A Beeline to Murder

Abby flinched as she recalled how she had driven around aimlessly the morning Clay had left, not wanting to be in the house, where she’d hidden a bottle of champagne and a heart-shaped cake. Half blinded by tears, Abby had finally wheeled into the lot of Crawford’s feed store, parked her Jeep in front of a hay bale, and sobbed uncontrollably. And later, back at home, she’d tossed the cake into the garbage can.

Clay had loved sitting in the dark with her, spinning dreams. He had often asked her to imagine the kind of farm they would build together. Olive trees would line the driveway. He would tunnel into the earth to create a wine cave, would plant a vineyard, and would build her a home with a thousand windows so she could see the heaven on earth they would create together. Now, as Abby rocked in the darkness, with her bare toes touching the cold patio tiles, she pushed her fingers against the corners of her eyes to hold back the new threat of tears. Finally, gazing up at the star-splashed sky, she lifted her glass. To you, Clay, wherever you are . . . You once said, if ever there was no me . . . or no you, then there would be no us. . . . You might have led me on with lies of omission, but you didn’t lie about that.

A loud crash—like shattered glass—cut through the silence. Abby shot out of the chair. What the hey? She froze. Heart racing, adrenaline pumping, she dropped to a squat, taking cover.

There, behind the portable barbecue, she cocked an ear in the direction the sound had come from. A barn owl screeched a raspy scream for about two seconds as it batted its wings in flight to the tallest eucalyptus tree on the property behind hers. Abby peered into the darkness. She could faintly make out the black silhouette of the cinder-block house that had been the sanctuary of its owner until his death, a year before Abby had moved to the farmette. Now, although she didn’t see them, Abby believed snakes, rats, skunks, and raccoons crawled through the empty rooms and climbed the gnarly dead limbs of the ancient oak that towered over the old house. Yet, despite the haven the old house afforded wildlife, some local teens had only the month before broken into it to drink beer and do drugs. Abby had called county dispatch, and the responding officers had broken up the party. The property owner’s daughter and her husband had returned and padlocked the iron entrance gates but had left any type of cleanup or maintenance for another day.

Okay. Overreacting. Calm down. Abby inhaled a long, slow breath. Slowing her breath would slow her heart rate, and her heart was racing faster than the lead car in a drag race. She might be overreacting, but the chef’s sudden death had everyone on edge. And that vacant house, hidden by weeds and trees, was a recipe for trouble.

Abby crept into the dark kitchen of her house. She heard Sugar spring off the bed and pad down the hallway to her side. Rested, the dog apparently sensed excitement and jumped up on Abby.