A Beeline to Murder

by Meera Lester

  “Well, that’s creative. Did he really do that?” Abby asked.

  “It doesn’t matter if he did or not, if people believe it. He had so many in this town looking up to him, I had to make sure his ivory tower came crashing down.”

  “And you had a plan, didn’t you?”

  “I would say so,” Etienne said. Then he added, “I knew where he kept all his recipes. I just took a few. I knew he’d want them back, and maybe he would even pay for them. Hopefully, it would change his mind about ponying up some cash.”

  “But from what I hear, Chef Jean-Louis was cash-strapped.”

  “That’s what he said. But I didn’t buy it.”

  Abby watched as Etienne wiped his forehead with a towel. She wondered if Etienne sweated because he was feeling cornered. As a cop, she’d seen plenty of guys sweat under questioning; some had even cried like babies after they were caught. “Then what did you do?”

  “Had a Baileys at the Black Witch. But I got madder. The more I drank, the angrier I got. You know what they say about alcohol releasing inhibitions. Guess I started spreading it on thick.”

  “About the chef stealing from other chefs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, who’d you tell?’ Abby asked, trying not to sound disgusted.

  “The bartender . . . the guy on the stool next to me . . . I dunno. What does it matter now? The chef is dead.”

  “It matters.”

  “Okay, so I chatted up a few people, had a drink, drove up to the city.”

  “Your car was spotted in Las Flores around four thirty a.m.”

  Etienne stared at Abby in an intense silence.

  Oh, you’re angry, aren’t you?

  “You’re not pinning his death on me.”

  “You ran a stop sign at the end of the exit ramp from the highway into town.”

  “Big deal. So what?”

  “You careened past the newspaper carrier delivering his route. He wrote down your vanity plate. LFCHEF, isn’t it? So I ask again, at five o’clock on the morning the chef died, where were you?”

  “Watching reruns on The Food Channel with a friend. We didn’t get out of bed until lunchtime.” Etienne glared at her and then pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “There. Name. Photo. Number. Now, can I go back to work?”

  Abby jotted the info on her notepad. Looking up at last, she said as a parting shot, “Listen up. Drugs. Blackmail. You might want to come clean with the cops, or you’ll be playing patty-cake behind bars, Mr. Stephen B. Flanders, aka Chef Etienne.” She spun around and swiftly walked back to the fenced-in enclosure.

  Philippe was on his feet, enthusiastically cheering the actors along with the rest of the crowd.

  “You look like you are enjoying it,” she said.

  Nodding, he said, “You missed the opening.”

  “Oh, if you only knew how many times I’ve sat through that.”

  “Find out anything from Etienne?” Apparently, Philippe was so eager to learn about any new development, he took hold of Abby’s elbow and guided her toward the exit.

  “Perhaps,” Abby said as they walked to a quieter part of the park. “He’s changed his story again, but my gut tells me he didn’t take your brother’s life.” She caught a whiff of something, which reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Oh my! Do you smell that? Butter, parmesan cheese . . . barbecued oysters! Are you hungry?”

  “Un peu.”

  “Only a little? I’m famished. Let’s grab a glass of vino and let our noses lead us to those oysters.”

  Philippe’s mood seemed to have lightened, and they strolled like young lovers past tents housing offerings from local wineries. As they walked, they spotted many varietals and blends. While some wineries provided engraved commemorative glasses, others poured their vino into plastic stemware. Abby thought about stopping at the pouring station for High Ridge Wines, but seeing the long line of park visitors there, she opted to walk on to view Casa Lennahan’s offerings.

  “Shall we taste their cabernet?” she asked Philippe.

  “Avec plaisir.” Philippe stepped into the short line at the pouring table and soon returned with two Casa Lennahan etched glasses filled with a dark ruby liquid.

  Abby touched her glass lightly to Philippe’s and sipped. Licking her lips, she pretended to be a master sommelier. “Black fruit, olive, a hint of anise . . . smidgen of mineral, and a touch of oak. Lovely.”

