The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  “Yeah, well, we know Mr. Marks,” said Kat. “He’s the charismatic son of an ex-con, who supposedly found solace in the Good Book and became a preacher.”

  “Really?” Abby arched a brow. “Fiona never said anything about that. Maybe she didn’t know. But she sure couldn’t abide that Marks insisted all the devotees call him Baba. It means ‘wise old man’ or ‘father’ or something like that. She found him to be the antithesis of a father figure, more like a dictator. For refusing to show proper reverence, she was asked to leave. Imagine that . . . for not calling him Baba.”

  “Baba-shmaba. A pig doesn’t change its trotters.” Kat’s hand formed the shape of an L, for loser. She pushed back from the table and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “We’ve been watching that commune bunch for a while.”

  Abby swallowed another sip of tea and looked at Kat over her teacup. “I’m all ears.”

  “You hear the talk. Let me put it this way. Why would a peaceful sect of New Agers need firearms?” asked Kat.

  “I don’t know, but it’s not illegal if they have permits.”

  “Yeah, well, according to the gossip along Main Street, they’re stockpiling up there, and not only firearms. Do you want to know what Willard down at the hardware store says?”

  “What?” Abby slid her cup back into its saucer and set both on the table.

  “They’ve emptied his place of axes, freeze-dried food, and bottled water. He says he can’t keep canning supplies or even basic tools like shovels in stock.”

  “Why?”

  Kat devoured two sandwiches in quick succession and then wiped her fingers with the napkin. “Who knows? But you can’t blame the locals for getting paranoid.” She reached for the antique silver serving knife, slashed off a slice of the sheet cake, and dropped the slice onto a dessert plate, licking the excess buttercream frosting from her fingers.

  Abby raised a brow. “You’re like the sister I never had, Kat, so I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. You’re eating like a cop who doesn’t care anymore whether or not she can make it over the training wall.”

  “Yeah, well, I missed breakfast, and I’m starving.”

  Abby brushed a crumb that had fallen from the silver serving knife. “I can see that. So eat, already. Getting back to the subject of the commune, I’m not taking sides, but we do live in the land of earthquakes, mudslides, and seasonal wildfires. Maybe Baba thinks a natural disaster is in the offing.”

  “Or the end is near, and they want to be ready, like that Heaven’s Gate cult, who waited on a spacecraft following the Hale-Bopp comet,” Kat said. “We can only hope the shovels aren’t for burying the dead.”

  “Now, that’s just too far-fetched,” Abby chided.

  Kat smiled and began nibbling the cake. She licked her lips. Holding the empty fork aloft, she looked at Abby. “Lord, have mercy, girlfriend! You nailed the cake.” She took a bigger bite and writhed in pleasure. Swallowing, she reached for her cup of tea to wash it down and then did a little shoulder dance. “Um, um, um!”

  “Glad it meets with your approval.” Abby grinned. “I added last summer’s raspberry jam to the buttercream.”

  Kat used the silver serving knife to coax a chunk of buttercream from the chocolate cake. After dropping the buttercream onto her plate, she scooped it into her mouth with her fork and licked her lips. “Don’t know about it being an end-time cult, but it’s a cult. Of that, I’m sure. But like I said, my peeps are watching. When Baba’s gang breaks the law, we’ll make the arrests.”

  Laying aside the fork, Kat poured herself a glass of water. “For the life of me, I can’t imagine why anyone would join a commune or a cult. You have to give up your personal ambitions in life, sell your possessions, and donate all your money to the group. Fiona doesn’t seem the type, although I can’t say I know her that well.” She pushed down the lemon slice and sipped some water from the glass.

  Reaching again for the teapot to refill both empty cups, Abby felt as though Kat didn’t understand Fiona’s quirkiness. “She’s just searching for deeper meaning, and perhaps joining that commune and dressing in that folk-boho style are an extension of that.”

  “Someone should buy her a watch and suggest she check the time once in a while,” Kat said. “I’m not saying it to be mean-spirited, but it’s thoughtless of her not to call and let you know she’s been delayed.”

