The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  “Oh, is that what happened?”

  Abby rubbed her temples, waiting for an approaching truck to pass. It carried old furniture pieces, tied down with bright yellow rope. After the truck had passed, she pulled out onto the asphalt roadway. Glancing into the rearview mirror again, she felt relief at the sight of dust swirling up behind the Jeep; no other vehicles were following them. The mirror reflected, however, the bluish-purple shiner around her eye and the snail trail of drying blood on her lacerated cheek. The churning she felt earlier in her stomach had evolved into full-fledged queasiness. She swallowed against the bilious taste in her mouth. If she felt terrible, she was pretty sure Jack felt awful, too. He kept shaking his punching hand, as if he couldn’t feel his fingers.

  “Might throw up, Jack,” she said, leaning more toward her open window. “I think I could do with a cracker or some soda water.”

  “I should have punched that brute’s lights out for manhandling you,” he said, apparently reliving the incident in his mind.

  “It’s over, Jack.”

  “Yeah . . . yeah. So, crackers . . . I’ve got some at the cottage. And there’s beer, but no soda water. We’re not far, are we?”

  “No,” said Abby. “But what about your rental car? You left it in town.”

  “Well, I suppose if you could fetch me for the funeral tomorrow, I could pick it up after the burial.”

  Abby had all but forgotten about burying Fiona. “Yes, of course I’ll come get you.”

  He ran his hand over his head twice, roughing up his light brown hair and not bothering to smooth it back into place. “What a pair we are, huh?”

  “Tweedledee and Tweedledum.” Abby tried to grin, but it hurt. “I’m sorry I got us into that mess. I should have backed down sooner.”

  “And I’m going to remember that about you,” Jack teased. “I’ll wager that if anything gets Tom to leave that place, it’ll be to escape the clutches of that Baxter woman. I’d be worried, too, if she had designs on me. Tom told me that their leader, Hayden Marks, arranges and performs marriages, often splitting up spouses and marrying them off to others. Tom said if Marks forces him to marry that woman, there is going to be hell to pay.”

  “Good Lord. That sounds like a fate worse than death,” Abby said.

  Jack nodded and grew quiet.

  With their drama over and the tension finally leaving her body, Abby considered female rivalry as a motive for Fiona’s murder. When she realized Fiona wasn’t going to divorce Tom, Premalatha could have envisioned a more permanent solution to secure the man she wanted to marry. If that was the motive, did she also have the means and the opportunity? Kat had mentioned a phone call that Premalatha had made to Fiona at the time of her death. If she’d called her from the commune, that suggested that Premalatha could not have been with Fiona. What about Dak?

  On the console, her phone rang, jangling her nerves and jarring her from her thoughts. Clay’s image showed up on the screen. Abby slid her finger across the screen and tapped the green speaker icon.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Clay replied. “When are you coming home, woman?”

  “Why? Is something wrong?” Abby exchanged glances with Jack, who now sported a bemused expression. Contrary to his usual politeness, he seemed all too ready to listen to her conversation with Clay. Abby could have removed the call from the speaker, but then she’d have to pull off the road. It was mid-afternoon, time marched on, and she still hadn’t gotten through her to-do list.

  “You’ve got to see how far along I got in the master bath today. I just had to pop out a small section to accommodate the jetted tub measurements. The framing is done, and I’ve got most of the copper piping done. Tomorrow I’ll be ready to feed the electrical cabling through the studs. Shoot, at this rate, you could be soaking in your new tub by the weekend.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely!” Abby exclaimed. “So . . . nothing wrong on the farmette?”

  “No. Although, I can’t hear a thing with that nail-gun compressor going. Or when I’m drilling, for that matter. But while I was eating a sandwich, I noticed your red-colored chicken limping around.”

  “Ruby? Did she pick up a piece of glass or a thorn during her dirt scratching?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Oh, and you might want to know that a bunch of your bees left their hive and are circling a limb of that huge peppertree out back.”

  “A low limb, I hope,” said Abby.

  “Not hardly. More like twenty feet up.”

