The Murder of a Queen Bee (5 page)

Raising the knocker over the carved brass female image on the front door of the cottage, Abby felt a twinge of sadness. She tried to push from her mind the image of Fiona's engorged, partially burned, black and red blistered face. She rapped the knocker three times. Waited. Rapped again. The dark green patina gave dimension to the brass face, accentuating the creases in the laurel wreath surrounding the woman's head. The banshee of Irish folklore, Fiona had told her, was a potent image—the harbinger of death. When Abby had asked Fiona why she would dare hang a banshee door knocker, Fiona had replied, “I felt inexplicably drawn to her. She's the woman of fairies and has power and magic. She foretells death through her wailing. The death is often violent—that much is true. But, look, there are lots of square knots in her cloak. They provide protection.”

When no one answered the door, Abby put her hand on the knob and slowly turned it. The door flew open. Abby stumbled down two steps into a bright interior. Surprise registered on the face of the man who had opened the door from the inside. Sugar barked without letup.

“Who are you?” the man asked. He stood maybe five feet, ten inches. He had striking pale blue eyes and curly, brown hair with silver threads running through it. His face looked gaunt, and his puffy eyes were ringed in red, as though he had gone days without sleep.

“Abigail Mackenzie, formerly with the Las Flores Police Department.” Abby extended her hand. “Are you Jack Sullivan, Fiona's brother, the ethnobotanist she always talked so enthusiastically about?”

“You found me. What is it you want?”

Abby decided to be straight with him. He looked like he'd been through the ringer. “Sorry for your loss. To be honest, I'm looking for clues. Fiona and I were friends, and I made a promise to find the person who hurt her. I was hoping to take a quick look around, if that's okay with you.”

If it was possible for his expression to harden, it did. “Excuse me,” he said, “but the police have already been here. I've got funeral arrangements to make. I can't see any reason for them to send an ex-cop to poke around. So if you don't mind, please just leave. Take that dog with you.”

Taken aback, Abby gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Your sister's passing has shaken me up, too. I didn't mean to be insensitive. Our whole community is worried that a killer is on the loose among us.”

He glared at her.

Abby proffered the scarf. “It's Fiona's. She left it at my farmette the last time we were together. I meant to return it.”

“Sure you did,” he said, his tone conveying a biting sarcasm. “That scarf is your cover. You came up here to snoop,” he said, warily eyeing her. “Did you think you'd unearth some salacious details about my sister's life? Juice up your copy? Hit on a provocative headline?” He tightened his hand around the doorknob, pulling the door open. “I'd really appreciate it if you would just go.”

Abby's stomach clenched. “Look, Mr. Sullivan . . . you've made a mistake.”

“I don't make mistakes about women like you. I can smell small-town reporter.” His brows furrowed. “I've had to protect my sister from people like you in the past.”

Her shock was met with a sobering stare.

“Ms. Mackenzie, do I have to ask you twice?”

“Of course not.” Abby felt her throat closing up, her lips tightening. “My condolences.” Tugging on Sugar's leash, she said softly, “Come on, sweetie.”

Abby tramped from the foyer to the porch, then beyond the mailbox, and was at the end of the driveway, by the big red barn, before she realized she had walked clear past the Jeep. Turning around, Abby had one thought. What did he mean by having to defend his sister in the past? What did Fiona do?

Note: Although humans have used herbs for thousands of years for culinary and medicinal purposes, it's always a good idea to check with your doctor before including herbs in your food and drink. Some herbs are more potent than others and may have unwanted side effects, and they can interact adversely with prescription drugs.

Chapter 4

An ant seeking a source of sweetness is as per-
sistent as an old boyfriend who is trying to get
back into your life
.

