The Murder of a Queen Bee (26 page)

“He has gone. This time to Texas.”

“You sad?”

“A little. But my heart gets lighter when I see that new master bath he built. Honestly, Kat, it tops any bathroom you might see in a fancy magazine.”

“And I still haven't seen it. Don't know when I can get there again, though. The heat has turned up on Fiona's case now that Harmon is in the slammer. We've got ballistics going over the gun and casings.”

“Anything from the motorcycle in the mountain garage that Gus Morales is repairing? I've been thinking how tidy it could be for the case if that tire tread matched the partial tire print at the scene of Fiona's burning car.”

“Uh-oh,” said Kat. “Hold on, Abby. The chief is calling me. I swear that man has eyes
and
ears in the back of his head.”

Abby waited while Kat took the other call. When she again picked up the thread of their conversation, Kat's tone sounded urgent. “I have got to go. Chief wants me to bring Premalatha Baxter in for another interview. Get this. The gun Dak Harmon used to shoot out your window is registered to her.”

“No kidding?” Abby twisted a clump of her hair around a finger as she thought about that development. “Well, you know . . . Premalatha wore a tunic when Jack and I last saw her, and it was hot enough to fry an egg on the hood of my car. Make her push those sleeves up when you get her into that interview room.”

“You think that nicotine patch belonged to her, right? They probably both smoke. Dak had a pack on him when he used you for target practice. And thanks to his stupidity, we've got his DNA on the discarded butt he dropped at your back fence.”

“Saliva sample,” said Abby.

“Premalatha denied being a smoker, but we'll ask her again. Now, Abby, forget about Clay. Get some rest. Sleep, chocolate, and a new man will fix what ails you.”

After hanging up from the call, Abby spent the next half hour stapling screen wire to the exterior of the house, over the hole where the large window used to be. And as an extra measure against any mosquitoes and other insects entering the house, Abby also stapled sheets to the interior wall as temporary curtains. She hadn't finished pushing in the last staple before her cell phone rang. A neighbor wanted to order three jars each of Abby's apricot jam and backyard honey—the result of word getting around that both had been judged blue-ribbon winners at the county fair. And the calls didn't end with that one.

A family who lived a mile north of Dr. Danbury's place wanted fifty sample jars of farmette honey to give away as favors at their daughter's upcoming wedding. The cash deal carried a proviso—Abby would be required to deliver the sample jars directly to the home of the bride's mother. Abby's excitement mounted as she mentally tallied the income that the wedding order would generate and the potential windfall that might follow if the wedding guests became regular paying customers. But even as the thought of an improved cash flow invigorated her, a sobering thought intruded. Was there honey enough to fill the orders? Abby quickly checked the shelves above the washer and dryer. Eight small jars. Not enough. Next, she removed the lid from the white five-gallon honey bucket on the kitchen counter, but it had been drained until nearly dry.

Abby racked her brain. Who might have extra jars that she could buy back until she could open the hives to see if she might take another frame or two? Abby thought of Smooth Your Groove and Fiona's botanical shop. The former had been forcibly closed and locked by the health department. That left only Fiona's stash. And as she recalled, Fiona kept a few jars in her shop and held back the others in the storage shed near her cottage.

“By any chance are you in the cottage?” she asked after Jack answered her call.

“That I am. For the last quarter hour, I've been chatting up Paws, the landlord's long-haired, six-toed kitty. The big boy just invited himself in. Popped up the hole, he did. I've put out a tin of fish for him and a bowl of crackers for me. So, what can I do for you?”

“I'm short honey for orders I have to fill. Fiona bought two cases from me. She told me she was going to put out a few jars for sale and stash the rest in her storage shed near the cottage. Could I—”

“Buy it back? No. Come up and get it. That would be spot-on lovely.”

“Could I come now?”

“I'll put out more crackers,” he said with a chuckle.

“Okay if I bring Sugar?”

“Only if you promise that she doesn't remember how I previously threw the two of you out.”

Abby laughed. “Don't know about that. Can't speak for Sugar.”