  Abby popped a piece of a sandwich into her mouth and nearly choked when the sound of gunfire rang out. After swallowing, she exclaimed, “Darn it, Kat! That ringtone is just plain annoying.”

  “Tells me it’s Otto calling,” Kat said, then licked her fingers and fished her cell from her pocket. After sliding a dry knuckle across the screen, Kat answered, “Hello, big daddy. What’s up?”

  Abby knew Sergeant Otto Nowicki wouldn’t be calling Kat on her day off without good reason.

  “Don’t tell me. He’s calling you in?” Abby whispered.

  Kat nodded. “He’s up at Kilbride Lake.”

  “What’s going on?” Abby asked softly.

  Kat shook her head and listened intently. She then whispered, “Canal patrol found a body in a burning car.”

  Abby stiffened. “A body?”

  Kat listened, locked eyes with Abby. Her expression darkened. “It’s Fiona’s car.”

  Abby’s stomach tightened. Her heart pounded. Oh, good Lord.

  “So, it is a woman’s body. Okay. See you in a few,” Kat said. After thrusting the phone into her pocket, she grabbed a couple of sandwiches in a napkin and slipped them into her other pocket. “Could be a long night. I’m hoping it’s not Fiona.”

  “Who else could it be?” Abby said, pushing away from the table. “I’m coming, too.”

  Tips for Making Rose-Scented Sugar

  Rose-scented sugar is easy to make. All you need is a screw-top mason jar, granulated sugar, and scented roses that are fresh, fragrant, and pesticide-free.

  1. Gather one to two cups of heavily scented rose petals that are free of blemishes and tiny insects.

  2. Wash the petals, pat them dry with paper towels, and snip off the white part (which can have a bitter taste).

  3. Alternate layers of sugar and rose petals in the jar until it is filled, leaving half an inch of space at the top.

  4. Screw on the lid and set the jar in a cool, dark place for at least two weeks.

  5. Sift out the petals before using the sugar.

  Chapter 2

  To repel moths in the garden, plant rosemary

  and lavender; to keep them out of your closet,

  hang the herbs in sachets.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  Guiding her Jeep out of Las Flores and along the blacktop roads that twisted through the foothills, Abby managed to keep Kat’s vintage silver roadster in sight all the way to the summit. However, after the cutoff, which was only about eight minutes from downtown Las Flores, Abby lost sight of her former partner. After the cutoff, Abby negotiated the steep switchbacks of the narrow two-lane road until it dipped into a heavily forested area of pine, oaks, and redwood trees. Through the open Jeep windows, the mountain air smelled of sun-drenched earth and dried plant matter. Soon she turned off onto a link road leading to Kilbride Lake. The mountain lake supplied drinking water through a series of canals and reservoirs to Las Flores residents, as well as to the mountain people who lived on the western side of town.

  Pulling off the road behind police cruisers and a fire truck, Abby guided the Jeep beneath a towering sequoia with a trunk nearly as wide as the fire truck Kat had parked behind. Abby jumped from the Jeep and slammed the door. The stench of burnt plastic, rubber, and human flesh turned her back. She opened the door and searched the vehicle for something to use as a mask. Behind the driver’s seat, she found a package of work gloves. After ripping open the plastic bag, she removed a pair, then held them against her nose and mouth as she strode toward the coterie of first responders.

  Firefighters from Cal Fire had already ex
tinguished the blaze and were mopping up. Las Flores police chief Bob Allen and Sergeant Otto Nowicki assessed the scene. Kat, in her sundress, looked totally out of place as she stood next to a uniformed officer. Sheriff’s deputies, a canal patrol agent, and the local forest ranger huddled together a few feet away, chatting, apparently awaiting the arrival of the coroner.

  Abby’s heart pounded as she spotted Fiona’s car. She took in as many details of the scene as possible as she made her way over. A booming voice called out her name.

  “What the devil are you doing here, Mackenzie?”

  “Hello, Chief,” Abby said. She lowered the gloves from her nose and stared at him. “I wanted to see for myself why my guest of honor didn’t show up for our garden party today.”

  The police chief fixed one of his famous steely-eyed stares on her. “You know the vic?”

