by Meera Lester
It was the first time Abby had seen Millie in over a year, and Millie’s countenance reflected a new mother’s glow.
Stepping carefully, she ducked under the crime-scene tape to approach Abby, Kat, and Otto. Peeling off her gloves, Millie said, “Been a while since I’ve seen the three of you on scene together.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like we pulled you away from something pretty special,” said Otto.
“You look stunning,” Abby chimed in.
“Hope it wasn’t the christening,” added Kat.
Millie smiled. “No. My hubby and I were at the symphony, on a rare date. I got the call in the middle of the ‘Méditation’ from Thaïs.” Met with a blank stare from Otto and Kat, Millie looked at Abby. “You know that piece, don’t you, Abby?”
“One of my favorites,” Abby replied.
“Still pick up your violin once in a while?” Millie asked.
“Not really.” Abby tried to sound indifferent, as if it didn’t matter anymore. Millie sounded sympathetic, as if she knew that the thumb injury that had sidelined Abby’s law enforcement career had also deprived her of one of her personal, secret pleasures, playing the violin. Her gun hand was also her bowing hand. It required a stable thumb. And hers wasn’t. Safely locked in its case, the violin that Abby couldn’t play but couldn’t part with gathered dust on the top shelf of her closet.
Glancing at her watch, Millie asked, “So which one of you is in charge?”
Otto replied, “Technically, that would be me, although Chief Bob Allen is over there, doing the live interview, and you might want to talk with him, as well.” Otto ran a hand over his crew cut and hitched his duty belt a little higher, as if doing so somehow elevated his stature.
“So, my best guess is the death occurred sometime between seven o’clock this morning and noon,” Millie said.
“Ah, jeez, Doc. Could you be a little more specific?” asked Otto.
“Hard to say exactly. You know how this works. We might be able to get a little closer after the autopsy.”
Otto nodded. “Cause and manner?”
“That, too, is hard to pinpoint in the absence of obvious signs of trauma, wounds, ligature, punctures, and cuts. We got severe thermal burns. Carbon monoxide poisoning is the most frequent cause of death in burn victims. But there’s no cherry-pink and apple blossom–white skin mottling. That tells me she wasn’t breathing during the fire. As I said, the autopsy will tell us more.”
Millie’s driver approached with a collapsible transport gurney, a body bag, and a form, which he handed to Millie. Otto presented a pen to Millie, and she filled out the form.
“So, here’s the release number. I’ve put my contact info on there, as well,” Millie said, handing back the paperwork.
Abby’s thoughts raced. She had a zillion questions she wanted to ask, but this wasn’t her investigation, and this wasn’t the right time. Otto scanned the form and then looked over at the burned car. Kat’s expression mirrored the solemnity of the moment. Abby felt her stomach tighten, knowing how they all had to compartmentalize emotions when dealing with cases like this one. Millie seemed to do it best. She respected the bodies and had deep empathy and compassion for their families. In that way, too, Millie and Abby shared a similarity.
Millie turned to leave, and Kat called out, “Before you go, Dr. Jamison, can you tell us with any certainty that Fiona did not just sit there and died of smoke inhalation? That’s kind of hard to think that might have happened.”
“Indeed,” said Millie. “I’d think if she were still alive, she would have tried to escape, unless she was incapacitated, of course. But to answer your question, if she was in the car, breathing in smoke, we will undoubtedly see evidence of soot in her lungs during the autopsy.” Millie flashed a sympathetic smile. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Unfortunately, we’ll just have to wait and see what secrets her body gives up.”
After Millie left, with Fiona’s body bagged and tagged in the back of the coroner’s van, Abby spotted Chief Bob Allen walking toward her, Otto, and Kat. Abby groaned. “Okay, guys. This is where I say, ‘See you later.’” She knew that Kat and Otto would understand the strained relationship between their boss and her. The tension between them was old history.
“Understood. Go,” Kat urged.
Otto nodded.
