A Beeline to Murder

“Uh-huh,” Virgil muttered. His large dark eyes were fixated on Jean-Louis’s lifeless face.

Abby shook her head in dismay at Otto’s remark. “You had to go there.”

Otto looked over at her. “Just saying.”

“Oh, give it to me,” Kat said impatiently. She grabbed the plastic bag, ripped it open, shook out the bright yellow drape, and covered the body with it. Abby, Kat, and Otto rolled the chef on his side to tuck the drape around and under him, then repeated this maneuver on the other side, effectively bundling him like a baby in a tightly wrapped blanket, before wrapping his hands. They then rolled the body onto one side and maneuvered it into the body bag. Virgil zipped it and, with help from Otto, maneuvered the gurney around the counter, over the wooden threshold, and out the back door to the van.

A small crowd of onlookers and local business employees was clustered around the yellow crime-scene tape, gawking and pointing at the black, zippered bag on the gurney. A young woman cried out. Appearing to be in her late teens or early twenties, she wore a dark, mid-calf peasant skirt, black leggings, and Doc Martens purple boots with miniature footprints patterned over the leather. She plucked up the crime-scene tape and darted under.

“What’s happened? Is it Chef Jean-Louis?” she asked.

Abby spotted peacock tattoos over each shoulder through the see-through, sleeveless blouse the young woman was wearing over a lacy black camisole. Her brown dreadlocks had been threaded with lavender beads and pulled into a huge ponytail at the back of her head, leaving a purple forelock to hang to her chin, where it partially covered one of her heavily made-up eyes. Strange attire and makeup for work in a pastry shop, Abby surmised, but then again, Jean-Louis had seemed to attract unusual characters.

Kat threw her hand up and ordered the woman to stop. “The tape says, ‘Do not cross.’ That means you need to stay back.”

“But I work here,” the young woman replied.

“I’ll come to you,” Kat said. “Your name?” she asked, approaching the woman.

“Tallulah Berry. The pastry shop cashier. Has something happened to my boss, Chef Jean-Louis?”

“Why do you think something’s happened to him?” Kat asked.

“He works the night shift. He sometimes forgets to lock the back door.”

“Anyone work with him on the night shift?” Kat softened her tone.

“No. He works alone. Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“I need to talk with you, Tallulah, so don’t go anywhere,” Kat said, ignoring the young woman’s question. Turning to Abby, Kat asked, “When Otto is finished helping Virgil, will you see to it that he asks Miss Berry for the names of anyone else who worked with her and the chef at the shop, along with their addresses and phone numbers? I see the coroner’s assistant is getting into the van, and I need to go over a couple of things with her before she leaves.”

“Sure,” Abby replied.

Directing her questioning to Abby, the young woman said, “Please tell me that . . . that body bag wasn’t for Chef Jean-Louis.”

Abby said gently, “I’m sorry, but it is.”

“No! Can’t be!” Tallulah’s youthful expression glazed with despair. Her light gray eyes widened, and tears began to pool. Soon they spilled over, staining her pale cheeks with black mascara. “But how? Did he have heart attack or something?”

“We don’t know the details as yet.” Abby put a comforting hand around Tallulah’s elbow, then escorted the young woman a short distance away from the crowd. She gave Tallulah a minute to let the news sink in before asking, “Did he have a heart condition? Is that why you asked about his heart?”

“No. He was really healthy.”

“Was he depressed?”

“More stressed than depressed.”

“That so? Why was he stressed?”