A Beeline to Murder

Philippe dialed the number, listened for a moment, apparently to a message, and then began to speak. “Bonjour. It is I, Philippe. . . .” Suddenly, Philippe’s eyes locked with Abby’s. His expression went as flat as a fallow field and was just as unreadable. He laid the phone on the table, pushed back his chair, and scurried out of the room.

Abby snapped the phone to her ear in time to hear the beep signaling the end of the allotted time to leave a message. She heard Philippe bang something against a hard surface in the bedroom. Abby knew that men who were grieving often behaved differently than women. They sometimes dealt with their pain through anger. But what had set him off? It probably had been a bad idea to ask Philippe to make the call in the first place.

Philippe ambled back into the kitchen. “Everything in this room, this apartment, it screams Jean-Louis. Look there.” He pointed to the large wall calendar that displayed several months at a glance. “See the red circle? Jean-Louis’s birthday. See the red line with the word départ over the top? He was going away. Don’t you remember me telling you about his plans to go to the Caribbean for his birthday?”

“Of course I do,” Abby said. “The calendar date goes to your argument that his death was not due to suicide, since, clearly, he was planning something for the future. When we take the case back to the police, we will include that information. But we are not there yet. We have to deal with the burial service. Calling his friends seems unnecessarily hard on you, so how about I make the calls and you look for pictures, letters, trip itineraries, and tickets of any kind—personal stuff that could establish your brother’s relationships with others? If you feel up to it . . .”

He nodded. “I am angry that Jean-Louis is gone. I am angry that he will never celebrate another birthday. And I am angry that his murderer is still free.”

Abby redialed Vieillard, but there was no pickup and no greeting, just a beep. She called the other individuals on the master list. The majority of them offered excuses for why they couldn’t make the wake or the burial, some saying that it was too far, especially for those in San Francisco or Napa; that it was too late in the day; or that traffic on the mountain would be intolerable, as it always was on weekends, when inland-valley residents headed over the mountain to the beach towns. Others confessed that they had heard the rumor about the chef and expressed worry that further association in any way could compromise them. In the end, a loyal group of three said they would try to make it to the graveside service.

At a minute before eight that evening, the phone rang while it was still in Abby’s hand. She looked at the name that had popped up on the screen—Vieillard. Her heartbeat quickened. Philippe was beside her, sorting photos he’d found in a book about Caribbean cooking. Abby held the phone out so he could read the name.

Philippe dropped the pictures. He snatched the phone from her hand.

“Bonsoir. Philippe speaking.” Locking eyes with Abby, he listened and then raised his hand, palm out, as if to say, “The caller is not speaking.”

Twirling an open hand, Abby tried to get him to engage the caller in conversation.

“All?,” he said. “It may seem strange that I answered Jean-Louis’s phone, but, you see, I am his brother, Philippe. I was calling you on his behalf.”

Abby stood up and stepped next to Philippe. She tapped the speaker button on the phone. The caller, although silent, remained on the line.

“You must know by now that my brother . . . recently died.” Philippe paused, drew a breath. “Sorry. As you can hear, I am quite emotional, and I apologize for delivering the news—if you did not know—and the invitation by telephone. But we bury Jean-Louis tomorrow, and it is my hope that you will join us for the farewell service.”

A deep masculine voice softly replied, “My condolences. Where is the service to be held?”

Philippe’s eyes grew large. When he shook his head in desperation, Abby thought, Surely he hasn’t forgotten the name of the church? She jotted the location and the time on a piece of paper and twirled it around so he could read it.