A Beeline to Murder

“Back here,” Abby called out.

Kat’s willowy body in her uniform emerged from the other side of the gate. “Brought someone to see you.”

“Yeah? Hope he’s good-looking.”

“Oh, he is,” Kat replied.

“I wasn’t being serious,” Abby told her.

“I was.” Kat shot her a chimpanzee grin and took several steps toward the newly planted area before Abby asked her to stay where she was.

“Can’t have you trouncing on the rows I’ve just planted. I’ll come to you.”

“Oh, gotcha,” Kat said, backing up.

Abby hoisted a flat of herbs in cell packs onto one arm and slid her hand under a second flat. Balancing the two flats, she gingerly walked toward the patio. Sugar, eager to meet the new visitor, bounded between Abby’s legs.

“Watch out!” Kat shrieked a millisecond too late.

Abby hit the ground, landing on the side of her face and sending cell packs of oregano, thyme, and tarragon seedlings flying in every direction.

“OMG! You all right?” Kat called out.

“Been better,” Abby drawled, pushing up into a sitting position. “That dog is going to be the death of me . . . the dog and those darn twine lines.”

“Why are they even there?”

“They’re marking the gravel paths, which will prevent this sort of stumbling and bumbling through the garden.”

“Well, girlfriend, they do make marking paint in spray cans now.”

Abby grimaced. “Yeah, but a hand guided by the eye will never make a line as straight as a piece of string tightly strung between two stakes.” Abby dabbed at the blood oozing from her left nostril.

“Can I get you some ice?” Kat offered, softening her tone.

“Forget it. This isn’t serious. It’s just—” Abby sucked in a breath before spitting out the word. “Stupid.” She pushed herself to an upright position and dusted dirt from her clothes. Then, she began picking up the cell packs of broken seedlings, only to toss them aside. She looked at Kat, not even trying to hide the gloom she knew her face showed.

Kat shook her head. “You are going to break your neck one of these days.”

“Well, if I do, just put me out of my misery, because with my gimpy thumb and a broken neck, I wouldn’t make much of a farmer, would I?” Abby said and dusted dirt from her clothes.

From beyond the gate, a male voice called out, “Hello? Are you ladies back there?”

Sugar ran to the gate, which Kat had closed, pawed the boards, and barked incessantly.

“No,” Abby commanded in her most authoritative voice. To her utter surprise, Sugar dropped down and trotted over to her.

“Looks like she recognizes you as the top dog,” Kat said.

But the moment of pleasure Abby felt was short lived, as she watched Sugar spring to life upon spotting finches foraging in the giant sunflower near the gate. The dog sprang into the air in a flying leap. She thrust her weight against the stalk, taking down Abby’s prized sunflower. From the head of this one flower, Abby had hoped to harvest seeds enough to sell alongside her honey at the farmers’ market. Abby shot a grimacing look at Kat.

“I’m so over that animal,” Abby lamented. “Why couldn’t the chef have been a cat lover instead?”

“She just needs training, and you need time to bond with her,” said Kat. Then, turning her attention to the voice calling to them, she replied, “Be right there, Mr. Bonheur.”

“Bonheur?” Abby arched her brow questioningly. “A relative of the pastry chef?”

Kat nodded, grinned. “Brother.”

“Is he here to take the dog? Oh, thank goodness!”

“No. He’s here to see you.”

“Why me?”

“Well, if you’d answered your darn phone, I could have told you that Chief Bob Allen shared the findings of the coroner’s office with Jean-Louis’s brother. The death was the result of asphyxia by hanging. Then our visit to Dora under the bridge, in the homeless encampment, confirmed it for us.”

“Really? How?”