A Beeline to Murder

“Afterward, shall we take one car up the mountain, Abby?”


“Why not?” she replied, trying to crunch a piece of crisp, cold cucumber quietly.

“Then would you mind driving? I find those switchbacks daunting.”

“Uh-huh.” She swallowed the mouthful of salad and held the phone away from her mouth as she chugged some iced green tea to wash down the lump.

There was a pause.

Philippe said, “A staff member of Shadyside Funeral Home called and asked me to meet her earlier today. She wanted to know Jean-Louis’s favorite music. She also wanted pictures of him for an audiovisual tribute to Jean-Louis. This idea, it made me crazy at first. But then I searched for images of my brother on my laptop. I took Jean-Louis’s phone to her. She removed the pictures. Wait until you see what we’ve made.”

“Philippe, it sounds lovely. I can’t wait to see it.”

“It is beautiful.”

“So, see you there.” Abby understood that many things could facilitate coping and healing. Working on something that celebrated his younger brother’s life—even against a time constraint—might help Philippe begin to heal his grief. And a memorial in the form of an audiovisual tribute might help him gain closure. She liked the idea that Philippe would have emotional support, and found herself actually looking forward to the closure the ceremony would provide.

Abby showered and changed. In fact, she was in such a good mood, she decided to take the last of the salad to the chickens and check to make sure all the gates were shut so Sugar could romp out back while Abby was gone. Turning the corner past the flowering purple wisteria and the blooming Iceland roses, Abby looked around for the dog. She soon spotted Sugar digging like crazy, dirt flying high behind her long white legs, in the very patch where Abby had newly planted the beans.

Abby dropped the plastic container of salad remnants, rushed to the bean patch, and found it totally destroyed. She soon spotted a long ridge in the dirt and volcano mounds of freshly dug soil. A mole. It had to be a mole; gopher mounds were crescent shaped. Abby stared at the dog. “I don’t know who upsets me more—you or the mole.” She looked around for the beans, which were now scattered on top of the dirt. “Ooh, you little brat.”

She pulled the dog away from the mounds and carried her back to the house.

“You’re in big trouble, little girl.” She pulled the patio door ajar so that Sugar could come and go as she pleased. “Just don’t take down the rest of the farm while I’m gone,” she admonished.





Abby pulled up to Shadyside Funeral Home at 1:30 p.m. Finding a parking space proved difficult. After three times around the lot, she gave up and parked on the street. Shadyside’s director had warned her that the funeral home had two funerals scheduled that afternoon, so she shouldn’t have been surprised that the lot was so full. She made her way into the chapel area.

Sprays of white lilies, roses, and gardenias were positioned on either side of the doorway. As Abby stepped inside, she was shocked to see how many more arrangements lined the interior walls, creating a lush floral backdrop for the casket. Pristine white orchids with a startling reddish-purple hue staining the inner edges of the blooms rested in pots atop faux marble columns at the head and the foot of the casket. Who had sent such an abundance of beautiful flowers? And where was Philippe? she thought.