  “I know Fiona Mary Ryan. Until I get a look at who is in that car, I won’t be able to tell you if the woman is Fiona or not.” Abby scrutinized the car. It had not been wrecked. There were no signs of any exterior damage beyond what the fire had done. So, there had been no roadway accident.

  “Petrovsky says it’s her,” the chief said. “But another ID couldn’t hurt, since we found no purse or documents in the glove compartment. Get over here, Mackenzie.”

  Abby walked toward Otto, who was ogling Kat in her short sundress. Abby picked her way through the grass and weeds until Chief Bob Allen’s voice boomed again.

  “Watch out there!”

  Abby halted. You always could bark like a rabid dog, Chief, she thought.

  “Back up and go around,” the chief snapped, as if addressing a rookie. “Can’t you see the tire impression?”

  Abby had indeed noticed the partial tire print and had sidestepped it by more than a foot.

  “Get the crime-scene tape over there.” Chief Bob Allen bellowed the order at the uniformed officer behind him.

  Abby wanted to bark back, “Should have been taped long before now.”

  “If you’ll recall from your academy training, Mackenzie,” Chief Bob Allen continued, “that tire track could be a clue. It might belong to the killer’s vehicle.”

  Whatever. Don’t talk down to me. Abby knew only too well Chief Bob Allen’s passive-aggressive personality after working for him for seven years. She took his barked comments in stride, because she felt pretty certain that the police chief had a deep-seated inferiority complex and felt his confidence elevated only when he was demeaning someone else. Abby returned the gloves to her nose. The stench of Fiona’s body and the burnt car was overpowering. She peered inside the driver’s side door.

  Fiona’s pale complexion was black and red in areas, but the bone structure was still intact. Her shoulder-length dark hair clung to her scalp in clumps, like tufts of wild weeds dotting an arid field. Abby looked at Fiona’s neck. She took a sharp breath and peered more closely. Where was the necklace with the Celtic cross that Fiona always wore, believing as she did that it held a link between her and her pre-Irish ancestors, the Celts?

  Abby fought back a wave of nausea. Oh, Fiona, what happened to you?

  Fiona’s attire suggested to Abby that she’d dressed especially nice for the luncheon—a gauzy white blouse, a chiffon gypsy skirt, lace leggings, and flats. The smoke and the agony of seeing her friend’s body in such a senseless and sickening state caused her eyes to sting. But this was neither the time nor the place for an emotional display. Abby muffled a sob and wiped the gloves across her cheeks to erase any evidence of tears. Her throat tightened. Do not cry. Not here. Not now. She gulped hard and fought for composure. She would have only these moments to study the car and her friend’s body. She sniffed hard, as if doing so might help her disassociate from her emotion and instead focus on the car interior.

  The fire had claimed the front end and most of the dash. The driver’s and the front passenger’s windows were down, and the doors unlocked. The backseat was devoid of baskets and books, which seemed to accompany Fiona wherever she went. There were no signs of a struggle, no purse, no pills, or flammable liquids that might have started a fire. Nothing. Weird. Fiona seemed to have been sitting peacefully behind the steering wheel, waiting to burn up. Why hadn’t she tried to escape?

  Stepping back, Abby turned to face Chief Bob Allen. After sighing heavily and clearing her throat, Abby said. “It’s her, Fiona Mary Ryan.”

  “What was your relationship with her?” Chief Bob Allen asked pointedly. He scrutinized Abby’s face like he would that of a perp who might be hiding something. If he felt any sympathy for Abby’s loss of her friend, he didn’t show it.

  “We shared a love of gardening.” Abby swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in her throat. Hold it together. Stand strong, straight-faced. “Fiona owns the botanical shop on Main—Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. She was supposed to join us for lunch today but was a no-show.” Abby swallowed hard. “Now we know why.”

  “What time was that lunch to be held?”

  “Noon.”

  “Does she have family in Las Flores?” Chief Bob Allen asked.

  “I don’t think so. She lost her parents several years ago in a car crash. She has a brother. I’ve heard a lot about him, but I’ve never met him. Does a lot of international travel, I gather. When he’s on the West Coast, he stays with her.” Abby sniffed again and then waved the smoke away with her gloves.

