sentence.

“Lucas brought a cup for you, Philippe. Right there.” She pointed to the white mug on the table.

“Merci, mon ami.” Philippe gave an appreciative nod to Lucas, reached for the mug, and poured some coffee in it. After tasting it, he put the mug back down. “Oh, sadly, the coffee, it is not hot enough.”

Lucas rose and strolled into the kitchen to put his mug in the sink. Philippe sank into Lucas’s chair. When Lucas returned, he put a hand on Abby’s shoulder.

“Feel better, Abby. You know where to find me.” A few moments later, his pickup engine started, and the gravel crunched under his truck tires as he pulled away.

“I think I’ve seen him before, Abby. Who is he?” Philippe asked.

“He raises beef on a ranch near here, one that’s part of an old Spanish land grant.” Abby’s thoughts were drifting elsewhere. What was it Lucas had said?
Maybe sometime we could . . . What?
What was Lucas about to say when Philippe interrupted? Abby made a mental note to ask Lucas the next time she saw him.

Although her cheek throbbed and her body felt weary, Abby wanted to get Philippe back to Las Flores so he could finish packing up his brother’s apartment and ship the boxes back to New York. And she also wanted to find out the details of Eva Lennahan’s murder. She also wanted to talk with Otto about that skinhead and find out what the police knew. The pain reliever the paramedic had given her would soon kick in, and so for now, regardless of how she felt, she would work her agenda.

“I’ll just change out of my dress and drive you to the funeral home, where you left your car.” Abby used her most cheerful voice. Despite her tone, the smile evaporated from Philippe’s face.

“Must we?”

“I think we must.”

 

 

 

Commercially made dog biscuits often contain preservatives and other additives to keep them fresh and tasty for as long as possible. When you make homemade treats for your dog, you can cater to his or her personal taste by adding liver, bacon, cheese, or another flavorful ingredient. The following basic recipe is perfect for such modification. Cut the dough with a bone- or heart-shaped cookie cutter, or any desired shape.

 

2 cups flour (all-purpose or whole-wheat or a mixture of both)
½ cup rolled oats
1 tablespoon wheat germ
½ cup chicken broth
1 large egg
1 tablespoon canola oil, plus more for greasing the baking sheet
2 tablespoons mashed cooked liver, minced cooked bacon, or grated cheddar cheese (optional)

 

Chapter 17

Time spent in a garden is a lot like yoga; it slows the breath, quiets the mind, and guides you to the truth.

 

 

W
hile Philippe played with Sugar in the orchard area, Abby took a quick shower and changed into a lime-colored silk blouse with embroidery trim in a yellow paisley pattern along the edges of the capped sleeves and hem, straight-leg jeans, and black Mary Jane flats. She brushed her hair into a ponytail and twisted the end back under a rubber band to make a thick knot. After a quick application of mascara to her light lashes, she chose a soft shade of peach lip gloss and smoothed a fingertip of it across her lips. The use of blush was not possible because of her injured cheek. She decided that a drop of rosemary and lemon oil dabbed against her temples couldn’t hurt; the herbalist who sold it to her had emphasized its qualities for enhancing mental clarity and concentration. And today Abby needed all the help she could get as she met with Otto at the police station to talk through the loose ends of the pastry chef’s murder. The evidence boxes were already loaded into the Jeep and she was eager to return them to the police.

Strolling onto the patio, into a light breeze, she imagined the wind carrying away the ugly vibe of the skinhead who’d attacked her. Since buying the farmette, she’d always felt safe and peaceful there, as though the more she nurtured the land, the more it nourished her spirit. Her assailant had stalked her like prey, and the memory of it would always be with her. But for Abby to live in fear meant he had taken her power, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.

Although the farmette was a peaceful place, it was never quiet—what with the squawking of jays and the endless hoarse cawing of crows, which had taken up residence in the tall pine near the front of her property. Now, as on most other days, Abby watched them flap, flap, flap overhead without gliding as they flew from the massive sugar pine to the eucalyptus grove at the rear of her property.

Philippe stopped his game of fetch with Sugar to watch the crows, too. He and Sugar walked over to the patio.

“This place, Abby, it is special,” he said. “I feel content, and that surprises me. I have always felt more at ease in cities.”

“Well, it just means you’ll have to visit Sugar and me as often as possible,” Abby said. She held his jacket in one hand and jiggled the car keys in the other. “Ready?”

“Oui.” Philippe dropped the stick he’d been throwing to the dog and brushed his hands together a few times, apparently to rid them of dirt from the stick and Sugar’s slobber. “Did you know Sugar can do tricks?”

Abby smiled. “What kind of tricks?”

“Fetch.”

“Really? Does she find the stick and bring it back?” Abby wondered why Sugar had never fetched for her.

“Well, no. She goes after it, but she does not bring it back.”