Abby gave them both quick hugs before hurrying back to her car. Otto and Kat were smart, diligent cops. Abby knew they would draw up a time line for the last twenty-four hours of Fiona’s life. They would make a list of the people with whom she’d had contact and would make note of the reasons Fiona had associated with them. A person of interest would soon emerge. Abby knew that killers always had a relationship with their victims—however fleeting.
Passing through town, Abby stopped by the doggy spa to pick up Sugar.
“Zowie! Somebody looks better for an overnight stay at the Diggity Do,” she said, hugging Sugar, who seemed just as eager to see her. After taking the leash from the worker at the spa for pets, Abby walked an excited Sugar to the Jeep. She patted the car seat, and Sugar hopped in. Her tail wagged almost as hard as she panted.
Fifteen minutes later, back on the farmette, Abby poured herself a cup of cold tea from the pot she and Kat had abandoned. She strolled with Sugar from the patio to the backyard and sank onto the seat of the free-standing porch swing that she’d placed between two apricot trees. The cloying, sweet fragrance of citrus blooms permeated the air. A family of twenty crows that had taken up residence in the tall eucalyptus tree on the vacant wooded acre behind her property cawed in a raucous chorus. Abby rocked on the swing, hoping to push out the images stuck in her mind, images that sickened her as she thought about how Fiona might have died at the hands of her killer. What had been troubling Fiona? Why had she wanted advice from someone who had worked in law enforcement? Abby knew she might never get the answers to those questions, but she was sure going to try.
Dusk descended like a diaphanous veil over the farmette. Its hues of silvery violet and pale lavender reframed the landscape. A barn owl winged its way overhead, then disappeared into the dark canopy of trees. Abby struggled to fight back tears, which finally overtook her, hot and salty, spilling down her cheeks, wetting the fabric of the retro-hippie-chic peasant dress that Fiona would never see.
Abby rocked until the moon rose. Until her stomach was no longer knotted. Until her heart hammered no more. Her thoughts turned to the usual suspects: husband, boyfriend, known associates, and people harboring grudges.
Ancient Wisdom Botanicals had opened less than a year ago—a year after Fiona and her husband, Tom Davidson Dodge, had separated. He lived most of the time at the commune, in an old VW bus that bore the rainbow colors and peace symbols of a bygone era and rested on railroad ties and concrete blocks. Tom had gotten a good deal on the van from a mountain mechanic who’d kept it over a dispute about payment for repairs the mechanic had done. But why, after separating, had Fiona and Tom occasionally still shared a bed at her cottage on Dr. Danbury’s property? People in town knew that Fiona had wanted a child with Tom before her biological clock made it impossible. They also knew that even when she’d dated others during their separation, Tom remained her one true love.
Fiona’s most recent boyfriend, Laurent Duplessis, could drum, sing, and attract more girlfriends than a Haitian masked booby could find fish in the sea. But his relationship with Fiona hadn’t endured. She had liked that he seemed to know more about herbs than most people in town, particularly how to use them in Haitian food. His voodoo religion was, according to Fiona, mind-blowing, and they’d shared an interest in learning about various spiritual paths and practices. She had allowed herself to be comforted by him as her relationship with the commune people became increasingly strained. She’d let him work in her store for a while. But in a reversal of roles, she’d ended up as the caretaker of Laurent, who became increasingly irresponsible. When their relationship grew toxic, she had moved on. He hadn’t. Abby recalled that
Fiona had confided in her that she believed Laurent had been following her around. He had seemed to be stalking her. Just three days before the luncheon, she’d asked Abby for a meeting. Now Abby wondered if the purpose of the meeting was to find out about how to get a restraining order. Or was it something else?
She owed Fiona a debt of gratitude for all the help with the farmette herb garden. Abby vowed to repay the debt by finding out how Fiona had ended up alone and dead in a burning car, instead of dining on egg salad sandwiches in Abby’s lovely garden, in the company of friends.
