A Beeline to Murder

By the time Abby had finished all the chores for the day, the sun had dropped behind the hillside, leaving in its path wispy streaks of pale pink and gold. She had patched and inflated the wheel on the wheelbarrow, planted the raspberry vines, and ferried the compost to the garden and then tilled it into the soil. The weeds would wait for another day. She had also washed Lucas Crawford’s truck and returned it, with a jar of honey and a thank-you note tied to the steering wheel with gingham ribbon. And finally, she’d made it into Las Flores to take charge of the pastry chef’s dog, Sugar.

Sugar was a two-year-old mixed breed. According to the neighbor, Jean-Louis had told him that the dog had some English pointer, beagle, and whippet in her, showing up in rounded eyes, long legs, a lean body, and a short-haired white coat with liver-colored freckles and spots. She also had a long, sloping neck and a thick tail. Abby worried that the dog might be highly energetic, needing to hunt and run every day—a concern borne out by the neighbor, who had said he was marathon runner and had taken the dog with him on his daily practice runs. What if the dog went after the wild birds that were attracted to the feeders she’d hung around her property? That would never do. On the upside, maybe the pooch’s mixed breeding had tempered an aggressive hunting tendency. In the final analysis, Abby reminded herself that the arrangement would be temporary—she’d be the foster parent to Sugar, but only until other arrangements could be made.

After latching the chicken-house door, Abby trudged back to the kitchen as the clock struck nine bells. She flipped on the light and opened the fridge, then stared at the contents—a jar of jam and a plastic tray with six eggs. Dinner could wait, too. What she really longed for was muscular hands to massage her aching back, a glass of wine, and a long hot bath.

Sugar looked up at Abby with big brown eyes, her tail wagging, as if to say, “What about chasing some birds or running up Farm Hill Road? Or is it time to eat yet?”

Abby stared back at the dog. “I don’t speak dog. How are we going to learn each other’s signals? Oh, Lord, what was I thinking? I don’t need a dog.” She took a bowl from the cupboard and poured some dog food in it from the bag that Jean-Louis’s neighbor had given her. After putting down the bowl of dog food and a bowl of fresh water, Abby said, “Well, go ahead. Have at it.”

Sugar contented herself with crunching on the doggy nuggets and slurping water until Abby trudged over to the antique Queen Anne chest, where she kept an unopened bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. Sugar leapt up against the antique chest and began pawing it, as if the old piece of furniture hadn’t already been scarred enough over the past hundred years.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Down. Get down now!” Abby immediately regretted how loud and mean she sounded. She mentally chastised herself for being unduly harsh with the poor creature.

The dog dropped to all fours, but its body quivered.

Abby sank to her knees. “I’m sorry, Sugar. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just this chest is one of the few things I have left from my grandmother. It’s irreplaceable. Oh, I do hope you understand.”

Sugar began to bark, seemingly as loudly as Abby had shouted.

“Okay, okay. I get it that you’re upset. Let’s just let this go for now.”

If Sugar seemed unmanageable, Abby could understand why: she wasn’t the best choice for a dog foster parent. And this dog had been through a lot of changes lately. Sugar’s owner had died, and the neighbor had tried to do a good deed, until his job had required him to leave. Now the poor animal was stuck with someone who had never been a dog owner. They hadn’t had time to bond, and Abby didn’t know if they ever would. In her heart, Abby knew she wasn’t doing a very good job of reassuring the dog and making the fosterling feel secure.

After standing and inspecting the chest for scratches, Abby looked down at the dog. “I’m not mad at you, Sugar. You just need to learn the boundaries.”