A Beeline to Murder

Carefully, Abby descended the ladder with the bee box, then positioned it on the ground so that its front opening faced the limb. That way, the bees still flying around the limb, where they apparently still detected the queen bee’s pheromones that had communicated the order to swarm, could find their way into their new home.

When, by her estimate, twenty minutes had passed, Abby approached the bee-filled hive and knelt to inspect it. Scout bees were doing the waggle dance around the edges, as if to say, “Calling all bees in our swarm. This is our new home.” Abby picked up the hive lid and, after tilting it against the side of the box, painstakingly slid it across the top to avoid crushing any insects. She would leave the hive until after dark before moving it into the bee apiary.

There was no mistaking the sound of a vehicle crunching over the driveway gravel. A horn sounded. Philippe. Abby hiked the trouser legs of her beekeeper suit to her ankles to avoid stumbling and dashed to open the gate. She stared in astonishment.

Lucas Crawford eased out of the cab of his old red pickup and strolled toward Abby. He wore a blue-and white-striped cotton shirt, straight-leg denim jeans, and scuffed leather boots.

“Afternoon, Abby.”

“Lucas.”

“Am I interrupting your work?” He pushed the stained palm-leaf straw cowboy hat back a thumb’s length.

“Not at all.” Abby tried to sound cool, in spite of the fact that she felt like she was going to have sunstroke inside the beekeeper’s suit, and the fact that the butterflies in her stomach were making her feel even more uncomfortable at his unexpected visit. “I was just about to peel off this suit. It’s an oven in here.”

Lucas looked at everything but her.

Abby pinched the fingers of her kidskin gloves and pulled off one and then the other as she waited for him to say something. Reaching behind her neck, she felt for the zipper that secured the net-covered topee. With a tug, the zipper advanced and then stopped, meeting resistance.

“Well, this is embarrassing.” Abby struggled to move the zipper. “I think it’s caught. Oh, dang. I’m trapped in here. Lucas, could you . . . ?”

“Sure,” he drawled.

She turned her back and used her finger to point to the problem. Lucas put his hands against her neck. She felt him tugging, pulling on the net, causing her topee to shift sideways on her head.

“If I pull too hard, it might make a hole a bee could get through, but if I don’t, I might not be able to free this net from the zipper track.”

“That’s okay, Lucas. I can fix the hole.”

As his fingers patiently worked the zipper, Abby thought about how any other man might have just yanked the zipper, using brute force in a knee-jerk reaction to her being trapped. She liked the way Lucas weighed the outcome and took his time. Slow hand, gentle touch. Patience. Such lovely qualities in a man.

Lucas finally slid the zipper around past her chin and guided her back around to face him before lifting the hat off her head. “Fixed. No damage.”

“And I can breathe again.” Abby shook loose her hair and ran her fingers through the reddish-gold mass to smooth it. “Much better.” Heaving a sigh of relief, she looked up. Her eyes met his gaze. “Thank you, Lucas.” She unzipped the suit, let it fall to the ground, and stepped out of it.

He nodded.

“What brings you here?” Abby asked, pulling the hem of her blouse outward from her damp skin, to which it was stuck, and flapping it a bit to circulate some air.

Lucas stood tall and unassuming. His wide shoulders, long legs, and calloused hands gave him the appearance of being all rancher, but his eyes—light brown, the color of sunlit creek water—were the eyes of a poet. He now gazed at her. Abby hoped her own eyes weren’t revealing the intense feelings that his presence called forth in her . . . feelings Abby couldn’t understand. It was as if she and Lucas shared some ancient connection that defied any kind of logical explanation.

“Passing by. Thought I’d stop.”

“Oh?” Abby liked his voice—deep, resonant, and gentle, like a country singer’s.

“You got chickens.” His tone was matter of fact.

Abby arched a brow. “Yeah . . . and?”