A Hive of Homicides

by Meera Lester

  Kat swallowed a mouthful of warm bread and seemed ready to say something when the waitress reappeared and set two glasses of wine on the table.

  “Ready to order?” she asked.

  Kat ordered first. “I’ll have the cheese fondue and more of this bread.” She handed the menu back to the waitress.

  “I’ll have the spinach salad with goat cheese,” said Abby, “and the salmon with the honey-miso glaze.” She glanced at Kat. “Let’s you and me split the salad,” she told her.

  “You got it.” The waitress tucked the menus under her arm and scurried away.

  “So . . . I’ve been checking Jake’s cell phone log for calls and texts,” Kat said before taking a sip of the chilled rose-colored wine. “During his last twenty-four hours, he took several calls from Brianna Cooper and also the sous-chef. Lina Sutton sent a text, too, saying pretty much what she said on the steps of the church.”

  “Accusing Jake of killing her sister?”

  “Yep.”

  Abby lifted her glass and touched it to Kat’s. Taking a sip, she savored the chilled wine and wondered why Brianna would call Jake repeatedly in the hours before he was to renew his wedding vows with Paola. After returning the glass to the table, she touched the cloth napkin to her mouth. “Why do you think Jake’s female employees were calling him right before he was murdered?” asked Abby. She made a mental note to jot down the linkage on her incident poster on the living room table. She would also be adding Lina Sutton’s name to the board.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Well, what bothers me is the strange posturing of the sous-chef. When I asked her if she knew where Emilio was, she jerked a thumb toward the back parking lot. So why did she tell Lieutenant Sinclair that she didn’t remember pointing me anywhere and that she thought I might have returned to the party?”

  “Dunno. But she has a rock-solid alibi—waiters and the dishwasher were in that kitchen when the murder happened.”

  “What’s Lina Sutton’s story?” Abby asked.

  “Student nurse. She works in the hospital’s emergency room. On the night her sister was brought in, she was working a shift.”

  “Oh, that had to be horrible for her,” Abby said. “Such a tragedy. No wonder she’s so angry with Jake. Could be a motive for murder.” She sipped the chilled wine from her glass, set it down, and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

  “Yeah,” Kat said, looking pensive. “But she’s got Father Joseph as an alibi. She went back to talk with him after leaving the church in a huff.” Kat tucked a tendril of hair behind her right ear and continued. “Jake was right. Lina’s sister had gotten drunk after their breakup and should have called a cab. Luckily, no one else was in the path of her car when it veered from the road and hit the tree.”

  Abby posed another question. “So the sister died in the ER?”

  Kat nodded. “We interviewed the physician in charge that night. He told us that they did everything they could to save her.” Kat lapsed into silence.

  Abby refolded her napkin and thought about how difficult it must have been for Lina to have witnessed any part of a frenetic scene in which the hospital staff worked to save a life—a scene Abby had seen on more than one occasion. “What did the winery’s CCTV show?” she asked.

  “Not much. The fog that night was thick. We hoped to find the killer on camera, but we didn’t.”

  “What about a getaway car?”

  “If that’s what it is. It’s a fuzzy image at best.” Kat took a sip of wine, pushed her glass aside, and leaned in. Looking intently at Abby, she asked, “Do you know something about that car? Is there something else you want to share . . . ’cause if you do, I’m all ears.”

  “Okay, this is going to sound crazy. I gave my statement that night, but . . . as it turns out, it might not be entirely complete.”

  “And why would that be? Why would you leave out anything?”

  “Faulty memory?”

  “What? Don’t be silly. Right after the murder, as I recall, your statement was the first taken down. You can’t get impressions fresher than that.”

  “I know, but I felt flustered. Everything had happened fast. I think it’s possible I might have seen more than I thought I did that night.”

  Kat’s expression darkened. She leaned back and reached for her glass. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, let’s start with that older-model, light-colored sedan that rolled past me that night.”

  “We know that from your statement.”

  “Yes, but the car was missing the red lens cover over one of its taillights. Passenger side. That detail was not in my statement, was it?”

  Kat straightened. “No. Is that something you saw? Or you think you saw?”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw it.”

  “Pretty sure? You either saw it or you didn’t, Abby.” Kat clearly was pushing her to take a position on that detail. “So which is it?”

  Kat had slipped into her cop persona. Abby felt flustered. Warmth surged into her cheeks. She swept aside her doubt. “I saw it.”

  Kat stared at the folds in the napkin that she’d not yet put on her lap and seemed to be reflecting on the significance of Abby’s new information. “Well, that particular detail is backed up by the CCTV. Because of the fog, we couldn’t see much, but we could sure make out the missing taillight lens. So anything else?”

  Abby shrugged. Though validated by Kat’s revelation, she wasn’t ready to go out on a limb with thoughts, hunches, and ideas she couldn’t validate or prove, not that she didn’t have plenty of them. False info and bad leads equaled a lot of wasted time for investigators working a murder case against the clock, which was always ticking. And . . . this one was already a hot mess.

  “If you remember any new details, let me know ASAP.” Kat handed her a coconut-covered white-chocolate truffle. “For your dessert.”

  “Sure.” Abby’s thoughts wrapped around the runner she believed she saw in the dark parking lot at the time of Jake’s murder. That idea yielded another. Might the woman wearing the hoodie and getting into that car outside the Pantry Hut have been the sous-chef? Whether or not it had been Dori Langston, Abby couldn’t be certain. But searching for stemware and jelly jars might be the perfect ruse to ask someone if they perhaps remembered Dori shopping there.

  Coconut-Covered Limoncello White Chocolate Truffles

  Ingredients:

  ½ cup heavy whipping cream

  20 ounces white chocolate (chopped into small pieces)

  2 tablespoons Limoncello Italian liqueur

  ½ tablespoon finely grated lemon zest

  Parchment paper, for lining a cookie sheet

  ½ cup shredded dried coconut

  Directions:

  Slowly heat the whipping cream in a small pan over low heat until it is just boiling. Remove from the heat and set aside.

  Melt half of the white chocolate pieces in the top of a double boiler. Pour the reserved cream over the melted chocolate and stir until the mixture becomes uniform. Add the Limoncello and the lemon zest and stir to combine well. Cool the truffle mixture on the counter for 1 hour, and then refrigerate it overnight.

  Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper. With gloved hands and a melon scoop, form the chilled truffle mixture into 1-inch balls. Place each truffle ball on the lined cookie sheet and stick a toothpick into each.

  Place the remaining white chocolate pieces in a double boiler and gently heat over low heat. Stir the chocolate continuously to distribute the heat evenly and melt the pieces. When the chocolate has melted, dip each truffle ball into it to coat. Set each dipped truffle back on the parchment paper–lined cookie sheet.

  Sprinkle the coconut over the dipped truffles while the outer coating of chocolate is still warm. Let the truffles cool before enjoying.

  Makes 48 truffles

  Chapter 11

  On a quiet, clear morning, the gobble of a wild

  turkey can be heard a mile away.

  —Henny Pe
nny Farmette Almanac

  On the Monday before Thanksgiving, Abby strolled into the Pantry Hut, half expecting elbow-deep shoppers in the store. Instead, she found a party of two—herself and the clerk.

  “Whatcha looking for?” called out the twentysomething woman from where she stood on a ladder positioned in front of shelves of paper products. “It’s almost Thanksgiving. Need a turkey roaster? Basting brush? Or kitchenware?”

  “Well, Charlotte,” said Abby, taking note of the name tag on the young woman’s bib apron, “I’m looking for stemware and screw-top glass jars.” Abby watched as the clerk lined up boxes of napkins and then arranged them on the top-tier shelf.

  Charlotte wore a headband with a fabric flower, dark yoga pants with a cell phone pocket on the hip, and a yellow shirt, which was partially covered by a green apron with ties so long, they wrapped around the girl’s waist twice. “We got plenty of both,” Charlotte boasted. “I’ll show you.” After straightening the last box of paper napkins she’d pushed into the row, she dropped the empty cardboard box on the floor and climbed down.

