A Beeline to Murder

Abby explained, “Philippe’s brother was the chef down the street who recently passed away.”


“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Lidia’s tissue-thin, blue-veined hands inched upward to the diamond-studded cameo at her neck. After years of visiting the store, Abby had learned why the old lady wore that cameo every day, regardless of her attire. The piece had belonged to Lidia’s maternal great-aunt, the family’s matriarch. As a preadolescent girl whose mother had already passed, Lidia had been fascinated by the carved face of the jewelry and had often touched it while sitting embraced by her great-aunt’s arms. The irony, Lidia had pointed out to Abby, was that surrounded as she was in the shop by exquisite jewels, the only piece she truly cared about was that cameo. Lidia believed it carried the same soothing vibration that her great-aunt had possessed.

Abby discounted the idea that a piece of jewelry could manifest a vibe but didn’t doubt the sentimental connection Lidia felt to the piece. But Abby hadn’t come to discuss Australian opals or Italian cameos. She wanted Lidia’s expert opinion about the earring she had found in the pastry shop, near the body.

“Philippe and I are looking into the circumstances of his brother’s death. You knew Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur, didn’t you, Lidia?”

“No, I don’t think we ever met. Bonheur, that’s French, isn’t it?”

Philippe’s expression warmed at the interest Lidia expressed in his family name. “We’re French Canadians.”

Before the conversation could veer off too much into the origins of names, Abby asked, “Is there any chance your husband might have known Philippe’s brother?”

“Not really, dear. When we are not here in the shop, Oliver and I keep pretty much to ourselves. Well, except for my quilting club on Tuesday evenings. And, of course, there’s Oliver’s investment group, which meets the last Wednesday of the month, after their power breakfast at the pancake house.”

Abby smiled and exchanged a quick look with Philippe. She pulled the earring from the police evidence envelope. “What about this? Have you seen this earring before?”

Lidia took the earring and turned it in every direction to scrutinize it.

“I’m not sure.... Something about it seems familiar.” She reached for the nearby velvet-covered board on the glass countertop and picked up her loupe. Holding the earring just above the black fabric, she peered through the loupe. “The facets are sharp, not rolled. The girdle is frosty. Oh, dear, the stone has a small crack.”

Philippe arched a brow, as if intrigued, and Abby shrugged. “What does all that mean?” she asked.

Putting down the loupe, Lidia gripped the earring post between a long, bony forefinger and thumb. “Meaning, dear, your diamond is real. With the fakes, you don’t get the carbon, cracks, or tiny pinpoints of mineral that Mother Nature includes in her stones.”

“And that . . . uh . . . girdle part?”

“It’s here,” Lidia said. Using the nail of her little finger, she indicated the area of the stone below the crown that rested in the setting. “It’s just another sign that it’s a real diamond.”

“Is there more to tell about it?” Philippe asked.

Lidia picked up the loupe and stared through it at the earring once again. “Might be fourteen-karat white gold, but I would have to do an acid test to be sure. Based on the clarity and the style of the filigree, I would say this is an old European-cut diamond earring dating to the early part of the last century. There’s a fracture in the filigree, but it’s still quite lovely.” She turned the earring around slowly, methodically, peering at it from every direction. Suddenly, she gasped. “Oh, my goodness, I remember something.”

Abby, who had been leaning against the counter and staring at the earring almost as closely as Lidia, looked at Philippe. He had been leaning forward, too, but now stood erect, his eyes shining.