A Beeline to Murder

“But young people don’t usually make wills. At least, not in my experience.”


“Well, that may be, but our father and mother wanted to draft their will, and we were together with the lawyer, a family friend, who said he would do it for all of us. I didn’t follow through, but Jean-Louis did.”

“When was that?”

“Maybe about two years and six months ago—the last time Jean-Louis visited New York. I remember it was Christmas . . . and I had just become engaged.”

Abby felt her heart pounding again. Engaged. So Kat was right to think he was attached. She took a moment to absorb this new information. “So, did he return for your wedding?”

“No wedding.” Philippe stared at her with a curious intensity. “My fiancée . . . it was a big step. For her, too big, too soon.”

Abby exhaled a long, even breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Life goes on,” Philippe said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“So your brother’s business, investments, possessions—everything passes to you?”

“He was my family.” Philippe’s eyes narrowed. His expression hardened. “Oh, Abby, you cannot think that I . . . I. . . .” A sudden chill permeated his words, like frost penetrating pea shoots.

Abby remained still. For a long moment, she assessed him with a cool look.

Philippe swallowed the wine left in his glass, placed the stemware on the table, and pushed it back. Leaning in, his eyes locked on hers, he whispered in a husky voice, “I was three thousand miles away when Jean-Louis died. I worked very late that night because the next day was an important gallery opening for our client. When I was told that my brother had died, I took the earliest flight I could to come here.” He sat back and reached for his jacket, which he’d hung on a nearby empty chair.

For a second, Abby wondered if he was going to leave.

“Here,” he said, producing a piece of paper from the jacket’s inside pocket. “My airline ticket.”

She studied the ticket, noting that the dates supported his claim. Flashing a reassuring smile, Abby handed the ticket back. “I never doubted you.”

Philippe’s expression softened. A disarming smile played at the corners of his mouth. “So then?”

She replied, “So then . . . what?”

Philippe’s expression took on a devilish quality. “Dessert?”

Abby tried to suppress a giggle, but when Philippe burst into a deep, warm, raucous laughter, Abby couldn’t resist laughing out loud, too.





Hours later and long after the doors of the Las Flores Lodge library were closed and locked, Abby sat at the table in Philippe’s suite, poring over the police report Kat had delivered. Nothing stood out. The first page listed the required case number and the section code for the incident, 187 PC—murder. Of course, now the death had been deemed a suicide. The next page was filled with general information about the victim’s physical description. Of more interest to Abby were the narratives of the investigating cops and the information gained from interviews of neighbors and owners of businesses in the area. Abby thumbed through the neighborhood check sheets.

Abby stop perusing the documents to reread one entry.



A woman sleeping in the upstairs apartment over the architect’s unit behind the theater heard a scudding sound around 5:00 a.m., approximately the time the chef died, according to the coroner.





Maybe something there, she thought.