  Abby groaned. “Dang it . . . Those limbs are rigid. And I’m going to need a spring action to shake the bees loose, so they fall into a hive box.” She let a sigh escape through her teeth. “And how am I gonna get up there?”

  “You’ll be glad to know that I put a tall ladder on my purchase order for the materials delivered today. If you get home before dark, you can use it. I’ll help. Otherwise, bee rescue will have to wait until tomorrow. I don’t mess with bees after dark.”

  “So, I’m on my way. I haven’t gotten your extra nails yet, but the DIY place stays open until nine o’clock. Be there as soon as I can.”

  Jack sneezed.

  Out of habit, Abby said, “Bless you.”

  “You got somebody with you?” asked Clay.

  Abby caught her breath. She looked in horror at Jack, whose eyes expressed a wicked amusement.

  “Wuh . . . I told you about my friend Fiona, who passed away.” Abby tried to sound matter-of-fact to reassure him. “I’m driving her relative home.”

  “Just so long as it’s not a hot hunk.” Clay cleared his throat. “You’ve got one of those renovating your house, and tonight could be your lucky night.”

  Abby’s cheeks grew hot. Was Clay trying to embarrass her? She wanted to hang up. If he felt uneasy over the possibility that she was with another man, just wait until he saw her shiner. How was she going to explain that? “Listen. . . let me call you back in a few. Okay?”

  Silence ensued for a moment.

  Clay’s voice came through. “Whatever.” His tone sounded like someone had just punctured his party balloon. Abby suspected that when she finally did get home, he would be in a mood and would be displaying that passive-aggressive behavior she hated.

  “Later,” Abby said, feigning cheerfulness. She tapped the phone to end the call.

  Her heart galloped as she struggled against familiar hurt and lingering uncertainties about her relationship with Clay. She stole a look at Jack and wondered what kind of explanation she could give. To her surprise, no explanation was necessary. He had rested his head against the seat back and closed his eyes. Abby sighed in relief that he wasn’t going to question her. But then again, why would he? Clay had made things pretty clear.

  Abby drove to the turnoff at the big red barn and then navigated the Jeep up the bumpy driveway to Fiona’s cottage. Once the car was parked and turned off, she sat gripping the steering wheel, in no hurry to move.

  “Your hand still hurt?” she finally asked Jack, locking eyes with him.

  He nodded. “Uh-huh. Your cheek?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not life-threatening injuries,” Jack said in good cheer. “And comforting to know that a doctor lives next door.”

  “Most likely blitzed out. In a stupor.” Abby knew her words were unnecessarily negative, and that wasn’t like her. Clay had put her in a dark mood. She inhaled deeply, let the breath go, and looked around. “But you know what . . . ? I don’t see the doc’s car. Oh . . . that’s a scary thought.”

  Jack looked at her. “Just means we’re alone up here on his ten acres. Why does that scare you? You think I’m going to take advantage of you?”

  Abby laughed nervously. “Well . . . one can always hope,” she said in a jesting tone. “No, it’s just that Dr. Danbury shouldn’t be drinking and driving.” She tried to hide the fact that it did worry her to be alone on the mountain with Jack, because she could no longer deny her attraction, and it was get
ting harder not to show it. But Abby would not let herself go there, because doing so would just muddy up everything. They needed clear heads to solve this case.

  The stifling heat inside the cottage took her breath away. “Sheesh, you could fry an egg on the floor in here.”

  “I should have left the windows open,” Jack said. “But last night it was darn cold up here, and that wind off the Pacific comes through with a piercing howl. Keeps you awake at night.” He began to open the windows one by one.

  Abby hurried to the kitchen and filled two resealable sandwich bags with ice from the refrigerator’s freezer. Then she pulled out a chair, sat down, and used her elbow on the tabletop to support her hand as she held one of the ice packs in place over her eye and cheek. She pointed out the other ice pack to Jack as he walked through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. When he returned, she noticed he had cleaned up the dried blood on his face and had brought a damp washcloth and a tube of antibiotic ointment.

