A Beeline to Murder

Inside the downtown park, Abby led the way along the paved walkway to the wooden theater set near the gazebo and arboretum. A temporary cyclone fence had been erected to keep out park visitors without tickets. Philippe chose front-row seating and promised to save Abby a seat while she went to get her pastry.

The food court was situated where it usually was, in the stand of old oak trees. Abby spied Etienne working in the Baker’s Dozen tent and watched him awhile before approaching him. He expertly sliced a tall triple-layer white cake with a fruit filling. Using squirt bottles, one raspberry colored and one a dark shade of chocolate, he swiftly created a pattern on each white plastic plate set out on the table before placing slices of cake upon the pattern. He had dressed the part of an expert baker—a toque blanche and a shirt with a double row of snaps, trousers with black-and-white stripes, clogs, and a wide name tag, on which the name Jean-Louis had given him, Etienne, had been written in cursive.

When Abby heard the announcer asking for applause for the festival sponsors before the actors took the stage for act 1, she approached Etienne with her questions about the death of his former employer.

“Like I told the police,” the young chef explained, “I went up to San Francisco for the night. I stayed over at a friend’s place. I didn’t even hear about the death until I got home around noon the next day.”

“Your friend got a name?” Abby asked.

“Wayne Wu. Call him.”

“Well, the police did call him. Wu, your flight attendant friend, says that you come and go and that he didn’t even see you that night, because he was at the airport, waiting to take off from SFO and fly to Denver.”

“Like I said, he lets me use it when I’m in the city . . . North Beach neighborhood. I sent him a text at midnight. I remember hearing the foghorn sound just as I sent it. Check it out.”

“Okay. What did you do after you sent the text?”

Etienne didn’t answer, so Abby pressed on.

“Didn’t you drive back to Las Flores? Weren’t you here in town by five in the morning on the day Jean-Louis died?”

The young chef set aside the bottles of raspberry puree and chocolate and picked up a paper towel. He wiped icing from a serrated knife and set it aside.

“Look, I went to see Jean-Louis that night, around ten. He was working. I asked him for money. He said no. End of story.”

“Why do you need money?”

“Why does anybody need money? It’s not like I was asking for a gift. He owed me. Anyway, I made him an investment offer.”

“What kind of investment?”

Etienne seemed to be thinking through his story as he tossed the paper towel into the nearby trash can and retrieved another from the roll on the table, which he used to wipe his hands.

Abby waited. Still no reply, so she decided to take a different approach.

“Etienne, I’m not working for the police or the county sheriff. I don’t care what nefarious activity you are into. I am only interested in who killed Jean-Louis Bonheur. His family members are devastated and want answers. Talk to me, and I go away. Keep silent, and you are going under a microscope.”

Etienne tossed the paper towel and reached for a long box of plastic wrap. He methodically covered each cake piece on its plate. “Chef fired me and never gave me another cent. An opportunity came along. I took it.”

“Opportunity? What kind of opportunity?”

He looked up and narrowed his eyes. “A plant-based business.”

Abby arched a brow. “Well, I can understand using edible plants and herbs in pastries, but I suspect those are not the kind of plants you mean, are they? I mean, we’re not talking sugar-dusted rose petals or crystallized violets here, are we?”

Etienne stopped what he was doing to stare at her. His tone grew more sarcastic. “You’re not the police. I don’t have to tell you anything.”