A Beeline to Murder

“You are certain about this?” Philippe asked, taking longer than necessary to do as she asked.

“Absolutely. You won’t be stung. Did I ever tell you that Jean-Louis had no fear of them? He loved not only the honey, but also the bees.” Placing her palm on the other hive, Abby reached for Philippe’s hand to give him courage. As her heart and mind focused on the task of putting her feelings into words, Abby spotted a guard bee fly up into the moonlight in front of her face, buzzing her, as if to greet the beekeeper; and then, just as quickly, it retreated to the bottom of the hive and disappeared. A lump formed in Abby’s throat. She swallowed hard and felt her eyes tearing. Her resolve hardened. She would not leave until she’d said the words. Finally, mournfully, she whispered, “Sweet bees, I have come with sad news. Our beloved pastry chef, Jean-Louis, has passed away.”

And with that, all the sorrow Abby had tried to hide through gallows humor and emotional restraint rose like a swarm lifting upward in uncertain flight. Her mournful sobs were soon buried in Philippe’s chest. He held her tightly, stroking her hair, murmuring, “The sweetest thing here, Abby, is not the bees or their honey, but your heart.”





Tips for Correlating Bees’ Flower Sources to Honey Type ? Dandelions—the honey is golden yellow in spring ? Orange blossoms—the honey is pale yellow in late spring ? Buckwheat—the honey is dark aubergine in early summer ? Eucalyptus—the honey is pale amber in summer ? Star thistle—the honey is dark yellowish green in late summer ? Wild thyme—the honey is medium amber in late summer





Chapter 16


Help your chickens through the annual molting process (when they lose feathers and stop egg production) by feeding them 20 percent more protein and reducing their stress.

—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac





Abby abruptly awakened, alarmed, not knowing why. She soon realized the arm draped over her tummy wasn’t hers. She sucked in a surprised gasp. Philippe reclined beside her—one arm over her and the other cradling his pillow. Sugar had positioned herself in a ball, her back against the soles of Abby’s feet. Abby relaxed and thought about how the three of them had ended up on her bed . . . together.

After dinner and pie following the graveside service, she and Philippe had sipped cordials under the stars on the farmette patio. Her choice had been a late-season muscat; his, a brandy. When Philippe had complained of sleepiness due to the meal and an alcohol buzz, Abby had pointed the way to the bedroom. After all, she didn’t feel much like clearing the couch, which was covered in boxes of unopened bee supplies and the jars and egg cartons that Lucas had given her. While Philippe rested, Abby had reclined on a large pillow next to him. She had stroked Sugar as she’d explained to Philippe where the case was now headed. Within minutes, Philippe and Sugar had drifted off to sleep. Soon after . . . she had, too.

A grin parted her lips as Abby realized that at some point Philippe had reached over to draw her close. Trailing her fingers along his arm, she soon felt the fabric of his shirt where he had turned up the cuff. Oh, jeez. We’re still fully dressed in our funeral clothes. She suppressed a chuckle. So much for the long-awaited kiss and the sizzling whatever else that might have followed. She liked him, but he would soon leave for New York. He was a city boy, after all. Maybe this was the way things were meant to be.