A Beeline to Murder

“Stinger?”


Abby looked into Philippe’s large light eyes. She cleared her throat. Wished she’d paid more attention in her French class. So . . . the French word for “stinger.” Let me see. Barbed lancets, venom, bee gut rupture, death . . . death. I know that one. La petite mort . . . No, no, that’s not right. That’s a euphemism for “orgasm.” Must be décès. Yes, that’s it. “Décès!” Abby exclaimed aloud.

“Décès? I’m going to die?” Philippe’s expression conveyed alarm.

“No, no, no, Philippe. I meant the bee. . . . The bee dies . . . died. Not you. You’re fine. Well, except for . . .” She took a deep breath. Not going well. Try something else. “So, I’ve got an analgesic cream in my car. It’ll make your hand feel better.” She pointed to her Jeep.

Philippe nodded and followed her to her car.

Abby rummaged around in the glove compartment until she finally located the analgesic, histamine-blocking cream. After removing the cap and squeezing a pea-size dollop onto a finger, she rubbed it on Philippe’s hand, at the site of the sting, and then smoothed some over his hand, up to his Cartier watchband. She could feel the heat in his hand. Her own skin prickled. Her heart hammered hard. When she looked up at him, those sparkling pale green eyes were gazing back at her.

Abby quickly tightened the cap on the tube. “You okay to meet Chief Bob Allen?”

Philippe nodded.

“He’s expecting us in twenty minutes.” She tossed the tube of analgesic cream back in the glove compartment and turned to find Philippe planted in the same spot.

His face took on a silly grin. He used one finger to open his jacket pocket. “My hand, it is useless for tying my necktie. Do you mind?”

Abby leaned over to see a tie lodged in his pocket. As she withdrew the tie, Philippe moved so close to her, their toes nearly touched. He was close enough for her to smell his cologne and feel his breath against her face. He stood a head taller than she and was about the height of Clay. Don’t think about him right now. Abby flipped up Philippe’s dress shirt collar, slipped the Italian red, patterned silk tie under it, and flipped the collar back down. Standing directly in front of him, she began to perform the sequence of knotting the tie. Over, under, around, and through. Clay had taught her that. As she was tightening and adjusting the position of the knot, Philippe placed his hands on her shoulders. Electricity shot through her. She pulled the narrow part of the tie down and pushed the knot upward in one swift motion. Philippe stepped backward and coughed against the tightness of the knot.

“There. Looks great!” Abby exclaimed. “Time to go.” She walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in the Jeep.

Philippe slid into the passenger’s seat. His eyes held a bemused merriment as he reached for the seat belt and looked over at her. “This . . . I can do this myself.”

Abby laughed. “Good. Pull it tight. Wouldn’t want you breaking the law. I’d have to make a citizen’s arrest and hand you over to the authorities.”

Philippe grinned and snapped the belt into the buckle.

When they arrived, Abby felt a familiar flicker of apprehension as she stepped inside the Las Flores Police Department. Her former place of employment held a lot of memories. Some were not so good. Catching the attention of the two dispatchers stationed behind the massive glass enclosure of the county communication center, Abby strolled over and waved. Both women nodded, but their eyes were focused on Philippe. It was not often that a handsome, debonair man walked into the station, or anywhere in Las Flores.