A Beeline to Murder

The three burst into laughter.

As soon as the laughter had subsided and Philippe had enjoyed the last bite of cake, Maisey reached for the dessert plate and forks. “It’s on the house,” she said. “Now, scoot on outta here, because I’ve got to open early tomorrow. The Optimist Club is having their meeting at seven thirty in the morning, and I’ve got to get things ready. Lock that door behind you when you go, would you?”

Abby’s mood was buoyant. She walked arm in arm with Philippe back up Main Street and stopped in front of the Black Witch, where motorcycles lined the curb. When Philippe offered to buy her a drink, Abby decided it would be more intimate to have a drink on the farmette patio. Something inside her told her it was now or never. She took his arm and pulled him away from the Black Witch doorway.

“I made a promise to Jean-Louis. Would you like to help me keep it?” she said.

“But, of course.”

“Tonight?”

“I would do anything for you,” Philippe answered. His expression reflected a sweet tenderness.

The warm night air blowing through the open windows cooled Abby’s flushed skin, one reason she loved this drive from town to the farmette on hot summer nights. Another was the way the limbs and leaves of the tall eucalyptus trees lining the road danced in the moonlight to cast ghostly shadows across the asphalt. Even the scents on such a hot night were pleasing: the fragrance of the earth, warmed from the heat of the day, mingled with the perfume of wild indigenous plants and trees, like pitcher sage, wild thyme, the Jeffrey pine, sagebrush, and the California spicebush.

“What do you think of it here, Philippe? Do you like Northern California?”

“I like wherever you are.”

Abby felt flirty inside but tried not to show it. Philippe looked at her often, sometimes studying her for many minutes at a time before turning away when she looked back at him. The sexual tension between them could not be denied, yet they said little on the moonlit ride from Las Flores to the farmette. Sugar greeted them with a nonstop welcoming bark at the gate. Abby retrieved a rawhide bone from the metal garbage can just off the patio.

“Now, settle down,” she said, scratching Sugar behind the ears. Sugar tugged the bone out of Abby’s hand and trotted off, apparently content to gnaw on her treat far from the reach of human hands that might try to reclaim it.

“Ready?” Abby asked. “Watch your step.”

She led him to the apiary at the end of her orchard. From a distance, the hives appeared under the pale lunar light to be ethereal columns squatting on a platform, as though they might have once supported the ancient stone throne of a long-dead ruler. Abby had positioned the two stacks of white Styrofoam boxes evenly along a straight line, with roughly a foot of space between them. They were positioned in front of the fence, with six feet of unobstructed space in front, and were protected by a wooden roof, which kept rain and moisture off the hives.

Abby leaned down and placed her ear against one of the two hives to listen to the soothing hum of her bees. “They are all inside. It’s warm tonight, and the bees are cooling the hive. The honey flow has started.”

“Ah, oui?”

“Put your free hand on top of the hive there,” Abby instructed.