A Beeline to Murder

Back inside, Abby flipped on the light and looked at the clock. It read 5:30 a.m. The raccoons would leave before sunup—they were shy creatures who foraged at night. Most likely, their den was close by, probably on the deserted property in back of the farmette. Abby had noticed lately that the fresh water she put in the birdbath each day would go muddy overnight—a sure sign of raccoons on the prowl. They liked washing up.

Sugar was now dripping on the clean kitchen floor. When Abby grabbed a towel to dry the dog, Sugar darted from Abby’s arms and made a mad dash for the couch pillows, where she threw her body upside down and sideways, wiggling in delight. Next, she dried her ears and head, rubbing her wet fur against Abby’s new throw rug, and when Abby lunged to capture her, Sugar flew to the bedroom and dried her dirty paws on Abby’s white sheet and hand-embroidered quilt.

“Dang it, Sugar. If there was the slightest chance I might have gone back to bed, it’s not possible now! Thanks to you the bedding has to be washed. And just FYI, that is my grandmother’s quilt.”

Sugar cocked her head to look at Abby.

Like you care. “Arghh!”

Abby pulled the sheets from the bed and the pillowcases off the pillows and threw them into the washer. At least an early start meant she could get some chores done before the funeral. She made a pot of coffee, dressed in work clothes, and pulled her copper-colored hair into a ponytail. Coffee cup in hand, she headed to the back part of the property to pluck some squash for dinner and the last of the spring peas—vines and pods—to throw to the chickens.

At the chicken house, she spotted Henrietta already on the nest. The bantam rooster Houdini was in a mood and jumped on the back of Henrietta’s sister—who was too quick for his advances—before settling on one of the brown hens, who was larger, slower, and more submissive. The hen shrieked her objections in ear-piercing squawks as Houdini mounted her, and then she wriggled out from under him after he had had his way with her. The proud Houdini pranced around the pen, his chest out and his iridescent blue-green tail feathers flicking. The poor hen ruffled her feathers, squawked for a while, and proceeded to find a quiet corner where she could scratch and peck in peace.

Abby watched Houdini strut the cock walk. “You think you are such hot stuff, but here’s a news flash, Mr. Dandy in Short Pants. Fertilizing eggs produces roosters as well as hens. Trust me, you don’t want more roosters in the henhouse. You remember Frank, don’t you? After a rooster half his age almost did him in, we had to find him a new henhouse with some ladies who were, let’s just say, getting up there in years.”

Houdini defiantly flew up to a fence post and let go a gravelly cock-a-doodle-doo, which sounded to Abby a lot like “Not listening to you-ooo.”

When the chicken chores were finished, Abby walked past the open-pollinated corn patch. The ears were filling out nicely, but some were covered in ants. The ants had to have a food source, a fact that worried Abby and prompted a closer look. Colonies of corn leaf aphids had formed, their numbers no doubt amplified by the extreme heat and the dry soil, and the ants were feeding on the sticky honeydew produced by the aphids. She spotted a couple of ladybugs and hoped for lacewings, the natural predator of the aphids. Their presence suggested there was potentially an eco-balance in place, but she still might have to mix up a quantity of insecticidal soap. What she didn’t want was a major infestation that she couldn’t control. But harsh chemicals and poisons would harm her bees. She’d deep soak the corn patch with water and keep a close eye on the pest problem.

Her next stop was the garden. The eggplants were plump and had turned from white to shiny dark purple, almost matching the Ananas Noire heirloom tomatoes. Abby plucked the biggest tomato she could find. Back in the farmhouse, she washed and cut the tomato, then tossed it into a bowl, along with slices of Armenian cucumber, red onion, baby spinach, pine nuts, and feta cheese, which she spritzed with basil-infused olive oil and vinegar. Perched on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, she bit into the crisp Greek salad. Two bites later, her cell phone rang. Philippe was calling to tell her not to pick him up. He’d meet her at the funeral home.