A Beeline to Murder

“It doesn’t matter. American wines are all terrible. So I am not particular.”


Although Abby disagreed with him on that point, she accepted his right to hold that opinion. She said, “Well, the menu suggests a cabernet, a zinfandel, or even a Ménage à Trois wine—a Napa Valley blend of three reds.”

She looked up over the menu to see Philippe gazing intently at her.

Noticing his square jawline and green eyes in the light of the setting sun, Abby felt her cheeks grow warm. Why was he looking at her with such intensity?

Leaning forward with a bemused expression, he announced softly, “I like red. In fact, it is my favorite color. . . . And . . . Ménage à Trois . . . hmmm.”

She reached for her glass of water and sipped. “Are you saying we should try it?”

“Oh, mais oui.” A glimmer of amusement lit his eyes.

Abby withheld comment, pretending to study the menu. The awkward moment passed. Her lips trembled as she suppressed a smile. Finally, she quipped, “I’m looking for a good dessert,” and she immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Ooh la la! The dessert. This is something I desire—a luscious mouth-size berry . . . a silky, warm custard . . . or something sensuous to the lips and tongue, perhaps covered in chocolate. Something we could nibble together.”

Abby’s cheeks burned. Her palms sweated. She wished for an on/off switch for her hormones. Spotting the petite, dark-haired waitress as she approached, Abby sensed a way to cool down.

The young woman removed a pen and an order pad from the pocket of her white apron and asked, “Ready?”

Abby pushed back her chair and stood up. “Oh, I’d say so. My friend will give you our order. I’ll just go and wash my hands. Back in a moment.”

Abby bolted from the dining room to the ladies’ room, passing the bistro’s kitchen, where the frenzied chatter and the frenetic pace of food preparation became a strong counterpoint to the peace and quiet of the powder room. After locking the door, Abby leaned against it and took stock of the rapid beating of her heart. Her thoughts spun from her giddiness. Her legs felt weak; her pulse thready. Her palms were damp. She turned on the faucet and plunged her hands under the cold water. Get a grip. He’s your client!

After drying her hands with a paper towel and then tossing it in the receptacle, Abby strolled back to the dinner table. With every step, she reminded herself to stay focused on the business she was hired to do.

Philippe, still sporting a sexy grin, poured the wine and handed her a glass.

Abby was ready. “Let’s drink to solving the riddle of Jean-Louis’s death.” She touched her glass to his.

“à votre santé,” he replied. Then in English, he added, “To your health. And bon appétit.”

Throughout dinner, she kept the conversation on topic, asking questions about Jean-Louis and his relationships. She asked for details of his personal life, such as his childhood in Montreal and the family art business in New York. She explored how the family came to learn that the young man was gay—a secret he had entrusted to Philippe when he was a teenager, but had revealed to his parents only in a private conversation several years later. Finally, Abby pointedly asked, “Who will profit from Jean-Louis’s death?”

To her surprise, Philippe answered, “Moi.”

“You? Why is that?”

“He decided to put my name in his will.”

Abby rested her fork on her plate. “As sole beneficiary?” She waited a beat to see if Philippe would elaborate.

“Oui.” Philippe wiped his mouth on his napkin before laying it back over his lap. “My brother believed in love. Oui, he had many lovers. Sadly, he had not yet found that one special person. I suppose he saw me as the responsible older brother. For him, it made sense to leave his things to me.”