Egg Salad Tea Sandwiches
Ingredients:
6 hard-boiled eggs (chilled or at room temperature)
½ cup mayonnaise
¼ cup finely minced red onion
2 tablespoons minced sweet gherkin pickles
2 tablespoons coarse-ground mustard
1 teaspoon organic honey
½ teaspoon finely minced fresh dill
Kosher salt, to taste
Freshly cracked black pepper, to taste
12 slices white or whole-wheat bread
6 chilled, crisp lettuce leaves or 24 thin slices Armenian
cucumber
Directions:
Peel and chop the hard-boiled eggs and place the chopped eggs in a medium bowl. Add the mayonnaise, onion, pickles, mustard, honey, dill, salt, and pepper to the eggs and mix thoroughly. Set the egg salad aside.
Stack 2 slices of bread on a cutting board so that they are completely aligned and cut off the crusts with a sharp knife. Repeat this process until all the slices of bread have been trimmed.
Spread a thin layer of the reserved egg salad on 6 bread slices. Top each with a lettuce leaf or 4 cucumber slices and then a plain bread slice to make 6 sandwiches.
Cut each sandwich into 4 squares or, if you prefer, 4 triangles with a sharp knife. Arrange the tea sandwiches on a large plate and serve at once.
Serves 4 to 6 (4 to 6 tea sandwiches per person)
Chapter 3
Don’t get sidetracked by the hens’ antics if the
rooster is in a foul mood.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Houdini, the rust-colored bantam rooster with weapon-like spurs, eyed Abby, as if ready for attack. She saw him.
“Did somebody get up on the wrong side of the roost?” she asked.
She stepped up the tempo of her chores in the poultry area, collecting eggs and hosing down the water dispenser before refilling it. Keeping Houdini in her line of sight, she plucked the aluminum feeder from its suspension hook and added crumbles. Sooner or later, he was going to make his move. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Houdini begin to pace. Hurriedly, she rehung the feeder. Sidestepping the hens, Abby fetched the bag of wilted spinach and lettuce leaves from the wheelbarrow next to the gate and dumped the entire mound into the large cracked platter on the ground. “Here you go, my darlings.”
So Houdini had gotten his hackles up. Abby wondered what had triggered his agitation this time. She was almost finished with the chores when Houdini flew at her, screeching a shrill warning and flapping his wings as though his tail feathers had caught fire.
“Oh, cool your spurs, big boy,” Abby said, dodging the assault and grabbing the garden hoe. She held the hoe handle in a defensive position and eased out of the gate, stepping backward.
Like an opposing warlord, Abby locked eyes with Houdini. The rooster blinked first. Apparently satisfied that he had sufficiently established dominance over his domain, the rooster promptly herded Henrietta, Heloise, Tighty Whitey, Red, Orpy, and the wyandotte sisters with aggressive pecks. He stopped when finally they stood bunched together in a huddle under the henhouse. The bantam rooster began macho prancing. Abby had seen it before . . . and so had the hens. The girls watched in seeming boredom as Houdini executed the moves of his scratch dance, trying to entice them into exploring what his sharp toenails might have unearthed. On the off chance that he had uncovered a worm, two of the hens wandered over. No worms. Not so much as a grub or a speck of birdseed. They ambled off to a sunny spot for a dirt bath.
“Listen up, ladies, and you, too, Mr. Fancy Pants,” said Abby. “Keep an eye peeled for hawks circling. I’ve spotted three already this morning. One is sitting sentry up there in that pine tree. I don’t want to come home to a pile of plucked feathers and no chickens, and trust me, you don’t want that, either.”
After latching the gate, Abby picked up the basket of eggs, most in hues of brown, white, and tan, with a blue-green one from the Ameraucana. She walked to the water spigot in the middle of the yard. Sugar bounded over.
“You’ve been chasing my songbirds, haven’t you?”
Abby leaned down and turned off the water to the hose. She would have filled the second water dispenser, as she usually did on hot days, but the rubber ring inside the screw-top lid on the older dispenser had snapped, making the dispenser unusable. Knowing that if a chicken went without water, it could stop laying eggs for up to three weeks, Abby made a mental note to keep a close watch on the water level in the sole dispenser. The temperature was expected to climb into the triple digits by late afternoon. On her way back to the kitchen, she plucked a stick from the grass and flung it into the air. Sugar bounded after it and trotted back, leaving the stick where it had landed under the white tea roses.