  Philippe sniffed the wine twice, once with his mouth slightly open to allow the vapors to cross his palate, and then took a real sip, which he held in his mouth before finally swallowing. “For me,” he said, “not so good. Too astringent. Not enough oak. Just average.”

  “But it’s aged for mellowness. It says so there on the sign.”

  “Average wine aged remains average. It is simply older.” Philippe sniffed the wine again, putting his nose very close to the rim of the glass.

  Abby took another sip. “Well, I kind of like it, although I confess I really don’t know much about wine. But isn’t it true that California wines have been giving French wines stiff competition and even winning some major awards for quite a long time now?”

  Philippe sipped, swished the liquid around in his mouth, swallowed, and shook his head. “No, this is really not good. West of Toulon, my father’s brother owns a small farm. The soil, it is limestone. It is where the Mourvèdre grapes thrive. From those grapes, he makes a wine that is magnifique. It is corked and aged for ten years. You and I, Abby, we must go to Toulon and taste that wine together.”

  Abby looked at him, batted her eyes, and smiled. “And where in Canada is Toulon?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Toulon, it is not in Canada. It is in southeastern France. In Provence, to be exact,” he said with a quick wink.

  Oh, like it’s just down the road and round the bend. Abby lifted her glass and nodded.

  Smiling, he strolled off and picked his way through the crowd to the Shakespeare in the Park fund-raiser table.

  Abby gazed at the swaying branches of the dark pines and oaks, illuminated by the peach-colored glow of sunset. For a moment, she imagined sipping wine with Philippe under a Mediterranean sky while the sea breeze tousled her hair and that light, so beloved by the Impressionists, cast its magic spell. Absorbed in her reverie, she nearly missed seeing Eva Lennahan’s signature white-blond hair as the councilwoman strode past. With her spell broken, Abby hurried to Philippe’s side and pressed her glass into his hand. Catching his questioning look, she jerked her head toward the politician and then fished in her pocket for a business card.

  Philippe seemed to be getting used to her sudden actions. He nodded and stepped to the side of the walkway.

  When the councilwoman stopped to sign a program for one of her supporters, Abby interjected herself. “Excuse me, Councilwoman. I’m Abigail Mackenzie. This is Philippe Bonheur,” she said, gesturing to Philippe and pressing her business card into Eva Lennahan’s hand. “Such a tragedy . . . the death of Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur, isn’t it? You knew him, didn’t you?”

  The councilwoman slipped Abby’s card into the left waist pocket of her cream-colored suit. Her gaze switched quickly from Abby to Philippe. She apparently liked what she saw and flashed an engaging smile, suggesting interest, which he returned. Ignoring Abby’s question, she said, “I see you’ve got our winery’s commemorative glasses.... Philippe, right? Enjoying our wine?”

  Philippe smiled and raised the two glasses, but said nothing.

  “It defies expectations,” Abby said. Before the councilwoman could so much as bat another fake eyelash at Philippe, Abby continued. “The chef defied expectations, too, didn’t he? I mean, in a good way, and you must have known that. Didn’t I read that you used him exclusively to cater desserts for your political fund-raisers?”

  Eva Lennahan curled the long fuchsia nail of her forefinger against her thumb and flicked an imaginary speck from her suit lapel. “Yes, a rising star, that chef . . . sadly no more.�
� She again made eye contact with Philippe. “My condolences.”

  Abby pressed on. “Didn’t I also read that you are using the Baker’s Dozen for catering now?”

  “Oh . . . did that bit of news make the paper? I didn’t know. What section?”

  “Business,” Abby replied.

  Eva Lennahan sighed contentedly. “Well, of course, everyone knows I support local businesses, and the sudden demise of Chef Bonheur left me in such a lurch.” She cast a come-hither look at Philippe. “The people around me, well, I require them to be not only good at what they do, but also trustworthy and dependable.... It’s an election year, for goodness’ sake. One can’t be too careful.”

  Abby wasted no time in getting to the heart of her line of questioning. “You signed a contract with the Baker’s Dozen one week before Jean-Louis died . . . almost as if you had a sixth sense about his fate.”

  Eva Lennahan raised a perfectly plucked brow. “Good grief. Reporters do make the silliest linkages.”

