by Meera Lester
“Vineyard Lane . . . at the Richardson estate. Two doors down from where Fiona lives.”
“Lived,” Abby said, correcting her. Sugar whined. “Oh, hold on, Kat, while I deal with this dog.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re at the feed store, on a run for chow and treats. Parked around back.”
“And I’m right around the corner. Be there in five. It’ll give me a chance to check out Mr. Action Hero with the washboard abs. I can’t for the life of me figure out why a man that good-looking hasn’t remarried. He can’t still be in mourning.”
“If you mean Lucas Crawford, I’m watching him walk out the door right now. You better hurry, or you’ll miss him,” Abby said, instantly wishing she could call back her words. Kat was her dearest friend, but until Abby figured out why she felt those butterflies in her tummy whenever Lucas met up with her, she didn’t want anyone—including Kat—complicating the situation. Not that there was a situation. And Abby could certainly understand why the single women in town might fantasize about the quiet rancher who lived a stone’s throw up the hill from her farmette.
“Stay put, Abby. I’ll be right there,” Kat said and clicked off.
Abby laid the cell on the console. No point in taking Sugar inside until Kat had come and gone. Through the windshield, Abby watched Lucas check his phone before sliding it into his jeans pocket. Man, did he ever look good in slim-legged, boot-cut dungarees and a cotton flannel shirt. She hadn’t seen him since those heavy winter rains, when he’d dressed in a knee-length slicker. Drought-stricken California always needed rain, but twenty-one straight days of it had worn heavily on the people who had to work in it, like farmers and ranchers. But her misery over the incessant rain and mud had had a bright spot when, at the end of that rainy period in March, Lucas had dropped by unannounced. He’d come to ask about the aged French drain around Abby’s farmhouse. Was it still holding strong and redirecting the rising water?
He’d offered to bring her some sandbags if flooding seemed imminent. Abby smiled as she recalled how surprised she’d been to see him and also at the excuse he used to explain the visit. The French drain? Seriously?
She’d offered him coffee, a freshly baked cinnamon roll, and a towel to dry his face and his wet hair. His eyes, the color of creek water, gazed at her with such intensity that it seemed almost as if he could see into the depths of her heart. It was then that Abby felt the first flutter of attraction. That day in March, he stood facing her, dripping with rainwater like a drowned kitten, and gave her a rare smile. He took the towel she’d offered, shoved it through his curly, brown locks, and swallowed several sips of the steaming black brew. Under the intensity of his gaze, the butterflies in Abby’s tummy took flight. She wondered then if he felt them, too. But she guessed not, since he suddenly said thanks, handed her the cup, gave Sugar a pat on the head, and left. That was the way of enigmatic Lucas, a man of few words, but full of surprises.
Now, as Abby watched Lucas climb onto the seat of his truck and slam the door behind him, she had to wonder why he hadn’t been around of late. His red truck disappeared around the side of the feed store where an alley turned into the street. Most likely, he was taking off for a new delivery. Nobody provided that kind of customer service anymore. It endeared Lucas all the more to the people of Las Flores and his customers countywide. And today Abby was grateful that she’d parked under the dense walnut tree, next to a pallet of starter feed for laying hens, where she could secretly watch Lucas.
Kat eased her vintage roadster into a parking space just as Abby slid out of the driver’s side of the Jeep. She held Sugar on the leash as Kat exited her sports car and threw her arms around Abby in a demonstrative hug. Kat wore a navy pantsuit with a crisp white shirt, and a vintage brooch pinned to her lapel. Kat loved anything Victorian, from her cottage behind a large Victorian-style home in Las Flores to her collection of sterling silver thimbles and decorative combs, which she sometimes wore, although not today. Her blond tresses sported an expensive-looking cut and, with mousse, had been coaxed into an edgy style. Kat rarely wore makeup, although Abby could tell that today was one of those days when she did—mascara on her lashes and a sheer pink gloss on her lips.
“You get dressed up to come to the feed store? Impressive,” Abby said, amused.
Kat grinned. “Don’t be silly. I’m testifying in court today. But you, girlfriend, look like you’re taking Fiona’s death hard. You’ve got badger eyes.”
Abby heaved a sigh. “It was a long night. Couldn’t sleep thinking about the case. Anything you can share?”
