A Beeline to Murder

Abby’s heart hammered. His nearness felt as palpable and luscious as the first time she had held an exquisitely ripe summer pear to her mouth, sinking lips and teeth and tongue into it. Oh, my . . . is he going to kiss me? Right here, in front of Zazi’s Bistro? But when Philippe flashed a flirtatious smile and stepped back, Abby quickly regained her composure, smiled weakly, and murmured, “Thank you for the compliment.” She paused to take a short, deep breath. “I just need to make that phone call. Give me two minutes, and I’ll be back before the appetizers are served.”


Philippe watched her cross the street to her Jeep. Abby looked back and waved.

In the car, Abby paused before tapping Kat’s number on her phone. She needed to settle her thoughts and calm the crazy drumming of her heart. Had he just compared her to the Pre-Raphaelite romantic ideal of beauty? It seemed so. When the mere touch of his skin sent a shiver racing through her, Abby couldn’t help wondering what it really would feel like to kiss him. I can’t think about that now. Focus.

When Kat picked up, Abby said, “I think I know who killed Jean-Louis, and, Kat, I need a favor.”

“Only one?” Kat replied.

“Who is acting chief of police now that Bob Allen is in the hospital, recovering?”

“Otto.”

“Great,” Abby said. “Do you think you could convince him to reopen the case?”

“He’ll want a strong theory and the evidence to support it.”

“Well, I’ve got a handwritten note that practically spells out that the chef was murdered and even suggests who the killer is. Are you hanging on to your handcuffs? That note blew out of Jean-Louis’s coffin just before it was lowered into the ground.”

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“I never joke about murder,” Abby said.

“So, who killed our chef?”

“Eva Lennahan looks good for it.” Abby checked her face in the rearview mirror and decided she could quickly freshen her makeup while explaining everything to Kat. If she was to represent beauty idealized, a bit of blush couldn’t hurt and a touch of lipstick seemed in order. She glanced away from the mirror to look through the windshield. She could see Philippe inside, chatting with the waitress; undoubtedly, he was ordering their champagne. “I tell you, Kat, it was like divine intervention,” Abby said, opening her purse. “And the photo with the handwriting on the back nearly blew away before I could snag it. Anyway, here’s my theory.

“Jean-Louis and Jake Lennahan got together in the Caribbean. Could have been any number of reasons why they met, including a business trip, a guys-only outing, or even an accidental run-in. But their mutual attraction was stronger than their power to resist.” Abby took out her mascara and touched up her lashes.

“While they were there, they each got identical tattoos of the astrological sign Cancer. Philippe told me that Jean-Louis didn’t have that tattoo before he went to the Caribbean. Both men were born in the month of July, making them Cancers. Jean-Louis loved the sea. Jake had access to a yacht in the Dominican Republic. They were about to celebrate their birthdays again in a few weeks. It’s a verifiable fact that Jean-Louis was planning to return to the Caribbean—most likely with Jake, further solidifying their relationship.”

“Illicit relationship,” Kat chimed in. “As we both know, Jake is married to a woman with unstoppable political ambition.”

“And there’s your motive for murder—Eva couldn’t afford a scandal. She had connections within the prison system that could fix her problem. After all, she had met a lot of inmates, wardens, and corrections officers through her charity work with families of the incarcerated. Guys on the inside know how to get a favor done by their buddies on the outside.” Glancing up at the mirror again, Abby noticed a speck of mascara on her cheek. She fished a tissue from her purse and brushed it off.