A Beeline to Murder

Abby nodded, pinched off a portion of her chicken sandwich, and placed it in her mouth. Slowly chewing, she pondered what she really knew about the pastry chef. She soon realized it wasn’t much. “You think you know people,” she murmured.

Kat nodded and sipped the broth on her soup spoon. Looking up, she said, “I don’t get it. Hanging yourself isn’t exactly easy. And if someone else took his life, wouldn’t it be even more difficult? I mean, he would fight back. Why not just shoot him?”

Abby swallowed a mouthful of iced tea and wiped the bottom of the sweating glass with a napkin before setting it back on the tablecloth. “Well, hanging tells us two things. It’s so hands on, it’s personal, and it’s unlikely to have been done by a woman, unless she had a lot of strength. I could see a woman using a gun, a knife, or a blunt object—”

“Let’s not forget poison,” said Kat.

“Or poison. And statistics bear that out. So I’m betting that if Jean-Louis did not do this to himself, our killer is a guy.” Dabbing her lips with the napkin, Abby added, “Makes you wonder who has a motive for murder besides those loan sharks and the landlord.”

“We’ve cleared the loan sharks. They were attending a convention in Sacramento.”

“Really? Since when do loan sharks attend conventions?”

“When they are investment counselors, too. They have hotel receipts and time-stamped tickets from the parking garage,” Kat said. “We’re taking a close look at his lovers, family members, disgruntled employees, the usual suspects,” she added after a moment.

Abby finished eating her sandwich in silence, staring absentmindedly past Kat at a poster on the wall depicting various breads and pastries. She pictured in her mind Chef Jean-Louis standing in his pastry shop kitchen, dusting mini Bundt cakes with powdered sugar, and singing along with a CD of Maria Callas belting out Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro.” That image seemed so incongruous with the image of the chef with a rope around his neck.

Kat’s voice intruded. “Apparently, he took that video camera out of the box and stuck it up there on the shelf, behind the ivy, but never used it.”

“What about the decorative box that was up there, too? Find anything in that?”

“Just personal items. Mainly recipes that looked like they’d been copied . . . some on napkins and paper towels. The paperwork for that award he won last year . . . You remember that televised bake-off in Las Vegas, don’t you?”

Abby nodded. “Watched it on TV, like everyone else. Quite an honor for Jean-Louis and Las Flores . . . but he clearly had created a spectacular dessert, and that sugar embellishment was the crowning touch. That plaque hangs on the wall in his shop.”

“You’d think with all the hoopla, and it being Las Vegas and all, the award could have been a little nicer, maybe a crystal bowl or an eggbeater with a jewel-studded handle or something like that,” said Kat. “But for all his creative genius, fabulous recipes, and hard work, they gave him an ugly little plaque with his name and the title ‘Best Pastry Chef.’ ”

“It’s the honor, not the plaque,” said Abby.

“I know, but, Abby, in that box I got a look at some of his amazing handwritten recipes. Well, technically, the handwriting appears to be his, but we are taking a closer look.”

Abby sipped a spoonful of broth before posing another question. “Anything else in that box?”

“Family pictures and a letter of agreement between the chef and a guy named Etienne. The contract had a secrecy clause that forbade Etienne from revealing or exploiting the recipes the chef created, and threatened legal action if he did.”

“No kidding. So only Etienne? Were there similar contracts with others?” asked Abby.

“Nope.”

“So why had the chef singled out Etienne?”