A Beeline to Murder

“Ice? He really used that word? Goodness, sounds like Mr. Dobbs has been watching too many mafia shows,” said Abby.

“I avoid people like him.” Tallulah shifted from foot to foot, swayed from side to side, as if the rhythmic movement could somehow help her cope. “That horrible man is nothing but a selfish bully with a giant ego, a hothead with a big mouth.” Tallulah pushed the purple forelock from her eye. “I’m a pacifist, like Gandhi and Reverend King. I hate arguments. But that night I had to get my purse from the kitchen, where they were going at it. The tension in there was terrible. Shaking off that kind of negative energy, it’s hard for people like me.”

“What do you mean by ‘like me’?”

“Empathic.”

Abby shot her a quizzical look.

“I feel other people’s energy. The chef and Dobbs . . . their energies were intense. I mean, off the charts. We’re talking major testosterone. Chef had gotten right into Dobbs’s face. I could feel electricity streaming out of his head. We empaths feel emotional energy more than other people. My intuition is as finely tuned as a crystal, receiving and magnifying energy, positive and negative.”

“And so you went to the pastry shop kitchen to get your purse?” Abby asked, sidestepping what she considered the bogus hocus-pocus.

Tallulah pressed fingers against the corners of her eyes, where new tears were forming. “He just can’t be dead,” she said. “This doesn’t happen in real life . . . does it?”

Abby sighed. “Unfortunately, it does.” She waited a beat. “And so you went to get your purse, and then what?”

“It was hanging on the coat rack. I snagged it and beat the heck outta there. I don’t think either of them even noticed me.”

“So you didn’t hear anything else? Did Dobbs or Jean-Louis say anything as you were leaving?”

“Nope. They were just evil eyeing each other, kind of like fighting dogs panting before the next onslaught, if you know what I mean.”

Abby noticed the small studs in Tallulah’s earlobes, along with a ring of tiny hoops going up her left ear. “You’ve got pierced ears. Lost an earring lately?”

“No, I rarely lose my earrings. I use the screw-on safety backs. Only thing is, you have to tighten them on all the way. Oh, occasionally one will pop off.”

Abby nodded. “The police will want your statement, Tallulah. Just tell them everything you can recall, okay? That way we can figure out what happened to our chef.”

Tallulah put three fingers against her lips, as if doing so would hold back the sob building inside.

Abby stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Tallulah’s bony shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s quite a shock, I know.” She pointed toward Otto, who had lifted the Dumpster lid and was peering in at the contents. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to one of the officers who’ll want to talk with you.”

Abby led Tallulah over to the blue Dumpster and waited until Otto had lowered the lid.

“Sergeant Otto Nowicki, meet Tallulah Berry. She worked for the chef in the pastry shop. Says the chef had a visitor on Saturday and they argued.”

Otto sized up Tallulah. “Are you willing to come down to the station and give us a statement?”

“If you think it would help, sure. But it won’t take long, will it? I want to light a candle for the chef and see if I can tune in to his spirit . . . help with the crossing over, if you know what I mean.”

Abby smiled at Otto, curious as to how he would respond.

“It won’t take long at all, Miss Berry,” Otto said after a beat, taking Tallulah by the arm. “Not long at all.” He led her in the direction of his police car.

Abby glanced over at the van, where Dr. Figelson had taken her seat and Virgil was turning on the ignition. Kat was giving directions to Virgil.

“Head that way,” she said, pointing left. “Lemon Lane goes all the way down and exits out onto Chestnut. Chestnut connects to Main Street.”