After clicking off the call, Abby searched the laundry basket. She pulled out a folded pair of jeans and a pale green T-shirt that still held the scent of fabric softener, slipped out of her work clothes, and put the jeans and T-shirt on. From the guest bath, where she stood in front of the wall mirror, vigorously brushing her hair, she heard her cell phone alerting her to an incoming text. It was from the police chief, saying his wife wanted honey for her church—eight-ounce jars, fifteen total. Abby texted back,
I'm on it. If I have enough on hand, I'll deliver tomorrow.

After nuking a clean, moistened washcloth in the microwave for a few seconds, Abby shook it out, tested the heat, and then draped it over her face. She dried her face with a towel and applied a light foundation, some blusher, a dab of mascara, and a couple of strokes of plum lip gloss. After grabbing a yellow paisley-patterned scarf and a heavily embroidered jeans jacket, she stuffed the pockets with treats for Sugar. She looked approvingly at herself in the armoire mirror before locking the kitchen slider and exiting the house through the front door.

* * *

The drive into the mountains before sunset had always seemed romantic to Abby, especially in late spring. She likened it to an arty Italian film with evocative cinematography—you could almost smell the earth, warm and fragrant with hedge roses, ripe grapes, and wild thyme. You could almost see a light sifting of dust floating over the patchwork hills and the medieval stone houses in villages where bell towers rang out the canonical hours. The mountains soon worked their magic on Abby. So peaceful and absorbed in thought was she that she nearly missed the big red barn turnoff, hitting the brakes just in the nick of time.

Only too eager to stretch her legs and sniff the environment, Sugar leaped from the Jeep as soon as Abby had opened the door. Jack jogged down to the mailbox and greeted her with a bear hug. Sugar yipped until Jack held out his hands, palms down, for her to smell. Her tail began to wag.

“Have I passed her sniff test, Abby? Or should I be afraid she'll take my ankle off when I stand up?”

“Oh,
please
. She weighs thirty-five pounds. How could she possibly hurt a big guy like you?”

“Yeah, well, I can think of some ways. It's the ones at the knees you have to watch out for . . . never know which spot they'll go for.” He grinned and tried stroking Sugar's head, but she wouldn't back away from him.

“She'll settle down,” said Abby. “Do you see that shed over there? You've got the key to it, I hope,” said Abby as she advanced on the path past the mailbox.

Jack abruptly stood from where he'd squatted to pet Sugar. He reached into his long, straight-leg jeans and fished out a silver ring with several keys. “Let's find out.” They walked over to the shed, with Sugar leading the way, nose to the ground.

“Gosh, why does it smell like a garbage dump?” Abby asked.

Jack wrinkled his nose. “That would be because it is. The landlord stacks his refuse bags next to that black barrel. There he incinerates them.” Jack tried a key in the padlock. It released. After removing the lock and unlatching the door, he pulled the door open and waved Abby inside.

“Why let the bags just pile up like that so near the cottage?” said Abby. “You'd think there would be—”

“Rats?” Jack asked.

Sugar's shrill, high-pitched
yip-yip-yip
interrupted.

“Yes, rats,” Abby replied, hurrying over to quiet Sugar. “
No
. Get outta there. Now.”

Sugar pawed at the mound of plastic and paper bags of refuse. Abby tried grabbing her, but Sugar leaped from her reach, dashed to the other side of the bags.

“If she comes this way,” Jack said, “I'll try to snatch her.”

“It could be a rat or a mouse that's got her so excited,” said Abby. “She's definitely more interested in the garbage than the treats in my pocket. If I gave her a treat now, it would just reinforce the barking behavior.”

“Oh,” Jack said, tapping his temple. “Now you're going all dog whisperer on me. Brilliant. So what's your strategy?”

“Beats me,” said Abby. While she considered her options, Sugar plowed through the pile, knocking over bags, causing their contents to spill out. She leaped up and raced after a field mouse zigzagging toward the mailbox, up the path, and under the cottage.