 

 

 

T
he ants had found the honey buckets. Coagulating into a black mass, thousands of them marched in lines like an army on the move to cover the shelf above the washer and dryer where Abby kept the honey buckets. She'd wiped down one of the buckets after refilling the large jar for her daily use—honey for tea, yogurt, waffles, and general good health and well-being. She'd even gone so far as to swaddle the bucket in plastic wrap, securing the wrap with duct tape. But a single drop of honey left unwiped had been enough to attract a full-blown invasion. Cleaning the mess took most of the morning.

It was close to noon before Abby finished. She flipped on the local farmers' network news, intending to eat a quick snack before beginning the apricot jam–making process, which would occupy her for the next two hours. The cots were ripe, maybe too ripe to set up properly into jam without having to cook out all the nutrients or add pectin, and too much boiling or pectin would change the texture. She considered whether or not it might be better to dry them instead. The hour she saved washing the jars and stirring the jam could then be used for another project. Maybe she would add manure to the three raised beds where she would then plant heirloom blue tomatoes, smoking hot Caribbean habaneros, and some sweet bell peppers. Suddenly, her thoughts filled with images of the myriad projects needing to be done around the farmette.

Swallowing a sip of sweet tea and nibbling on a peanut butter toasted sandwich, Abby focused her attention on the radio announcer reading the news. First up was a piece about the latest developments in the grass fire on the south side of Las Flores Boulevard, which was now “eighty percent contained.” The announcer continued, “Partying high school students lobbed eggs against two vehicles parked on Cottonwood Lane last night. They also made off with boxes of produce outside Smooth Your Groove shake shop on Chestnut. A block away on Olive, vandals draped a tree in toilet paper and broke into a pickup truck belonging to a local man, stealing his rifle. And finally, the murder of a local woman is no closer to resolution today, as investigators have yet to identify a person of interest in the case. Services for Fiona Mary Ryan will be held at the Church of the Holy Names.”

Abby winced. A sudden onset of sorrow soured her stomach. Tears burned at the backs of her eyes. Fiona's passing had been such a horrible shock, Abby had felt numb at first and later mercurial—normal one minute and tearing up the next. But what good were tears? They wouldn't bring Fiona back.

Dumping the remainder of the tea down the sink, Abby stared at the disappearing liquid and contemplated the case's complexities. After a few minutes, she washed and dried the cup and set it in the cupboard. Dabbing her eyes with a tea towel, she muttered, “I swear I'm going to find out who killed you, Fiona, if it's the last thing I do, though I doubt it will ease the guilt I feel. I should've demanded that you go to the police with whatever was bothering you. I didn't, and now . . . what a terrible outcome.” For a fleeting moment, Kat's words of warning to stay out of the case intruded. But Kat needn't worry. Whatever information Abby might unearth from a few discreet inquiries, she would pass on to Kat and Otto. Studying the toast she no longer desired, Abby glanced up at the wall clock above the coffeemaker and noted the time—exactly twelve o'clock. Mountain traffic, she reasoned, would have thinned by now. She gave her last bite of toast to Sugar.

“Farmette work will wait for us, Sugar Pie. I'm going to help the good guys track down a bad guy who might still be in the mountains.”

Sugar stretched her neck upward and let go a piteous howl, as if to protest being left behind while her owner tracked down a killer.

“Oh, don't worry,” said Abby reassuringly. “You're coming with me.”

* * *

The locals had superior knowledge. They knew what outsiders didn't about driving the mountain roads on the western side of Las Flores. They were familiar with the most treacherous stretches of the road, where it narrowed without shoulders or guardrails. A split second of inattention meant a car could drop a hundred feet. Hidden by dense brush and trees, a car and driver might never be found. The two most dangerous sections involved double S curves halfway between Fiona's cottage and Kilbride Lake. Previously, both had been the scene of traffic fatalities. Both accidents had involved people who didn't know the roads. Both had happened during bad weather. Today there wasn't a cloud in sight. Still, Abby wasn't about to tempt fate. She tapped the brakes as she entered the first of the curves.

