A Beeline to Murder

Following Kat through the heavy wooden gate and then latching it to keep Sugar from taking off, Abby noticed a lot of bee activity on the gate’s driveway side, where she had planted a circular-shaped wildflower garden. The honeybees loved the pollen in the flowers of the giant pink, red, and white cosmos. No matter what time of the day Abby went to water them, she would see the bees foraging.

Abby looked past the cosmos to the forty-something, tall, dark-haired man with silvery threads of gray at his temples. Casually dressed in jeans and penny loafers without socks, he held his sport coat in the crook of an arm while his other hand squeezed a tiny ball of fruit hanging on the two-year-old blood orange tree. The sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled up, exposing lithe forearms.

“A man that good looking has to be married,” Kat whispered.

“Is he?” Abby whispered back.

Kat shrugged and kept walking.

When the man spun around to face them, Abby noted the family resemblance to Chef Jean-Louis but also that drawn, haggard look that took over a healthy face when someone suffered a shock or was grief stricken.

“Philippe Bonheur,” the man said, extending his hand to Abby.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Kat said, “I’ve got to check in with dispatch.” She walked a discreet distance down the gravel driveway and stopped at the mailbox, which was mounted on a fence post. Abby could tell from the way Kat was leaning her head in toward her shoulder that she was talking on the two-way.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bonheur.” Abby tried to say his name correctly, to pronounce it Bon-NEUR, but it didn’t sound right to her. She’d nearly failed high school French. “Abigail Mackenzie.” She extended her right hand but yanked it back when she noticed dirt clumped under her nails and streaks of soil still on her palm and wrist. “Sorry . . . I . . . I wasn’t expecting anyone to show up at my door. I’ve misplaced my gardening gloves.”

“It’s no problem, mademoiselle.” Philippe clasped her hand, then pulled it back into his and shook it firmly. His red, puffy eyes dominated his gaunt face, which sported a day-old beard and a weak smile.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Bonheur.”

“Thank you. C’est une affaire terrible.” His voice broke from a sudden huskiness as he lapsed into his native language.

Abby’s heart sank. She hated to see an obviously strong, healthy man in such terrible pain. Empathy had been the bane of her life, especially in police work. Kat had once told Abby that her personal sense of outrage on behalf of the victims and their families was why she was so good in law enforcement. But Abby too keenly felt the pain of the victim, sometimes feeling compelled to work a case as if it were personal, when her primary task was simply to keep her personal feelings in check and just do the job.

Now, as Abby observed Philippe Bonheur struggling to show composure under the most trying of circumstances, she inhaled a long, deep breath and heard herself ask politely, “Mr. Bonheur, how can I help?”

“This Chief Bob Allen, you worked for him?”

Abby nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“I will speak frankly. I do not agree with Chief Bob Allen and the coroner. Suicide? Non. I tell you, it was not. It was murder!”

At that moment, Kat returned. She thrust her hands into her uniform pants pockets and leaned against the cruiser, swatting occasionally at a bee if it flew too close.

“But how can you be so sure?” Abby looked directly into his eyes, thinking their hue lighter than the new leaves on her apple tree.

“I know my brother.” Philippe Bonheur reached into his white dress-shirt pocket, removed a silver lighter and a small box, and opened the box. It was lined in foil and contained cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” Not waiting for her reply, he plucked out a cigarette, flipped open his lighter, set fire to the cigarette tip, and inhaled a deep, long drag.

Abby took a step backward. Seriously?

A sheepish expression claimed Philippe’s countenance, as if he had picked up on her thought and now felt awkward about smoking.

“You Californians, you do not like smoking, c’est vrai?”