“Not really. The people closest to her all have alibis, so we’re going a little further out in her orbit, interviewing friends, customers, vendors, even the commune residents.”
Before Abby could ask more questions about the investigation, she noticed Kat jerk her head toward the feed-store door.
“Did Prince Charming go back inside?”
“Nope. He hoisted some hay onto his truck and hightailed it out of here.”
Was Lucas the reason Kat had gotten so dressed up? She could have just worn her police uniform to court. Abby felt her stomach lurch.
“Your dance card is usually full, Kat. Are you saving a tango for Lucas?”
“Maybe.”
Concealing her surprise, Abby asked, “What happened to the security guard?”
“Oh, that’s so five minutes ago. But I recently had drinks again with the chef at Zazi’s.”
Abby brightened. “Oh really? So how did that go?”
“Oh, you know, he’s nice enough. . . .”
“But?”
“I don’t know. I prefer my tomatoes and onions on a plate, not tattooed on the forearms of the guy handing me the plate. Always . . . with the sleeves up. I’ve got nothing against ink, but I’m not feeling the sparks. Wishing I could find a nice Silicon Valley engineer type to hook up with. The trouble is, most around Las Flores moved here with a wife and kids.”
“I’m not making the connection here between your chef, the engineer you want, and Lucas Crawford. Can you clue me in?”
“Well, Lucas, now, he’s a looker. He’s also eligible, available, and as you told me, he can cook.”
Abby felt taken aback. Kat had remembered that detail. Momentarily caught off guard, Abby sputtered, “Yes, so I’ve heard. But he isn’t really your type, is he?”
Kat’s brow shot up. “And what type would that be?”
Abby fumbled for words, waved her hand, as if to dismiss the notion. “I . . .” She blew air between her lips. “I don’t know. Polar opposite, maybe?” She wished now that she’d said something long ago to Kat about how she felt around Lucas.
“Polar opposite? Really?” Kat looked surprised. “Well, opposites attract, or so they say. Lest you forget, it was you, Abby, who suggested I be more choosy, set my sights higher. Lucas Crawford would be a great catch. Maybe I could get him off that ranch. He might enjoy dating a fun-loving cop.”
Abby leaned against the Jeep, nodding her head. He might indeed. She’d said enough. She had trusted Kat with her life when they were partners on the force. Life had taught Abby a hard lesson about trust and betrayal. When Abby was in her midtwenties, her best friend, Josephine, had seduced Abby’s then boyfriend behind her back. He had left Abby for Jo, then had ditched Jo to romance a female recruiter for the military and had soon joined up. Kat wasn’t Jo. Abby knew that. If Kat only knew how a mere look from Lucas could stir Abby’s emotions. But Kat didn’t know. And whose fault is that?
Sugar wanted her treat. She clearly didn’t like being tethered while Abby chitchatted with Kat. The medium-sized dog had lunged at a passerby and now had grown bored barking at a gray squirrel in the tree. Abby applied a reassuring pat on Sugar’s head to calm her.
“Well, who knows?” Abby said to Kat with a smile. “Maybe Lucas will rock your world.”
“The way I see it, Abby, Lucas needs a good woman in his life. The whole town felt bad when his wife passed away so young
, being pregnant and all. I’d just like to be there for him.”
Abby smiled. You and every other single woman between twenty and sixty. But your heartfelt sentiment is sweet. Kat was gorgeous, openly flirty, intensely funny, and had a heart of gold. If Kat wanted to start something with Lucas, Abby wouldn’t stand in the way.
“Has he asked you out?” Abby asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Not yet,” Kat replied. “And I never seem to catch him here at the feed store.”
Her spirits suddenly buoyed, Abby grinned. “So people don’t usually dress up to buy feed. What were you going to tell him you were shopping for?”
“Dunno. Don’t have any pets. There’s a mouse in my house. Maybe a trap?”
“Seriously?” Abby snorted. “Wouldn’t that be just the thing? A trap?”
Kat chuckled. “I see what you mean.” She glanced at her watch. “Listen. I have to go in a minute, but about the estate sale . . . I’ve heard there will be lots of antiques and dishes and farm tools.”
“Great,” said Abby, relieved the conversation had taken a new direction.
