A Beeline to Murder

Sugar stopped barking and lay on her tummy, waiting, apparently, for Abby to make the next move.

Abby reached for the bottle of cabernet. She had intended to open the wine after she sold her first case of homemade jam, but that wouldn’t happen until stone fruit season next month. The bottle stood next to Clay’s picture in its silver frame. She swallowed hard against the lump that always formed in her throat whenever she gazed at his image. She’d stuck the picture there months ago so she wouldn’t have to see it as often. And today, after grueling hours in the garden, dealing with the necessary chores, and amassing a growing list of challenges she’d have to address—including caring for a dog now—Abby reached for the picture and turned it facedown. Her muscles hurt. Even her eyelids felt tired. No point in being reminded of shattered dreams that would make her heart ache, as well.

Although she hated the old shower and tub combo, with its chipped porcelain and leaky faucet, Abby felt her body relaxing once she had eased into the hot, soapy water. After the restorative bath, she dried off, slipped into her big girl panties and a T-shirt, and opened the bottle of wine. Sugar had fallen asleep on the bed while watching Abby bathe, since there was no door hanging and not even a frame between the master bedroom and the master bathroom yet. Soon the dog was snoring, and her lean legs moved restlessly, as if she was dreaming of chasing a rabbit.

After splashing a bit of the red liquid into a crystal wineglass that had survived the move, Abby traipsed out to the patio and dropped onto the seat of her grandmother’s cane rocker. The rocking motion soothed her spirit as she sipped the wine in the gathering violet dusk. Crickets and bullfrogs serenaded her in a throaty chorus. Abby welcomed their unseen company. Her thoughts drifted to Clay. Getting used to the solitude hadn’t been difficult, but she sorely missed his physical presence, his boyish laughter, and his sweet kisses. Why had he told her he loved her if he knew deep down that someday, when the timing was right and a new challenge beckoned, he would walk out of her life the same way he’d walked in?

Abby forgave him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t told her about his past. Clay built tunnels under freeways and airports and even through mountains. He moved around a lot, probably had a girl in every town he’d worked in, and there’d been many towns. She had pressured him to stay on in California—half believing he would—when he had finished working on the new bore through the mountain that linked the eastern inland valley towns to the Northern California beach towns. When the job offer came through to oversee the construction of a tunnel beneath a major airport in the Southeast, he hadn’t even tried to hide his excitement from her. He had loaded up his sticker-covered hard hat, secured his pickax, thrown his suitcase in the cab of his truck, and left . . . on Valentine’s Day!