  Abby eyed her more closely. “Did something happen to make you want to stop working with him?”

  Eva’s mouth molded itself into a syrupy smile. “Which media did you say you work for?”

  “Oh, I’m not a journalist,” Abby replied.

  Eva Lennahan slipped two fingertips into the left waist pocket of her stylish suit and retrieved Abby’s card. As she looked at it, her expression hardened. “I do wish we could continue this chat, but I’m just here to show support for the Shakespeare troupe. Sorry to have to end our little discussion, but my husband awaits.” She looked at Philippe, who, supporting an etched wineglass by the stem in each hand, was obviously unable to shake her hand. Eva plucked away one of the glasses and held it against her chest while she extended the other hand toward Philippe.

  The ensuing handshake was long enough to give Abby a full view of the rings Eva wore, especially the diamond engagement ring, with its filigree work.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Philippe. . . . Ms. Mackenzie,” Eva said in a dismissive tone. In less than a heartbeat, the platinum-haired politician returned the glass to Philippe and pivoted away. As she strolled back down the walkway, she tossed Abby’s card into the nearest spit bucket. At the end of the paved walkway, a dark-haired man joined her. Together they disappeared into the packed parking lot.

  Motioning to Philippe to come along, Abby followed Eva’s footsteps, peering into the sea of cars. Finally, she spotted a black sedan pulling away. Taking her glass from Philippe, she asked offhandedly, “Was it something I said?”

  Philippe snorted. “You are asking me? I find . . . sometimes. . . American women difficult to comprehend. They smile too easily. They look you right in the eyes. This says to a man, ‘I want to have sex with you.’ ”

  “No, it doesn’t. Surely not. Is that what you really think?” Abby didn’t try to hide her surprise.

  “Oui. Is this not accurate?” Philippe stared at her, a baffled expression on his face.

  “Well, that notion is certainly fodder for a long discussion, which we’ll have at another time,” Abby replied with a chuckle.

  “This woman, is she a suspect?” Philippe asked, seemingly perplexed.

  “I’m not sure,” Abby answered. “Murder suspects generally have a motive. I can’t fathom what hers might be. But I don’t think she welcomes any questions about your brother. Now, that arouses my curiosity.”

  “Let me tell you what is aroused in me,” Philippe said. “It is l’appétit. The oysters . . . We are on a quest, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes,” Abby replied. “Let’s go this way.” She took his free hand in hers and pulled him into a short line that ended at a roped-off area where two cooks slaved away over a smoking grill. When it was finally their turn for oysters, the apologetic expression on the cooks’ faces said what their words affirmed. “We just ran out.”

  Wine Country Grilled Oysters with Garlic Butter

  Ingredients:

  1 stick unsalted butter

  2 teaspoons finely minced garlic

  12 fresh oysters on the half shell

  1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  2 teaspoons finely minced fresh parsley

  Directions:

  Heat a barbecue grill.

  Meanwhile, place the butter in a small saucepan and bring it to a simmer (but not to a roiling boil) over medium-low heat. Clarify it by spooning off any foam that forms, and then reduce the heat to low. Add the garlic and cook for 2 minutes, stirring frequently. Remove the garlic butter from the heat and set aside.

  Arrange the oysters in their half shells on a large plate. Sprinkle some Parmesan cheese and parsley on each oyster. Transfer the oysters to the prepared barbecue grill and cook for 3 to 5 minutes, or until the cheese darkens.

  Drizzle the oysters with the reserved garlic butter and cook for another minute. Remove the cooked oysters from the grill to a clean plate. Add more Parmesan cheese if desired and serve at once.

  Serves 3 to 4

  Chapter 11

  Use a dab of raw honey or bee propolis (the resinous material bees collect and use to seal their hives) to treat a peck wound on a chicken, since honey and propolis have antiseptic, antibacterial properties.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  They had to get Jean-Louis into the ground . . . and fast. An uptick in gang violence on the county’s east side had left seven dead in stabbings and retaliatory shootings. Space was filling up at the morgue.