  Abby’s gaze swept a dozen or more aisles lined with shelves filled with everything from dishware to deep fryers.

  “Our jars are over there.” Charlotte pointed toward the wall on the other side of the room. “Stemware is this way.”

  “It’s my first time here,” Abby said, hoping to engage the young woman as she followed her down a long aisle of wineglasses and goblets. She picked up a two-and-one-half-inch stemmed glass with a midsize bowl and studied it. “I’ve seen this style before.”

  “Our best seller. It’s practically unbreakable. Lots of wineries use it for tastings.”

  “Yeah? Like the Country Schoolhouse Winery?” Abby set the glass back on the shelf.

  “Yes.” The young woman plucked an expensive piece of crystal stemware and handed it to Abby. “But this is the one they purchased for engraving for that recent party.”

  “You mean the one where . . .” Abby noticed a frown claiming the clerk’s expression.

  “That guy was killed? Uh-huh.”

  “Awful business.” Abby handed back the stemware and asked, “So, how did you hear about Jake Winston’s murder?”

  “My housemate.”

  Abby asked, “How’d she know about it?”

  “She worked there that night.”

  “Yeah? Doing what?”

  “Supervising the kitchen.”

  Abby ventured a wild guess. “Are we talking about Dori Langston?” She watched the young woman’s expression, wondering if the two were close.

  “Yeah. She’s a great cook.”

  Abby pushed on. “So . . . does she shop here?” It was a stroke of luck that she was able to get to that question so quickly.

  The clerk led her down another aisle. “Yeah. Matter of fact, just last night she came in around six. Do you know her?”

  “Know of her. I hear Chef Emilio Varela’s kitchen puts out some fantastic pairings of wine and food. So Dori must be what? About ten years older than you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So how does she like working for a chef from Argentina?”

  “She hopes he’ll leave so she can have his job. So I guess that means she doesn’t like him that much. Or cops.”

  “Oh, really? What she got against law enforcement?”

  “Questions. They interrogated her half the night, as if she had something to do with it.”

  “Did she?” It was a provocative question, Abby knew, but it might lead somewhere.

  Charlotte drilled her with a strange look.

  Abby backpedaled. “I just meant maybe she saw something or someone, perhaps even the killer.”

  “No, she didn’t.” The young woman selected a box and removed a similar glass. Holding it up, she asked, “How about this one?”

  “Don’t care for the bowl. It’s too big for such a fragile stem.”

  Charlotte returned the glass to the box and looked around for another option.

  Abby asked, “So how’d Dori take Jake Winston’s death? After all, he was the big boss, wasn’t he?”

  “Not as upset as I would be if my boss got killed. But she told me the next day that she is going to get top chef job now.”

  “Oh, really?” If Jake, Abby reasoned, had refused to terminate Emilio, it would give Dori a motive for murder. But Jake’s death didn’t automatically mean Emilio would leave, so where had Dori gotten the idea that things would be otherwise? Abby picked up another glass, grimaced, and put it back. “How would that be possible?”

  “She was always saying affirmations that the chef would move on. Now it looks like he’ll be cooking inside the slammer.”

  “Say what?”

  “Well, you hear gossip. The cops are pretty sure that the chef is Jake Winston’s killer.”

  Well, that’s wrong, but whatever. “Did a cop tell you that?”

  “Nope. Heard it from a customer.”

  “I’m curious, Charlotte. Where’d Dori get her culinary training?”

  “You’d have to ask her.” The store clerk seemed tired of the conversation and Abby’s inability to select stemware.

  “I sort of like these,” said Abby. “Suppose I should get them before they’re all gone.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. I mean, look around. We aren’t exactly swamped with customers.”

  “Well, that could change now that the holidays are here.”

  “Boss says we’re slow because of the murder. We’re depending on locals instead of all the tourists for our holiday business this year. A family takes care of its own. And we’re all family in this town, right? I mean, you get to know everyone, don’t you?”