Out of nowhere, a horn blared. A silver pickup screamed around the blind corner. It flew past Abby's Jeep, claiming the greater part of the twisting blacktop. Shoving the brake pedal to the floorboard, she felt the rear wheels slide. The Jeep fishtailed as she fought for control. Adrenaline raced through her body. Her heart slammed against her chest. Instinctively, she righted the wheel, and Sugar flew against her with a high-pitched yelp. The stench of locked brakes and burnt rubber permeated the Jeep. Coming out of the curve, Abby steered her car to the widest section of the shoulder and parked, set the hand brake, and cut off the engine.

Her hands shook. She leaned her head against the steering wheel and struggled for composure. Sugar pawed at the window, barking and whining without letup. Smelling pee, Abby lifted her head and realized the dog had peed on the seat. She ordered Sugar to stop barking, but she knew the dog was only feeling what she herself was experiencing—alarm and fear. Slowly and rhythmically, Abby began to stroke the dog's neck.

“There, there, girl,” she cooed. “Scary, I know, but it's over.” The dog yipped once, twice more, and then licked Abby's hand. “We're safe. That's what matters,” Abby said. She hugged Sugar close.

Looking around for something to wick the urine—a napkin, a towel, or even an old shirt—and finding nothing, Abby remembered placing Fiona's scarf in the glove box before driving away from Fiona's cottage after her unsettling conversation with Jack Sullivan. This situation called for desperate measures. She pulled out the saffron-colored cotton scarf stamped in red with the symbol Aum scripted in Sanskrit, the trident of Shiva, and the Kalachakra, the wheel of time. Abby thought that it was odd that Fiona, raised Catholic, had lived in a commune that embraced Eastern traditions. And it was strange, too, that she had gotten involved with a boyfriend who practiced voodoo Haitian style. But Fiona was a woman of many contradictions and interests. The search for spiritual meaning in life, a stint at commune living, and growing and selling herbs were all expressions of her free spirit.
Wherever you are, Fiona Mary Ryan, I hope you know I admired you, and I mean no disrespect by using your scarf this way.

Abby compressed the scarf into a wad and dabbed it repeatedly against the wet spot. She thought about the maniac in the silver truck, a danger to anyone on the road. After dropping the scarf on the floorboard, Abby turned the Jeep around, maneuvered it back onto the road, and headed in the direction the silver truck had gone.

Only after she had passed the big red barn at Doc Danbury's driveway could she see down the other side of the mountain, where the road stretched out in long undulations. The silver pickup was tailgating a slow-moving winery truck loaded with oak barrels. Passing was impossible because of the line of cars streaming from the other direction. Abby accelerated. When she'd closed the gap between the Jeep and the silver pickup, she jotted down the license plate number using the pencil and pad she kept in the console.

After the last oncoming car had passed, the pickup shot around the winery truck. Just when Abby lost sight of the pickup, the winery truck pulled off, giving her an open view of the road ahead and the silver truck as it turned right onto a compacted dirt road. Abby continued to follow, undaunted by a message scrawled in white paint on an old fence board nailed to a tree—
NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT
.

Eventually, she arrived at a stand of oaks at the top of a high hill. Pulling over in the shade, Abby watched the silver truck park near a rustic cabin.
Who would want to live in such isolation?
The answer came as easily as a bloom on a mustard stalk in springtime—woodsmen, potheads, drug dealers, survivalists, anarchists, and people desiring to disappear for a while. Abby wondered whether the truck driver belonged to one of those groups. Parked at such a high elevation, she could easily see the creek, the woods, and even the tall pole with the Christmas star on it that marked Doc Danbury's tree farm and his vineyard.

When the man climbed out of the truck and disappeared into the cabin's dark interior, Abby squinted against the sun. Difficult to tell, but she estimated his height to be six feet. Grungy clothes, a scraggly gray beard, and salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a ponytail added up to a shabby appearance. Suddenly, it dawned on her who the man might be. He fit the description Fiona had given her of the man who'd assaulted her when she'd been out looking for herbs.

