A Beeline to Murder

Dobbs blanched. He glared at her in silence.

Abby pressed on. “Sir, on the morning—early morning— of the day your tenant Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur died, where were you between four and six o’clock in the morning?”

“What are you getting at? You think I killed that fairy?”

“Did you?”

“Wanted to. Didn’t.”

“Your wife is your alibi, according to what you voluntarily told the police. Is that still your statement?”

“What’s your point?”

“Just that I noticed also on the report, your wife mentioned your snoring and sleep apnea.”

“So?”

“She said sometimes you use a CPAP machine, in case during sleep you forget to breathe. So you don’t sleep in the same room as your wife, do you? I mean, that noise—the machine, your snoring, and all. Your wife cannot say for certain that you were actually home at the hour the chef died, can she?”

Abby watched as little red dots emerged and patterned his forehead and cheeks. Bristling, he lumbered upward, pointed to the door, and said in an icy tone, “You can direct any further questions to my lawyer. Get out.”

Abby stood up, put her pen and pad away, and walked out. She heard the door slam behind her. A picture went askew on the wall of the reception area.

Suppose that went as expected. Abby checked the time on her watch and picked up the pace back to Maisey’s. Dobbs, as everyone knew, lived in a sprawling gated ranch house on a road that meandered around the other side of the foothills to the east and south of Lucas Crawford’s ranch. Maybe there was an alarm system, a gate watchman, or cell phone records she could check to help her nail down Dobbs’s alibi. But not now. It was on to the jewelry store by way of Maisey’s.

Swinging open wide the pie shop door, Abby spotted Philippe at the counter, hunched over a half-eaten piece of low-country bourbon pecan pie, the house specialty.

“Sit yourself down right there, darlin’, next to your handsome friend,” Maisey called out in a silky alto voice. “I’ll just fetch the pot.”

“Oh, thanks, no, Maisey. We’ve got to get to the jewelry store.”

“Are you sure?” Maisey asked.

Abby raised her wrist in front of Philippe and tapped her watch.

“Well, of course you are,” Maisey said. “Shopping for something special?” The genteel woman from South Carolina wiped her hands on her apron, waiting for a reply, but Abby pressed her finger and thumb together and traced a line across her lips, indicating they would remain sealed.

“I ain’t being nosy. It’s just been a while since you been by, Abby. I want to hear what’s going on with you and your new life out there on the farmette. We got some catching up to do.”

“Yes, but another time, Maisey. We’re on a mission and a tight schedule. I’ll tell you about it the next time I come in for pie.”

“Ooh, sounds good.” Maisey flashed a wide grin. “So, off with you two.”

After slipping her arm through the crook of Philippe’s elbow, Abby gave a gentle tug and felt Philippe resist as he scarfed down one more bite. He stood, wiped his mouth, and stretched out his hand to grasp Maisey’s. Philippe pulled her large, long fingers to his lips. “The pie, Madame Maisey . . . it is the best I have ever eaten.”

Abby stood silent. Boy, somebody’s mood has changed.

“How about a box? I can wrap it for you,” Maisey offered.

“No, no, merci. We will return, won’t we, Abby?” Philippe announced, grinning broadly.

“Yes, we must.” Abby winked at Maisey and led Philippe from the pie shop.

“Didn’t I tell you pie would help?”





Maisey’s Low-Country Bourbon Pecan Pie





Ingredients: 4 tablespoons (? stick) unsalted butter

1 cup packed brown sugar

3 large eggs, beaten

? cup dark corn syrup

3 tablespoons bourbon (for that extra brown sugar, caramel, and vanilla flavor)

? teaspoon salt

? cups toasted whole pecans, plus 1 cup, coarsely chopped

One unbaked 9-inch pie crust (either your own recipe or store-bought)



Directions: