A Beeline to Murder

Abby felt the tension dissipate as the priest walked into the back of the church. She quickly pulled her hand from Philippe’s to swivel in the pew. Philippe lifted his head in alertness as he, too, turned to look at the man of the cloth. The priest looked like an elf. He was short, standing maybe five feet, plus an inch or two. He had a head of thick reddish-brown hair and a short cropped beard. He wore slacks and a dark shirt with a cleric’s collar.

“I see you found the way.” The priest smiled and set aside his walking stick to shake their hands warmly, putting them at ease with a genuine friendliness, which Abby hadn’t quite expected. In truth, she hadn’t known what to expect. But her heart felt lighter, for she thought that perhaps this man of God could help Philippe in his darkest hour.

Abby stared at the walking stick, remembering the story her grandfather had told her about the Glastonbury hawthorn tree that supposedly grew from the walking stick that had belonged to Joseph of Arimathea. After Joseph had journeyed to Glastonbury, in England, he’d plunged the walking stick into the ground, where it rooted. He bequeathed the tree to Glastonbury, but the Puritans came along and destroyed it. But leave it to the monks to have taken cuttings and therefore to have ensured the tree’s survival. After hearing that tale as a six-year-old, Abby had stuck every kind of stick into the ground, hoping for roots, but to no avail.

They followed the priest out of the sanctuary and along a stone path up the steep hill in back of his house behind the church. Alongside the path, chaparral, sagebrush, yarrow, and lupine grew in wild abandon. Abby pointed to the top of the hill, where she could see several moss-covered headstones leaning sideways, as if destined to collapse before another century on the mountain had passed.

“If you would follow me,” the priest said, running his finger around his white neck band. His damp face glistened with sweat from the exertion. Beneath bushy brows, his dark eyes shined. “I have a site in mind. Just over here.”

He led them to a sheltered area under the largest live oak that Abby had ever seen. The girth of the trunk seemed in excess of a couple of yards. The lower limbs curled outward, like ancient gnarled arms of a wise old woman welcoming all to take shelter. When Abby heard the nasal yank-yank from the top of the oak, she smiled in recognition of the red-breasted nuthatch. For a moment, she considered how it might have pleased Jean-Louis to have a feathered friend who, too, flitted between America and Canada.

When Abby climbed a few more steps up from the oak and saw the view, she instantly forgot the bird. Her smile widened and her breath caught in her throat. She could hardly get out the words, “Hurry, Philippe. The fog is rolling back in. You can see across every mountain ridge . . . all the way out to the Pacific. Oh, my . . . it feels like we are next door to heaven.”

Philippe picked his way up to her, the wind whipping at his trouser legs and shirtsleeves. When he finally caught up to her, he was out of breath. He stood quietly, closed his eyes, and seemed to be fully present and anchored. Perhaps he wanted to listen to the birdsong and the wailing wind. Finally, he opened his eyes to take in the 180-degree view. Abby gazed with him. In the foreground were blue-green ridges, like waves on the sea, which towered on a north-to-south axis. The ridges were punctuated with plunging, green forested valleys. More ridges jutted upward as one’s gaze moved farther out, before finally resting on a slip of white coastline and, beyond, a gray fog bank that merged with the sky. In the coastal waters near the beach, the shimmering blue sea was dotted with the white triangles of sailboats, their crews apparently sharing an optimism that the sun would hold and the afternoon sailing would be smooth.

A sudden gust tugged at Philippe’s trouser legs, ruffled his curly hair, and nearly knocked him off balance, causing him to reach out to Abby. “Magnifique,” he whispered. Eyes shining, sounding almost joyful, he practically shouted to Abby, to the priest, to anyone within earshot, “C’est magnifique!” He stepped forward, turned his gaze to the sky, and threw his arms out wide. “Brother, do you not love this place?”

“I take it this spot will do?” the priest asked.