  “What about a husband, children?”

  “Children, no. Husband, yes. She’s married to Tom Davidson Dodge. Separated now. She goes by the name of Ryan. Divorce isn’t final. He lives down the road, in that mountain commune, when he isn’t staying with her, which he occasionally does. Or did. Their relationship was a little strange, but you had to know Fiona. There’s a boyfriend, too, recently estranged. Laurent Duplessis.”

  “Duplessis. Unusual name,” remarked the chief. He looked over at Otto, who was jotting down Abby’s comments in a notebook, as if wanting to make sure Otto had duly noted that name.

  “He’s Haitian, I believe. I only met him once,” said Abby. “Seems all right.”

  “Any idea where we can find this boyfriend?”

  “Last I heard, he had rented a room over Twice Around Markdowns.”

  “All right, Mackenzie. Good information. Stick around. We’re going to need your statement.”

  “Yeah, I know the drill, but thanks for reminding me.”

  “Coroner’s van is here,” said the chief, looking over the latest vehicle to arrive.

  Millie Jamison stepped from the van, setting one black flat on the ground and then the other. A black dress with red piping showed her curves as she quickly slipped on a disposable gown, pulled booties over her shoes, and threaded her fingers into latex gloves.

  “Oh, my, my,” said Otto. “You’d never know she had a baby a few months ago. She’s looking pretty hot.”

  Abby and Kat shared an eye roll.

  “Really, Otto. Get over your bad self,” said Kat.

  Abby watched Millie make her way over to the body. “Glad she’s here. She’s good, no question. But when is the county going to hire a permanent chief medical examiner? Didn’t the grand jury’s report make that recommendation? Bringing a chief medical examiner on board makes more sense than having the two assistant medical examiners working cases with the coroner, don’t you think?”

  Kat shrugged. “It’s all about funding. There isn’t any. The system’s working, so I guess the consensus is, if it isn’t broken, don’t try to fix it.”

  Otto strutted to the crime-scene tape and, lifting it, said, “We believe our vic is Fiona Mary Ryan.”

  “Noted. Thanks,” said Millie, darting under the tape. She was clearly all business.

  The local TV station van pulled in behind the coroner’s vehicle, diverting Abby’s attention from Millie to the crew. In a heartbeat, they were setting up for a live shot from the scene.

  Abby shook her head and said to no one in particular, “Boy, they got here fast.” She kne
w the news reporters listened to the same scanners as the emergency responders, fire, and police. Fat chance of keeping the lid on the murder investigation, if that was what the chief wanted—and that was what he always wanted on any investigation. He hated bad publicity for the town and always tried to put a positive spin on negative news. But it was difficult to spin a murder, especially when the victim was a local businesswoman.

  Abby watched Chief Bob Allen straighten his jacket, walk over to meet the news crew, and point them to a spot farther away from the body in the car. He probably offered to step in front of the camera, with the proviso that they wait for a shot of the car until the body was in the coroner’s van.

  “Well, here we are again, just like the old days,” Otto said. “You still shucking corn and shelling peas, Abby?”

  Abby smiled and nodded. She liked Otto. His wife, the West Coast regional director of an ambulance company, was gone a lot. Back in the day, when she was still on the force, Otto often offered to buy Abby and Kat dinner or drinks at the Black Witch, just to have a little company. But Otto could be annoyingly blunt.

  “If you’re asking if I’m still farming, the answer is yes,” replied Abby. “Corn in the fall, peas in the spring.” She smiled sweetly at Otto, then added, “Listen, guys, I’ve got a few of Fiona’s things at my place.”

  “Oh, yeah?” replied Otto. “Like what?”

  “Nothing special. A trowel, a scarf, and an armful of old books. She tended to write notes on scraps of paper and stuff them inside books. I doubt you’ll find anything in them relevant to her death, but just the same . . .” Abby swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’ll hand them over so you can give them to her next of kin.”

  Otto nodded. Kat stared expectantly at the coroner, who was approaching them.