“Then, technically, I don’t think it’s a trick. But we’ll work on it, won’t we, Sugar?”

Sugar trotted over and stretched down on her forepaws, looking up at Abby with large brown eyes. She wagged her tail happily, as if in anticipation that she would accompany the humans during an outing, which she already sensed.

Abby already felt guilty for not wanting to take Sugar to the police station, and her heart melted as she looked at Sugar’s sweet face, with its expression of trust. She knelt and scratched the short hairs behind Sugar’s ears. “Good girl. I love you for protecting me, Sugar.”

“What about me?” Philippe asked. “I threw the stone.”

“Of course you did!” Abby said, looking over at Philippe and smiling. “You hit him squarely on the shoulder. Your aim was perfect.”

“Well, not exactly,” Philippe admitted sheepishly. “I was aiming for his head.”

Abby laughed and stood. “But at least you nailed him, and not Sugar or me.”

Philippe gave her a quick hug. “You know, Abby, when I first saw this place, I couldn’t understand why you would choose to live out here. I thought how difficult it would be for me to live without art galleries, the opera house, and a symphonic hall all within walking distance or, at the very least, a taxi ride away. But I think I understand. It is your paradise, n’est-ce pas?”

“I suppose it is. Not quite paradise, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

After a beat, Philippe said, “When I return to New York, come with me. I’ll introduce you to my parents. They’ll love you. And we will get to know each other better, ma chérie.”

Abby felt a momentary rush of excitement.
New York. The Big Apple.
A place she’d always wanted to see someday. But how on earth could she possibly get away now, when she had fallen behind with her planting and renovation projects? She said nothing but swallowed hard.

An awkward moment ensued. Abby maintained her silence, pondering how to respond to his invitation. In the silence, an unwelcome tension arose between them. Abby sensed it, and her stomach tightened. Finally, she touched his arm and said tenderly, “You know I’d love to . . . someday . . . but I can’t leave the farmette now, not with seeds still to go into the ground . . . and the harvesting of stone fruit for canning . . . and the honey flow just starting. Then there’s Sugar, who needs training, and those plywood countertops, which need replacing, and the bathroom renovation . . . all before the rains come . . . our season of winter.”

“I understand, Abby. I do.” Philippe stepped back and gestured to the house. “I’ll just wash my hands and be right out.”

Abby knelt and hugged Sugar. She fought back tears. Why shut him down like that with a litany of excuses? She felt like kicking herself. When had anyone as handsome and as charming as Philippe Bonheur ever invited her to his home to meet his family? Never. Not even Clay, who supposedly had truly loved her, had done this. Maybe Kat was right and she just needed to open her heart to those around her, to start having a social life, and to enjoy the men she met for as long as the relationship worked. If she didn’t get out more, there was a good possibility she’d end up alone.

The unspoken tension created a gulf between Abby and Philippe that remained as they left the farmette and drove toward town. However, as soon as they passed some vineyards, Philippe broke the silence, telling Abby that he was beginning to appreciate the provincial charm of small-town life. As he extolled the virtues of rural life from his perspective, Abby felt the tense muscles of her body relaxing.

“Really?” she said.

“C’est vrai.” He flashed one of those charming smiles at her, and she relaxed even more.

As she listened to Philippe free-associating, Abby concluded that he was considering the possibility of returning to visit her and Sugar, perhaps around Thanksgiving or Christmas. It would give him a good excuse to leave the family gallery in New York and check on their other gallery in San Francisco. He could spend part of the time enjoying her company.

“How would you feel about that, Abby?” he asked.

“Sounds lovely, Philippe. It gives me a reason to finally get the kitchen finished.” She felt happy that he’d given her a second chance to say yes to the possibility of a relationship. . . or at least to a visit, which had more to do with the birth of new possibilities than with another ending.

Abby guided her Jeep into a parking spot in front of the police department. Philippe placed one evidence box in Abby’s arms and took the other. Inside they met Nettie, who was still on crutches, and she led them to the office of the Otto Nowicki, the acting chief of police in the absence of Bob Allen.

“Hello, Abby. Mr. Bonheur,” said Otto, extending a pasty white hand to Philippe, who juggled the box so that he could shake Otto’s hand. “Kat told me to expect you two. She also laid out your theory, Abby, but we have a problem. Your prime suspect is recently deceased.”

“I heard about it. I don’t think it’s an insurmountable problem,” Abby replied. She looked briefly around the office and realized there was not a single uncluttered surface on which they could put the boxes. She set the evidence box in her arms on the floor, next to Otto’s small desk. Philippe followed her lead and sat down.

Abby knew these four walls all too well. The space had been promised to her by Bob Allen, along with a promotion, which had never materialized. “Too good,” he’d told her. She was too good at what she did to leave the streets, whether she liked it or not. The truth be told, he felt threatened by smart women in positions of authority. Chief Bob Allen made no excuse for believing as he did that only men could serve effectively as police chiefs, since men wouldn’t want to take orders from a woman. But that was then.... She didn’t need to think about that anymore.

