A Beeline to Murder

After a beat, Dora shuffled away from the Dumpster and approached the back door of the pastry shop. She picked up the newspaper bundle, dropped it onto her bags, and left the way she had come. Now, why would you want a whole bundle of papers? Are you sharing them? Sleeping on them? Using them for blankets?

I am so going to find out. Abby pulled latex gloves from the box in her glove compartment and put them on. She also grabbed a flashlight. She slid out of the Jeep and walked over to check out the blue Dumpster. Abby used one hand to push aside bags of plastic. Deeper down, she dug through loose flyers, mailers, torn theater tickets, real estate circulars, used drink cups, plastic bottles, and soda cans, and at the bottom, she found newspapers. Plucking them out, she counted fifteen.

With her flashlight, she was able to check the dates and was not surprised when she discovered they all carried the date on which the chef died. So Dora had not taken the papers that day. Why? Newspaper bundles are always cross-tied and knotted with twine. Where’s the twine? That question stuck with Abby as she drove home with the car windows down to help her stay awake. The acrid scent of smoke drifting south on the wind from three wildfires burning in the wine country made falling asleep at the wheel unlikely. Good for her, bad for the guys working the fire line. Once back at the farmette, however, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.





It might have been the restorative sleep, the long shower, or the raspberry tea sweetened with honey that filled her with energy. Or maybe it was just the challenge of a new case, but whatever it was, Abby felt energetic and eager to begin working on the investigation again. It was a good thing, too, because it was nearly time to meet Philippe. While making her tea, she’d caught the weather report—hot and expected to get hotter. The rains were over. Watering by hand was a drag, but it was a necessary task to keep the gardens going during the hot Las Flores summers.

A fierce onshore wind blowing from the northeast had gusted for hours, ripping off all but the most tenacious blossoms from the elm tree that stood at the back side of Abby’s beehives. The sun had not yet reached its zenith, and already the thermometer on the chicken house wall registered eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit. High winds, high temps, and dry conditions would increase the demand for firefighters from outside the region because of recent cutbacks in funding for emergency police and fire services at the local level.

With Sugar inside the cool farmhouse, Abby sat down in the rocking chair on her patio. With one jeans-clad leg sprawled over a chair arm, Abby sipped her tea, thinking about the afternoon agenda with Philippe. Normally, she wouldn’t allow a client to tag along, but he had been so insistent and had promised he would not interfere with her questioning. So, she’d relented.

As she rocked and sipped her tea, she heard an unmistakable high-pitched whine. Bees! The rallying call of takeoff. Another swarm! Abby stood and looked high up over the chicken house. A cloud of circling bees ascended into the elm tree, while a few zipped about in ever-widening circles, as if waiting for the scouts to give them the landing location. You never choose a convenient time for me, do you? She put down her teacup, dashed into the kitchen, grabbed a stainless-steel pan and a wooden spoon, and laid them on the plywood counter. After taking her cell phone from her jeans’ hip pocket, she tapped in Philippe’s number.

“It’s Abby,” she said breathlessly.

“Abby. Are you in the parking lot? I am ready.”

“Sorry, Philippe, but my bees are about to take off. I’ve got to stay here until they land.”

“It is all right. Shall I drive to your place? Farm Hill Road, n’est-ce pas?”