“Over soon,” said Abby. After a few minutes of frantic barking, Sugar abandoned the mouse to sniff around the bushes at the entrance, where the cats had undoubtedly marked their territory. “Oh, my gosh, Jack,” Abby said, looking at the strewn contents of a bag near his feet. “Don't move.”

Jack frowned, as if he feared the escaped mouse had a companion that was about to disappear up his pants leg. “What? That broken teacup?” He reached down.

“No. Don't . . . don't touch it,” Abby demanded. “That teacup is one of Fiona's. I recognize it because it belongs to that set of china I helped you pack up.”

“So it is. Good eye.”

“I've got a hunch the detectives will want to check out the items in that bag—the cup, those wadded paper towels, and that disposable cup with the Smooth Your Groove logo.”

“Clues?” he asked.

“I don't know. It's probably a long shot. Just the same, I'm calling it in.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Abby and Jack stood near Dr. Danbury. Still in a stupor, the doc had stumbled outside to watch the police retrieve the plastic bag and its contents. He wore a wrinkled short-sleeve cotton shirt under farmers' overalls. His oiled silver hair lay flat; he seemed to need his cane to stand upright. By the time the two cruisers pulled away, the sun had dropped low behind the blue-green mountain ridges. Fog like fingers of smoke inched through the dark valleys below. Dr. Danbury asked Abby if she and Jack would like to come over and help him finish a bottle of a local vintner's pinot noir.

“I'll have to pass,” Abby said. “Thanks anyway. But, Doc, do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Be my guest,” he said, using a ropy-veined hand to smack an insect that had alighted on his hairy arm.

“Do you remember seeing Fiona on the morning she died?”

“Nope. Couldn't have,” the doctor replied.

“Why is that?” Abby asked.

“I stayed overnight in Las Flores. My son's got himself a nice condo. It's right downtown. His fiancée and I took him to the country club to celebrate.”

“Yeah? If I may ask, what were you celebrating?”

“His birthday. I spent the night on his couch.” He cleared his throat. “Don't much like driving in the dark.”

“And that's your Volvo there?” she said, pointing to his wagon. “What about that ATV in your garage? Does anyone ever take it out for a spin?”

“Nope. Got it for my boy four or five years ago. He used to tear all over the mountain. Not now. His girlfriend never went in for that sort of thing.” He paused. “You interested in buying it?”

Abby smiled. “Nah. Just curious. So, to be clear, you weren't here during that twenty-four-hour period when Fiona died?”

“Nope.”

“And none of your neighbors have reported seeing anyone messing around on your property?”

“Nope. That neither.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “S'pect the wine's breathed plenty long enough now,” Dr. Danbury said. “You joining me or not?”

Abby shook her head. Jack had walked a few paces away to gaze at the rising full moon as the curved sliver steadily ascended to become a luminous golden disk. “Dr. Danbury wants to know if you'd like to have a drink with him, Jack.”

“Oh, no. Thanks, Doc.” Jack turned to face them. “Abby and I are going honey hunting.”

Apparently, Jack's remark made no sense to the doctor, who spun around and walked with his cane back to his door.

When the doctor had left them, Abby said, “I kind of like the honey-hunting idea. It sounds like we're primitives going out to find hives in the wild.”

“It might interest you to know that in Nepal, there is an ancient tradition of gathering honey from the hives of wild bees. Honey gatherers have two tools—rope ladders and long sticks . . . well, three, if you count smoke—to raid the hives on towering cliffs. It's risky.”

“Luckily, we won't need ropes, smoke, or sticks. And we don't have to go far, just to that shed over there,” Abby said with a grin. She took hold of his arm and steered him toward the shed.

“Did you know the largest honeybee in the world is the
Apis laboriosa
, and it's found in Nepal?” Jack asked.

“I did not,” Abby replied as they approached the doorway of the shed. The shed's exterior was illuminated by moonlight, but the interior was as dark as a covered well. “Did you know it's next to impossible to find the honey in the dark?” She was about to add, “I'll just get my flashlight from my pack,” when he pulled her into an embrace.

“Who says I can't find honey in the dark?” He tilted her face upward. His fingers trailed along her cheek.