A Beeline to Murder

Blowing a puff of air between her lips in exasperation, Abby threw down the trowel. The lavender and the bees would have to wait. Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur could be a tyrant or a charmer, and his moods seemed to swing without warning. She could only hope that today he’d be happy to see her. He was paying her well—twenty-two dollars for a sixteen-ounce jar. With her first delivery of lavender-flavored honey, the chef had convinced her to also sample his delectable pastries and had even invited her to watch him work. Abby recalled how she had enjoyed the role of observer—he was definitely eye candy, with thick brown hair, large brown eyes, and a buffed physique. It didn’t hurt that he oozed personality. What woman wouldn’t fall for that combination? But Jean-Louis was gay, and his hair-trigger temper had already become legendary along Main Street. So she vowed today to skip the banter and just deliver her honey, get paid, and stick to her schedule.

After guiding the Jeep into the parking space at number three Lemon Lane, the alley behind the patisserie, which faced Main Street, Abby checked her watch and smiled. Five minutes early. Not like last time, when she’d arrived late because of a flat tire to find Chef Jean-Louis in his kitchen, pacing and swearing under his breath. He’d shocked her by throwing a pastry bag of batter that he’d been piping onto a parchment-lined baking sheet with such force, it knocked over a bowl of chocolate ganache. And later, while counting out cash to pay her for the delivery, he’d launched into another tirade, punctuating his French exclamations with incredulous glares, his hands wildly gesticulating in the air. As she hurriedly pocketed the money and made her way to back door, he’d called out an apology, or so she’d thought. His words stuck with her. “It is not you, AHbee.” She’d never get used to his pronunciation of her name. “Non, c’est Etienne. Il est en retard.” Apparently, she hadn’t been the only person that day to violate the chef’s obsession with punctuality.

Now with minutes to spare, Abby hoisted the box containing the sixteen-ounce jars of honey into her arms and scampered to the pastry shop back door, which stood slightly open.

“Chef?” Abby called cheerfully through the crack. “Chef Jean-Louis. It’s Abigail Mackenzie. I’ve got your honey order here.”

Abby pushed the box against the door. It swung open. Inside, the sudden hum of the motor of the chef’s commercial-size, stainless-steel refrigerator kicked on. The sound pierced the silence of the empty kitchen. On the long center island, metal sheets of pastries on cooling racks awaited icing, filling, and drizzling. Cream horn and madeleine molds, pastry slabs, baking liners, mats, and cannoli tubes littered the counter space. Next to a large mixing bowl of royal icing lay a pastry bag filled with icing that had hardened from its wide tip. The ovens were still on, and the burnt smell of cake permeated the room.

Abby frowned. Something was terribly wrong with this scene. Setting the box of honey on the island, she instinctively grabbed a pot holder and turned off the oven. The law enforcement training she had gone through while at the academy and during her seven years with the Las Flores Police Department had honed her senses. Now, like back in the day, when she was often the first at the scene of a crime, her stomach knotted in that old familiar way. Why would the chef leave the premises with the back door open? Why was the CD player not on, when the chef, a fan of opera, always listened to his favorite arias while he worked? And why was his workstation so messy, when the chef took great pride in keeping his kitchen clean and organized to be as efficient as possible? Where was Chef Jean-Louis?

Abby’s pulse quickened. Her muscles tightened. What’s going on here? Abby tensed as she looked around. “Jean-Louis,” she called. And then again more loudly, “Hello, Chef. Are you here?”

No answer.

Abby moved the box of honey in jars over to the cupboard where the chef usually stored them, since his pantry was often overflowing with supplies. Turning back, she walked slowly to the other side of the large island and rounded the corner. Her breath caught in her throat. There lay the chef, near the pantry door—eyes open, body not moving.