A Beeline to Murder

Red wine remains drinkable for decades because the tannins in it act as a natural preservative; however, the wine must be properly bottled and stored.

—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac





Abby removed the flatbread wraps from the paper bag, while Philippe located glasses in the upper cabinet of Jean-Louis’s small galley kitchen. Philippe had insisted on having their meal while sitting at a table, not in the car, a habit of Americans he found barbaric. After removing the fistful of napkins thrown in the bag at the Las Hermanas Healthy Food drive-through, Abby peeled back the wax paper on one of the steaming hot chicken wraps and inhaled the scent of the chipotle chilies, black beans, avocado, sweet corn, and tomatoes stuffed in with the grilled chicken, as if sniffing alone could quell her growling stomach.

Philippe seemed in no hurry to eat, taking an inordinate amount of time to select the perfect wine to pair with the wraps. And even before choosing the wine, he had sought appropriate music, even asking Abby for a suggestion.

She had deadpanned, “You could try a little rap.”

He had frowned.

“Or hip-hop.”

When he apparently didn’t get her humor, she confessed to not liking either style. “Why not surprise me?”

Philippe had fanned through Jean-Louis’s CD collection and had popped into the player one of Maria Callas singing Puccini arias. When they’d first entered the kitchen, Abby had sensed a cold emptiness in the room, despite it being furnished and well stocked. But with the music, Abby felt an almost palpable energy shift.

She hadn’t eaten all day, and for that reason, actually consuming the meal, for her, far outweighed Philippe’s desire for music, wine, and table settings. While Maria sang and Philippe perused his brother’s wine collection, Abby took the fragrant flatbread wrap—which already had her salivating—into Jean-Louis’s bedroom. With a gusto that would have embarrassed her were Philippe or anyone else there to see, Abby bit into the wrap without any concern about contaminating the scene. She felt confident that the police had already removed from the room anything that might have relevance, and, anyway, such items had been returned in the evidence boxes they gave to her and Philippe once the death was ruled a suicide.

Feverishly munching, Abby studied the bedroom, hoping to notice something that would benefit her own investigation. Jean-Louis had painted his room a latte color, with bright white on the wood trim around the windows, on the crown molding, and on the closet doors. On the wall above a black-hued, Mandarin-style altar table—which stretched out long and low opposite the bed—hung a tasteful collection of framed black-and-white prints of some of Albrecht Dürer’s woodcuts. She remembered studying that artist in a high school art class. Ooh, I am liking this room, Jean-Louis. You definitely inherited that art gene. Everything you touched turned golden.

Abby’s gaze move from the art to the bed, which was covered with a white cotton duvet with black piping, large black throw pillows, and smaller red silk ones that looked like giant roses. Next to the bed, on a white country French chest onto which had been stenciled a black paisley design with occasional dabs of red, perhaps to resonate with the silk pillows, stood a mahogany frame containing a photograph of a man with an engaging smile, large brown eyes, and thick, wavy hair. Now, where have I seen you before?

“Philippe, can you come here? I want to show you something,” she called out.

“I am searching for the corkscrew.” Philippe’s answer was punctuated by the banging of drawers as he opened and slammed them closed. “Ah, here it is.”

Abby heard a pop.

Philippe called out, “I found a fabulous French import. My brother had good taste. Not one bottle of American wine.”

When he entered the bedroom, Abby pointed to the picture and asked him, “Do you know this man?”