A Beeline to Murder

“So what’s your problem?” Abby answered. “That’s what it means. Kat must have heard about the trouble here from our dispatchers putting the call out for units to respond.”


“There’s more,” Philippe said. “There’s a one-eight-seven at the Crow Ridge cutoff.”

“One-eight-seven is the code for homicide. So who was murdered?”

Philippe shook his head, stared at the phone, and said nothing. After a few seconds passed, the text ringtone sounded again. “Eva Lennahan,” Philippe said.

Abby let go an audible gasp. Her thoughts spun. Our prime suspect? Oh, that’s not good. Her lips tightened. She shook her head in disbelief.

At the sight of two police officers running onto the patio, Abby heaved a sigh of relief and gave them her gun. She would gladly let them do their job securing the scene and taking her attacker, whoever he was, into custody. She knew that once the scene was secured, the cops would let the paramedics in to check her out. She felt wracked with pain from the assault, particularly the blow to her cheek.

The sun rose through the thicket of trees behind the chicken house. Houdini began his crow-off with a neighboring rooster farther down Farm Hill Road. While Philippe petted Sugar and Lucas helped the male cop handcuff and lead the skinhead to the patrol car, Abby gave her statement. By then, the place was swarming with cops, first responders, firemen, and paramedics—all of whom knew Abigail Mackenzie as formerly one of their own. When the female officer asked about discharging the weapon, Abby carefully explained how terrorized she had felt, how she had feared for her life.

“I was standing about here, facing him, when I made the split-second decision to fire off a round. He’d threatened to kill my dog,” Abby explained. “I imagine the casing went down five to six feet to the right, most likely parallel to the roses, perpendicular to the patio. It’s got to be somewhere in the grass there.” She tried to stand but suddenly felt quite weak. Maybe she just needed coffee.

As if reading her mind, Lucas returned, put a warm, reassuring hand on Abby’s shoulder, and said, “You look like you could use a cup of joe, Abby. Your pot in the kitchen?”

Abby nodded. “You can find the canister of beans, already ground, in the upper cupboard nearest the sink.” She sank into the rocking chair on the patio.

Philippe drew close and knelt at her feet, his hands on the handles of the rocker. “Ma chérie, are you in pain? Your face, it has a deep cut.”

Before Abby could respond, a paramedic, dressed in a blue uniform with reflector stripes on the sleeves and a lapel badge that spelled DOTTIE, rushed over to treat her. “Excuse me, please,” she said to Philippe, who moved aside. The paramedic dropped her medical pack on the patio table and leaned down to have a closer look. After opening the pack, she took out some tweezers to pluck out bits of debris from Abby’s cheek. That done, she turned back to her pack and began removing items, such as alcohol prep pads, hydrogen peroxide, iodine, antiseptic cream, gauze, and tape.

Philippe moved to the other side of the paramedic. He watched intently as the woman pushed aside her stethoscope and pulled on latex gloves to examine the laceration on Abby’s cheek.

“Could you give us a little room here?” the paramedic asked Philippe.

“Oui,” Philippe said. “I am not leaving you, Abby, but I do not want to be in the way. And the sight of the blood, it makes me queasy,” he said sheepishly. “I will check on the bees and give you a few minutes. Hmm?”

“Thank you, Philippe.” Abby watched him stroll in the direction of the apiary.

“Are there other cuts on your body?” the paramedic asked.

“Scratches, mostly on my extremities, from my rosebushes,” Abby replied.

“How did you get the cut on your face?”

“During the attack, I was punched.”