A Beeline to Murder

“Non. Must be a friend of Jean-Louis,” Philippe suggested.

“Oh, I’d wager he was more than a friend. Who puts a friend’s picture in such a romantic frame and keeps it at the bedside?” She pulled the wax paper up over her flatbread wrap to protect it and handed it to Philippe. Then she carefully removed the picture from its frame and turned it over. On the back, in cursive, was written, Love, J.

Philippe pointed to the writing. “Jean-Louis never signed with a single J. It was always J-L. Nor did he ever mention a friend . . . or, for that matter, a lover whose name began with J.” Where Abby had pulled the wax paper up over the wrap, Philippe peeled it back down again, exposing a chunk of chicken.

Abby studied the photo. “This man is very attractive, wouldn’t you say? His hair is crisply cut just above his shirt collar, like yours, only a little longer. Tailored black suit. White shirt with cuff links, no exposed buttons.”

Philippe observed, “The red silk pocket square and the tie add just the right amount of color.”

“So, he’s a power dresser. What else does this picture tell you?”

Philippe peered closely at the image. “The background tells me nothing. Probably it is the sort of background screen a professional photographer uses. He looks posed. This is not a candid image. It is not art.”

“Might it be a publicity photo?” Abby asked. “That’s what it looks like to me.”

“For a company profile or a charity event . . . That would make sense,” Philippe said. He turned his attention to the wrap he was holding and slowly lifted it to his lips, as if to take a bite.

“Hey, that’s mine.” Abby hurriedly laid the photo and the frame on the bed and reached for the wrap.

Philippe, grinning, lifted it out of her reach. “Ah, but you gave it to me, n’est-ce pas?”

“You have your own. In the kitchen.”

“Yes, but we are in the bedroom, and now I no longer wish to return to the kitchen.” His expression remained mischievous as he watched her reaction.

Abby’s eyes narrowed, and a devilish look came into them. “Philippe. You are messing with me!”

“Is it that obvious?” he asked with a laugh, handing Abby the wrap. “Your wine, mademoiselle, has breathed enough. The table, it is set. We need only the stimulating conversation. Shall I regale you with stories of my youthful indiscretions?”

Abby cocked her head to one side. Lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” She followed him to the kitchen, aware of her heartbeat quickening. What was it about this man that made her feel like a piece of malleable putty whenever he turned on that seductive charm? He could be so disarming and yet, at other times, tortured, distant, and confused.

Although tempted to submit to the attraction, Abby always stuck to her ethical high ground. There were questions to be answered. He had paid her to ferret out the truth. She had the habit of always asking herself the worst-case scenario for what-ifs. What if she succumbed to the attraction and ended up having an affair with Philippe? If things did not work out between them, the worst-case scenario would not be two broken hearts; the worst-case scenario would be that a tangled personal relationship would alter Abby’s perception of the truth. Still, she reasoned that drinking a glass of wine while listening to Philippe’s stories might be just the thing to relieve the pressure of the past few days. And Philippe, for sure, needed a break.

Philippe loosened his tie and removed his jacket as soon as they finished eating. They talked easily as they cleaned up the kitchen and threw away the garbage. Leaning against the sink, he removed his cigarettes and a lighter from his pants pocket and handed them to her.

“I’ve decided to quit. You’re a good influence,” he said, grinning broadly.

Abby tried to sound nonchalant, placing the items on the table. “Was it something I said?”

He shot her an enigmatic look. “Not exactly.”