A Beeline to Murder

“Yeah, I’ll see if I can get off.”


Abby clicked off the phone and stared into the small manicured garden beyond the apartment window. Light shimmered on the grass. A blue-tile pool looked so refreshing, it was hard to believe no one was using it. Next to the pool a patch of roses and two wooden benches created an inviting place to contemplate the meaning of life and how quickly it could be taken away. A staid white-haired lady sat on one of the benches, reading a paperback, her small poodle on a leash sunning at her side. A man strolled by, pushing a bike, his loose trouser bottoms tucked into his socks. Absent were the sounds of children laughing as they played. Children were not allowed in this quiet adults-only complex on a cul-de-sac, several blocks uphill from the main section of town. This was where Jean-Louis had chosen to live. It made perfect sense for someone who worked nights and slept during the day.

Abby turned away from the window to look for Philippe, and she found him sitting on his brother’s bed, head in hands. Sinking onto the bed beside him, she spoke in a tone that conveyed a settled calmness. “Hey, partner. You okay? What happened?”

Philippe shook his head, heaved an audible sigh. “Jean-Louis and I used to laugh like that. . . .” His voice trailed off.

Abby nodded, ready to listen if he wanted to talk. But he didn’t. She sat with him for a few minutes, looking over at the bookcase. Hardbound classics filled the top shelf. Below, oversize art books occupied the two lower shelves. Cookbooks and two shrinking green jade plants in clay pots and saucers filled the rest of the bookcase. Next to one of the plants, Abby spotted a phone charger.

“He had a terrific sense of humor. It put people at ease. But Jean-Louis, he was quick to anger. I never understood his emotional swings.”

“I know,” Abby said. “I once felt the wrath of his anger.”

After a moment, she got up and unplugged the charger. “But he had friends. How could he not? Shall we call them?” She dangled the charger in front of him. “We have his cell, and now its charger.”

Philippe’s expression brightened. He stood up, walked over to her, and cupped her chin in his hand. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for, Philippe.”

Abby took the charger to the kitchen. She went out to the car and returned with Jean-Louis’s cell phone. For the next two hours, Abby sat with Philippe at the kitchen table, scrolling through Jean-Louis’s phone directory, reading aloud the names and phone numbers while Philippe wrote them down on a piece of paper. Finally, they had compiled a master list from which they could start calling people.

“Those are all the numbers Jean-Louis saved in the various directories,” said Abby. “But there’s a starred number. Looks like one entry with a name spelled v-i-e-i-l-l-a-r-d. You mentioned this French name before?”

Philippe’s eyes met hers. “Abby, this must be the Vieillard that Jean-Louis mentioned to me on the phone—someone Jean-Louis said he had strong feelings for.”

“And how do you feel about speaking to this Vieillard?” Abby laid the phone on the table and pushed it toward Philippe.

“What do I say?”

“Tell him who you are. Invite him to the burial.” Abby thought through possible scenarios. If Jean-Louis was romantically involved with Vieillard, the man might know something that no one else knew, some piece of information that could shed light on the senseless death.