  “Good on you, Abby, for insisting I not toss this tube during our purging of the place.” He laid the ointment on the table. “Now, let me see that cut.” After pulling up a chair to face her, he sank onto it and leaned forward to scrutinize her wound. “I’ll have you right as ready in the blink of a crone’s eye.” He placed his hand around the back of her head. At his touch, Abby inhaled an abrupt breath and winced, not so much from pain as from the anticipation of it. With the damp cloth, Jack traced the edges of the laceration. His stroke was sure and steady. He paused to give Abby an arresting look.

  Feeling a rush of adrenaline racing through her body, she closed her eyes, hoping she hadn’t telegraphed anything.

  “Now . . . just relax. I’ve got you. Tilt your head back a little more against my hand. That’s my lass.” The ointment smeared light as a butterfly wing fluttering along the length of the cut. The touch of the fingers soothed her. Then . . . there was no touch. No movement.

  Abby opened her eyes to find Jack’s eyes smoldering with intensity as he gazed at her, his lips so close they would have touched her if she’d nodded forward. He said nothing. She said nothing, but her cheeks flushed with warmth.

  “You know, Abby,” he said, his voice a husky whisper, “you smell awfully sweet for someone who’s just been in a fight.”

  Abby’s lips curved into a smile. “And here I thought I needed a shower.”

  He leaned back, pulled the neck of his T-shirt up to his nose, and sniffed. “No, if anyone needs a shower, it would be me.” He rose and moved his chair back to its original position at the table.

  Abby’s thoughts raced back to when they first met. Having been interrupted during his shower, he’d answered the door annoyed. But then later on, when she had helped him sort through Fiona’s things, he’d greeted her in an unbuttoned shirt, revealing a lean muscular torso. A shiver ran through her. Oh, Lord. Don’t think about that now. Clearing her throat, she said, “Let me see your hands. You were shaking one of them pretty hard in the car.”

  “Aye. Jabbing that bollock brain was like a bare-fisted punch at a dicot angiosperm.”

  She looked at him, bemused. “Come again?”

  “Hardwood tree.”

  “Yeah, well, your lightning jab broke his hold on me.” Abby noted the impish grin that lit up his face, and turned her attention to his hands. “Bruising and swelling, but no cuts. Use that ice pack on them. Got any painkillers?”

  “Oh, yes.” He opened the fridge and took out two bottles of Guinness, popped off the caps, and handed her a bottle. “The liquid variety.”

  “I can see that,” said Abby, suppressing a smile. She tapped her bottle against his.

  Jack took a swig. “I’ll just change my shirt,” he said, then set the bottle on the table and hustled off to the bedroom.

  When she could no longer tolerate the ice against her eye, Abby tossed the ice pack in the sink. She sipped from the beer and moseyed to the screen door at the back of the house, where an audible breeze rustled through the pines and redwoods. Looking out at the edge of the clearing between the house and the trees, Abby spotted the doc’s cat stalking a bushtit. The bird flitted between a patch of sweet broom and a thicket, as if teasing the cat.

  “Mind the hole,” Jack called out from the bedroom doorway behind her.

  Abby stopped short. She glanced down at the rug partially covering the hole. How could Fiona have allowed the hole to go unrepaired? With her landlord right next door, it could have so easily been fixed. As Abby thought about it, a realization began to emerge. Hole! Oh, sweet Jesus. She leaned down and pulled the rug back. “Jack, bring a flashlight, will you? And a cap or something for my hair.”

  “What? What’s going on?” Jack asked.

  “Just trust me.”

  A moment later, he handed her a blue plastic flashlight and an Andean-style woolen cap with earflaps, a braid down each side, and one garnishing the top.

  “Seriously?” Abby handed him her bottle of beer, took the flashlight, and plucked the cap from his fingers.

  He winked at her. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a big head. It’s not easy to find caps that fit.”

  “And it’s only going to feel like a hundred degrees with all my hair under that hat, but never mind.” She pulled on the hat, flicked on the flashlight, and looked at him with an expression of childish delight. “Spell hole backward.”

  Shaking his head, he stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Okay. I can do that.... E-l-o-h.”

  “Precisely. Your sister’s secret code. High time we found out what’s in that hole.”

