by Meera Lester
“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?”
“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.’ ”
Leaning down to place his Bible next to his walking stick, the priest picked up a handful of dirt. He motioned for Philippe and Abby to do likewise. As they did, the clergyman intoned, “We have committed our beloved’s spirit to your eternal keeping, Father. We now commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Merciful God, we do this with the belief and absolute hope in the resurrection to eternal life. . . .”
Abby didn’t hear the last words. The wind wasn’t just gusting. It howled now. She held her breath in hopes that the paper didn’t cast off again. As soon as she heard “Amen,” she backed away from the burial site and swiftly marched toward the bush where the paper waved still. Leaning down, Abby plucked the piece of paper from its entrapment. The paper was actually a small colored photograph of Jean-Louis and Jake Lennahan. The image showed them clowning around, both displaying unmistakably happy smiles. Jean-Louis wore his chef’s toque and double-breasted shirt. Jake wore a sandwich sign with straps over his shoulders. A multilayered, frosted cake had been painted on the sign. On the back of the photograph, in cursive, was written, Happy Birthday, Jean-Louis. My grief is unbearable. You are my heart. I never believed she would make good on her threat, but now she has taken from me everything, even my reason for living. I curse the day I married her. May she burn in hell!—J.
Abby tucked the photo in her purse, steeled herself against the gusting wind, and returned to the grave, where the priest was shaking hands with the pallbearers. The diggers had already begun filling the grave. Abby joined Philippe and the priest as they picked their way back to the stone path. Shadows had already lengthened on the mountain. Abby touched Philippe’s arm and pointed to the blazing orange ball of a sun sliding down into the now gunmetal-gray Pacific.
He dropped back a step to create space between himself and the priest. “Abby, what was on that paper?”
“Just a missing puzzle piece. For a bowl of white bean soup, I’ll tell you all about it. What do you say?” Abby asked, trying to assuage his sadness and quell the singing of her heart at their stroke of good fortune. She was certain that Jake was the distraught man who had delivered the lilies and those two roses, and that, while alone with the body, he had secretly tucked the photo inside the coffin.
“Sounds good,” Philippe replied, taking her arm to help her negotiate the stone pathway.
She stopped. “And pie at Maisey’s.”
“I would never say no to that.”
Abby grinned and grabbed him with both hands to steady herself as a wind gust tugged hard at her balance. “And maybe a drink at the Black Witch after dinner?”
He arched his brows. A quizzical look crossed his face. “Maybe even two. And stiff ones at that. Should I read something more into this?”
“It’s up to you. I’ll explain while we fill our tummies with comfort food,” said Abby.
“Bean soup is comfort food? Americans!”
White Bean Soup
Ingredients:
1 cup dried Hutterite smal
l soup beans or other white
beans
3 medium celery stalks, diced
2 large carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 large smoked ham hock
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and diced
½ cup torn fresh spinach leaves
1 packet Lipton Golden Onion Recipe Soup & Dip Mix
6 cups chicken stock
2 to 3 medium bok choy leaves, torn into small pieces
Directions:
Combine the beans, celery, carrots, ham hock, onions, spinach, and Lipton mix in a Crock-Pot. Pour in the chicken stock. Cook, adding water as needed, until the beans are tender, about 5 to 6 hours. Add the bok choy during the last 5 minutes of cooking.
Serve the soup with slices of warm homemade bread, a chunk of Manchego (or another sharp cheese), and a crisp, chilled salad.
Option: You can make this dish vegetarian by omitting the ham hock and using vegetable stock in place of chicken broth.
Serves 4
Chapter 15
Pacific oysters can engage in annual sex reversals—male one year, female the next—one of nature’s many surprises.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Philippe pointed to Zazi’s chalkboard sign right inside the restaurant’s entrance and exclaimed with exuberance, “Oh, mon Dieu! The grilled oysters, we must have them to start . . . and champagne!”
“Sounds good,” said Abby, recalling how crestfallen his expression had been at the Shakespeare Festival, when the concession stand had run out of oysters. “Would you mind ordering while I give a quick call back to Kat? It’s not the kind of conversation I want to have in public. I’d like to make it from the car. Okay?”
“Ah, oui.” His brows knitted. He looked puzzled. “You won’t be long?”
“I promise. I’ll be back before the oysters are served.” She put her hand on his arm and said softly, “There are at least two people who know the truth about what happened to poor Jean-Louis . . . three, if you count an accomplice. It’s high time the truth comes out, but I’m thinking things have to be set in motion first.”
She reached for the bar across the door to open it but relinquished it when Philippe placed his palm against it and pushed the door open. He followed her outside into the fading light of early evening. The wind unrelentingly whipped his trouser legs and lifted the sheer flounces above the hem of Abby’s black mourning dress.
“You must enlighten me,” he said, “as soon as you return. I do not like suspense.”
Abby nodded. The wind gusted and tugged at her hair, loosening the comb anchoring her thick mane, which she’d twisted into a loose braid at the nape of her neck. Instinctively, her hand flew back to catch the comb, but she was a millisecond too late. As the comb slipped from her hair and the unrestrained locks tumbled over her shoulders, Abby pivoted away from Philippe and darted after the comb. It somersaulted down the street, lifted and tossed by the airstream. Giving up hope of ever catching it, she turned back to Philippe. He stared at her, his gray-green eyes sparkling with intensity.
“What?” Abby asked, shaking out her hair and reaching to pull a lock of it from her eyes.
Gazing intently at her hair, he murmured, “Alexa Wilding.”
“Huh?” Abby was sure her face had a stupid expression on it, but what was he talking about?
“Your hair. Your face. This light.”
“Reminds you of another woman?” Abby asked incredulously.
“Oui. An English girl named Alexa Wilding.”
