A Beeline to Murder

“Pie will help,” Abby told him. “It’s a comfort food. Does wonders for me when I’m in a funk.” She escorted Philippe through the screen door and into the long, narrow confines of Maisey’s, where the tables were small, the space was tight, and the round counter seats were mostly taken by the establishment’s loyal customers, the local Rotary Club members, and seniors to whom Maisey provided late lunch–early bird dinner specials. The seductive scent of freshly brewed coffee and hot apple pie wafted through the establishment. Abby fought the urge to join Philippe. Maybe she’d have a cup and a small piece of pie after she’d met with Dobbs. For now, she’d introduce Philippe and resist the temptation to sit a spell and chat with Maisey.

Maisey, a large, fiercely independent woman who was always dressed in a frilly white apron and who treated her regular customers and out-of-towners alike as family, took a liking to Philippe right away. That meant Philippe would most likely get his coffee and pie free since it was his first time in the shop, and he would also discover Miss Maisey Mack’s incredible storytelling skills. The woman possessed a veritable encyclopedic brain when it came to local history. Assured Philippe would be well cared for, Abby headed off in the direction of the Dobbs Land Development office in the historic bank building.

“Is he expecting you?” The woman inquiring was a statuesque brunette and was wearing a blue summer suit with a matching silk blouse and pearls. She peered at Abby over silver wire-rimmed glasses.

“No.” Abby proffered a business card and waited. She took a brochure from the stack on the reception area table and quickly perused it. The land development company not only helped clients find and purchase land but also handled farms and commercial and residential properties. When a man’s voice addressed her in one of the friendliest tones she’d ever heard, Abby looked up.

“Well, come on in, little lady. Can I offer you some coffee?”

“No thanks.” Abby followed Willie Dobbs into his office and took a seat in the chair reserved for clients.

“What type of land are you looking for?” Dobbs was a heavyset, balding man with puffy cheeks and a rounded chin. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt, forgoing a business tie for a black leather bolo with filigree tips and a large silver eagle clasp.

“I’m not in the market for land, Mr. Dobbs,” Abby said, taking note of the length of the bolo and deciding it was too short to hang anything bigger than a box of bird suet.

“That right? Then what can I do for you?” He dropped into the high-backed red leather chair that dominated his smallish office and his antique letter-writing desk.

Abby removed a pen from her shirt pocket and a notepad from her pants pocket. “I am a private investigator, Mr. Dobbs. I just want to ask a couple of questions about your tenant Jean-Louis Bonheur, recently deceased.”

Dobbs’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his hands over his ample belly, exposing thick fingers, swollen knuckles, and a black and shiny thumbnail.

“I hear he strung himself up.”

“That seems to be the gossip going around. His brother has hired me to look into it. He just wants to be sure that nothing has been overlooked by the police, what with our department being so understaffed and all.”

Dobbs unclenched his hands and leaned forward, drilling Abby with a severe look. “You got five minutes. That’s all the time I intend to give this mess.”

“So you didn’t like him?”

“No, and I told him so.”

“You didn’t want to renew his lease?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Should be obvious! This town is like a small business, and business is always about economics and image. His kind is not the image we want here.”

“When you say ‘we,’ who do you mean?”

“Mayor, town council members, and the good people who make up our chamber of commerce.”

“But isn’t it true that Chef Bonheur’s business was thriving?”

“I don’t believe that for a minute. People lined up to experience the novelty of what he was doing there. There was plenty of talk about that cream puff.”

“The talk I’ve heard is that he was a hard worker, trying to make a go of it,” Abby said in a cool tone. She decided to try to bait Dobbs. “It couldn’t have been easy for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like anywhere else, Las Flores has good people. But some folks will never change, you know, people who are bigoted, like rednecks, racists, misogynists, and homophobic folks. You’re not one of them, are you, Mr. Dobbs?”