A Beeline to Murder

“Certainly seems so,” Abby replied, grinning at Philippe’s exuberance.

Philippe reached out and vigorously shook the man’s hand. “Yes, indeed. This is the place.”

The smiling priest fixed his eyes on Abby. “On the phone, you suggested a short graveside service, right?”

Abby sobered and looked to Philippe for a response.

“Oui, très simple.”

The priest nodded. “Very well, then.”

Stealing a final long look out over the vista, Abby felt a sense of accomplishment. This tiny mountain cemetery might not be the right choice for everyone, but it seemed to have pleased Philippe, and therefore, it was perfect, although the headstones and slabs in the sunny areas were losing the battle with sticktight weeds, sweet broom, and wild onion, and those in the shade had moss creeping over them.

“The area could use a little weeding,” Abby opined on the way back.

“Yes, that work is done by our volunteers, but the work parties are only scheduled the last weekend of the month. No worries. I’ll get a parishioner up here today to whack the weeds so it’ll look nice for tomorrow.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Our community up here is small. It’s made up of independent-minded folks who help one another. It’s not easy in the winter, what with the frequent power outages, fallen trees, and washed-out roads. Old folks want the certainties of retirement living, which includes access to medical care, so a lot of them move back into Las Flores.”

The priest gestured toward the path. Leading the way back down, he explained the burial arrangements as he walked.

“You’ll have to sign some papers, Mr. Bonheur. I’ll need a copy of the death certificate. I ask for a donation only for the graveside service. However, your donation is separate from the plot and the fees for the diggers.”

After nearly slipping, the priest stepped off the path, then dragged a tissue across his forehead to sop up beads of perspiration. With a self-deprecating chuckle, he placed a large boot-clad foot forward a little more carefully.

Nearing the bottom end of the path, the priest raised another concern. “Shadyside Funeral Home will transport the body up here, but do you want a closed casket or a viewing at the grave site?”

Abby looked to Philippe for the answer.

Philippe hesitated, chewed his lip, as if measuring the pros and cons. He ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll have open viewing at Shadyside’s chapel, but perhaps for a moment or two, I might like to see his face one last time at the grave.”

“So that’s settled.” The priest mopped his face again. “Shall I contact some of our flock to serve as pallbearers?” The diminutive man of the cloth chuckled as he verbalized his thought. “Barring heavenly intervention, I can’t see another way to get the casket up the incline.”

Abby’s wide-eyed gaze met Philippe’s. “We must have them,” she said.

The priest cleared his throat. “Surely the deceased had friends who would want to bring the body up here.”

“Oh, that’s a problem.” Philippe’s face took on a stricken expression.

Abby replied as diplomatically as she could. “We would welcome volunteers.”

“I’ll make some calls,” the priest said. “We’ll gather at the church at four o’clock tomorrow.”

During the car trip back to town, Philippe sat in silence, hands folded, head only slightly moving in gentle rhythm with the radio music. Abby navigated the switchbacks more slowly on the descent, expecting Philippe to get carsick again, but he seemed kind of peaceful, with no signs of feeling ill.

“In about a minute, Philippe, we’re going to take the exit ramp right down Main Street on the way to Jean-Louis’s apartment. What do you think about posting a notice in the window of the pastry shop?”

“Burial notice?”