A Beeline to Murder

“And that’s not all. Dora has a thing for string. We found a bag full of the nasty stuff—all sorts, used for God knows what. There was a long piece of twine in there, too, with a slipknot, cut at one end.”


“Ha! So she had the twine from the chef’s neck all along.” Abby’s heart leaped. “Ooh, I’d love to talk about this more, but we’re up here at the grave site. I’ve got to go. The priest is walking toward us. We’ll talk later.”

As if fearing a powerful wind gust would topple him, the priest held on to a walking stick and clutched his Bible, its purple ribbon hanging loosely from the frayed edges, as he picked his way from the stone pathway over to the gaping hole in the ground, where freshly dug dirt had been heaped into a black pile. The casket was positioned atop the wide straps laid out so that the pallbearers could easily take hold and lower Jean-Louis into the ground. They stood ready.

The priest took a moment to put down his walking stick and look into the eyes of each person before commencing the service, and then he began to speak, projecting his voice over the howling wind and making the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We meet on this solemn occasion to honor the life and the passing of Jean-Louis Bonheur, a beloved son and a much-loved brother. With reverence, we lovingly place his body into this sacred dwelling place, as a sign of our respect for Jean-Louis, who lived among us for a time. We commend his spirit to the heart of the Lord. And we comfort one another in our grief.”

Opening his Bible with the ribbon, the priest spoke again. “For it is written in Psalm forty-six, God is our refuge and strength.” He read on and then paused, as if trying to think of some other words of comfort. Finally, he closed his Bible. “Let us pray. Look upon us, O Lord, with compassion, as you did when Jesus cried at the grave of his friend Lazarus. Give us hope. Strengthen us with faith. Safeguard the friends and family of those who must now carry on without their beloved in their midst. Amen.”

The priest asked Philippe if he wanted to open the casket one last time before it was lowered into the ground. Philippe nodded. Abby had slipped a small vial of rose geranium water into her purse and had told Philippe he might use it to anoint his brother’s forehead. Philippe now looked at her, as if needing her support and strength. His eyes, gray-green now, turned misty as he took the vial from her.

The pallbearers pulled the casket cover back to reveal the face of the deceased. Philippe knelt in the dirt to draw the sign of the cross over his brother’s forehead. He tilted the vial against his thumb and middle finger just as a heavy wind gust pushed him forward and sent the vial flying from his fingers. Simultaneously, a paper wafted upward from the casket and drifted on the wind. Abby didn’t care about the vial, and she was pretty sure Philippe was all right, but her instincts screamed for her to chase after that paper as the wind lifted and dropped it on an erratic path. She breathed a sigh of relief when it snagged on the base of a bush several yards away.

The priest helped Philippe to his feet and carried on. “Although your hearts grieve”—the priest motioned for the men to take their positions and lower the casket into the earth—“you can take solace in the words faithfully recorded in the Gospel of John. The Lord says, ‘I will not leave you comfortless. I will come to you.’ ”