A Beeline to Murder

His brow arched dismissively. “How charming.”


“And get this,” Abby continued. “You can buy a little card for ten movies and go straight inside without waiting in line. They just punch one hole for each film you see. You can buy another card for popcorn and soda. Buy five and get the sixth free. Cool, huh?”

“What can I say, Abby? Très provincial.”

Fine. We won’t talk. Abby studied the lobby layout. Philippe began to pace. She stole a look at him. He seemed agitated, like he was stewing. Well, she couldn’t blame him. The death of a loved one under questionable circumstances was a worrisome affair.

Ms. Gonzales reappeared with her manager. “This is Zachary Peale,” she announced before walking behind the concession counter.

Abby sized up Zach. She estimated him to be around six feet tall, maybe 150 pounds, if that. He could be in his late twenties. His stringy blond hair had been pulled into a ponytail. He wore cargo khakis, a tan Hawaiian-print shirt, and black Vans, worn thin over the small toe area. Probably needs a wider size, Abby reckoned.

She addressed him in her most courteous voice. “Is there some place private where we can talk?”

“Not really,” Zach replied. “Here or outside.”

Abby glanced back at the young woman. She was setting up another round of corn in the popper.

“Okay. Would you mind answering a few questions?” Abby asked, pulling a pen from her cream-colored shirt pocket and a notepad from her jeans pocket.

“Well, I’m really not supposed to leave the projection booth. It’ll have to be quick.” Gesturing toward the young woman, he said, “Just me and her here. We’re a person short.”

“Duly noted.” Abby locked eyes with him. “Did you know Jean-Louis Bonheur?”

“Cake boy?”

Abby glanced at Philippe, who looked tense, as though he felt outraged for Jean-Louis and perhaps for himself, as a silent witness to a conversation that so dishonored his dead brother.

“Yeah, I met him a couple of times,” Zach said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the corn popping.

“What was the occasion?”

“I smoke. He smokes. There’s a Dumpster out back. I take the recyclables and trash out. He takes the recyclables and trash out. So I’ve seen him.”

“We believe his death was a homicide. You know anything about that?”

“Not really, except for people gossiping while they wait in line.”

“What have you heard?”

“Good baker, but . . .” Zach stroked his Genghis Khan facial hair, as if doing so would power up his memory.

“But . . . what?”

“Different kind of dude from most.”

“How so?”

“Who listens to opera when you’ve got rock, hip-hop, blues, and bottleneck slide? He did crazy stuff.”

“Like what?”

“He put out water and dog biscuits for pooches. Gave coffee and pastries to the homeless. My boss said that if anyone was responsible for the wrong kind of people hanging around, it was the puff pastry next door.”

Abby glanced over at Philippe and quickly assessed his emotional response. What she saw concerned her. Philippe had folded his arms across his chest, as if defensively closing himself off to everything. Abby now regretted breaking her own rule about letting clients tag along. Philippe was stewing. She could only hope he would hold it together, because she had to press on.

“We’ve learned that Chef Jean-Louis and Willie Dobbs, your boss, argued prior to the chef’s death. Do you know anything about that confrontation?”

“Yeah, it was all about the lease renewal. My boss said he wouldn’t have signed that lease if he’d known the guy was . . . that way. The real estate agents set it all up, but once Dobbs realized to whom he’d rented the unit, he immediately regretted it. He wanted the chef gone. No way was he going to renew that lease.”

“Did you hear him say that?”