A Beeline to Murder (9 page)

Chapter 6

The simplest treatment for a bee sting is to get the stinger out.

 

 

A
bby patted a fingertip of red-tinted gloss on her lips before adjusting the clip holding her swooped-up hair. By her estimation, she had transformed her usual farm-friendly look, perfect for selling her wares at the farmers’ market and visiting the feed store, into that of a fashionable sleuthing professional, or at least a reasonable facsimile. For the 1:00 p.m. meeting with Philippe, she didn’t feel a need to get too crazy with her hair and makeup. She had given a muscular brushing to her coarse, thick hair and had toned down her sunburned cheeks and nose-bridge freckles with pearlescent finishing powder.

Clothes were another matter. Farmwork was hard on clothes. Abby had a few nice things, but mostly her wardrobe consisted of jeans and T-shirts. She had two black suits for her sessions with the DA, several dresses, and a few skirts. She didn’t want to look too casual or too formal for her meeting with Philippe. After trying on several outfits, she’d selected her skinny, boot-cut black jeans, a crisp white blouse, a black jacket with red piping trim, and rooster-red flats. But, as she slid out of the driver’s seat in the parking lot of the Las Flores Lodge and looked at the sky, she regretted not grabbing an umbrella and different shoes. The red, silky fabric of the skimmers made them a pretty complement to her outfit, but they were not suited for the late May rain.

Slamming the Jeep door, Abby searched the sky for signs of impending sprinkles, which had been forecast for the afternoon. She could only hope that the showers would stay north of the Golden Gate Bridge, but in the last hour, high wisps of vapor had thickened into chunky, layer-like cotton batting, which had increased in bulk until only a smattering of holes afforded glimpses of the blue sky behind.

Abby strolled toward the wide Spanish-style veranda of the lodge, where lemon trees potted in Italian terra-cotta lined the entrance. She half expected to see Philippe pacing. She was not immune to his physical attractiveness, but she found his impatience and indignant emotional fervor off-putting. A murder investigation required a calm, focused mind. Unrestrained emotions served only to muddle one’s memory, logic, and problem-solving ability. However, she reminded herself, he was duly grieving and deserving of her patience and understanding.

In her peripheral vision, something moved. She heard “Out of the way!” and jumped back against her Jeep. A bicyclist jangled a handlebar bell nonstop. The bike flew past. A small dog cowered in a basket in front of the bike seat and another little pooch perched precariously inside a wooden box mounted behind the bike seat. Despite the bicyclist maneuvering the bike around a curve at the end of the flat driveway, the dogs remained upright. The bike, the man, and his canine passengers disappeared after turning into the bike lane on Las Flores Boulevard beyond the gate.
Those poor dogs.
Abby thought fiercely about what she could do
now
to deal with the man. Finally, in resigned exasperation, she sighed.
Don’t think I won’t report you, you idiot!

“Abby, bonjour. Comment allez-vous?” Philippe called to her over the racket of hammers and heavy equipment. The lodge was ground zero for construction, as some new bungalows were being built around its garden and pool. She turned and saw Philippe descending the stone steps, gesticulating wildly.

“
Mon Dieu! Pouvez-vous me recommander un bon médecin?
” he asked,
s
haking his hand, as if to dislodge something stuck to it.

“English, Philippe,” Abby told him. “In English, please.”

“Look.” He held out his right hand. It was swollen, like a latex glove turned into a water balloon.

“You were stung?”

“Oui.”

“When?”

“Yesterday . . . at your farm.”

“Ouch . . . Have you ever been stung before?”

“Non.”

“And that’s why you want me to recommend a good doctor?”

“Oui. This hand, I need.”

“Well, I’m certain you need both your hands. What you mean is that you favor your right hand for writing and other tasks, correct?”

He nodded.

“Well, I rather doubt a doctor will be necessary, but let me have a look.” Abby examined the red dot on Philippe’s swollen right hand. “Well, it appears the stinger is out.”

“Stinger?”

Abby looked into Philippe’s large light eyes. She cleared her throat. Wished she’d paid more attention in her French class.
So . . . the French word for “stinger.” Let me see. Barbed lancets, venom, bee gut rupture, death . . . death. I know that one.
La petite mort . . .
No, no, that’s not right. That’s a euphemism for “orgasm.” Must be
décès.
Yes, that’s it.
“
Décès!
” Abby exclaimed aloud
.

