A Beeline to Murder

As the lights went back on, a priest by the name of Father Joseph entered the room. He gently placed his hand on Philippe’s shoulder and asked if anyone wanted to share stories about Jean-Louis with those in attendance.

Philippe rose and spoke endearingly about how the loss would affect him and his family. “My mother, especially, doted on him. He was born late in her life, and she always called Jean-Louis her late season surprise.” Philippe talked about how Jean-Louis had a guiding principle, which was always to put people before material possessions. “He lived as if tomorrow might never come,” Philippe said. Choking up, he added, “He believed it was how we all are meant to live.”

When Philippe finished talking, there seemed to be a collective reluctance by everyone else to speak, but finally Tallulah stood. She spoke of using her empathic powers when she first interviewed for a job with the chef, and described how she sensed a deep vulnerability, which he would not discuss. “He told me once that prison takes many forms, that to be an artist is to be a pilgrim ever haunted by the thing that desires to be created.”

A prayer followed and then the blessing of the body. During it all, Abby thought about Jake Lennahan, who was clearly the friend who had seemed ready to protect Jean-Louis, whatever the price. And now she was beginning to wonder whether the relationship Jake shared with Jean-Louis might have had a dark side.





The Jeep radio was tuned to the weather report as Abby and Philippe drove to the Church of the Pines. The afternoon had become warm and muggy, and winds were kicking up. According to the local weather report, the easterly onshore breeze that served as California’s air conditioner had combined with a low pressure at the coast, causing the wind to gust up to forty-plus miles per hour at the crests of high hills and mountain peaks. A heavy fog would set in along the coast later that night, but inland areas, like Las Flores, would remain clear enough to view the full moon.

At the grave site, the winds were already howling. Abby held on to the billowing overskirt of her black, cap-sleeved mourning dress and said to Philippe, “It’s ironic and sad that so many showed for the wake, but just you and I are here to see him off.”

“Oui,” Philippe replied. “It’s better this way, no? We two care the most about what happened to him. We two will lay him to his rest.”

Abby nodded in agreement. She watched as the six pallbearers, faces glistening with sweat, walked slowly and with solemnity, holding the casket by its handles. When she and Philippe had reached the mountain summit, she’d set her cell phone to vibrate so it would not ring during the short service. And now it was vibrating. Abby checked the screen, then took the call.

“Say it quick, Kat. . . . My phone doesn’t have much battery power left.”

“Thought you’d want to know, girlfriend . . . the bicycle guy you reported, with the two dogs . . . just took him in for a hit-and-run.”

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s more. He collided with Dora.”

“Is she okay?”

“Hospital staff says she’s lucky. Nine lives, that one. Has a fractured hip and a broken right wrist. Malnourished, of course, so they’re keeping her long enough to build up her stamina.”

“So, our colorful Dora will have hot meals and a roof over her head for a while.”

“Yep. At the taxpayers’ expense.”

“What about those poor dogs?”

“They’re being checked over by a vet at the animal rescue.”

“Dare I ask about the bags in Dora’s shopping cart?”

“Well, unfortunately, some were ripped.”

“Meaning stuff spilled out, and you didn’t need that pesky little search warrant to find it.” Abby’s adrenaline kicked in.

“Why, yes, it did, and we couldn’t help noticing the bag contained Chef Jean-Louis’s apron.”

“No. Really?”