A Beeline to Murder

Abby nodded. “Some of us don’t.”


Philippe took another long drag of the cigarette and then flipped it to the ground. “Jean-Louis tells me on the phone about a man named Dobbs. They argued about the patisserie lease.”

“Yes, I know about that.” Abby asked, “Was your brother assaulted by him?”

“No.”

“Well, then, perhaps they ironed out their difficulties.” Abby was starting to wonder if Philippe could tell her anything, anything at all, that could convince her that the case had merit.

Philippe looked at her incredulously and shook his head. “Jean-Louis, he tells me about a man who attacked him behind the patisserie.”

“When did that happen?” Abby asked, looking for a response from Kat, who had folded her arms across her chest and was listening intently.

“A week . . . two or three weeks ago. My mind does not think so well now.” Philippe ran his hand through his hair. He seemed to be struggling with how best to express what he wanted to say. He finally spoke. “My brother, he was not like everyone. People did not understand him. Some did not like him, because—”

Abby waited for the words that did not come. “Did Jean-Louis’s family . . . did they know . . . Did you know he was gay?”

“Oui.” Philippe seemed relieved that she had said what perhaps he could not. “We know. Jean-Louis feared for his life sometimes. That man who attacked Jean-Louis, he rode a motorcycle. He called my brother names. Jean-Louis followed him into the bar one night. They argued. The bartender made them leave.”

Abby zeroed in on that detail. “And that man assaulted Jean-Louis?”

Philippe nodded.

Abby looked over at Kat. “Police report filed?”

Kat shook her head. “Nope. First I’ve heard of it.”

Abby addressed Philippe. “Any chance you got the name of that biker from Jean-Louis?”

“He never told me.”

“How about the name of the bar?”

“The Black Wench or Witch . . . something like that.”

The only bar in Las Flores. Abby considered how desperate Philippe must feel. How hard he must be searching his memory for names and situations that might prove his brother was the victim of an enemy. She gauged the distance between her dusty gardening shoes and the discarded, still smoldering cigarette, reminding herself to dispose of it properly once he and Kat had left. Unconvinced that a biker, landlord, or any local had killed Jean-Louis, Abby couldn’t shake the feeling that suicide explained the death. And without a good motive or a prime suspect, there didn’t seem to be any good reason for her to take the case, despite details about the local bar and its mostly biker patrons. Details anyone could know.

How she hated these situations.... How many times can you say, “Sorry for your loss,” before it begins to sound like it’s just an excuse to end the conversation so you can go back to your life?

Philippe inhaled deeply. “Jean-Louis. . . .” His voice became husky. “He mentions to me friends, too.”

Abby smiled at him reassuringly. “I’m sure Jean-Louis had many friends in Las Flores.”

Philippe’s haggard face managed a weak smile.

“Can you recall any of his friends’ names?” Abby asked.

“Charles, Joseph, Patrick, and someone he called Vieillard, ‘old man’ in English.”

Abby shot a quizzical look at Kat, who had flipped open a small notebook to jot down the names. Abby wondered if the word might mean a man who was older than Jean-Louis or if the chef had used the word as a term of endearment.

“Did your brother often use pet names for friends?” asked Abby.

“Oui. Vieillard. A nickname, perhaps?” Philippe brushed his fingers against a tuft of hair over an ear, where a honeybee had just alighted.

“Don’t move,” Abby quickly cautioned. “Just try to be still. If you swat at it, it will sting you.”