A Beeline to Murder

Abby frowned. “Well, what if I take the crime-scene pictures for you . . . ? I’ve got my camera in the Jeep.”


Kat rubbed an earlobe between her thumb and finger as she weighed Abby’s offer. “You know the rules. I’m supposed to say no. But seeing as how it’s you, I don’t think the chief could get too flipped out.”

“Just trying to help,” Abby said. “I’ve got to deliver a file to the DA’s office by noon and head back to the farmette. If I don’t rescue my bee swarm, they’ll take off for parts unknown. So if you want pictures, speak up, or I’m out of here.”

“Oh, what the heck! Let me grab the crime-scene tape from my cruiser.” Kat turned and walked to the back door.

Following her to the parking lot, Abby opened the door of her Jeep and rummaged through the glove compartment until she located her digital camera. She slammed shut the door and, with camera in hand, said, “Just like old times.”

“Yep,” Kat replied. “Let’s start inside and work our way out. I’ll bag and tag everything on the countertop.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to get some shots of the scene, the body, and close-ups of the ligature mark on his neck.”

“Uh-huh.” Kat’s gaze swept the room, as though she was searching for something, anything that could help her understand what had happened here that had resulted in the death of the town’s award-winning chef. Once the crime-scene tape had been strung, and evidence collected and labeled, Abby pulled the camera from her shirt pocket. “Besides the interior photos and the body, anything else you want me to shoot?”

Kat motioned toward the kitchen’s back door. “In the café, get some shots of the baker’s rack and close-ups of items on the shelves like the recipe binders and that box up there, but don’t remove anything.”

“Okay,” Abby replied.

Kat looked around. “I want images of the blue metal Dumpster between the pastry shop and the theater, a shot of the back door of the pastry shop all the way to the biker bar, and a panorama shot of the back of the building, since those two other businesses share common walls with the pastry shop.”

“You got it. Are you thinking that somebody from the theater or the bar might have had a run-in with our chef?”

“We can’t rule out anything at this point,” Kat said. “I think a Dumpster search for a rope or the apron might be in order. The murderer could have tossed them, unless, of course, the chef hung himself, which I’m not buying.”

Abby walked across the alley and turned to face the building’s back side. She took several shots of the weather-beaten, stucco-covered grand ole lady, which the townsfolk considered a landmark of sorts. Built in the 1930s, it had remained unchanged as businesses emerged and closed while the town evolved into a chic little enclave of stylish shops and restaurants. The old building had endured the October 17, 1989, earthquake in the Bay Area, with only a few horizontal fissures to prove it, but the city engineers had found it stable enough to leave it standing.

Other buildings in town had not been so lucky. Bright red CONDEMNED notices had been tacked or taped to them, indicating they were to be torn down. The replacements, such as the row of small office buildings on the opposite side of the Lemon Lane alleyway behind the pastry shop, provided commercial tenants more functionality, but without any of the charm or character of the older buildings, which reflected the pre–and post–World War II architecture of Las Flores.