A Beeline to Murder

“For being in such a small space and open for only two and a half years, his business seemed to be booming.”


“True, but you and I both know that things aren’t always as they appear.”

“Uh-huh.” Kat walked toward the restroom, which was tucked off the kitchen, and flicked on the overhead light to look around.

“Is his apron in there?” Abby asked. “He never worked without one.”

“You don’t say. Now, what made you think of a detail like that?”

“Lest you forget, I notice little things like that.”

“Does anything else come to mind?”

“Not really. I just remember how he always tucked a towel into his apron strings. Makes sense if you’re wiping your hands often. You’ll notice he doesn’t have dough or icing or flour on his clothes, so he must have worn an apron if he worked all night in the kitchen. And I don’t see it.”

Kat looked behind the restroom door. “Not here.” She walked back to the body, where she halted, finger against her radio call button. She pushed the button, and dispatch answered. “We’ve got a DOA at number three Lemon Lane. Notify the coroner and get me backup.”

“Need help documenting this?” Abby asked.

“I ain’t sayin’ no. Just me and Otto working the streets this week.”

“I thought Chief Bob Allen had hired some new recruits.”

“Yeah, but three are in San Francisco for defensive tactics training, two are getting recertified at the firearm range, and our crime-scene photographer is in L.A. all week.”

Abby winced. She knew working short staffed could be grueling, what with patrol work, traffic stops, ticket and report writing, court appearances, and the like. God forbid anything more serious, like a robbery or a murder, should happen. When she and Kat had worked together, their beat was the downtown district. They had worked mostly petty crimes, which ranged from the occasional burglary to high school pranks and shoplifting.

Las Flores was ethnically mixed, mirroring Northern California’s Bay Area and wine country towns, and without much crime. The outskirts and rural areas were populated by farmers, ranchers, and young, upwardly mobile urbanites who favored family-friendly businesses and all things organic. Like any other town in America, Las Flores had its share of hotheads, rednecks, gangbangers, and retirees. But the vast majority of folks were decent and hardworking. Abby knew that the largest number of traffic tickets went mainly to nonresidents of Las Flores who used Main Street as a shortcut from the cities in the valley to the beach towns on the other side of the coastal mountains. But with a state prison only twenty-five miles to the north of town, just outside the county, Las Flores also got its share of shady characters passing through—convicted felons, parolees, and gang members, who frequented the local watering hole, the Black Witch Bar. Anything could happen on any day, but especially over the weekends, when out-of-towners cruised through.

Abby and Kat had witnessed plenty of public drunkenness and brawls at the bar, a favorite of bikers, who frequently stopped in for one last cool drink after a long day of riding in the mountains or visiting wineries. The bar and the dead chef’s pastry shop shared space in the same building that also housed Cineflicks, the local theater. Occasionally, the business owners along Main Street would complain of the stench of urine, sure that the culprits were bar patrons. Having worked the streets for years, Abby had seen many crimes and criminals during her tenure in the downtown, but homicides—those were few and far between in Las Flores.

Abby sighed, “What about the county sheriff? Couldn’t Chief Bob Allen request some extra officers from him?”

Kat shot an incredulous look at her. “Are you kidding? Chief Bob Allen threatened to withhold our uniform-cleaning allowance to reduce departmental spending. That is, until the comptroller told him he couldn’t do that. Ask for outside help? No way.”