A Beeline to Murder

“Arghh,” Philippe growled. He followed her directions, staring intently into her eyes, apparently awaiting a sign that the bee might depart.

Abby moved a step closer to him, watching closely as the bee took its time exploring. The insect must have found Philippe’s cologne to its liking. And what wasn’t to like? High notes of mint and basil counterbalanced with a woodsy undertone and a hint of musk. Attractive to her, attractive to the bees. Abby considered what it would feel like to have her face as close to Philippe Bonheur’s as the bee was. She slowly lifted her hand, thinking of how she might help the little insect on its way, but at just that moment the bee’s tiny body waggled. The honeybee flew upward, turned in midcourse, and headed in the direction of the hive behind the weathered wooden fence.

Philippe relaxed his posture; his attention again became fixed on Abby. “Surely, you do not raise these . . . these abeilles?”

Abby nodded. “Honeybees.”

“It is dangerous, n’est-ce pas?” He looked over at Kat. Kat shrugged, as if she couldn’t understand Abby’s love for bees, either.

Abby smiled disarmingly. “No. It’s not dangerous. I love the bees and their honey. Actually, no one appreciated their honey more than Jean-Louis.” She decided to ask a point-blank question. “Was there someone who disliked Jean-Louis enough to want him dead?”

Philippe rubbed an unshaven cheek, as though thinking about the question. “Jean-Louis, he tells me he thinks his business partner or someone—how do you say?—détourné de l’argent.”

Abby searched her memory for the meaning of the phrase and then proffered an alternative in English. “Embezzled money?”

“Oui, embezzle, but Jean-Louis, he could not prove it.”

Abby sighed. Suspicion. Not the same as proof. She lifted the collar of her work shirt and shook it slightly to allow a bit of air to circulate over her flushed skin. “Truly, I wish I could help.” She knew it was not what the man wanted to hear. To avoid what she was sure would be a pleading gaze, Abby glanced over at Kat, who was staring at the ground, as if not wanting to telegraph her personal feelings about the case. “Look, we really don’t have much to work with here.” Abby straightened her spine, as if standing taller and stiffer would make her appear more resolute. “I try not to insert myself into police business. Chief Bob Allen would not welcome my intrusion, and, besides, he and I are not exactly buddies.”

A long and brittle silence ensued before Philippe said coldly, “It is not police business, not anymore. My brother, he tells me he was going to the Caribbean for his birthday. His good friend Vieillard had access to a yacht on the southeast coast of the Dominican Republic, near Casa de Campo. So, pardon me, mademoiselle, but does that sound like he intended to end his life?”

Logic compelled her to agree with Philippe Bonheur. People who were about to check out usually did not take a vacation first.

“Remind me of when Jean-Louis’s birthday is,” Abby said.

“July eighteenth.” Philippe glanced at Kat, apparently in an effort to gauge whose side she was on, but Kat remained silent, still staring stone-faced at the ground. An awkward and tense silence ensued.

“You are repairing this place, oui?” Philippe asked, apparently wanting to shift the direction of the conversation. He slid his fingers, with manicured nails, into his pants pocket and drew forth a folded piece of paper. He handed the paper to Abby. “It is not complicated.” His tone warmed slightly. “You help me. I help you.”