A Beeline to Murder

Smiling, he strolled off and picked his way through the crowd to the Shakespeare in the Park fund-raiser table.

Abby gazed at the swaying branches of the dark pines and oaks, illuminated by the peach-colored glow of sunset. For a moment, she imagined sipping wine with Philippe under a Mediterranean sky while the sea breeze tousled her hair and that light, so beloved by the Impressionists, cast its magic spell. Absorbed in her reverie, she nearly missed seeing Eva Lennahan’s signature white-blond hair as the councilwoman strode past. With her spell broken, Abby hurried to Philippe’s side and pressed her glass into his hand. Catching his questioning look, she jerked her head toward the politician and then fished in her pocket for a business card.

Philippe seemed to be getting used to her sudden actions. He nodded and stepped to the side of the walkway.

When the councilwoman stopped to sign a program for one of her supporters, Abby interjected herself. “Excuse me, Councilwoman. I’m Abigail Mackenzie. This is Philippe Bonheur,” she said, gesturing to Philippe and pressing her business card into Eva Lennahan’s hand. “Such a tragedy . . . the death of Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur, isn’t it? You knew him, didn’t you?”

The councilwoman slipped Abby’s card into the left waist pocket of her cream-colored suit. Her gaze switched quickly from Abby to Philippe. She apparently liked what she saw and flashed an engaging smile, suggesting interest, which he returned. Ignoring Abby’s question, she said, “I see you’ve got our winery’s commemorative glasses.... Philippe, right? Enjoying our wine?”

Philippe smiled and raised the two glasses, but said nothing.

“It defies expectations,” Abby said. Before the councilwoman could so much as bat another fake eyelash at Philippe, Abby continued. “The chef defied expectations, too, didn’t he? I mean, in a good way, and you must have known that. Didn’t I read that you used him exclusively to cater desserts for your political fund-raisers?”

Eva Lennahan curled the long fuchsia nail of her forefinger against her thumb and flicked an imaginary speck from her suit lapel. “Yes, a rising star, that chef . . . sadly no more.” She again made eye contact with Philippe. “My condolences.”

Abby pressed on. “Didn’t I also read that you are using the Baker’s Dozen for catering now?”

“Oh . . . did that bit of news make the paper? I didn’t know. What section?”

“Business,” Abby replied.

Eva Lennahan sighed contentedly. “Well, of course, everyone knows I support local businesses, and the sudden demise of Chef Bonheur left me in such a lurch.” She cast a come-hither look at Philippe. “The people around me, well, I require them to be not only good at what they do, but also trustworthy and dependable.... It’s an election year, for goodness’ sake. One can’t be too careful.”

Abby wasted no time in getting to the heart of her line of questioning. “You signed a contract with the Baker’s Dozen one week before Jean-Louis died . . . almost as if you had a sixth sense about his fate.”

Eva Lennahan raised a perfectly plucked brow. “Good grief. Reporters do make the silliest linkages.”

Abby eyed her more closely. “Did something happen to make you want to stop working with him?”

Eva’s mouth molded itself into a syrupy smile. “Which media did you say you work for?”

“Oh, I’m not a journalist,” Abby replied.