A Beeline to Murder

“Right. So, I’ll let you get started. Philippe is waving a glass of champagne at me. We’re at Zazi’s for a quick dinner, and then I’ve got to get back to the farmette to check on the dog and my chickens.”


“OMG, Abby! You are with a gorgeous man, and all you can think about is your chickens? I seriously don’t understand you,” Kat chided. “I’d be more interested in that lovely French Canadian rooster showing me his wattle and spurs than in trotting home to Henrietta, Heloise, and Houdini on the roost.”

Abby grinned. “You’ve got a point there. Catch you later.”

Despite Kat telling her to keep her phone handy, Abby tucked it into the glove compartment. She didn’t want phone calls or other interruptions as she methodically laid out her theory for Philippe during dinner.

Crossing the street, Abby caught sight of Philippe waving to her and pushing back his chair. Suddenly, to her right, an engine revved. Abby watched as Philippe walked to the glass door and pushed it open. Wheels squealed, and a car shot past in a blur. Alarm bells sounded as Abby lost her footing and fell between the cars parked parallel in front of Zazi’s. In milliseconds, Philippe was at her side, his strong arms lifting and supporting her until she was able to stand on her own.

“That idiot almost killed you! Are you hurt?”

Abby shook her head. “It’s broad daylight.... Probably just a teen driver with a lead foot,” she said reassuringly. But Kat’s warning popped into her mind. If someone was delivering a message, Abby had certainly gotten it.

When they were seated, Philippe handed her a glass of chilled bubbly. Reaching for his own glass and lifting it, he said, “To Jean-Louis. He was—”

The petite, dark-haired waitress arrived, bearing a white scallop-patterned plate with steaming oysters. She set the plate before them and offered freshly cracked pepper, which neither Philippe nor Abby wanted. With the cheerful command “Enjoy,” she left them.

Abby waited for Philippe to finish his toast to his brother, but he now focused all his attention on the steaming oysters.

“To Jean-Louis, who touched us all with his joie de vivre!” Abby said, lifting her glass.

“Oui,” said Philippe, clinking his glass gently against hers. He sucked in a mouthful of champagne, then picked up Abby’s plate to serve her a large-size grilled oyster on the half shell.

Abby poked her small fork into the sizzling mollusk and carried the bite to her mouth. It was succulent. “Delicious,” she said. “I can’t think of anything so absolutely scrumptious and sensuous, can you?”

Philippe finished his bite, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and leaned forward until he was eye to eye with her. He whispered seductively, “Ah, oui. I can imagine. It remains an experience for us to share, n’est-ce pas?”

Abby’s second forkful froze in midair. What should she say? Fanning herself with her napkin, she reached for her glass of champagne. “Is it hot in here?”

“But of course,” he replied. He riveted his gaze on her, eased back in his chair, and dropped his napkin over his lap. His grin deepened, accentuating the chiseled angle of his jaw. Apparently, he was enjoying his ability to fluster her.

It was too late to take the question back. Abby wished she had a mask handy to hide behind—one that covered the whole face, like Carnival dancers wore. It was work to keep tamping down the currents of desire this French Canadian kept igniting in her. The sheer animal magnetism he generated when he turned on the charm was becoming almost impossible to resist.

Abby reminded herself of the boundaries she had set. But as her will weakened, she wondered if holding firm was still necessary. He’d hired her to prove his brother’s death was a murder, and she’d pretty much figured out who killed Jean-Louis. There were still loose ends, of course, but she was confident that she’d have all the details figured out in short order. Philippe would be on a plane in a day or two. She’d most likely never see him again. So . . . was it still necessary to honor the boundaries between client and investigator?