  The young woman clearly was trying to seal the sale. Abby seized upon the opening. “Well, true . . . mostly. But we can’t know everything, can we? I mean, take your roommate Dori, for example. She’s not from around here, is she?”

  “True.” The clerk picked up the box of glasses Abby had chosen and turned to walk toward the front register. “But you got to give it to Dori. She’s always figuring out a way to change things in her life.”

  “Like what?” Abby saw the chance to probe and took it.

  “Well, she was a wild child, parents pushed her out, but she learned to cook and used that to land jobs. Worked the east part of the valley until she got that winery gig.”

  Abby knew about some lovely areas, but the eastern side of the valley had some rough neighborhoods where rival gangs made life miserable.

  “Did she join a gang?”

  Charlotte’s expression darkened. She frowned. “God, I hope not.”

  “Just curious,” Abby said, then quickly shifted to another question. “So, how did she end up moving in with you down here?”

  “Five of us share an old Victorian over on Wisteria Lane. Only five houses on the street, and ours is the largest. We have room for six. She called the number in our newspaper ad. Then, when we discovered she cooks at the winery, well, that was a bonus.”

  “I’ll bet. When did she move in with you?” asked Abby, handing her credit card to the young woman.

  “August first,” said the clerk. Ringing up the purchase, she added, “But I think she’s moving out, because she told me she had met a rich guy and they were getting a place together. Wouldn’t mind a rich boyfriend myself.”

  “Well, my dear, money can buy a lot of things,” said Abby, “but happiness isn’t one of them. That comes from inside.” She leaned over to check the price she’d been charged and inhaled a sharp breath. As she returned her credit card to her wallet, she was already having buyer’s remorse. It wasn’t like she was preparing a big sit-down dinner for her friends on Thanksgiving—it was going to be a low-key affair with Kat. She chalked the expense of those crystal glasses to the cost of digging for information. But she was darned sure she’d be returning them in a day or two.

  Abby straightened her spine and looked squarely at Charlotte. “I take it you never me
t that boyfriend of Dori’s?” Just as quickly as she’d asked the question, Abby wished she had not. Better slow the roll. You sound fixated on Dori. “You know,” Abby said, forcing a little laugh, “because he might have a rich younger brother.”

  The clerk giggled. “You think I didn’t ask?”

  “Did she ever mention his name? I know many of the local families.”

  “Like I told the cop lady who came in here, Dori didn’t say much. Her boyfriend was an only child. Wealthy, I think. But recently the relationship had cooled.” Charlotte’s look could have frozen the tail feathers off a turkey. “Are you a cop, too?”

  “Heavens, no.” Abby asked, “Do I look like cop?”

  “I dunno. I didn’t think the woman with the Roaring Twenties hair was a cop, either, but she flashed a badge and asked a lot of the same questions.”

  Abby suppressed a smile. So Kat had already questioned the clerk.

  With an inquisitive expression, Charlotte asked, “Did Dori have something to do with that murder?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Abby said. “But murder makes you wonder what the heck is going on up there, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s all anyone in this town ever talks about when they come in here,” Charlotte said.

  “People are on edge. They want answers. When the answers don’t come, they seek comfort in sharing information, I guess.”

  “Dori wants answers, too. Always asking me what I hear from the locals. You’d think she’d just ask the people she works with up at the winery. Everybody talks, but no one seems to know anything.”

  Abby surmised that Jake had seduced Dori, like he had so many others. Remembering what Edna Mae had said about Jake coming in with his interior decorator in the short skirt who knew nothing about quilts, Abby figured that Dori would set up the love nest and Jake would foot the bill. But if Jake’s intentions toward her had cooled, maybe the money flow had slowed to a trickle or ended. Wouldn’t that give Dori a motive for murder? Maybe.

  “Oh, jeez, I forgot a case of your four-ounce jars,” said Abby, picking up her purchase. “Next time then. I’ve got what I came for.”