A Beeline to Murder

Her thoughts settled peacefully as she listened to Philippe’s soft breathing and Sugar’s snoring. Beyond the window, the tinkling wind chime seemed to compete with the rustle of the fig tree leaves. A frog let go a trio of throaty croaks. All pleasant enough sounds, but what had awakened her? On the other hand, what did it really matter now?

Houdini crowed. Never quite sure why he felt the need to crow at all hours of the night, Abby wondered if he was experiencing a testosterone rush or if he was sounding the alarm about a prowling skunk or raccoon. Or maybe he had just heard another rooster cock-a-doodle-doing and was responding. Whatever.

Guiding her fingertips along Philippe’s hand where it rested against her tummy, Abby touched the angled ridges of his knuckles and traced the prominent vein that ran along the top of his hand to the boundary of soft hairs covering his forearm. She felt utterly content, so much so that not even Houdini’s crowing could interfere with the secret pleasure permeating her being, except . . . Houdini hadn’t stopped crowing. What is bugging that rooster?

A soft scuffle sounded on the gravel path alongside the house. Abby strained to hear it. For a long interval, she listened, on high alert, but the sound had ceased. She heaved a heavy sigh and settled back down. Then . . . a bottle rolled on the patio’s stone surface. Abby sighed in exasperation. Those pesky raccoons are definitely back.

Checking on the raccoons wasn’t a good enough reason to leave the comfy bed, but as she thought about their tendency to riffle through anything and everything, Abby remembered the antique cordial glasses. She had left them on the patio table after Philippe had told her how sleepy he felt. The set of crystal, a gift from her grandparents, had been etched with an Edinburgh thistle pattern. So whether she wanted to or not, Abby felt she had to get up and save those glasses from the nocturnal bandits.

Easing Philippe’s arm off her midsection so as not to awaken him, Abby rolled to the edge of the bed, then felt for the flashlight and the fuzzy pink house slippers she kept under the bed. With the items firmly in hand, she quietly tiptoed to the kitchen sliding-glass door. The sudden slap of Sugar’s tail smacked her leg.

“Not this time,” Abby whispered sharply, dropping her slippers and sliding her feet into them. “I still haven’t recovered from your last go-round with those raccoons. You guard Philippe. Now stay.”

The night-light under the microwave mounted above the oven gave off enough light for Abby to see on the counter the jar in which she kept a few baked dog biscuits in the shape of a bone. Retrieving one, she waved it under Sugar’s nose. The dog wasn’t interested. Abby laid the dog biscuit on the floor. Sugar ignored it. Stealing over to the patio door, Abby quietly unlatched it and opened it just a little. She held on to Sugar’s collar to keep the dog inside while she peeled herself out through the narrow opening. Sugar whined. She left the heavy glass door slightly ajar, certain that it was too heavy for Sugar to push and that the opening was too narrow for her to squeeze through. But Sugar was still able to sniff the raccoon scent in the night air. Immediately, she rose on her hind legs and began pawing and whining.

“Settle down!” Abby whispered. Who am I kidding? Like you are ever going to listen to me. The moon had set, taking with it that glorious silvery light it emitted, but the stars remained bright against the dark sky, and the breeze was gentle and warm. Abby almost wished that Philippe would awaken and that they could sit for a spell and maybe talk of dreams the way she and Clay used to do. Nah, let him sleep. He’s probably as physically exhausted as he is emotionally.