A Beeline to Murder

“I know that from how much feed and corncob bedding you buy for them.”


Cocking her head askance and giving him a “So what’s up with that?” look, she asked, “Really?”

“Well, not that I . . . Well . . . I checked to see if you might need me to deliver. . . .” He cleared his throat. “I just thought you might . . .”

Abby smiled sweetly, hoping it would ease his awkwardness.

Lucas changed the subject. “I brought you egg cartons and jars for your honey.” He jerked a thumb toward his truck. “I’ll get them.”

Abby folded her bee suit and waited. Lucas Crawford dropping by, bearing gifts . . . and driving his little ole red pickup again . . . Now, what’s that all about?

Lucas strolled back and set a cardboard box on the ground at her feet. Abby counted six egg cartons and three jars with metal lids.

“Nice. I’ll put them to good use.”

“You need anything from my store? I’m headed that way. I could drop it on my way home tonight.”

“Can’t think of a thing, Lucas.” She grinned. “And you already know I’ve got plenty of chicken feed.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged and flashed a quick, disarming smile. An awkward moment passed. A sudden seriousness dampened his expression.

“Is there something else, Lucas?”

He lifted his hat and brushed back a shock of curly brown hair before pulling the hat forward again in a single smooth sweep. His jaw tensed. “Heard you’re looking into the death of the pastry shop baker.”

“Uh-huh.” Abby wondered why it mattered. “Who told you?”

“Dispatcher. I called the cops this morning, after I rode the ridge, checking on the fencing in the woods up there. Stumbled upon a marijuana grow plot.”

“On your land?”

“Yep. Dialed the cops. Took a while, but we took down the field.”

“Any idea who owned the plants?”

“Not a clue. Wondering if maybe you heard something, you being an investigator and all.”

“I’m only doing investigation part-time. My work here on the farmette keeps me pretty busy and to myself.”

“Those grass growers are not going to be happy when they find out their plants are gone.” His brow furrowed. “People like that don’t take kindly to losing their cash crop.”

Abby couldn’t suppress another question. “Who owns the property adjacent to that fence line of yours?”

“Businessman named Dobbs . . . Willie Dobbs.”

“Have you called Dobbs to tell him what you found?”

“No.” Lucas’s angular jaw tensed. “Not too fond of that guy. I’ve been fighting him over a housing development he wants to build next to my ranch—luxury homes. If he prevails, I won’t have a moment of peace, and neither will my cows. Might have to sell, and I don’t want to do that.”

Abby nodded her head in understanding.

His eyes narrowed. “I like it the way it is. Quiet. Smells like wild thyme and chaparral thickets. Stands of old oaks and buckeye trees. Plenty of pastureland for cattle grazing. Nothing bothers, except for coyotes occasionally making a ruckus. It’s pretty peaceful. Know what I mean?”

She smiled.

Letting go a heavy sigh, Lucas said, “Dobbs doesn’t care about our farms and ranches. I’ve heard he’s trying to buy the votes of council members to win against me. I wouldn’t put it past him getting an ex-con or somebody to plant that grass on my property. Cops haul me to jail . . . well, then, I’m out of the way for a while.”

Abby sighed. “Hard to believe. It used to be idyllic here. No crime to speak of in Las Flores, and now a murder and someone starting a marijuana operation on your property . . . like I said, hard to believe.”

Lucas looked straight at her, his light eyes softening, almost conveying tenderness. “It got me thinking . . . you living alone and all.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and studied his boots, as if he felt vulnerable about sharing his thoughts. An awkward beat passed. “Just do me a favor, Abby. Lock your doors.”