  Abby learned about this latest news after attempting to hoist a hefty bag of chicken crumbles over the feeder. Lifting the bag was one thing, but pouring the poultry feed into the hanging metal chicken feeder while answering her cell phone proved impossible. She dropped the bag to take Philippe’s call. It soon became apparent that he was feeling overwhelmed and more distraught than usual. He talked nonstop, frantically flipping between French and English, attempting to explain how the situation with Jean-Louis had gone from très terrible to absurde.

  “Slow down, Philippe. Breathe. Now tell me slowly in English, please.”

  “We must bury Jean-Louis and soon.”

  Abby failed to see the issue. “So what’s the problem? The funeral home can pick him up from the county facility. It’s easy enough to transport the body back to the East Coast for burial.”

  “The problem . . . the problem,” he said, his volume rising a decibel, “it is that I have yet to make arrangements.”

  “Oh?” Abby eyed the poop floating in the chickens’ watering canister. Why can’t you ladies just drink without climbing up and pooping into your water?

  “This whole affair has been most difficult.” Philippe rambled away from her question and complained about the morning news show he’d watched in the lodge’s dining room and, explaining how it had ruined his breakfast muffin and coffee, wondered why American hotels had to have televisions in every room, anyway, showing clips of violence when people might be eating.

  “But let’s back up a minute. Have you called Shadyside Funeral Home? Or visited the priest at Holy Names? The church is right there by the pastry shop, less than ten blocks from the Las Flores Lodge, where you are staying.”

  “Non.” His tone sounded sullen now. “I haven’t been inside a church in years.”

  “Jean-Louis’s body has been in the morgue for several days now. Do you need help making these arrangements?”

  “Oui. I thought I could deal with this tragedy . . . for my mother, for my father . . . but I did not know it would affect me the way it has.”

  Abby sighed heavily. The weight of grief she understood from her experience with victims, their families, fellow cops, her folks. Death was something you had to deal with when working the streets and when you had aging relatives. Everyone died. But thinking about death philosophically and intellectually was much different than personally experiencing the death of a loved one.

  “The ruling of suicide is très terrible. It occurs in a moment of insanity, and surely anyone who take
s such action is out of his mind, n’est-ce pas? But someone snuffed out Jean-Louis’s life. I had hoped you would find out who did this. Then I could take care of Jean-Louis. But you haven’t. I haven’t. Now we must.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Abby latched the henhouse door and sank onto a bale of straw, her thoughts swirling. Of course, morgue space would be needed for the incoming. Now Abby understood the urgency Philippe had expressed about proving Jean-Louis death was not a suicide. He couldn’t face putting his brother’s body in the ground if people were thinking his brother had taken his own life. It was already day six. The body was going to have to be buried somewhere . . . and soon. But another thought loomed—once the body was buried, if murder was proven, it just might have to be exhumed and reinterred. There was the whole issue of embalming.

  Abby sat on the bale, elbows on her knees, cell phone to her ear, listening as Philippe rambled. She knew that a buried body took its secrets with it. Murder victims required an in-depth external and internal exam, but had Jean-Louis’s body received that kind of scrutiny? From what Abby remembered from the coroner’s report of their limited investigation, an external examination had been done, and blood and tissue samples taken for toxicology—usual for homicides but getting those results could take up to two weeks. The ruling of suicide meant Chief Bob Allen could close the case, which he did because all indicators pointed to suicide. That conclusion would save the cash-strapped county money. Chief Bob Allen might be a pain in the rear end, but he did everything by the book. Furthermore, the coroner’s office could make the call to do an autopsy with an internal examination, or not. Abby realized she would have to take another look at the report and work the case even faster to get at the truth before Jean-Louis was laid to rest.

  Henrietta, the small speckled Mediterranean hen, began a series of trilling purrs as she took her dust bath, squirming, scratching, and tossing herself sideways. Her sister hovered on the nesting box. Houdini eyed Mystery, a large black Cochin, whose feathers never got ruffled over anything, as if to say, “Hey, baby, come perch with me.” Reminding herself that her chickens seemed to respect the rooster to make decisions for the entire flock in times of distress, Abby asked Philippe, “What is your father’s advice?”