A Beeline to Murder

“Watching reruns on The Food Channel with a friend. We didn’t get out of bed until lunchtime.” Etienne glared at her and then pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “There. Name. Photo. Number. Now, can I go back to work?”


Abby jotted the info on her notepad. Looking up at last, she said as a parting shot, “Listen up. Drugs. Blackmail. You might want to come clean with the cops, or you’ll be playing patty-cake behind bars, Mr. Stephen B. Flanders, aka Chef Etienne.” She spun around and swiftly walked back to the fenced-in enclosure.

Philippe was on his feet, enthusiastically cheering the actors along with the rest of the crowd.

“You look like you are enjoying it,” she said.

Nodding, he said, “You missed the opening.”

“Oh, if you only knew how many times I’ve sat through that.”

“Find out anything from Etienne?” Apparently, Philippe was so eager to learn about any new development, he took hold of Abby’s elbow and guided her toward the exit.

“Perhaps,” Abby said as they walked to a quieter part of the park. “He’s changed his story again, but my gut tells me he didn’t take your brother’s life.” She caught a whiff of something, which reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Oh my! Do you smell that? Butter, parmesan cheese . . . barbecued oysters! Are you hungry?”

“Un peu.”

“Only a little? I’m famished. Let’s grab a glass of vino and let our noses lead us to those oysters.”

Philippe’s mood seemed to have lightened, and they strolled like young lovers past tents housing offerings from local wineries. As they walked, they spotted many varietals and blends. While some wineries provided engraved commemorative glasses, others poured their vino into plastic stemware. Abby thought about stopping at the pouring station for High Ridge Wines, but seeing the long line of park visitors there, she opted to walk on to view Casa Lennahan’s offerings.

“Shall we taste their cabernet?” she asked Philippe.

“Avec plaisir.” Philippe stepped into the short line at the pouring table and soon returned with two Casa Lennahan etched glasses filled with a dark ruby liquid.

Abby touched her glass lightly to Philippe’s and sipped. Licking her lips, she pretended to be a master sommelier. “Black fruit, olive, a hint of anise . . . smidgen of mineral, and a touch of oak. Lovely.”

Philippe sniffed the wine twice, once with his mouth slightly open to allow the vapors to cross his palate, and then took a real sip, which he held in his mouth before finally swallowing. “For me,” he said, “not so good. Too astringent. Not enough oak. Just average.”

“But it’s aged for mellowness. It says so there on the sign.”

“Average wine aged remains average. It is simply older.” Philippe sniffed the wine again, putting his nose very close to the rim of the glass.

Abby took another sip. “Well, I kind of like it, although I confess I really don’t know much about wine. But isn’t it true that California wines have been giving French wines stiff competition and even winning some major awards for quite a long time now?”

Philippe sipped, swished the liquid around in his mouth, swallowed, and shook his head. “No, this is really not good. West of Toulon, my father’s brother owns a small farm. The soil, it is limestone. It is where the Mourvèdre grapes thrive. From those grapes, he makes a wine that is magnifique. It is corked and aged for ten years. You and I, Abby, we must go to Toulon and taste that wine together.”

Abby looked at him, batted her eyes, and smiled. “And where in Canada is Toulon?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Toulon, it is not in Canada. It is in southeastern France. In Provence, to be exact,” he said with a quick wink.

Oh, like it’s just down the road and round the bend. Abby lifted her glass and nodded.