A Beeline to Murder

Abby guided the Jeep behind the tractor until it was safe to pass. She hit the gas and fairly flew down Farm Hill Road toward town. At seven o’clock, she knocked on the door of Philippe’s room.

“Abby, come in,” Philippe said after opening the door. Two fingers of his left hand supported a bite-size square of cheese speared on a toothpick. The other hand, now no longer swollen, clasped an empty plastic wineglass. His black brows furrowed. “This cheese is terrible.”

Abby quickly assessed him. He was still attired in the crisp white shirt and pleated gray slacks he’d worn for their earlier meeting, but otherwise he appeared as fresh as if he’d just stepped from the shower. She couldn’t deny that his vitality and magnetism attracted her, but she was determined to keep her feelings in check. Her heart hadn’t yet healed from the abrupt ending with Clay. Surely it would be possible to enjoy Philippe’s company without any emotional involvement. She hoped so, but judging from the effect he had on her, limiting their relationship to business only might prove challenging.

“Well, I see the lodge hasn’t skimped on the portions,” Abby teased. “Let me take you someplace where we can get a decent meal.”

“Ah, Abby, you are an angel.” Philippe’s dark expression melted into a smile.

Abby laughed. “Yeah? Well, I am also an exacting taskmaster. So we’ll eat, and then we’ll work. What do you say?”

“Bon.” Philippe grinned broadly. He dropped the cheese into the wastebasket and plucked his tie and jacket from the back of a chair.

“Take the jacket, in case it gets cool, but you won’t need the tie where we’re going,” Abby advised. “Dress is California casual at Zazi’s.”

At the bistro, they chose a window seat, where they could watch the sun setting over the mountains to the south of the town. Abby pointed out a rectangle of shimmering light near the top of a peak and explained that the sun was bouncing off a row of windows probably the size of her entire farmhouse.

“Rarified air up there, Philippe,” she explained. “Wealthy people who can’t live without their twenty-four rooms, swimming pool, tennis court, and maids’ quarters. Some of the properties even have their own wineries.”

She reached for the wine list and slid her finger halfway down to one of the listings. “For example, this wine comes from the vineyard of the Stanton Brothers. No one really listens to their music anymore, but a generation ago, they were a popular duo who played banjo and guitar.” She slid her finger a bit farther along. “And this one is from the personal cellar of a local Olympic tennis player. She donates the proceeds to breast cancer research. Oh, and this one is from the Lennahans’ vineyard. Once a year Eva and her husband, Jake, open their home for a wine tasting and food affair to raise money for their favorite charities. Hers happens to be children with incarcerated parents, and his, I’m told, is human rights.”

“This is all very intriguing, Abby, but j’ai faim.”

“Sorry. I’m starving, too.” She placed the wine list aside, picked up the menu, and took a moment to glance over it.

“Do you see something you like?” Philippe asked, almost pleadingly.

“Uh, the white bean soup with organic wilted greens. It’s the best. They serve it with an absolutely yummy crostini of melted goat cheese, tomato, and basil.”

Philippe nodded approval. “Something else?”

“Then, how about the lamb shanks rubbed with rosemary, garlic, and thyme? It comes with fingerling potatoes and a salad of spring greens spritzed with olive oil and raspberry-infused vinegar.”

“A shank of anything sounds good. I place myself in your hands, Abby. My mouth, it waters already. The time is right for a glass of wine also, is it not?”

“Of course. Would you like to try something from a local winery, a Napa Valley offering, or perhaps an import?”