A Beeline to Murder

—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac Philippe pointed to Zazi’s chalkboard sign right inside the restaurant’s entrance and exclaimed with exuberance, “Oh, mon Dieu! The grilled oysters, we must have them to start . . . and champagne!”


“Sounds good,” said Abby, recalling how crestfallen his expression had been at the Shakespeare Festival, when the concession stand had run out of oysters. “Would you mind ordering while I give a quick call back to Kat? It’s not the kind of conversation I want to have in public. I’d like to make it from the car. Okay?”

“Ah, oui.” His brows knitted. He looked puzzled. “You won’t be long?”

“I promise. I’ll be back before the oysters are served.” She put her hand on his arm and said softly, “There are at least two people who know the truth about what happened to poor Jean-Louis . . . three, if you count an accomplice. It’s high time the truth comes out, but I’m thinking things have to be set in motion first.”

She reached for the bar across the door to open it but relinquished it when Philippe placed his palm against it and pushed the door open. He followed her outside into the fading light of early evening. The wind unrelentingly whipped his trouser legs and lifted the sheer flounces above the hem of Abby’s black mourning dress.

“You must enlighten me,” he said, “as soon as you return. I do not like suspense.”

Abby nodded. The wind gusted and tugged at her hair, loosening the comb anchoring her thick mane, which she’d twisted into a loose braid at the nape of her neck. Instinctively, her hand flew back to catch the comb, but she was a millisecond too late. As the comb slipped from her hair and the unrestrained locks tumbled over her shoulders, Abby pivoted away from Philippe and darted after the comb. It somersaulted down the street, lifted and tossed by the airstream. Giving up hope of ever catching it, she turned back to Philippe. He stared at her, his gray-green eyes sparkling with intensity.

“What?” Abby asked, shaking out her hair and reaching to pull a lock of it from her eyes.

Gazing intently at her hair, he murmured, “Alexa Wilding.”

“Huh?” Abby was sure her face had a stupid expression on it, but what was he talking about?

“Your hair. Your face. This light.”

“Reminds you of another woman?” Abby asked incredulously.

“Oui. An English girl named Alexa Wilding.”

Abby wasn’t expecting him to tell her the truth about his intimate relationships. But Philippe, she’d learned, was full of surprises.

“She was a working-class girl who posed for Dante Gabriel Rossetti.”

“Oh.” Abby sighed in relief. “You mean that Pre-Raphaelite artist? I’ve heard of him, but not her. So tell me, Mr. Art Dealer, what was so special about Alexa Wilding?” Abby wasn’t too sure where this conversation might go, but she would play along. Maybe she would learn something.

“Rossetti had already completed Lady Lilith, one of his most famous paintings. Then he saw Alexa Wilding. His usual model did not possess delicate features. To reflect an image of refined beauty, Rosetti reworked the painting to capture Alexa Wilding’s face.”

Philippe moved a half step closer and clasped a strand of Abby’s long, curly hair in his hand for a closer look. “Alexa Wilding’s hair was the color of grain. But I can imagine that painting with your gold-red hue with undertones of burnished copper.” Releasing her hair to cup her chin in his hand, he gently studied one side of her face and then the other. “Extraordinary, ma chérie.”

“The painting?”

“You.” Philippe’s eyes locked with hers.