A Beeline to Murder

“Yes. When Otto interviewed him, he had hair, but Tallulah says that shaved-headed guy in the picture is Etienne. His real name is Steve Flanders, and Chef Jean-Louis was the only person to ever call him Etienne. Steve, she said, was always reinventing himself and thought the name had more culinary cachet than his given name. Apparently, this is his French phase. Oh, and get this.... Tallulah said she suspected the chef and Etienne had a little pas de deux going on, until Etienne stopped showing up for work. Tallulah said Chef Jean-Louis suspected Etienne of sticking his fingers in the cash register, where they didn’t belong, and the chef was tired of it and canned him.”


“That so? We know the killer didn’t hit the cash register, so Etienne’s firing becomes his motive for murder? Doesn’t seem like a strong enough reason.” Abby turned away from the toolshed and continued down a gravel path to the apricot tree where she had propped supports under the limbs heavy with nearly ripe fruit. “Anyway, you said Etienne had an alibi. Is it airtight?”

“Not a hundred percent. Checking it out right after I leave here.”

“So where are you?”

“At the county health department.” Kat lowered her voice. “With Chief Bob Allen. Lordy, he’s all over this. Even canceled a meeting this morning to be here. Just like when you and I were partners, and he never wanted one of us to tell the other anything until we had told him first. The chief still insists on not just being in the loop but also being the first to know everything. I was thinking that he could actually help us by steering the investigation, because, you know, we don’t get that many deaths with unusual circumstances here, and then he goes and gets all jellylike while taking a call from Miss I’m Going to Be the Next Mayor . . . or governor. Like we’re not investigating a serious situation here. Hello.”

Imagining the chief smitten, Abby suppressed a smile.

“He must be in a midlife crisis or something,” said Kat. “He turned to glare at me and then walked out of earshot.”

“But he’s married—”

“To a sweetheart of a woman, whose volunteer work is sewing prayer blankets for sick kids. Chief Bob Allen, for the brainiac he claims to be, doesn’t seem to appreciate what he’s got at home. Know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh. Like a lot of guys.” Abby knew that Kat found the police chief irritating and often abrasive.

Kat continued her diatribe. “The way I see him right now is with his knuckles dragging the ground, Abby. Totally Neanderthal. Now, why do you think he’s behaving like a stupid teenager?”

“Well, I’ll venture a guess. Chief Bob Allen is like an artichoke—you’ve got to peel back a lot of layers of ego to discover who or what is hiding underneath. Might be a little boy cowering in a corner, with a huge inferiority complex, or a man consumed with self-loathing.”

“Uh-oh. He’s coming. One more thing . . . I almost forgot. A neighbor of the pastry chef called us. He’s an independent consultant and works from home, but he’s leaving town on a business trip tomorrow, and he’s got Sugar, Jean-Louis’s dog. Any chance you could take her for a few days? The animal shelter is overpopulated right now and begged us to find someone who would foster the dog until they could take her for adoption, or they’ll have to place her with another rescue operation somewhere. I mean, you’ve got all that room out there, and you could use a watchdog, right?”

“I guess so. I’m not really into pets, other than my chickens and my bees. Maybe the chef’s neighbor can take the dog back when he returns from his business trip?”

Kat’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Got to go.”