A Beeline to Murder

Giggling, Abby answered the incoming call.

“What’s up, Kat?” Abby raised her wineglass and held it poised in position for a sip.

“News flash, girlfriend. Our illustrious leader has been in an accident.”

“Oh, no! Chief Bob Allen?” Abby asked. Gone were the giggles. Her expression grew serious. The chief had a tendency to be a bit of a hypochondriac, complaining about every ache, sniffle, or hangnail to anyone within earshot. Everyone knew that. Nobody cared. And to complain about a wart was just plain silly, given the serious nature of police work. But an accident, that was different. Rising from the couch, Abby asked, “Is he okay?”

“Oh, good Lord, yes.” Kat chuckled. “He has been calling Nettie every five minutes from his hospital bed, with mostly complaints, a few orders. Ever the micromanager, he insisted on a police scanner at his bedside. Just can’t let go, even when it’s in his best interest.”

“How did the accident happen?” Abby asked, giving Philippe a thumbs-up sign to indicate that the chief was okay.

“You could say he got picked off at the pass by a fire truck.” Kat’s tone suggested she was into telling the story her way.

“Be serious.”

“I am. Dispatch got word of a fender bender up at Turkey Pass. Then a grass fire broke out. Oh, the chief was all over that. Jumped into his Tahoe to head up there. Never one to miss a photo op, and you know reporters listen to our scanners. He inched his car around some rubberneckers who had pulled off the road, but fire engine three—the pumper—came flying along. While trying to pass, the pumper hit the rear corner of Chief Bob Allen’s SUV. Over he went—twice—before coming to a halt in a ditch.”

“Break any bones?”

“One . . . a small one. Don’t laugh. His tailbone.”

“Ooh, not good.”

“Now we can legitimately use the words ‘chief’ and ‘pain in the ass’ in the same sentence.” Kat’s giggle erupted into laughter. “It’s how we all see him, anyway.” Her pitch rose several degrees as she talked through her laughter. “Can you imagine the one-liners going around the department?”

Abby tightened her lips over her teeth, trying not to laugh.

Philippe stared at her, a bemused expression on his face.

Kat went on. “He has to sit on a doughnut for six months.”

Abby doubled over in peals of laughter.

Watching her lose control, a smiling Philippe shook his head, got up, and rescued the wineglass from her.

Abby dropped onto the couch, in stitches. When she could talk again, she panted, “I’ll bet he can’t even see the irony in being such a pain in the butt . . . with all that pain in his butt.”

“Doubt it. Pushed out of a photo op by our engine three pumper, that’s gotta be a first,” Kat replied drolly. And they both lost it again. Gasping, Kat said, “That, my friend, is karma.”

“We shouldn’t be laughing at the poor guy. I mean, a broken bone.”

“Oh, you can bet he’ll be whining ad nauseum to anybody who’ll listen for the next year or two. Anyway, gotta go. Cruiser is coming out.”

“Where are you?”

“Down at the car wash. Chief says we got to have the cruiser cleaned, tank filled, and our shotguns and Tasers locked in the armory every night at the end of shift. Come on. Now, don’t tell me you’ve been gone so long, you don’t remember all his rules?”

“How could I forget?” Abby got up and walked over to the window, opened the blinds, and peeked out at the garden in the courtyard. “Hey, if you aren’t working tomorrow afternoon, Kat, join us for Jean-Louis’s graveside service . . . around four o’clock . . . Church of the Pines, off the road at the summit.”