The Murder of a Queen Bee (19 page)

“Tom is lucky she's gone.” One of Premalatha's skirt pockets took on a cylindrical shape, and it was pointed toward Abby.

Did she have a pistol? But even if it was just a harmless felt-tip pen being used to threaten her, Abby recognized intimidation when she saw it. In her peripheral vision, she detected an abrupt movement. Jerking her head to the side, she spotted Dak, who had slipped up like a rattler from under a rock. His head had been clean shaven. His sleeveless sweatshirt exposed heavily tattooed arms and hands. Abby's stomach churned. They outnumbered her, and he outweighed her.

“Get her out of my sight,” Premalatha hissed.

Dak grabbed Abby by the wrist and shirt and shoved her so hard, she stumbled. He yanked her upright to face him. Abby jumped squarely in front of him, as though to intimidate a new judo partner. She grabbed either side of his sleeveless sweatshirt and pulled him sideways over her extended leg. He fell hard but grabbed her foot. Struggling to wrench it free, she elbowed him in the face and broke free. Running, she felt him lunge at her back. She broke her fall with a roll, but he caught her, slammed his fist into her left shoulder. She cried out in pain and curled up as a protective defense. He levied another blow, striking her high on the right cheek, missing her eye socket. The split-open cheek burned searing hot. She choked back a scream. Dak yanked her upright. He hiked up the back side of her shirt. After twisting the fabric into a wad between her shoulder blades, he dragged her down the incline toward the gate.

A few feet past the garden fencing, Abby saw Jack and Tom leap up and then scramble toward her.

“What the . . .” Tom yelled.

Jack shouted over Tom, “Good God, man! Let go of her.” Jack rushed toward Dak like a football lineman.

Dak, the ex-con, pushed back. “You, too, buddy,” he shouted. “Outta here.”

“Civilized men do not hit women,” Jack yelled.

Abby flailed against Dak as he shuttled her to the gate area. Her defiance was putting her and Jack at risk. “Forget it, Jack,” she yelled.

“Let her go!” Jack shouted. He threw a jab at Dak. The bodyguard lost his grip. Abby broke free. She stumbled and fell. But now Dak had turned his rage on Jack. As they pounded each other, Tom and the goateed guy, who'd come back on the scene, tried to break up the brawl.

“Run, Abby. Run!” Jack yelled, dodging a punch. “I got this.” He followed a quick jab with a cross and a hook. Dak hit the ground and began writhing and moaning.

Abby took off running. A shot rang out. She stopped. Spun around.
Oh, my God . . . Jack.

A group of men had gathered, with guns pointed at Jack, but he didn't appear to have been shot. The goateed man and Tom had wedged themselves between Jack and Dak. Tom was trying to push Jack toward Abby. She raced back, clutched onto Jack, and held him as he stumbled alongside her to the Jeep. After yanking open the passenger door, she pushed Jack into the car, then ran around to the other side and slid in behind the steering wheel.

“You okay to drive?” Jack asked.

“Silly question,” said Abby.

She glanced over. He had his shirt balled up under his nose to stem the tide of blood trickling down. Abby shifted the gear into reverse, wheeled the car around, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. She drove through the woods in a tense silence, constantly checking the rearview mirror for unwanted company. Only on transitioning from the graveled lane to the main road did she dare look over at Jack. He had leaned forward to wipe his sweaty, bloody face on his T-shirt. There were fresh red spots on his hemp-colored shorts.

“Might be a drop or two on the floor,” he said with a distinct nasal twang.

“Well, they could have shot you. Is that what you mean by beating a guy into a brisket and pounding his cabbage?”

Jack chuckled. “Aye. And I fear I am a wee bit out of practice. Still warming up, I was, when his fist hit my nose. Put me off my game.”

“Oh, is that what happened?”

Abby rubbed her temples, waiting for an approaching truck to pass. It carried old furniture pieces, tied down with bright yellow rope. After the truck had passed, she pulled out onto the asphalt roadway. Glancing into the rearview mirror again, she felt relief at the sight of dust swirling up behind the Jeep; no other vehicles were following them. The mirror reflected, however, the bluish-purple shiner around her eye and the snail trail of drying blood on her lacerated cheek. The churning she felt earlier in her stomach had evolved into full-fledged queasiness. She swallowed against the bilious taste in her mouth. If she felt terrible, she was pretty sure Jack felt awful, too. He kept shaking his punching hand, as if he couldn't feel his fingers.

