A Beeline to Murder

She found the glasses right where she’d left them. Now to get them inside before the raccoons caught sight of her. But how to do it? Sugar was just waiting for that door to open. She was sure to dash right between Abby’s legs or jump up and knock the glasses from her hands. Already, Abby could hear a commotion on the side of the house. If the raccoons had knocked over that stack of five-gallon buckets she was planning to fill with frames of honey, it meant they were just around the corner. If they saw her, they could get mighty aggressive.

Not wanting to deal with Sugar while she carried her antique stemware or to alarm the raccoons in any way, Abby conceived another plan. She turned off the flashlight and reached for the glasses. Rather than trying to wiggle through that patio door and risk dropping them, Abby cradled the glasses to her chest and struck out barefoot through the wet grass. She headed past a row of white tea roses to a wooden bench. It was positioned between thickly canopied nectarine trees; the trees’ round, dark silhouettes looked like ancient beehives. After finding the basket of rags she’d left on the bench, Abby wrapped the stemware and slid it between the layers of cloth. She wedged the basket under the arm of the bench, eager to return to bed.

Hands seized her from behind. Abby’s heart thudded against her chest. Though she was filled with terror, the cop in her fought back. Her attacker clamped a hand reeking of stale tobacco over her mouth. Joining her two hands together for strength, Abby thrust her elbow toward her attacker’s face to break his hold. It didn’t work. She realized that he was taller, stronger, and that he outweighed her. She twisted her body, trying to break free. Her slippers came off as he pulled her through the roses to an open area of grass.

She was now in his stranglehold. Terror filled every fiber of her being. Abby squeezed her index and middle fingers together for strength and plunged them into the hollow of the man’s neck while she rolled in her shoulder to lengthen her arm and wrest herself away. Thinking she was free of his iron grip, Abby pivoted, intending to hit him with an eye gouge, followed by a groin kick. But before she could execute either maneuver, he sucker punched her in the face. Knife pricks of pain shot through her left cheek. Falling, Abby screamed in pain. It came out more as a breath than a sound. The man flipped her over. Dragged her farther. Straddled her.

“Don’t fight me.” His hand was again on her mouth. “You’re going to like it!”

Abby twisted her head. She prayed Philippe had heard her. Any second now, Philippe would flip on the lights, step outside. He would see she was in trouble. She could hear Sugar. The dog was agitated.

Pain. Dress ripping. Sugar barking. Wake up, Philippe! Help!

Sugar pawed the door. Lunged through the opening. Snarling and barking, she flew at the stranger. The man’s grip loosened, but he held on to Abby as they rolled in the wet grass. Sugar was unrelenting. The man let go. His arms and hands flailed against Sugar. The dog had his sleeve in her mouth. Sugar’s head twisted . . . made staccato movements . . . back and forth, like she was playing with a rag doll. She released his hand and bit his face. Then, when his hand flew up defensively, Sugar snapped at his fingers.

Abby crawled from the melee, screaming, “Philippe! Gun . . . bedside table!” She looked back at her attacker. The man had risen to a semi-sitting position, in a fight for his life as he wrestled with Sugar.

“Call him off!” he yelled.

Abby lunged forward. Crawled toward the patio.

The man screamed, “I’ll kill it!”

Finally . . . Philippe appeared. “Mon Dieu! What is happening?” Apparently realizing the dire situation, he somehow remembered the garbage can where Abby kept rawhide bones for Sugar. Philippe lunged toward the garbage can and grabbed the large river rock anchoring the lid. He hurled the rock at the attacker. It hit the man’s shoulder. Abby’s attacker fell back in slow motion. Sugar, who had retreated momentarily, quickly pounced back on the man, snarling, her teeth exposed.

Abby crawled faster than a rabbit, pitched upward, and sprinted past Philippe as he reached for her. She raced to the bedroom. Grabbed the gun. Raced to the patio. Aimed up. Pulled the trigger.