“Would it be asking too much to bring the stick back?” Abby knelt and massaged the dog’s neck. “If you weren’t such a cutie-pie, with a personality to match, I would have found you a new home long ago. But when the vet said your genes showed English pointer, beagle, and whippet, I got the idea that you might have a talent for tracking. That talent is useful in investigative work. Can you see where I’m going with this?”
Sugar pushed back and gave an impatient, high-pitched yip, yip. She might not be the world’s greatest interpreter of dog speak yet, but Abby felt pretty sure that Sugar wanted a treat or a walk. But conversation . . . not so much.
“Okay, already. Let’s find you a treat and get the leash.”
In the kitchen, Abby searched for the bag of doggy treats. There were only three places in her unfinished kitchen where the bag could be hiding: on top of the double ovens, which had been installed without an upper cabinet; in the pantry of dry goods, next to the fridge; and in the drawer under the counter where she kept potatoes and onions.
“Shoot. Did you eat them all already?” Abby avoided eye contact with Sugar. Without looking, she knew that Sugar was gazing up at her with expectant eyes, making her guilt even harder to bear. How could she not remember having thrown out the empty treat bag? And, worse, why hadn’t she ensured an adequate supply in the first place?
After grabbing her purse, the leash, and the car key, Abby slid open the screen door. “Come on, big girl. We’d better go get that gasket for the chicken water dispenser and more doggy . . .” She stopped short of saying the word. No point in getting the dog super excited all over again.
Twenty minutes later, Abby navigated the Jeep into the parking lot behind Crawford’s Feed and Farm Supplies. She liked going in through the back door since there was always plenty of parking behind the building. Regular customers parked on the street out front. The store’s employees parked at the rear, where truck deliveries were handled, where the bales of hay and straw were stacked, and where owner Lucas Crawford had a designated place for his pickup. Lucas had been widowed for almost two years now. His wife had died early in her pregnancy from virulent pneumonia. After the funeral for his wife and unborn child, Lucas had thrown himself into running the store, continuing to make deliveries around the county, and working on his cattle ranch near Abby’s small farm. Up there, away from the town and the eager advances of women who wanted to console him, Lucas found solace in raising his grass-fed beef and riding his horses, keeping to himself.
When he had learned that Abby had bought the farmette downhill from his place, Lucas had made a special point of giving her permission to use his old truck if the need ever arose. He’d
held on to his late wife’s car, he’d told her, so there was no inconvenience. Abby smiled as she stared at his red truck. She’d borrowed it only twice—once to haul compost from the recycling plant to her gardens and another time to transport some lumber to repair the farmhouse kitchen. Each time she had washed the vehicle and had hung the extra key back on its nail on the wall inside the old gray barn where Lucas kept it.
The ringtone of her cell sounded, jarring her from her thoughts.
“Just a reminder. The estate sale is Saturday.” Kat’s voice practically trilled the words.
“What happened to hello?” asked Abby.
“You have caller ID, girlfriend. Just making sure you remember not to do the farmers’ market. I thought we could take your car to the estate sale since your Jeep has more room than my roadster,” said Kat.
“I’ve circled the date on my calendar, Kat. And yes, we’ll take my Jeep. No problem.”
Abby was more concerned about what the cops had discovered in their investigation of Fiona’s death. With a killer on the loose in Las Flores, Abby could hardly think of bargain hunting. “What’s new with the murder investigation?” she asked, tapping the speaker mode of her cell and setting the phone on the dashboard. She needed both hands to snap the leash onto Sugar’s collar. The dog had already started barking her impatience.
“Lot of info, but few leads.”
Sighing, Abby said, “So no one heard or saw anything?”
“More like no one is saying if they did. We’re ruling out those closest to her and moving out from there. Checking alibis. Working the angles.”
“Gotcha. So exactly where is the estate sale?” Abby asked, still struggling with the leash. Sugar wiggled worse than a bowl of gelatin on a picnic table during an earthquake. Abby had tried three times to connect the leash latch to the ring on her harness and finally gave up.