“Might throw up, Jack,” she said, leaning more toward her open window. “I think I could do with a cracker or some soda water.”

“I should have punched that brute's lights out for manhandling you,” he said, apparently reliving the incident in his mind.

“It's over, Jack.”

“Yeah . . . yeah. So, crackers . . . I've got some at the cottage. And there's beer, but no soda water. We're not far, are we?”

“No,” said Abby. “But what about your rental car? You left it in town.”

“Well, I suppose if you could fetch me for the funeral tomorrow, I could pick it up after the burial.”

Abby had all but forgotten about burying Fiona. “Yes, of course I'll come get you.”

He ran his hand over his head twice, roughing up his light brown hair and not bothering to smooth it back into place. “What a pair we are, huh?”

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum.” Abby tried to grin, but it hurt. “I'm sorry I got us into that mess. I should have backed down sooner.”

“And I'm going to remember that about you,” Jack teased. “I'll wager that if anything gets Tom to leave that place, it'll be to escape the clutches of that Baxter woman. I'd be worried, too, if she had designs on me. Tom told me that their leader, Hayden Marks, arranges and performs marriages, often splitting up spouses and marrying them off to others. Tom said if Marks forces him to marry that woman, there is going to be hell to pay.”

“Good Lord. That sounds like a fate worse than death,” Abby said.

Jack nodded and grew quiet.

With their drama over and the tension finally leaving her body, Abby considered female rivalry as a motive for Fiona's murder. When she realized Fiona wasn't going to divorce Tom, Premalatha could have envisioned a more permanent solution to secure the man she wanted to marry. If that was the motive, did she also have the means and the opportunity? Kat had mentioned a phone call that Premalatha had made to Fiona at the time of her death. If she'd called her from the commune, that suggested that Premalatha could not have been with Fiona. What about Dak?

On the console, her phone rang, jangling her nerves and jarring her from her thoughts. Clay's image showed up on the screen. Abby slid her finger across the screen and tapped the green speaker icon.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Clay replied. “When are you coming home, woman?”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Abby exchanged glances with Jack, who now sported a bemused expression. Contrary to his usual politeness, he seemed all too ready to listen to her conversation with Clay. Abby could have removed the call from the speaker, but then she'd have to pull off the road. It was mid-afternoon, time marched on, and she still hadn't gotten through her to-do list.

“You've got to see how far along I got in the master bath today. I just had to pop out a small section to accommodate the jetted tub measurements. The framing is done, and I've got most of the copper piping done. Tomorrow I'll be ready to feed the electrical cabling through the studs. Shoot, at this rate, you could be soaking in your new tub by the weekend.”

“Oh, that's lovely!” Abby exclaimed. “So . . . nothing wrong on the farmette?”

“No. Although, I can't hear a thing with that nail-gun compressor going. Or when I'm drilling, for that matter. But while I was eating a sandwich, I noticed your red-colored chicken limping around.”

“Ruby? Did she pick up a piece of glass or a thorn during her dirt scratching?”

“I wouldn't know. Oh, and you might want to know that a bunch of your bees left their hive and are circling a limb of that huge peppertree out back.”

“A low limb, I hope,” said Abby.

“Not hardly. More like twenty feet up.”

Abby groaned. “Dang it . . . Those limbs are rigid. And I'm going to need a spring action to shake the bees loose, so they fall into a hive box.” She let a sigh escape through her teeth. “And how am I gonna get up there?”

“You'll be glad to know that I put a tall ladder on my purchase order for the materials delivered today. If you get home before dark, you can use it. I'll help. Otherwise, bee rescue will have to wait until tomorrow. I don't mess with bees after dark.”

“So, I'm on my way. I haven't gotten your extra nails yet, but the DIY place stays open until nine o'clock. Be there as soon as I can.”

Jack sneezed.

Out of habit, Abby said, “Bless you.”

