A Beeline to Murder

A tense silence ensued as the guard did a stare down with them. Abby steadied herself against the side of the desk, her gaze sweeping the room as she tried to come up with another approach. Finally, she said to the guard, “I guess this is where I open my purse and flash my badge. Except I don’t have one.”


The guard, who stood with his back to Kat, pivoted stiffly and swept his hand toward the door. Kat reached into her purse and took out her badge. She held her shield on its leather holder in the guard’s face. He looked at it closely.

“So this is police business,” said the guard.

“Well . . . ,” Kat began.

Abby spoke before Kat could characterize the visit as unofficial. “Why else would we be here?”

The guard relaxed. “Why not show me your badge right off?”

A quick smile flitted across Kat’s lips. “Some guys are intimidated by lady cops. But I can see you aren’t one of them.”

The corners of the guard’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Of course not.”

“Well, it’s clear,” Abby noted when they had finished looking through the images, “that the maid has brought a glass of milk or something on a tray to Mr. Dobbs.”

“Maybe he couldn’t sleep,” Kat said and then pointed to the screen. “But check out that smile when he opens that door. Time stamp says four forty-six a.m.”

“Well, dang it, that nails his alibi. When the chef died, Dobbs was with the maid. Dobbs could have just told me as much.” Abby sighed.

“You might say something to the missus,” Kat said.

The guard piped up. “She’s new. Mrs. Dobbs brought her on staff three weeks ago.”

Kat smiled. “I’ll bet she warms the mister’s milk just the way he likes it.”

The guard cleared his throat and, avoiding eye contact with both of them, loosened his tie.

Abby looked at them with amused bafflement. When the guard again gestured toward the door, she followed Kat out of the guardhouse.

Kat said, “You’d think the missus might worry about that pretty little chicklet in the house, visiting hubby’s room before dawn. If I were married,” she said, emphasizing the word were. She paused. “I’d never hire household help that looked better than me in a uniform.” She flashed a flirty smile at the guard.

He cracked a smile, too, but then grew serious. Addressing Abby, he said, “The maid doesn’t leave the room until five forty-five a.m. That suggests they were in there together for about an hour.”

Abby asked, “Is the maid working today?”

The guard shook his head. “Day off.”

“You have my card. Ask her to call me,” Abby said, extending her hand. “Thanks.”

Walking Abby back to the Jeep, Kat asked, “With Dobbs out of the lineup, who else are you looking at?”

“It’s a short list, growing shorter, without prospects. I’ll be checking out the bar’s regulars, like Sweeney and the bartender. I’ve got questions for Dora, since she may have seen something, but you guys didn’t get much from her in the way of information, so I’m not too optimistic. She could have seen something she’s not telling us about.”

Kat scratched her head. “Maybe Chief Bob Allen is right, Philippe is wrong, and it’s a suicide, plain and simple.”

“Well, I don’t agree with that, either,” said Abby. “Etienne verified he was blackmailing the chef. And he started that vicious rumor. And, as you know, in a small town, gossip spreads like wildfire.” Abby sighed heavily. “I’m just going to keep digging. Philippe and I are going through his brother’s apartment later today. Maybe we’ll turn up something there.” Abby unlocked the Jeep. She touched Kat’s arm. “Before I go . . . what can you tell me about Eva Lennahan’s work with prisoners?”

“Not much,” Kat replied. “She’s well respected. I think she heads a nonprofit that videotapes prisoners addressing their families. You know, they talk about their hopes, fears, and dreams, tell stories for their kids, even sing sometimes. The organization gives the tapes to the family. Seems like meaningful work. She has a lot of contacts in and outside of prisons and a huge fan base.”