A Beeline to Murder

As they dined on creamy bean soup, Abby recounted her theory. Philippe listened thoughtfully.


“When will you know for sure?” he asked when she was finished.

“Soon,” Abby said. “I hope very soon.”

After Zazi’s, they walked slowly past the storefronts along Main Street, looking into the windows of each one. Passing a display table in front of Horace’s New and Used Books, Abby stopped to thumb through a couple of cookbooks, taking particular notice of a copy of Julia Child’s first book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It bore evidence of heavy use—food stains, underlining, and erasure marks. But given the closeout price of one dollar, Abby took out her wallet. Philippe shook his head and took the book from her, then paid for it, along with a back issue of American Art Review magazine that had caught his attention. Carrying their purchases in his left hand, Philippe put his free hand on the small of Abby’s back and guided her to an antique store window that displayed an Arts and Crafts–style chest with Van Gogh’s sunflowers painted across all four drawers.

“Ooh, I love it,” Abby said, pressing a finger against the window. “You know, sunflowers are the honeybees’ favorite food.”

Philippe smiled.

Crossing Oakwood Way with the light, Abby slipped her arm into Philippe’s and remained on high alert for speeding cars. Within minutes, they walked into the pie shop, just as Maisey was emptying a pot of stale coffee.

The apron-bedecked Maisey, looking like a full-figured southern belle with not a white hair out of place, ambled over to the counter. “Well, hello, you two. What can I get you?” Before either Abby or Philippe could answer, Maisey said, “I know you love my bourbon pecan pie, Philippe, but I served up my last piece an hour ago. Could I interest you in a dish of rhubarb fool or maybe a serving of date crumble?”

Philippe looked perplexed. “I regret I do not know what fool or crumble is.... Perhaps you have something chocolate?”

“Why yes, I do. A piece of flourless chocolate cake coming right up. I’ll just plate it for you.”

Philippe nodded.

“I’m not too hungry, Philippe,” Abby said. “Shall we split it?”

“Oui. Good idea.” Philippe led her to the counter. Abby assumed he preferred the counter since they could include Maisey Mack in their conversation while she finished her chores.

After Maisey served them, Philippe took one bite of the flourless chocolate cake and declared, “Oh, how I love a woman who knows her way around a kitchen.” He directed his remark at Maisey but winked at Abby. “It is amazing, n’est-ce pas, how cooks create sensuality with food and capture a man’s heart? He eats, and his mind, it spins, and his heart, it pounds.” He sighed. “His waistline, alas,” he lamented, “it grows.”

Abby and Maisey laughed.

Philippe continued. “Women and witches cast spells with food.”

“Why, Philippe,” Maisey asked, smiling, “are you saying someone has cast a spell on you?”

Philippe’s eyes locked with Abby’s. With a pronounced exaggeration, he said, “Oui, this must be what has happened.”

“Then I’ll have the rest of that chocolate cake,” Abby said, playfully reaching for the dessert plate.

Philippe let go a boyish laugh and pulled the plate closer to his chest, apparently to protect it from further incursions by Abby’s fork.

Abby raised her fork, as if ready to do battle. “Sir, you play with fire.”

Philippe shot Abby a seductive look before lowering his gaze from her eyes to her lips and then farther down to her décolletage, where her dress suggested ample curves. “I can take the heat,” he said.

Abby glanced up at Maisey, who raised a finely arched brow. Looking back at Philippe, Abby positioned her fork on a napkin, cocked her head, and replied, “Oh, yeah?”

“I’ll just bet you can take the heat,” said Maisey, intervening. “But this little lady is known to pack the heat.”