Abby wasn’t expecting him to tell her the truth about his intimate relationships. But Philippe, she’d learned, was full of surprises.
“She was a working-class girl who posed for Dante Gabriel Rossetti.”
“Oh.” Abby sighed in relief. “You mean that Pre-Raphaelite artist? I’ve heard of him, but not her. So tell me, Mr. Art Dealer, what was so special about Alexa Wilding?” Abby wasn’t too sure where this conversation might go, but she would play along. Maybe she would learn something.
“Rossetti had already completed Lady Lilith, one of his most famous paintings. Then he saw Alexa Wilding. His usual model did not possess delicate features. To reflect an image of refined beauty, Rosetti reworked the painting to capture Alexa Wilding’s face.”
Philippe moved a half step closer and clasped a strand of Abby’s long, curly hair in his hand for a closer look. “Alexa Wilding’s hair was the color of grain. But I can imagine that painting with your gold-red hue with undertones of burnished copper.” Releasing her hair to cup her chin in his hand, he gently studied one side of her face and then the other. “Extraordinary, ma chérie.”
“The painting?”
“You.” Philippe’s eyes locked with hers.
Abby’s heart hammered. His nearness felt as palpable and luscious as the first time she had held an exquisitely ripe summer pear to her mouth, sinking lips and teeth and tongue into it. Oh, my . . . is he going to kiss me? Right here, in front of Zazi’s Bistro? But when Philippe flashed a flirtatious smile and stepped back, Abby quickly regained her composure, smiled weakly, and murmured, “Thank you for the compliment.” She paused to take a short, deep breath. “I just need to make that phone call. Give me two minutes, and I’ll be back before the appetizers are served.”
Philippe watched her cross the street to her Jeep. Abby looked back and waved.
In the car, Abby paused before tapping Kat’s number on her phone. She needed to settle her thoughts and calm the crazy drumming of her heart. Had he just compared her to the Pre-Raphaelite romantic ideal of beauty? It seemed so. When the mere touch of his skin sent a shiver racing through her, Abby couldn’t help wondering what it really would feel like to kiss him. I can’t think about that now. Focus.
When Kat picked up, Abby said, “I think I know who killed Jean-Louis, and, Kat, I need a favor.”
“Only one?” Kat replied.
“Who is acting chief of police now that Bob Allen is in the hospital, recovering?”
“Otto.”
“Great,” Abby said. “Do you think you could convince him to reopen the case?”
“He’ll want a strong theory and the evidence to support it.”
“Well, I’ve got a handwritten note that practically spells out that the chef was murdered and even suggests who the killer is. Are you hanging on to your handcuffs? That note blew out of Jean-Louis’s coffin just before it was lowered into the ground.”
“You’re not joking, are you?”
“I never joke about murder,” Abby said.
“So, who killed our chef?”
“Eva Lennahan looks good for it.” Abby checked her face in the rearview mirror and decided she could quickly freshen her makeup while explaining everything to Kat. If she was to represent beauty idealized, a bit of blush couldn’t hurt and a touch of lipstick seemed in order. She glanced away from the mirror to look through the windshield. She could see Philippe inside, chatting with the waitress; undoubtedly, he was ordering their champagne. “I tell you, Kat, it was like divine intervention,” Abby said, opening her purse. “And the photo with the handwriting on the back nearly blew away before I could snag it. Anyway, here’s my theory.
“Jean-Louis and Jake Lennahan got together in the Caribbean. Could have been any number of reasons why they met, including a business trip, a guys-only outing, or even an accidental run-in. But their mutual attraction was stronger than their power to resist.” Abby took out her mascara and touched up her lashes.
“While they were there, they each got identical tattoos of the astrological sign Cancer. Philippe told me that Jean-Louis didn’t have that tattoo before he went to the Caribbean. Both men were born in the month of July, making them Cancers. Jean-Louis loved the sea. Jake had access to a yacht in the Dominican Republic. They were about to celebrate their birthdays again in a few weeks. It’s a verifiable fact that Jean-Louis was planning to return to the Caribbean—most likely with Jake, further solidifying their relationship.”
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br /> “Illicit relationship,” Kat chimed in. “As we both know, Jake is married to a woman with unstoppable political ambition.”
“And there’s your motive for murder—Eva couldn’t afford a scandal. She had connections within the prison system that could fix her problem. After all, she had met a lot of inmates, wardens, and corrections officers through her charity work with families of the incarcerated. Guys on the inside know how to get a favor done by their buddies on the outside.” Glancing up at the mirror again, Abby noticed a speck of mascara on her cheek. She fished a tissue from her purse and brushed it off.
“But why not kill the husband, instead of his lover? Or, better still, just get a divorce, like everyone else does?” Kat asked.
“Stop the money flow and there ends her lifestyle and her ambitious dreams. I’ll bet she has wheedled a small fortune from Jake, including his family heirlooms. I saw her wedding ring setting when we ran into her at the park. It’s a perfect match to the earring Jake had repaired at Lidia’s jewelry shop. I’d say it is pretty nice bling for someone who once worked as a convenience store clerk. Well, that’s what I’ve learned, anyway, from perusing back issues of the Weekly. Apparently, Jake used to go into the Stone Bridge Road convenience store on Sunday mornings for coffee and a newspaper, since his place up in the hills is outside of the news delivery area but near the store. According to one story, that’s where she met him.”
“I gotta say, girlfriend, you have certainly done your homework. Do you think the earring just fell off during the murder?”
“Maybe there was a struggle.”
“Plausible. Proof would be nice.”
“Well, maybe her campaign manager or someone else saw her wearing those earrings that night. I mean, think about it. What reason would Jake or anyone else have for bringing them . . . ever . . . to the pastry shop?”