A Beeline to Murder

“Money. He’d gotten loans to keep the business going, and the money was due. Chef Jean-Louis told me once to never do business with guys who would break your legs for late payment. I guess he was in pretty deep.”


“Who were the guys? Do you recall their names?”

“I never heard their names, just that they are private investors. They give loans to people who can’t get the funds any other way.”

“Do you think those people would have exacted revenge on Chef Jean-Louis for not paying back the loans on time?” Abby asked.

Tallulah used her fingers to wipe away her tears. She sniffed. “I don’t know. Sometimes they came around, had coffee and pastries, more like cousins than investors. But Chef Jean-Louis gets worked up when he can’t pay the bills. He yells a lot, but it doesn’t mean anything. He just vents. But the loans stressed him, and so did the problems he was having with the landlord.”

“Whose name is . . . ?” Abby’s brow shot up. She leaned slightly toward the young woman and waited for the answer.

“Willie Dobbs. He did not want to renew the pastry shop lease. He said he needed to refurbish the building. But Chef Jean-Louis told me Dobbs just wanted the pastry shop gone so he could get someone else in here and jack up the rent.” Tallulah choked back sniffles.

Abby pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket and handed it to the young woman.

After wiping the tissue beneath each eye, Tallulah used it to blow her nose. “You know, he’s nothing but a redneck bully, that Dobbs guy. I . . . I heard him and the chef arguing.”

“When was that?” Abby asked.

Tallulah bit her lip and frowned in concentration. “I’m not sure. Oh, my God! I can’t believe he’s dead.” Her face took on a stricken expression.

Abby sighed. “Sure. I understand. Take a moment to catch your breath. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think it was important.”

Tallulah’s eyes welled again with tears. She wiped her nose. “Last week, I guess . . . maybe Saturday. Yeah, I think it was Saturday. I wanted to see that arty film being shown next door. The theater’s last showing on Saturday was at eight p.m. We usually close the shop at six. The last customer had left. Just me and the chef . . . He’d come in early to work a split shift, instead of his usual midnight schedule. I was closing the shop.”

“Go on,” Abby urged.

“Well, that’s when I heard voices in the kitchen. Mr. Dobbs had come around back to talk with my boss. Chef Jean-Louis had just turned off his CD player, so I could hear them really clearly.” She wiped her nose again. “You know, the chef, he loves opera.”

Abby smiled. “Yes, I know.... Can you remember what they said?”

Tallulah bit her lip. “Um, let me think. I had just finished wiping down the counters and was refilling the napkin holders. Mr. Dobbs sounded really mad. The two of them were shouting, talking over each other. Chef didn’t back down, even after Dobbs made threats.”

“Threats? Like what?” Abby knew Otto should be and would be asking these questions, but she couldn’t just turn off her instinct to probe—she had cared about the chef, too.

“He told Chef that their lease deal was not valid. He sent Jean-Louis to hell and said that the renovation was going to happen whether Chef Jean-Louis liked it or not. But Mr. Dobbs was pushing out only the pastry shop.”

“And you know this because. . . .”

“Chef Jean-Louis spoke with the proprietors of the theater and the biker bar. Mr. Dobbs hadn’t asked either of those tenants to vacate.”

“So what else did Dobbs say?”

“He told Chef Jean-Louis that the pastry shop’s lease would be broken, even if he—that is, Mr. Dobbs—had to ice him.”