“You got somebody with you?” asked Clay.

Abby caught her breath. She looked in horror at Jack, whose eyes expressed a wicked amusement.

“Wuh . . . I told you about my friend Fiona, who passed away.” Abby tried to sound matter-of-fact to reassure him. “I'm driving her relative home.”

“Just so long as it's not a hot hunk.” Clay cleared his throat. “You've got one of those renovating your house, and tonight could be your lucky night.”

Abby's cheeks grew hot. Was Clay trying to embarrass her? She wanted to hang up. If he felt uneasy over the possibility that she was with another man, just wait until he saw her shiner. How was she going to explain that? “Listen. . . let me call you back in a few. Okay?”

Silence ensued for a moment.

Clay's voice came through. “Whatever.” His tone sounded like someone had just punctured his party balloon. Abby suspected that when she finally did get home, he would be in a mood and would be displaying that passive-aggressive behavior she hated.

“Later,” Abby said, feigning cheerfulness. She tapped the phone to end the call.

Her heart galloped as she struggled against familiar hurt and lingering uncertainties about her relationship with Clay. She stole a look at Jack and wondered what kind of explanation she could give. To her surprise, no explanation was necessary. He had rested his head against the seat back and closed his eyes. Abby sighed in relief that he wasn't going to question her. But then again, why would he? Clay had made things pretty clear.

Abby drove to the turnoff at the big red barn and then navigated the Jeep up the bumpy driveway to Fiona's cottage. Once the car was parked and turned off, she sat gripping the steering wheel, in no hurry to move.

“Your hand still hurt?” she finally asked Jack, locking eyes with him.

He nodded. “Uh-huh. Your cheek?”

“Yes.”

“Not life-threatening injuries,” Jack said in good cheer. “And comforting to know that a doctor lives next door.”

“Most likely blitzed out. In a stupor.” Abby knew her words were unnecessarily negative, and that wasn't like her. Clay had put her in a dark mood. She inhaled deeply, let the breath go, and looked around. “But you know what . . . ? I don't see the doc's car. Oh . . . that's a scary thought.”

Jack looked at her. “Just means we're alone up here on his ten acres. Why does that scare you? You think I'm going to take advantage of you?”

Abby laughed nervously. “Well . . . one can always hope,” she said in a jesting tone. “No, it's just that Dr. Danbury shouldn't be drinking and driving.” She tried to hide the fact that it did worry her to be alone on the mountain with Jack, because she could no longer deny her attraction, and it was getting harder not to show it. But Abby would not let herself go there, because doing so would just muddy up everything. They needed clear heads to solve this case.

The stifling heat inside the cottage took her breath away. “Sheesh, you could fry an egg on the floor in here.”

“I should have left the windows open,” Jack said. “But last night it was darn cold up here, and that wind off the Pacific comes through with a piercing howl. Keeps you awake at night.” He began to open the windows one by one.

Abby hurried to the kitchen and filled two resealable sandwich bags with ice from the refrigerator's freezer. Then she pulled out a chair, sat down, and used her elbow on the tabletop to support her hand as she held one of the ice packs in place over her eye and cheek. She pointed out the other ice pack to Jack as he walked through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. When he returned, she noticed he had cleaned up the dried blood on his face and had brought a damp washcloth and a tube of antibiotic ointment.

“Good on you, Abby, for insisting I not toss this tube during our purging of the place.” He laid the ointment on the table. “Now, let me see that cut.” After pulling up a chair to face her, he sank onto it and leaned forward to scrutinize her wound. “I'll have you right as ready in the blink of a crone's eye.” He placed his hand around the back of her head. At his touch, Abby inhaled an abrupt breath and winced, not so much from pain as from the anticipation of it. With the damp cloth, Jack traced the edges of the laceration. His stroke was sure and steady. He paused to give Abby an arresting look.

Feeling a rush of adrenaline racing through her body, she closed her eyes, hoping she hadn't telegraphed anything.

“Now . . . just relax. I've got you. Tilt your head back a little more against my hand. That's my lass.” The ointment smeared light as a butterfly wing fluttering along the length of the cut. The touch of the fingers soothed her. Then . . . there was no touch. No movement.