A Beeline to Murder

Abby understood why Philippe might think it silly that, when returning him to the lodge, she kept the boxes of his dead brother’s property instead of giving them to him. For Abby, the choice was clear. Until she could prove whether or not Jean-Louis had been murdered, she needed custody of those items.

Waving good-bye to Philippe as he ascended the Las Flores Lodge steps, she wheeled out of the parking lot and drove back to her farmette. By the time she was guiding the Jeep down the gravel driveway, wheels crunching over the bits of stone, Abby could see a spectacular rainbow unfolding over her garden, which was located next to the chicken house. Above the little structure, a pair of red-tailed hawks circled on the updrafts. Abby hoped Houdini had alerted the chickens of the danger and had hustled them into the wire enclosure, instead of adopting what Abby called “the freeze position,” which he often did, looking like a ridiculous feathered statue standing on one leg.

After locking her car, she went in search of her flock of chickens and found them already inside, on the roost. The little hens huddled against Houdini, who had assumed his usual position on the highest rung. Abby smiled. Attaboy. She began counting off the chickens. A little lady on each side is three, and three on the roost below makes six. A full house. Good night, chickens. Good night, Houdini.

Abby slid the bolt on the door to the chicken house into place and dashed to the farmhouse. Stripped out of her sopping clothes and wrapped in a towel, she searched her closet for something appropriate to wear for dinner. From a plastic hanger, she pulled a top with a built-in bra and paired it with a simple self-lined lace skirt, both black. Dressing took less than a minute. Now, what could she do with her wild, frizzy hair? Abby decided to hide it in a French twist. With her hair pinned in place, she applied a coat of dark mascara to her lashes, brushed her cheekbones with a dusty-rose blush, and applied her favorite pale fuchsia lipstick and gloss.

From three small perfume bottles sitting on her dresser, she chose Nuit de Noel, a perfume that had made its debut in 1922. Kat, who was as crazy about items from the Jazz Age as she was those from the Victorians, had introduced her to the fragrance. It had become Abby’s favorite scent, with its notes of rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, and oakmoss. One squeeze of the pump distributed just enough. Abby slid her feet into a pair of mules with black-and-white stacked heels and grabbed a pair of beaded chandelier earrings and a white sweater. She gave Sugar a pat on the head, dashed out the door, and climbed in the Jeep.

At the end of the driveway, she braked hard to avoid hitting a tractor pulling a sickle bar mower. It finally inched past as her cell phone chimed. Patience, Philippe. I’m on my way. The tractor driver waved. Abby waved back.

“Abby here,” she said into the phone, wishing the old man on the tractor would goose it.

“Hey there.” It was Kat’s voice. “You still have a friend or two in the department, and we have got your back. Check your mailbox.”

“As it so happens, I’m next to it. What am I looking for?” Abby asked, hitting the button to lower the window before stretching her hand out to retrieve the mail.

“That report you wanted.”

“Oh, really? Chief Bob Allen said I could be waiting awhile for it.” Abby grasped the large manila envelope and pulled it into the car.

“Yeah, well, he underestimates Nettie. That woman may be slow on crutches, but she’s got the fastest fingers in the department when it comes to computers. Thank her for the report. I had business out your way, so I just delivered it. Enough said. Dispatch is calling. Got to go.”

“Thanks, Kat.”