Abby tapped the number on her cell to speed-dial Kat. “I need a favor, Kat. Could you run the plates on a silver pickup? The man driving it is the same one, I believe, who accosted Fiona back in February. And he just ran me off the road.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“How can you be sure it's the same guy?”

“I can't. Not positively. My gut tells me it is.”

“So this is where I ask you if you recall our chat outside the feed store about how I could lose my job if Chief Bob Allen finds out I'm involving you in this investigation.”

“I wouldn't ask, but that idiot drives like he's high on something. He's a danger on the road, and he frightened the daylights out of Fiona.”

“Did she call the cops?”

“Well . . . no.”

“So, you know as well as I do that scaring someone isn't illegal. If Fiona had feared for life and limb, she would have dialed nine-one-one. Any sane person would. But, as you've pointed out, she didn't. So what are you not telling me?”

Abby hesitated, swallowed hard. Fiona had asked Abby not to reveal anything about her encounter with the man, for fear of being arrested herself. But what did it matter now? Fiona was gone. “Here's the deal, Kat. I kept quiet about it because Fiona asked me to. She was trespassing on the man's property when he attacked her. When she wrestled free of him, she used his pickax, hitting him hard, I guess. Fearing for her life, she ran away. He might have been lying on the ground, unconscious and bleeding, but she couldn't know whether he would die or get up and give chase. And she never went back there again.”

“And how do you know she was telling the truth?”

“I can sense when someone is lying. Fiona trembled when she explained to me what had happened. The way she was shaking, it was like the cells of her body remembered.”

A beat passed before Kat said, “You'd better tell me the full story, and don't leave out anything.”

Abby inhaled a deep breath and let it go. “February is mustard season. In late winter, you see how the mountain meadows and vineyards turn bright yellow.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hot-air balloon rides and all that . . . Tell me something I don't know.”

“So . . . in late February, Fiona went exploring on Doc Danbury's property, looking for wild mustard. There's also a forty-acre parcel that shares a boundary with the doc's land at the back, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, the doc told Fiona about the caretaker's cabin but assured her that no one lived back there anymore, so she felt safe searching alone for wild herbs. She'd gone pretty far when she wandered upon the creek and figured she'd also look for mushrooms and native herbs along its shady banks. She heard a twig snap. She said she spun around and was shocked to see a man watching her. He stood about six feet tall, had salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy beard, and was dressed in a blue flannel shirt and stained jeans. She noticed one of his work boots had been wrapped in duct tape. He carried a pickax.”

“Hold on,” Kat said. “Was he working back there? Clearing the creek, building something?”

“Fiona didn't say, but she told me she wasn't afraid, at least not at first,” said Abby. “They talked a bit, and then he became aggressive. He dropped the ax, lunged at her, and tried to drag her toward his cabin. She screamed and fought, and they fell. She threw dirt in his eyes and wrenched herself free.” Abby caught her breath and swallowed hard, realizing how far-fetched the story sounded.

“Was that when she hit him with the pickax?” Kat said.

“Yes. After she had wrestled free, she grabbed the ax, took a wild swing, and hit his head. She said blood gushed out. The man staggered and fell. She said she ran all the way home and pounded on the doc's door.”

“What did Dr. Danbury do?”

“Nothing. He didn't answer the knock. Fiona said he often drank a lot. Maybe he'd passed out.”

Kat cleared her throat. “And then what did Fiona do?”

“Retreated inside her cottage,” said Abby. “After that, she added a couple of new slider locks on the inside of her cottage door, but she still didn't feel safe . . . so she moved into her store for a while and slept on a fold-up cot in her office.”

Abby waited for Kat's next question, but Kat remained silent. She had to be pondering the merits of Fiona's story.

After a moment, Abby said, “You know, she felt guilty for leaving the man bleeding like that and not knowing how badly he might be wounded. But, Kat, she feared for her life. I think that same man just sideswiped me less than an hour ago. Clearly, Fiona didn't kill him.”