“Décès? I’m going to die?” Philippe’s expression conveyed alarm.

“No, no, no, Philippe. I meant the bee. . . . The bee dies . . . died. Not you. You’re fine. Well, except for . . .” She took a deep breath.
Not going well
.
Try something else.
“So, I’ve got an analgesic cream in my car. It’ll make your hand feel better.” She pointed to her Jeep.

Philippe nodded and followed her to her car.

Abby rummaged around in the glove compartment until she finally located the analgesic, histamine-blocking cream. After removing the cap and squeezing a pea-size dollop onto a finger, she rubbed it on Philippe’s hand, at the site of the sting, and then smoothed some over his hand, up to his Cartier watchband. She could feel the heat in his hand. Her own skin prickled. Her heart hammered hard. When she looked up at him, those sparkling pale green eyes were gazing back at her.

Abby quickly tightened the cap on the tube. “You okay to meet Chief Bob Allen?”

Philippe nodded.

“He’s expecting us in twenty minutes.” She tossed the tube of analgesic cream back in the glove compartment and turned to find Philippe planted in the same spot.

His face took on a silly grin. He used one finger to open his jacket pocket. “My hand, it is useless for tying my necktie. Do you mind?”

Abby leaned over to see a tie lodged in his pocket. As she withdrew the tie, Philippe moved so close to her, their toes nearly touched. He was close enough for her to smell his cologne and feel his breath against her face. He stood a head taller than she and was about the height of Clay.
Don’t think about him right now.
Abby flipped up Philippe’s dress shirt collar, slipped the Italian red, patterned silk tie under it, and flipped the collar back down. Standing directly in front of him, she began to perform the sequence of knotting the tie.
Over, under, around, and through.
Clay had taught her that. As she was tightening and adjusting the position of the knot, Philippe placed his hands on her shoulders. Electricity shot through her. She pulled the narrow part of the tie down and pushed the knot upward in one swift motion. Philippe stepped backward and coughed against the tightness of the knot.

“There. Looks great!” Abby exclaimed. “Time to go.” She walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in the Jeep.

Philippe slid into the passenger’s seat. His eyes held a bemused merriment as he reached for the seat belt and looked over at her. “This . . . I can do this myself.”

Abby laughed. “Good. Pull it tight. Wouldn’t want you breaking the law. I’d have to make a citizen’s arrest and hand you over to the authorities.”

Philippe grinned and snapped the belt into the buckle.

When they arrived, Abby felt a familiar flicker of apprehension as she stepped inside the Las Flores Police Department. Her former place of employment held a lot of memories. Some were not so good. Catching the attention of the two dispatchers stationed behind the massive glass enclosure of the county communication center, Abby strolled over and waved. Both women nodded, but their eyes were focused on Philippe. It was not often that a handsome, debonair man walked into the station, or anywhere in Las Flores.

Abby walked past a second glass window, which separated the waiting area from the office cubicles, the locked property room, and the interrogation rooms. She saw the department’s female crime-scene investigator hobbling toward her on crutches. They met on opposite sides of the security door.

The woman pushed open the heavy door, and Abby and Philippe walked through. “Goodness, Nettie. You’re injured. Line of duty?”

Nettie Sherman snorted. “If you want to call it that. Chief Allen didn’t want to buy a new desk and chair for me, so he dragged in his brother-in-law’s old metal desk and had a chair brought up from the basement, where, as you know, stuff goes when it’s broken. First day in it, I leaned forward and heard that chair crack like someone had snapped a bullwhip. Next thing I know, my body was flying into a file drawer.” Nettie adjusted the crutches under her arms and glanced down at her right leg. “My knee had an old injury. Now it has a new one.”

Abby couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Oh, Nettie, I’m so sorry.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “It’s not funny, but you’re such a fabulous storyteller.”

“Well,” Nettie continued, “I’m stuck with that dang dinosaur of a desk, but I did get a new chair.”

Abby chuckled. “What happened to the old one?”

