A Beeline to Murder

Philippe spoke haltingly into the phone. “The Church of the Pines in Las Flores . . . four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”


Abby sat back down and spun her forefinger in repetitive circles, encouraging Philippe to keep talking while she wrote another note.

Philippe’s hand trembled as he held the phone to his ear. “Although I do not know you personally, your presence, I am sure, would have meant a lot to Jean-Louis. You were his close friend, n’est-ce pas?”

The man sniffed in that heavy masculine way and cleared his throat.

Philippe added, “The viewing will begin at two o’clock at Shadyside Funeral Home.”

Abby held up her note. She’d written, Ask his name.

“Sir, if I may ask, what is your name?”

The phone clicked off.

Philippe laid the phone on the table, turned his head away from her.

Abby stared at the chiseled lines of his profile, saw his jaw grow tense. She reached over and gave Philippe a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You delivered the message. Hopefully, he will show up.”

Philippe ran his fingers through his thick black hair, leaned forward, and grabbed the large full-color Caribbean cookbook from the top of the stack on the table. He held it above the table and opened it, and pieces of folded paper, scribbled notes, recipes, and cards fell out. Philippe riffled through them, peering closely at those with any writing on them.

“Abby, look,” he said. “Everything written on these paper notes was written by Jean-Louis, except this address of a hotel in Santo Domingo.” He dumped two postcards out of a small paper bag, along with a receipt.

Abby examined the postcards. Each depicted an idyllic beach scene, and although they were purchased in an island shop in Santo Domingo, they were blank, never written upon or mailed.

“Abby, look at this,” Philippe said, animated again. He held up three photos, placing them side by side. They each showed Jean-Louis and the man whose photo stood in the ornate frame at Jean-Louis’s bedside. One image revealed the man and Jean-Louis on striped beach chairs on a private dock next to a wide swath of sandy beach dotted with palms. There appeared to be a large estate house behind them. The second image showed the two aboard a yacht, sipping from champagne flutes. The third image was darker than the other two and was similar to the one Abby had previously seen in the police files. It showed the two men on the deck of a boat in the open sea.

“There are eleven photos in all,” Philippe told her.

Abby dug through her handbag and took out a small magnifier. She looked at a fourth photo. It showed Jean-Louis and the mystery man fishing, naked to the waist and wearing flip-flops. It was the exposed biceps on both men that warranted a closer examination.

“Well, well,” she said. She touched Philippe’s hand and pointed to the picture.

“What? I see nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Look at the mystery man’s bicep.” Abby handed him the magnifying glass. “His tattoo looks like a six-nine or a nine-six on its side, depending on what angle you view it from. That is the astrological sign of Cancer. Jean-Louis was a Cancer. Would his friend get the same tattoo?”

“Perhaps he was a Cancer, too, and they got those tattoos together.”

“What if they became lovers on that trip? People get inked for all sorts of reasons. Maybe their identical tattoos pledged them to each other,” said Abby.

“C’est possible.” Philippe ran his hand through the curls at the back of his neck. “Good work, Abby.” He reached over and patted her on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger momentarily before pulling away.

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” Abby said. “I’m going to take a picture of this man’s face with my smartphone and text it to Kat to see if she knows or can find out who this guy is.”