  Abby knelt and then lay flat on the floor, her face over the hole. She shined the light in. “Um . . . don’t see anything. Maybe if I can squeeze my arm farther in and get my head down in there for a better look. Hang on.” She moved into position. “Okay, let’s see. Okay, okay. There it is.”

  “What? What do you see?” Jack asked.

  Abby wiggled, willing her arm to reach farther, but soon realized her effort was futile. “Shoot. Can’t reach it. And if I can’t reach it, how in the heck did Fiona get it there?”

  “What? How did she get what there?” Jack’s tone sounded impatient.

  Abby felt his body stretching out on the floor beside her. She wiggled and stretched some more.

  “Pull your head out of that hole,” he demanded. “Let me try.”

  “Would if I could,” Abby called from under the floor. “How about a little help?”

  Jack shifted his position. Abby figured he was up on his knees. She felt his hands around her hips, pulling her back until her head was out of the hole.

  “There’s a light-colored fire safe down there, and it’s got a combination lock. I’m betting there are four numbers in the combination.”

  “The year Fiona was born.” His eyes were shining when Jack took the flashlight from her. He wasted no time investigating the hole. “I see it.”

  Abby said, “Think you can reach it?”

  “Doubt it.” He tried. No success. “We need something with a hook. Let me think.” He sat upright, with his back to the wall. “But what? We threw almost everything out.”

  Abby pulled on the side braids of the woolen cap. “There’s a poker in the living room. And a three-prong trowel out by the garden fence. I remember seeing it when you showed me Fiona’s garden. If you cut these hat braids off, we’ve got yarn to tie the trowel to the poker.”

  Jack uttered a long, low “Ohhh.” After a moment, he said, “Genius. Going to the garden. Back in a minute.”

  Abby’s phone buzzed with a text as she was pulling the poker from the tool stand next to the fireplace. Certain that it was Clay again, she figured it could wait. But curiosity got the better of her. She removed the phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen.

  Just FYI, girlfriend. Health Dept. just closed down the smoothie shop.—Kat.

  Abby texted back. Holy chicken feathers. I want all the details, but busy right now. Will call you later.

  Sitti
ng next to the hole, she looked out the back door at Jack hurrying toward her. She had the pole for the hole, and Jack had the hook. Time to go fishing.

  Tips for Making Scented Dusting Powder

  Scented oil derived from chamomile, lavender, lemon balm, patchouli, peppermint, rosemary, or other herbs can be used to create your own signature dusting powder. To make six tablespoons (two ounces) of scented dusting powder, thoroughly mix four to five drops of scented herbal oil with one tablespoon of cornstarch. Next, mix in five tablespoons of unscented talcum powder. To retain the fresh scent, the dusting powder is best stored in a jar with a screw-top lid. Use a powder puff, a cotton ball, or a brush to apply it.

  Chapter 14

  A male hummingbird does not penetrate the

  female to mate—he presses his cloaca against

  hers in a cloacal kiss that lasts three to five

  seconds.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  Abby lay stretched out on the floor, watching Jack maneuver the hooking tool they’d made by using the yarn from his cap braid to bind the fireplace poker to the garden trowel. After numerous unsuccessful attempts, he finally connected the trowel end of the tool to the handle of the fire safe beneath the floor. Concentration furrowed his brow as he inched the safe with precision toward the hole in the floor.

  He stopped with a sudden gasp and drilled her with a blue-eyed stare. “I do believe it’s within my reach. Take the tool,” he said, handing her the makeshift rake. “Mind the yarn. I want you to rebraid it and stitch it back on my cap, where you cut it off.”

  “Seriously?” she asked.

  “Oh, quite,” he said with a straight face. He put his arm into the hole until his upper shoulder nearly disappeared.

  What a picture this is. Abby thought about capturing it with her smartphone camera app but abandoned the idea when Jack, grunting, pulled the fire safe upward. He set it on the floor with a thud.

  She reached up and removed his knitted cap from her head. Her reddish-gold locks tumbled in a loose mass over her shoulders. “Here you go,” she said, tossing the hat to him. “You should have put it on before you put your head down there.” She leaned over and plucked a cobweb from his hair. “Hope the spider wasn’t still in it.”