Nettie rolled her eyes. “Where else? Back to the basement.” She pointed down to the end of the corridor. “Chief is expecting you.”

“Yes.” Abby drew in a deep breath and tried to exhale the tension that had suddenly claimed her body.

“I’m supposed to escort you there, so follow me.” Nettie hobbled on her crutches ahead of Abby for a few steps and then stopped to whisper, “What is it? Twenty-five feet? I could have watched you walk there from here. But he won’t bend the rules for anyone.”

“Of course he won’t,” Abby replied, following Nettie again as she hobbled ahead.

Before Abby could say another word, the chief’s office door flew open from the inside. He glowered from the doorway. “Mackenzie, you’re late. Your fault . . . or Nettie’s for yammering on about that knee of hers?”

“Mine,” Abby said. “I apologize, Chief. Mr. Bonheur and I were unavoidably delayed.”

Chief Bob Allen uttered one of his customary grunts, spun around, and marched back to his desk. “Take a seat.” He gestured to the two black metal institutional chairs in front of his desk, then sat down in his own chair.

“Chief,” Abby said, knowing that the chief preferred to set the agenda and that by speaking first, she was preempting his privilege. “You’ve met Mr. Bonheur, and you know we are here because he has asked me to dig a little deeper into his brother’s untimely death.”

“Waste of time. We’ve closed it.” The chief leaned back in his chair and turned a steely-eyed stare upon Abby. “It’s what we do when it’s a suicide. You know that, Mackenzie.”

“Yes, sir, you’re very likely right, but we would like to review the police file as soon as it is possible.”

“It hasn’t been redacted yet.”

“When can we expect that to be completed?”

“We’re shorthanded,” he said, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes.

Abby met his gaze . . . waited.

“A few more days,” he finally offered. The chief then addressed Philippe. “As I said before, Mr. Bonheur, we’re sorry for your loss. You can hire Ms. Mackenzie here if you want to, but there is no great mystery to unravel, so delving further into this would be a waste of Mackenzie’s time and your money.”

“Thank you, Chief, but my family has many questions. I believe Ms. Mackenzie will help me answer those questions.”

“Up to you.” Chief Bob Allen leaned back in his chair again, then laced his fingers together over his stomach. “Are we done here?”

Abby stood up. “Not quite. I’d like to review that surveillance tape the officers acquired from the pastry shop and any tapes from other businesses in the area. Philippe and I will also be compiling a list of the chef’s known associates. Your officers would already have started such a list. I’d like a copy of that. Finally, we’d like to take with us any property the department has belonging to Jean-Louis Bonheur.”

Chief Allen rose.

Abby understood how the chief would see that for him to remain seated while she stood put him in an inferior position.

Chief Bob Allen addressed Abby directly. “Like I said, it was a limited investigation. When the coroner ruled the death a suicide, we closed the case.” The chief seemed to take particular satisfaction in emphasizing the word
suicide.
He walked around the desk and shot a steely-eyed stare at Abby. “You know how this works, Mackenzie. Find something my people can take to the DA, and I’ll take another look at it. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

He slid a hand into his pants pocket and extended the other to Philippe. “There’s no delicate way to put this. Up behind your brother’s left ear was the mark made by the knot in the ligature he used to hang himself. His brain got no oxygen because of his strangulation. That was how the coroner’s investigator put it.” The chief’s words hung in the air.

Philippe rose, grasped Chief Bob Allen’s extended hand, and shook it. “And do you have this knot?”

“We have a large section of the twine he used. We found it on the doorknob of his pantry.”

“You are paid by the people of this community, n’est-ce pas? You protect them
,
oui?”

Chief Bob Allen raised his eyebrows and nodded, undoubtedly wondering what his visitor was getting at. “That’s my job. I think I speak for our community when I say your brother’s untimely death was also a loss for us. But there comes a time when we must get past it and move on.”

“If my words offend, forgive me, but you did not protect my brother.” Philippe’s gaze darted to Abby, who remained poker-faced but pivoted slightly to face the two of them. Intensely staring at Chief Bob Allen, Philippe added, “You seem to want only to make the news of his death go away as quickly as possible. Do you not care that a murderer could be hiding in your town? Tell me, Chief Allen, how well do you sleep at night?”