A Beeline to Murder

Abby patted a fingertip of red-tinted gloss on her lips before adjusting the clip holding her swooped-up hair. By her estimation, she had transformed her usual farm-friendly look, perfect for selling her wares at the farmers’ market and visiting the feed store, into that of a fashionable sleuthing professional, or at least a reasonable facsimile. For the 1:00 p.m. meeting with Philippe, she didn’t feel a need to get too crazy with her hair and makeup. She had given a muscular brushing to her coarse, thick hair and had toned down her sunburned cheeks and nose-bridge freckles with pearlescent finishing powder.

Clothes were another matter. Farmwork was hard on clothes. Abby had a few nice things, but mostly her wardrobe consisted of jeans and T-shirts. She had two black suits for her sessions with the DA, several dresses, and a few skirts. She didn’t want to look too casual or too formal for her meeting with Philippe. After trying on several outfits, she’d selected her skinny, boot-cut black jeans, a crisp white blouse, a black jacket with red piping trim, and rooster-red flats. But, as she slid out of the driver’s seat in the parking lot of the Las Flores Lodge and looked at the sky, she regretted not grabbing an umbrella and different shoes. The red, silky fabric of the skimmers made them a pretty complement to her outfit, but they were not suited for the late May rain.

Slamming the Jeep door, Abby searched the sky for signs of impending sprinkles, which had been forecast for the afternoon. She could only hope that the showers would stay north of the Golden Gate Bridge, but in the last hour, high wisps of vapor had thickened into chunky, layer-like cotton batting, which had increased in bulk until only a smattering of holes afforded glimpses of the blue sky behind.

Abby strolled toward the wide Spanish-style veranda of the lodge, where lemon trees potted in Italian terra-cotta lined the entrance. She half expected to see Philippe pacing. She was not immune to his physical attractiveness, but she found his impatience and indignant emotional fervor off-putting. A murder investigation required a calm, focused mind. Unrestrained emotions served only to muddle one’s memory, logic, and problem-solving ability. However, she reminded herself, he was duly grieving and deserving of her patience and understanding.

In her peripheral vision, something moved. She heard “Out of the way!” and jumped back against her Jeep. A bicyclist jangled a handlebar bell nonstop. The bike flew past. A small dog cowered in a basket in front of the bike seat and another little pooch perched precariously inside a wooden box mounted behind the bike seat. Despite the bicyclist maneuvering the bike around a curve at the end of the flat driveway, the dogs remained upright. The bike, the man, and his canine passengers disappeared after turning into the bike lane on Las Flores Boulevard beyond the gate. Those poor dogs. Abby thought fiercely about what she could do now to deal with the man. Finally, in resigned exasperation, she sighed. Don’t think I won’t report you, you idiot!

“Abby, bonjour. Comment allez-vous?” Philippe called to her over the racket of hammers and heavy equipment. The lodge was ground zero for construction, as some new bungalows were being built around its garden and pool. She turned and saw Philippe descending the stone steps, gesticulating wildly.

“Mon Dieu! Pouvez-vous me recommander un bon médecin?” he asked, shaking his hand, as if to dislodge something stuck to it.

“English, Philippe,” Abby told him. “In English, please.”

“Look.” He held out his right hand. It was swollen, like a latex glove turned into a water balloon.

“You were stung?”

“Oui.”

“When?”

“Yesterday . . . at your farm.”

“Ouch . . . Have you ever been stung before?”

“Non.”

“And that’s why you want me to recommend a good doctor?”

“Oui. This hand, I need.”

“Well, I’m certain you need both your hands. What you mean is that you favor your right hand for writing and other tasks, correct?”

He nodded.

“Well, I rather doubt a doctor will be necessary, but let me have a look.” Abby examined the red dot on Philippe’s swollen right hand. “Well, it appears the stinger is out.”