A Beeline to Murder

She melted under his kisses. He responded with a passion lit, apparently, by an inner fire. After gently pushing her against the wall, he pulled the elastic band from her hair, swooped the mass from her shoulders and began to kiss the length of her neck, earlobe to décolletage. As he reached for the top button of her blouse, his cell phone rang.

“Mon Dieu!” He fumbled with the button, ignoring the cell. When the phone continued to ring, he said in a voice edged with exasperation, “Let me answer and be done with it.” After pulling the phone from his pants pocket and glancing at the screen, he frowned. “C’est mon père.”

Abby sucked in a long breath and exhaled as Philippe answered the call from his father. She scanned his face for signs that the call brought good news or bad. When his expression darkened and he wiped his palm over his mouth and stepped away, turning his back to her, it became apparent that he needed to some space.

“Right,” she murmured and headed toward the kitchen to finish packing the utensil drawer. After a few moments, Philippe strode into the kitchen, still holding the phone to his ear.

“Eh bien! Je prends le premier vol demain.” He sighed heavily. “Moi aussi.”

Abby watched him pocket his phone and stare at the floor, a forlorn expression claiming his features. No longer did he look like the devastatingly handsome man about to make mad, passionate love to her. He looked vulnerable and sad, as if he’d lost his only friend. Abby dropped the forks, rushed over, and threw her arms around him, laying her face against his chest. They held each other in silence.

“What’s happened?” she asked finally.

Philippe kissed her head. He cleared his throat and in a husky voice said, “It’s my mother. This Parkinson’s disease—it has ravaged her body. It has robbed her of her mind. The pneumonia has cleared, but this is the second time she has had it in three months. My father says she doesn’t eat. She sleeps most of the time. Her tremors continue, even in her sleep. She thinks her husband is her brother. My father believes her time is coming to an end. He’s inconsolable.” Philippe curled a finger under Abby’s chin, then tilted her face upward. “I must go, Abby, back to New York tomorrow.” His eyes caressed her face.

“Of course,” Abby said, trying to convey understanding and strength in her tone. “Your family needs you.”

He bit his lower lip and nodded.

“The last of the packing is done. I can meet the shipper for you tomorrow . . . get all these boxes out of here, so you don’t have to think about anything but your parents,” Abby offered bravely.

Philippe nodded.

“So,” she said with hesitation, “I guess I’d better let you get on with packing your suitcase and checking flights leaving for the East Coast.”

“Not so fast,” Philippe said. “That can wait until morning.”

“Oh, I see,” Abby said, but she didn’t see. Surely he would not want to waste a minute more than necessary in Las Flores.

“Is it all right if I stay with you and Sugar tonight?”

Abby’s eyelids batted in sudden disbelief. “Really? Well . . . what I mean is . . . I’d love that.”

He grinned. “I intend to see to it that no one interferes with your sleep tonight . . . unless, of course, it’s me.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “How gallant of you.”





The ride home seemed shorter than usual. Abby explained how the killer had been caught through GPS tracking of the cell phone belonging to Eva Lennahan, the wife of Jean-Louis’s lover, Jake. And how Etienne had started the tragic spiraling of events leading to murder with his malicious lies. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “The cops have your brother’s Saint Honoré medallion, but they have to keep it for evidence. You will get it back after the trial.”

Philippe nodded. “I cannot thank you enough, Abby, for all you’ve done.” For the remainder of the ride home, he seemed deeply absorbed in thought, and Abby did not intrude.