A Beeline to Murder

In an authoritative tone, the chief addressed Nettie. “Give Mackenzie and Mr. Bonheur his brother’s belongings and any evidence we took from the pastry shop during our investigation. Oh, and she wants a copy of the police report, too, when it’s ready. Make sure we get a signature for everything they take with them.”


“Yes, sir.” Nettie turned her heavy body as best she could, taking care to favor her bad knee, before leading Abby and Philippe back down the corridor. The chief’s door slammed, and Abby was pretty sure she heard Nettie whisper beneath her breath, “Someday, karma’s going to bite you in your chiefly butt.”





Dashing into the drizzling rain, Abby and Philippe each carried a box sealed with the tape used by the police department for evidence. Once the boxes were safely stashed behind the car seats and she and Philippe had climbed in, Abby turned the key and flipped on the windshield wipers. She looked over at Philippe and asked, “Your place or mine?”

Philippe twisted in his seat and gazed quizzically at her, as if not sure he had understood the question.

“We should go through your brother’s property together. If there are photos in those boxes the police gave us, you might be able to identify who is in them. You know the saying, ‘Two heads are better than one’?”

Philippe nodded. “Alors, in that case, shall we put our heads together in my suite?” A sheepish smile crept across his face.

“Actually, I was thinking of the lodge’s library,” Abby countered, in case Philippe was having ideas about something other than work. “It’s a spacious room with a massive table, comfortable chairs, a fireplace—always good to take away the chill—and complimentary wine and cheese at this hour of the day. Sound good?”

A beat of silence ensued. Then, in a tone of acquiescence, Philippe replied, “Oui.”

“Alrighty then.”

Releasing the emergency brake, Abby guided the Jeep back down Main Street. At the theater, she pointed toward the marquee. The newest movie being shown was a French-language film. But Philippe was already looking past the theater, toward the plate-glass window of his brother’s patisserie. And there was Dora. The town’s eccentric homeless woman, perhaps in an effort to find refuge from the rain, had pushed her grocery cart laden with bags under the pastry shop’s roof overhang. With nose pressed to the glass, and the sides of her eyes shielded with gloved hands, she stood staring into the darkened interior.

A sudden sharp twinge of sadness gripped Abby’s heart. Hoping to lighten the heaviness, she quipped, “Suppose the poor woman is still waiting for that coffee Jean-Louis promised her.” Abby lifted her foot to the brake and slowed. After rolling down the window, she called out, “Everything all right?”

Dora turned. The distraught look on Dora’s face suggested to Abby that all was not okay. The homeless woman pulled anxiously at a tuft of matted gray hair and muttered inaudible words. Then, abruptly, she grabbed the handle of her grocery cart and turned back into the rain, heading in the opposite direction of Abby and Philippe.

Abby swiftly maneuvered a U-turn. “Sorry, Philippe, but this can’t wait. I’ll be back.” She guided the car into a parking spot and left the engine running and the wipers slapping as she jumped out and raced to catch up to Dora. Not wanting to spook the poor woman, widely rumored to be schizophrenic, Abby strolled alongside the shopping cart until they reached the park opposite the police department.

“Can I buy you coffee, Dora?”

Dora cocked her head, as if listening to other voices.

Abby waited.

Dora finally turned a blue-eyed questioning stare toward Abby.

“You want some hot coffee, don’t you, Dora? And maybe a sandwich?”

Dora nodded.