“I happen to know that old lady Richardson collected gobs of fine china. I’ll be looking for porcelain and pottery marks while you hunt for garden stuff and old books.”
“You know I like good china, too,” Abby replied. “But back to Fiona for a moment. I saw a box or two of old gardening books in her shop that she planned to donate. What do you suppose will happen to those volumes?”
Kat’s brow puckered. “I couldn’t say. At some point, there’ll have to be a funeral. Might be a good time to ask her brother, who has to settle her affairs.”
“To hear Fiona tell it, he was the only stable person in her crazy quilt of a life. How’s he taking her death?” Abby asked.
“Like a man who has lost a loved one to a murderer. He’s grieving. Wants her killer brought to justice.”
Abby nodded. “We all want that. What did Fiona’s autopsy reveal?”
Kat glanced at her watch again. “Cardiac arrest due to asphyxia was the cause of death. No trauma to the body. The coroner’s report is inconclusive. And, as you know, the toxicology report takes as long as it takes. For now, that’s about all we have.”
“Asphyxia?” Abby blinked with bafflement. “Drowning causes asphyxia. Inhaling a toxic gas causes asphyxia. Choking . . .”
“Before you ask me if she was choked,” Kat said, “the answer is no. There were no marks on her neck or the rest of her body.”
“Well, that’s just weird,” Abby said. She recalled Fiona’s body in the car, with the front windows down. Fiona was seated behind the wheel and was leaning back in the seat. But her feet, as far as Abby could tell, didn’t quite reach the brake or the gas pedal.
“You and I were a great team, Abby. We still are. But Chief Bob Allen told me not to involve you in this case, so what I tell you can go no further. Abigail, I’m dead serious about the need for secrecy. Otherwise, I could lose my job.” Kat’s expression reflected the sober reality of what she apparently felt.
“I would never do or say anything to jeopardize your job, Kat. I hope you know that.” Abby suddenly lurched as Sugar pulled against the leash with a high-pitched yip, yip, yip, apparently after spotting a pair of squirrels scrambling along a limb of the tree.
Kat nodded. “Of course, but I need assurances that we’re on the same page. So, here’s a scoop. Fire investigators say an accelerant was used, but the coroner says no smoke or soot in her lungs, meaning—”
“Fiona was dead when someone torched the car,” said Abby. She leaned against the Jeep door, shaking her head, feeling sorrowful all over again.
“Oh, but there were traces of emesis in her mouth,” said Kat. “What do you make of that?”
“She threw up?” Abby asked, frowning. “You know, I’ve been with Fiona when she’s plucked a leaf from a plant and chomped down on it. I often wondered how she always seemed to know whether or not it was poisonous.” Abby scratched her head. “Maybe she knew from the bitterness or chalkiness or acidity. I don’t know. Regardless, it’s possible that this time she ate something toxic, something that caused her to vomit.”
“No evidence of it in the car or anywhere we searched . . .” Kat’s sentence trailed off.
“So if she was poisoned and threw up, the killer cleaned her up. Don’t you have any idea where the killer took her life?” Abby asked, trying to make a linkage without enough facts.
“No, we don’t. It’s possible she was at her cottage, or someone took her someplace else. What’s certain is that the murderer wanted the body and the car burned.”
“To cover his tracks.” Abby tried to wrap her mind around the puzzle. “Any sign of a struggle at her cottage? Or even the foul scent of someone being sick?”
Kat shook her head. “Nope. And there were no traces of botanical material on the car seats, floorboards, or in the trunk.”
Abby scratched her head. “So here’s a hypothesis. Fiona ingested or inhaled a lethal dose of something that caused her asphyxia. But it would have had to be quick acting, wouldn’t it? She threw up before dying. Her killer cleaned her up and drove her to the site at Kilbride Lake. He staged her body behind the wheel, used an accelerant, and set the car afire to conceal his crime. Car torched, body burned, and the killer gets away.” Abby waited for a response from Kat.
“It’s plausible. The toxicology screen will tell us more,” said Kat.
“But we both know forensic tests don’t happen in the real world like they do on TV. A toxicology screen is going to take a while—two to three weeks or more. Right now, I think the murderer would have had someone to help with the move and the disposal, possibly a second person to drive a getaway car from Kilbride Lake.”
“Makes perfect sense,” Kat said. She glanced again at her watch. “Oh, my gosh, I’ve got to get to court.”
Abby nodded. “Oh, before you leave . . . What about the tire print?”
“That piece of tire tread was awfully small. I don’t think the lab will be able to use it,” said Kat.
Abby nodded. “And Chief Bob Allen made such a big deal about it, as if I were a rookie whom he had just pinned. Whatever. I’ll help the investigation any way I can, Kat, but for now I’d better hustle home before Sugar snaps this leash.”
Kat was already climbing back into her roadster. “Let’s get an early start Saturday, say seven thirty. Don’t be late, or we’ll lose out on all the good stuff.”
“You just worry about getting the coffee ready. I’ll bake lemon scones and bring fresh strawberries and crème anglaise,” Abby said. She waved as Kat pulled away.
Abby dashed inside the feed store, with Sugar behaving like a dog who knew good behavior would get her a reward, and she and the clerk located a rawhide bone, a chew toy, and some dry doggy biscuits, along with a bag of dog food.
“Check back with us about that water dispenser gasket,” the clerk said. “I’ll let Lucas know we need more.”
“Sounds good,” said Abby. She left with her purchases in one hand and Sugar’s leash in the other.
Watching Sugar devour her treat, Abby decided to take another look at where Fiona had lived and died. We’re already in town. That puts us halfway there.
“What do you say to a drive into the mountains, Sugar Pie? Would you like that?” Abby fastened her seat belt, shifted the gear into reverse, and backed up the Jeep. Sugar cocked her head to one side. Looking over at her, Abby could almost swear Sugar was smiling back.
Abby stuck to the back roads through Las Flores, then drove through the mountains until she reached the red barn signifying the turnoff to Fiona’s cottage. After navigating up the short gravel road, she parked at the mailbox and read the sign on the front porch: WELCOME LITTLE PEOPLE, FAIRY FOLK, AND BEINGS OF LIGHT. Abby smiled and wondered how Fiona had managed to persuade Dr. Danbury to let her put that up. But then again, who would read it, except maybe the mail carrier and the two of them? Of course, there wa
s also the occasional transient Fiona brought home when rain or freezing temperatures threatened. A couple of weeks ago, Fiona had told her about picking up an Iraqi war vet who was hitching his way through the mountains to the valley of towns on the other side. He had slept on her couch for two nights. Abby sighed at the realization that for all her compassion, Fiona’s rescuing personality might have been her undoing.
Turning off the engine, Abby looked for signs of life. Perhaps the doc would peek out the window. Dr. David Danbury had been a successful surgeon at the local hospital. He’d purchased the property right after marrying a pretty psychiatrist from Stanford University who was doing the rotation part of her residency program at his hospital. When their growing family outgrew the cottage, the doc built a larger house right next door and connected the two homes with a breezeway. Later, when the marriage failed and his wife moved back east, taking their daughters with her, the doc gave up his lucrative practice to make wine. He rented out the little cottage and eventually became an alcoholic recluse.
Fiona had confided to Abby that she and the doc had initially got on just fine. But with booze on board, it was another story. The affable doctor turned into a pushy, mean drunk. He would talk about his life and insult each person as he remembered them. There was never a kind word for anyone. When Fiona didn’t want to keep drinking with him, he insulted her, too, saying she was an emasculator, like his wife had been. After that, Fiona had to tread upon the proverbial razor’s edge between being friendly with the doc and spurning his advances, which put her chances of staying in the cottage in jeopardy.
She loved her small home, positioned as it was in the middle of Dr. Danbury’s ten-acre vineyard. At the back, there was a Christmas tree farm that bordered another forty acres of wilderness. The latter provided refuge for wildlife, a small stand of old-growth redwoods, and many indigenous plants. When Fiona decided to leave the commune for good, it had been a stroke of good fortune to find Dr. Danbury’s cottage. She’d tried to stay in the doc’s good graces by offering to plant him a garden that included heirloom vegetables and herbs. One day, he’d pointed to a swath of land near a large olive tree, which he said he’d planted years ago for the wife who left him. The doc had plowed a section under the tree and had told Fiona, “Plant there.” That was the extent of his interest in gardens with anything that wasn’t a grapevine or a Christmas tree.