“Heard about your attack this morning. You okay?”

“Yes,” Abby replied. “My attacker got a name?” She sat down and leaned forward in her chair. “Can you tell me why he singled me out?”

“His name is Roy Sweeney. Ring any bells?”

“I know a Harlan Sweeney, a rough-around-the-edges guy who practically lives at the Black Witch when he isn’t in his double-wide, watching episodes of
Street Outlaws.
”

“Well, I interviewed Roy Sweeney. He’s Harlan’s cousin by marriage on his father’s side. He’s been staying with Harlan since being paroled a month ago. Roy told us that your friend Mr. Bonheur attacked him with a rock and that he was just defending himself.”

“Well, the rock part is true,” Abby said, looking over at Philippe, who was shaking his head, apparently in disbelief. “But did he mention that he was trespassing on my property, casing it in the wee hours of the morning, that he tried to rape me, and that he threatened to kill my dog?”

“He left those details out. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that he’s got a rap sheet with a lot of priors . . . assault, burglary, illegal drug possession, sexual assault. Now, with the probation violation and the attack on you, his future doesn’t look too bright. He’s got himself boxed into a corner.”

“Has he lawyered up yet?” Abby asked.

“No.”

Abby smiled at Philippe. “That’s a good thing, because Otto can ratchet up the pressure on him. I’m wondering if he had anything to do with Eva Lennahan’s murder.”

Otto looked at Abby with a poker-faced expression. “You know I can’t talk about an open investigation.” He rapped his fingers on the desk, as if thinking about something. Then, after a beat, he rose and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bonheur. Would you give us a moment?”

“Mais oui,” Philippe replied, rising from his chair.

“I’ll be right out, Philippe,” Abby said.

Philippe followed the chief to the door just as Nettie hobbled up.

“I’ll take him to the waiting area,” she said to Otto and Abby.

After closing the door, Otto sat back down. “So we’ve got a history, you and I, and let’s just say you’ve helped me out more than once. So keep this to yourself, Abby. The vic—that is, Eva Lennahan—was a town council member who was running for mayor. You know that, right?”

“Yes. I know of her. Met her once,” Abby answered.

“Her campaign manager called us after she went missing.”

“Okay. So her campaign manager, not her husband?”

“No. He left for the Caribbean yesterday. My sources tell me that he’s in bad shape, grieving and all.”

“Well, I knew he was planning to go there for his birthday,” Abby said, “with Chef Jean-Louis, but that’s neither here nor there. You were saying about her campaign manager?”

“He knew her password to a phone location app and tracked her phone pinging off the tower closest to the Redwood cutoff.”

“Well, besides the tower, there’s nothing up there but brush, steep canyons, and a serpentine road that twists through the mountains.”

“All the way up to Vista Point,” Otto said, finishing her thought. “She had been at a fundraiser at the Las Flores Inn. No one saw her leave.”

“Why was she up at the Redwood cutoff, then?”

Otto shook his head. “It’s anybody’s guess. Perhaps she was lured up there by someone she knew.”

“How was she killed?”

“Strangled, looks like, with her own scarf, according to the coroner.”

“You said her campaign manager tracked her phone.... Did you find it with the body?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Anything taken from the scene? Her purse?” Abby asked.

“Her purse had been riffled through. No money in the wallet. A credit card was dropped on the seat, and a lipstick on the floorboards. A woman like her always has cash and cards. Her killer probably took the rest of her cards and her phone. Her campaign manager said he had searched everywhere and had finally resorted to pinpointing her location by tracking her phone. It was triangulating at the Redwood cutoff. That’s when he called us, and we sent a cruiser out to check on her. But the campaign manager called back to say the phone had begun pinging off a different tower, one in the south county, city of Baxter, and after that in Juniper Ridge, heading out of the county.”

“You know what this means, don’t you, Otto?”

“Yep . . . Our person of interest took her phone and is on the move.”

“Find her phone, and we find our guy,” Abby said.

“We’ve notified law enforcement in the south county. Put out a BOLO. They’ve established roadblocks. Our perp is trapped. Shouldn’t be long now.”

“Hope so. Whoever killed Eva Lennahan, I believe, was involved in helping her kill our pastry chef, too. Eva was probably killed to shut her up. That’s what I think.”

Otto was grinning widely. “Knowing that we’re going to close this case makes me hungry. How about let’s head down to the break room? I’m off that diet,” he said. “Didn’t work, anyway, and Nettie brought in some chocolate chip cookies this morning. Hungry?”

“Not really, but I’ll walk with you,” Abby said.

Stepping out of Otto’s office, Abby heard Kat’s voice coming through Otto’s radio. “Ten-nineteen with Harlan Sweeney in custody . . . ETA . . . five minutes.”