A Beeline to Murder

Before dressing, Abby brushed pearlescent finishing powder and a softly colored peach blush on her face, then dabbed a bit of gloss on her lips. She chose a conservative black skimmer dress and a black summer sweater with white piping at mid-elbow, a black headband, and black flats—simple attire, but appropriate for pinning down Dobbs’s alibi and then calling on the priest and the funeral director.

A half hour later, she wheeled the Jeep in front of the Dobbses’ electric wrought-iron gate with the ostentatious D emblem. Kat’s silver Datsun roadster, restored with a new engine, was parked along the stone wall that was part of the guardhouse. The guard was standing outside and was already talking with Kat, who looked like a teenager in her blue-green print sundress, which hit her at mid-thigh, exposing lean, muscled legs from daily runs.

Seeing Abby drive in, Kat hurried over to greet her. Running her fingers through her blond tresses, which had been cut in an edgy style and moussed, Kat said, “You dressed up for a knock and talk?”

“No, I dressed for a visit to check out a cemetery with Philippe.”

“Oh, gotcha,” Kat said. “Well, you look . . . solemn.” She changed the subject. “Dobbs isn’t here. I’ve already explained to the guard that this is an informal investigation. I asked for a little of his time and promised him we would be brief.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks,” Abby said. She followed Kat to meet the six-foot uniformed security guard, who was cleanly shaven and wore his brown hair in a crew cut. He stood as straight as a hoe handle.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?” the guard asked politely.

“Well, first of all, thank you for your time.” Abby handed him her card. “Five days ago, between three and six in the morning, Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur died in his pastry shop. He and your boss, according to some eyewitnesses, argued prior to the chef’s death. Do you know where your boss, Mr. Dobbs, was during those early morning hours?”

The guard studied her card, looked up, and replied, “Most likely, he was asleep up at the big house.” He walked into the guardhouse and slipped her card into a drawer.

“Is there any way to prove it?” Abby asked, motioning Kat to follow her and the guard into the narrow room equipped with surveillance monitors.

The guard sighed. “Not sure. I don’t get here most mornings until seven, and I go home around seven at night. But Mr. Dobbs, when not away on business, is always here at night. He prides himself on being a real family-type man.”

“Is there a night guard on duty?” asked Abby.

“No, ma’am. For night security, we rely on the gate and house alarms and surveillance equipment.”

“So, are there cameras inside the house?”

“Yes, ma’am. Inside and out.”

“In the vicinity of the owners’ bedrooms?”

“Yes . . . at each end of the hallway.”

“Any chance,” Abby asked hopefully, “that I could take a look at what your surveillance shows? I’d like to verify where Dobbs was when the chef died.”

“No, ma’am, I couldn’t let you do that. It’s against the rules.”

Abby didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with the guard, but how to tactfully persuade him?

“What if you looked the other way?” Abby asked. “Or what if you stepped outside to smoke? I mean, with your back to me, how you could be expected to know what I could or could not see?”

“I don’t smoke, ma’am. It’s a nasty habit that shortens your life. As for what you want to see from the surveillance, it’s irrelevant, since I can’t show it to you without my boss’s permission. And I have to log in your visit here. He pays me to keep track of who has been on the premises.”

“Well, it’s your boss that concerns me. I want to clear him as a suspect in this murder investigation. I bet he would appreciate your help in doing that.”

“He might. But Mr. Dobbs has never mentioned anything about being a suspect. As far as I know, the police haven’t come calling, so unless one of you has a badge, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”