A Beeline to Murder

Virgil slowly backed up the van and then inched it down the alleyway. After turning the corner, the van disappeared from sight.

Abby watched in silence and said a mental good-bye to Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur. Their colorful, madcap, illustrious chef was gone. He had blessed Las Flores with his savory tarts, sugar-dusted oreillettes, and delectable honey-almond madeleines. She smiled, recalling how she had wheedled the madeleine recipe out of him, but she knew deep down hers would never taste like his. He had had the gift.

Whoever had taken Jean-Louis’s life had robbed Las Flores of its culinary genius. For a split second, Abby found herself wishing she were back on the force, one of the team members who would get to the bottom of his mysterious death. But when she heard Kat’s radio go off and Chief Bob Allen’s clipped voice demanding yet another update, she just as quickly surrendered the wish.

Walking toward her Jeep, Abby called out to Kat and Otto, “Catch you all later. I don’t want to be late for my meeting with the district attorney. I’ve got reports to turn in and a check to collect.”

“When can I get a look at those photos?” Kat called back, walking toward Abby.

“Soon. Let me off-load them onto a thumb drive. Question. What’s the coroner’s estimated time of death?”

“Based on body temp, she’s giving it a window. Between three and five this morning.”

Abby slid into the driver’s seat of her Jeep.

“Choir practice later?” Kat called out.

Kat had used their secret code for “drink after work.” Abby knew that if Otto overheard their plans for a drink, he would insist on joining them. She didn’t mind Otto so much. He seemed starved for company, in spite of being married. His wife was the West Coast regional director of an ambulance company and was gone more than she was home. Otto hung out mostly with Bernie, the annoying skirt chaser who worked in the evidence room. When those guys swilled more than a couple of beers, they turned into Village Idiot One and Two. They unabashedly flirted with the usual barflies and the more respectable ladies, who would just laugh at them as the men one-upped each other with stupid pickup lines.

Abby cringed as she recalled one Saint Patrick’s Day when some of her fellow officers had finished their shifts and met up at the Black Witch for green beer. Bernie and Otto had shown up, too. She had let Bernie convince her to join him for a new dance step he’d learned. She only had to hold out her arm straight and steady, with her fingers locked with his. Abby hadn’t been too sure she believed Bernie’s story about recently taking Argentine tango lessons, but she’d reluctantly complied. More like a teenager instead of a fourteen-year veteran of the police force, Bernie had awkwardly twirled himself in, blocked her leg, lost his balance, and crashed, taking her down with him.

Disentangling her legs from his beefy body and searching for the shoe that had flow off her foot when she hit the floor, Abby had winced at the laughter of the patrons and had hissed at Bernie, “Never again.” Never.

“So whaddya say?” Kat asked.

“You buying?”

“My turn?” Kat grinned.

“Yep,” Abby replied, handing her a sprig of lavender from the tied bunch lying on the passenger seat. “It clears the nose when you’ve had to smell something unpleasant, like a dead body.”

“Why, thank you. So about tonight . . . my shift ends at seven . . . half hour to get to the cottage. What say we review the crime-scene images after we eat? I’ll make sandwiches.”

“Sounds good.” Abby turned the key in the ignition. “Oh, and I’ll be interested in what you find on the surveillance camera behind the faux ivy that was on the baker’s rack. The plastic cup that fell off the rack is still there. Smells of booze.”

Pulling away, Abby glanced in the rearview mirror to see Kat racing back into the pastry shop. She hoped that the video had the killer’s mug on it or something else that could point the investigation in the right direction.





Honey-Almond Madeleines





Ingredients: