The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  “Yeah?”

  “Far older editions are still in circulation.” He released the book into Abby’s hands and leaned back against the tree trunk.

  Abby thumbed through the pages, noting Fiona’s underlining and pencil notations. Some seemed pointless, as if she’d been doodling in the margins, thinking about something else. The most common mark was a figure eight. Sometimes a cross or a T, and in other places the Aum symbol. There were astrological signs next to names. Abby searched for the photograph of a monastery garden laid out as a Latin cross. Not finding it, she stretched up and then relaxed her shoulders. What did it matter? She had the real thing, the herb garden that Fiona had created just for the farmette.

  “Nicholas Culpeper,” Jack said, “the author, was a physician and a botanist and also an astrologer. He wrote the first version of his Complete Herbal in sixteen fifty-three.”

  “Really?” exclaimed Abby. “Now, that would be quite the first edition to own, wouldn’t it?”

  He let go a mirthful laugh. “Culpeper’s observations about the characteristics of herbs were extraordinary, but linking herbs to astrological signs and planets defies modern explanation. Of course, in his time, it was undoubtedly considered rigorous, muscular thinking, I suppose. I mean, the man searched for symbolism and linkage.”

  “May I ask you a question about that?” Abby turned to lock eyes with him.

  “Certainly.” He flashed a quick, mercurial smile.

  “Do you know of any special meaning associated with the number eight?”

  “Symbolism, you mean?” He thought for a moment. “Well, in the great religious traditions of the world, there’s the eightfold path in Buddhism. Then there’s the Jewish ceremony of the circumcision of a male child eight days after his birth. An eight-pointed star symbolizes Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth in Hinduism. And, incidentally, it is also the symbol of the ancient Babylonian goddess Ishtar.” He paused to think. “In the early centuries of the Christian church, baptismal fonts were generally eight-sided. There’s ample evidence of them in the walls of ruined churches throughout Ireland.” Rubbing his chin, he added, “In botany, the genus Coreopsis, I recall, produces flower bracts divided into two series of eight.”

  Abby’s eyes widened. A smile played at the corners of her lips. “And let’s not forget there were eight maids a-milking in ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’” she said.

  “That too.” He grinned. “And the eighth month in our calendar year is August, the month of the astrological sign Leo. In tarot, the Strength card.”

  Abby looked at him with wonder. “Holy moly!” He’d seen her innocent question as a challenge, and clearly, he didn’t want to fail in meeting it.

  “And in mathematics, an eight on its side symbolizes infinity, while in the Chinese culture, eight symbolizes prosperity. Shall I go on?” he asked.

  “That’s quite sufficient. How did you come up with all that right off the top of your head?”

  Jack’s grin grew deeper. “It is a little association game I play to remember things. Now I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why are you intrigued by that number?”

  “I see Fiona has drawn figure eights throughout the book.”

  “Is that so?” he said. “I hadn’t noticed. Can’t imagine why she would. But what say you keep this book? I’m pretty sure my sister would have wanted you to have something with which to remember her.”

  “Why, thanks,” Abby said, cuddling the book against her bosom.

  Jack rose and motioned toward Zora. “I’ve got to talk with her about handling these books and a bunch of other stuff. When I’ve completed the cleaning out of Fiona’s cottage, I’ll have to deal with the botanical shop.”

  “So you’re going to sell the business?”

  “Sadly, yes. I know how much she loved it.” He took a step away before spinning around to face Abby. “There’s no chance that you . . . well . . . Would you be interested in helping me go through all her stuff?”

  “Sure, if you want me to.” Abby wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to scrutinize Fiona’s possessions for possible clues to her murder.

  “She was a voracious reader,” Jack said. “And a writer, too. I counted twenty-five journals, if you can call them that. People who keep journals mostly just jot down their thoughts. Not my sister. She stuffed hers with scraps of paper, letters, notes, feathers, found objects, bits of glittery things, broken seashells, all kinds of stuff.”

  “Just another reflection of her free spirit, I suspect,” Abby replied.

  His rugged features lit up at her positive spin on his statement. “You clearly understood my sister as others haven’t. So when would you like to start?”

  “Well . . .” Abby thought about her farmette work, her farmers’ market obligations, and the promises she’d made to Clay. How much longer could she reasonably expect him to wait before moving back in? And if Clay knew she was planning to spend time with another man—even if it was for a good cause—might it not provide him a reason to leave again? Oh, but why am I even thinking about that now? Abby felt her forehead creasing into a frown.

  Jack’s facial expression darkened. “Look, I don’t want to make any demands on the rest of your weekend,” he said, “but how about Monday morning, say, nine o’clock?”

  His tone made it sound like an entreaty.

  Mustering courage, Abby replied, “Okay. I’ll bring breakfast.” Had that sounded too eager or forward? she wondered. Breakfast meant conversation, and she had a lot of questions for him.

  “You can bring your dog, if you don’t think she’ll get in the way. I like dogs. I do. Sugar. That’s her name, isn’t it?” His thick brows arched mischievously; his pale blues widened.

  You like dogs. Could’ve fooled me. “Wow. That’s quite a memory,” Abby said.

  The breeze tousled his curly, brown hair as he leaned over to grip the box in his large hands and hoist it high into his arms.

  “It’s selective,” he said with a wink and walked away.

  Tips for Growing Kitchen Herbs in a Container

  Plant seedlings of your favorite culinary herbs in a terra-cotta pot with a saucer, a wooden box filled with potting soil, or even a large bag of soil that you have made a rectangular opening in on one side. Maintain a regular watering schedule. Choose from any of the following culinary herbs: basil, chervil, chives, cilantro, dill, English thyme, French tarragon, lavender, lemon balm, lemongrass, oregano, rosemary, savory, and sorrel.

  Chapter 9

  Sweetened by sugar or salted by brine, a pickle

  strikes a nice balance . . . unless the pickle’s a

  jam and you’re caught in the middle.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  Leaving sleepy Las Flores for the mountains on Monday, Abby looked forward to spending the day in Fiona’s cottage, helping her brother pack her belongings. Last night, she’d told Clay she needed another day or two to stow things away and make room for his stuff. Surprisingly, he had accommodated her without too much protest, but he hadn’t spared her his sad-faced Eeyore expression.

  As for Jack, she sincerely wanted to lend a helping hand. Apparently, he didn’t know a soul in town other than his sister and her estranged husband. But as Abby thought about it, she realized that sometimes in the most innocuous of settings and situations, one learned things. One little detail, overlooked at first, could sometimes break a case wide open. Abby took her time negotiating the Jeep around ever-higher curves until the fog abruptly yielded to sunlight. In the forest clearings, she observed the low ceiling of clouds still hanging over the valley floor. But once she’d pierced the gray shroud of fog, the sunlight of the mountains dazzled through canopies of towering blue-green redwood trees. The morning air carried the humid scent of pine sap, wild thyme, and decayed plant material.

  At Dr. Danbury’s big red barn, Abby turned onto the weedy gravel driveway and drove up to Fiona’s cottage. She cut the engine and s
at for a moment, wondering if she should have dressed more conservatively. It was going to be a hot day, and she’d chosen loose, cool clothes—a lacy black camisole and a see-through white cotton shirt with three-quarter sleeves. The shirt hung several inches over black cropped pants with side and rear pockets, in case she needed to stash a note or two for safekeeping. The only thing not color coordinated was the chartreuse bandanna around her shoulder-length red-gold curls. But why am I thinking about clothing now, as if changing anything at this point is even an option?

  She glanced at the shed that served as Dr. Danbury’s garage. The door had been thrust wide open. Inside, a partially covered, mud-splattered all-terrain vehicle, or ATV, had been parked at the rear, behind the spot where the doc customarily parked his Volvo. The Volvo was gone. Abby couldn’t help wondering where the doc had gotten off to so early today. The other weather-beaten shed—the one closest to Fiona’s cottage and where she kept extra stuff for her store—had a sturdy lock hanging from its latch. Abby grabbed the cloth bags of breakfast fixings from the passenger seat. She scooted out of her Jeep and strolled to the cottage door.

  Surprised that the banshee door knocker was missing, Abby knocked three times before the door swung open. Jack, fresh faced, with his brown and silver curls bouncing in every direction, greeted her in bare feet. Wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt with the cuffs turned up a couple of rolls, he seemed happy to see her and made a sweeping gesture for her to enter into the step-down living room. Light flooded the interior through the bank of windows offering a sweeping vista of green mountain ridges running north and south, parallel to the Pacific Ocean. Stacks of boxes awaiting assembly, bags of packing peanuts, and rolls of tape had been piled in a corner by the fireplace for the work ahead. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee and the soft strains of Celtic music playing in the background created an ambiance that Abby liked. A lot.

  “I’ve got eggs, herbs, an onion, a bell pepper, cheese, whole-grain muffins, and some andouille sausages,” Abby said, hoisting the bags into his arms. “All I need is a frying pan, a bowl, and a wire whisk. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I’ll cook up breakfast.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” he said, leading her to the kitchen and placing the bags on the rustic barn-plank table, which, with its ladder-back chairs, took up most of the room.

  He finished buttoning the shirt over his exposed muscular chest and tucked the shirttails into his trousers. “What can I do to help?”

  Everything about him seemed different—gone was the anger of their first encounter and the forlornness of their second. Today he exuded a quiet self-assurance. Abby could only speculate that the shock of his recent loss had morphed into acceptance of its undeniable reality.

  In a voice exuding sweetness and warmth, she replied, “Could you empty the bags?”

  “That, I can do,” he said in a tone tinged with relief. “Holding my breath, I was, out of fear you’d ask me to cook something. I’ve eaten all the canned fish and devoured the box of crackers. Any more of that diet, and I’ll be growing me feline fangs.” His eyes shone with impish mirth.

  Abby smiled back. “Someone’s in rare form today.”

  “I finally got some sleep . . . and a hangover . . . to thank for it.”

  Abby reached for a spatula from a glazed crock of utensils on the counter and pulled opened a cabinet door. “Where can I find a bowl to scramble the eggs?”

  “There.” Jack pointed to the adjacent cabinet.

  “So,” Abby said, taking down a bowl, “what happened to the door knocker?” She gave him a sidelong glance. Faint laugh lines on either side of his blue eyes crinkled while he seemed to be thinking through a response.

  “Just . . . well . . . gone.” He reached into the bag nearest him and pulled out a carton of eggs and the hunk of cheese wrapped in plastic. After peeling away the plastic, he removed a knife from the set on the table, sliced off a sliver of cheese, and popped the piece into his mouth.

  “Yeah? Where?” she asked, probing.

  “Back there,” he said, waving the knife toward the back of the house. “Or there.” He pointed the knife in the opposite direction.

  Abby set the bowl on the counter and gave him a bewildered look. “Well, which is it?”

  “I suppose the landlord disposed of it when he cleaned up the broken glass.” Jack chewed his lip like a small boy confronted over having been caught red-handed in some questionable act.

  “Wait. What glass? I’m confused. The cottage door has no glass.”

  “Oh, right you are. So, it was the glass window at the back of the house.”

  Abby detected a bit of beating around the bush. “This sounds like a fishy story, which you need to start from the beginning, now that you’ve hooked me.”

  “Heaved it, I did,” he admitted, feigning a thick Irish brogue, “toward the East Coast, and I might have uttered a curse as I sent it flying.” His face bore a sheepish expression. “Aye, and nearly ripped my arm from its pit.”

  Abby sucked in a breath. “Ohhh, so you tossed that pretty little knocker away?”

  “That I did. The winds were howling something fierce, and there was nothing to slow the wailing over the mountaintop. But the gusting was to my advantage, or so I thought. Once thrown, the object would be carried by the wind even farther from me. The problem, I soon discovered,” he said before pausing to swallow, “was that the wind was blowing directly at me. But I, being a wee bit tipsy, hurled that banshee with all my might. I could have sworn it was gone for good.”

  “Was it?”

  He exhaled heavily. “Nay. She landed a foot away. But the Irish have a saying. ‘He who isn’t strong must use cunning. ’ So, I summoned my strength and hurled it in the opposite direction.”

  Seriously? Not only did he look like a leprechaun with that wild hair, but now he sounded like he’d kissed the proverbial Blarney stone. She resisted the urge to laugh out loud.

  “I suppose ’twas then I heard the window shatter.”

  “Oh, no . . . Don’t tell me.” Abby put her hand over her mouth to hold back the laughter. “That door knocker was an art object, Jack. Surely you didn’t believe it had anything to do with Fiona’s passing.”

  “No, of course not.” He continued in his affected dialect. “But I had a deadly buzz on. Opened the door for a little night air, I did. Then I spied it hanging there. It ignited my anger something fierce. I ripped it off and sent it flying away from the cottage. And then I picked it up and turned to fling it again. That’s when the glass shattered, and the landlord came staggering out to ask what the bleep I was doing.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What could I say? Out chasing ghosts? I didn’t mean to break his window.”

  Abby leaned over the bowl and howled with laughter. “Oh, Lord, have mercy,” she said after regaining her composure.

  His deadpan expression shifted to a sly smile. He did a shoulder roll before laying aside the knife to reach into the other bag. He pulled out the mushrooms. “Ah, fungi. These will add flavor without the hallucination that some find so annoying.”

  Her laughter erupted again.

  “Ever been to a fungus fair or foray?” he asked. “I hear that in California, mushroom connoisseurs engage in those sorts of activities.”

  “Well, I don’t.” Abby took the button mushrooms from him. “My luck, I’d pluck a basket of deadly toadstools.”

  “Or a psychoactive Psilocybe species with hallucinogenic properties,” he uttered in a flat monotone.

  “That too.” She had expected a somber mood from Jack, but she found the unexpected display of humor rather delightful. However, it did seem strangely juxtaposed against the deep sadness she’d witnessed in his eyes during their first encounter. Abby understood only too well how shock and mourning could take all kinds of expression. Just because someone felt grief deeply didn’t necessarily mean he or she couldn’t experience moments of lightness and humor. Laughter could serve as a counterba
lance to the burdensome, at times unbearable, weight of sorrow. She liked this side of him—it was so very much like Fiona.

  Jack took the bowl back, washed the mushrooms, and laid them on a cutting board for slicing. “These will taste great in the eggs,” he said, dropping the accent.

  “Absolutely,” Abby said. “Especially with chives, parsley, and a teensy bit of English thyme. Just a little of each.” She focused on chopping the herbs, along with the onion and bell pepper. Next, she grated a half cup of cheese. Removing the casings from the sausage took a minute more. She cut them into slices under his watchful gaze. “I’d ask you to beat the eggs, Jack, but with your sore shoulder from all that heaving . . . well, I’m happy to do it,” she teased.

  “I’ll be in your debt for that,” he said.

  When the eggs were frothy, Abby made the omelet. “So, tell me, did Fiona always share your interest in plants?”

  Jack set plates and silverware on the table. “Not in an academic way. Fiona loved edible garden plants and herbs she could grow and eat. I, on the other hand, harbored an interest in all kinds of plants in cultures, and how indigenous people use their plants throughout their lives in foods, medicine, and spirituality practices. That is the very definition of ethnobotany—my field of study.” He tore two paper towels from a roll to use as napkins. “Fiona got serious about herbs after she suffered a bad reaction from taking milk thistle for a liver cleansing along with the allergy drug a doctor had prescribed for hay fever.”

  “Here in California, milk thistle grows wild like a common weed. So Fiona used it as a liver tonic?”

  “Yes. She would often fast and cleanse. But after that adverse reaction, she was much more diligent, reading voraciously about herbs and never using them as tonics or medicine unless she understood their drawbacks, as well as benefits.”