A Beeline to Murder

“Yeah, I heard him call the chef a Castro clone and say he wished he could string him up from one of those ceiling hooks that the bike shop owners left there when they moved out.”


Philippe dropped his arms and hastily searched his pockets. He retrieved his cigarette case, removed a cigarette from it, and began to tap it frantically against the case.

“No smoking allowed,” Zach said.

Philippe’s jaw flexed. He stared hard at Zach before putting the cigarette and the case back in his pocket.

Abby directed another question to Zach. “Hearing your boss make derogatory comments about the chef, what did you do?”

“Kept my mouth shut. I need this job. And, if I stay all summer, Mr. Dobbs will loan me the money for film school.”

“Do you know where Mr. Dobbs was around five a.m. on the day the chef died?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“Do you have any idea where he is now?” Abby asked.

“I don’t know.... His office . . . maybe?”

“Would that be the land development office in the old bank building?”

Zach nodded.

“Now think carefully.... On the day of the chef’s death, when did the last movie let out?”

“Around two o’clock in the morning. We had a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

Abby knew the film but didn’t think much of it, but perhaps it had relevance to the chef’s death. “Do you know this movie, Philippe?”

He stood with his hands in his pants pockets, shaking his head.

Abby explained. “I guess you could call it a satire on horror. Fans dress up like ghouls and vampires and participate in the action.”

“Dr. Frank N. Furter.” Zach said the name, taking care to enunciate it clearly. “He’s the doctor character, a transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania. We sell a lot of tickets on Halloween for that film.”

“Oh yeah?” Abby reckoned the young man’s sudden animation was the result of his passion for films.

“My boss doesn’t like that movie,” Zach explained, “but it brings the theater a wad of cash. The film’s darkness is one of the reasons why a lot of disenfranchised teens and young adults relate to it.”

Philippe had been staring at his Giorgio Brutini lace-up loafers. He shot a piercing look at Abby.

Abby didn’t like the look. One of the common emotions of grief was anger. She’d seen retaliatory anger on the streets. Cornered or not, angry men without appropriate outlets for defusing their anger could attack without warning. She worried that Philippe’s temper might have reached a tipping point. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Philippe lunged at Zach, grabbing a wad of the young man’s shirt in his fist.

“Dobbs murdered Jean-Louis, didn’t he? You helped him!”

Abby pushed herself between them. “Stop it!”

“Murder?” Zach’s face blanched. “No—”

“Oui, because Jean-Louis was different. And yet you show movies that are about vampires and transsexuals. You and Dobbs are hypocrites.” Philippe’s hand slapped Zach’s shoulder, causing the young man to stumble backward.

Abby lunged between them, planted her feet firmly on the floor, and pushed her backside against Philippe. He was forced to step backward. Abby quickly turned and faced him.

“Philippe, this is not helping.”

Zach said, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show is fiction—it’s satire. The audience pretends to be something they aren’t. The chef, however, didn’t pretend to be different. He was different.”

Abby grasped Philippe’s arm. “Don’t respond to that, Philippe.”

Zach looked wide-eyed at Abby. “Dobbs is not a killer. I am not a killer. I have to get back to work.”

Abby reached out to shake Zach’s hand, but he turned to walk back to the projection room. Following him to the stairwell, safely away from Philippe, Abby said, “Sorry about that, Zach. Mr. Bonheur is still grieving the loss of his brother. We thank you for your time.”