A Hive of Homicides

by Meera Lester

  Paola sniffled. When she again spoke, it seemed clear she wanted to talk about something other than the murder. “Tell me about your farmette. Are you busy?”

  “Busier than a worker bee,” said Abby, effortlessly launching into the story about finding the fox at the chicken house. When she’d finished, Paola smiled and gazed at her, as though there were a million things to say, but she had no command of the words to say them with. The two again sat in an emotionally potent silence.

  After several minutes, Paola said in a small, resolute voice, “I miss him.”

  Abby bent her head, studied Paola’s hand as it reached to wipe away tears. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I can hardly believe he’s gone.” She added, “But the good Lord saw fit to keep you around.”

  “Why? Life is poison to me now.” She shot a challenging look at Abby. “I don’t want to live. Not with this pain in my heart.”

  Abby cringed. Running through her mind were all the platitudes that people offered in moments like these. She thought about how dark and alone and anxious she’d been over the weeks since the murder. The nightmares. Lack of sleep. It surely had been horrific for Paola.

  “I can’t know the suffering you’re going through,” Abby said, her voice barely rising above a whisper as pain squeezed her own heart. “But to have the gift of life is a privilege. The healing of your body will take time. And of your spirit, well, that will depend on you and your Maker.” Abby reached out and stroked Paola’s arm. She focused her gaze on the purple bruise and the swelling of the hand where an IV must have infiltrated. It was her way to avoid looking into Paola’s grief-stricken eyes. “Prayer can be a poultice, if you believe in such things . . . and I think you do.”

  Paola’s lips quivered. After a long moment, she said, “That night . . . our party . . . Jake parked. We talked. It was good. Better than seven years before.”

  Abby turned toward a sudden clatter in the hallway. The chatter and shuffling of feet soon subsided. She looked back at Paola. The large dark eyes still shimmered with tears, but Paola seemed more composed.

  “He changed. Months ago, it started. He feared no consequence for anything.”

  A frown creased Abby’s forehead as she grasped for meaning. “Why was that?”

  Paola shrugged slightly. “The last time he went to Buenos Aires, he caught a brain fever. When he came back, he was forgetful. Demanding. Physically needy.”

  “Maybe he regretted time spent away from you?” Abby asked.

  Paola twisted slightly, adjusting her position in the bed. “No.”

  “Well, then, what?” Abby leaned in. “I don’t understand.”

  Paola’s expression darkened. “It’s weird, the way he was. Always wanted attention. And from different women. He didn’t used to be like that.” Her lips tightened. “He would be angry if I told you. It’s too strange. He would hate me to tell anyone.”

  “A secret, then?” Abby asked.

  Paola turned her face toward the window. Birds and bees and butterflies flitted in the fifth-floor rooftop garden beyond her window.

  After a moment Paola changed the subject. “I saw the shooter.”

  “Yeah?” She would wait and see what more Paola might say.

  With a small nod, Paola added, “A man. Looked like a bum.”

  “You recognize him?”

  “No.”

  “Did Jake know him?”

  “I think so.” She reflected in silence and then said, “The man knocked. Jake lowered the car window.” The lids of her eyes fluttered, as if her mind was trying to push out other images, perhaps the sound of the shot and the scene of her husband dying.

  A stab of guilt drove Abby from further probing.

  A female voice interrupted them. “Ready for lunch?” A woman dressed in a white nurse’s uniform with a blue name tag strode in, carrying a plastic lunch tray with a plate under cover, a carton of milk, and a piece of pie. Abby rose and removed the cookie box and magazine she’d placed on the bedside table and laid them on the windowsill.

  “Salisbury steak today,” said the nurse as she slid the tray of food onto the table. “And you have visitors to keep you company while you eat.” The nurse called out, “She’s awake. Come in.”

  Abby glanced toward the door. Luna, her husband, and their daughter entered the room, bearing smiles and gifts. Luna carried Spanish-language books. Her husband brought yellow mums in cellophane tied with a big ribbon. Abby rose from the chair to make room. “How does she look to you, Luna?” asked Abby, stepping out of the way so Luna could kiss her sister.

  “Looking stronger every day,” said Luna, stroking her sister’s arm. “Your doctor tells us to get ready. They’re going to send you home maybe next week.”

  Abby scooted to the foot of the bed. “Such wonderful news. I think on that note, I’d better go.” She blew a kiss to Paola. “Great to see you, sweetie. Eat your lunch. You’re going to need your strength.”

  Luna followed Abby to the door. “Abby, could I have a moment?” she said, stepping into the hallway behind Abby. “What about Emilio? He hasn’t returned any of our calls. We’re worried.”

  Abby maintained a poker face. She didn’t want to telegraph concern in any way. “I’ll call you just as soon as I hear from him,” she told Luna. She wasn’t exactly lying. While she’d glimpsed Emilio in the police station corridor, they hadn’t talked.

  Luna said, “Whatever you can do, we thank you for it.”

  Abby took a step, stopped, and pivoted. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, “Months ago, Paola told me that Jake seemed changed after his last trip to South America. Did she talk with you about that?”

  “Yes, he’d gotten sick.”

  “With what?”

  “A brain fever . . . I think encepha-something. I can’t recall the name.”

  Abby reflected a moment, wondering if some kind of sickness might not have underpinned Jake’s abnormal behaviors. She gave Luna a quick hug and strolled toward the elevator, her thoughts preoccupied with the run of bad fortune Paola had experienced over the past few months. The display light on the wall above the visitors’ elevator indicated it was stuck on the first floor. Abby waited and searched for the stairwell. Pivoting, she stared down the corridor in the opposite direction, past the nurses’ station. Perhaps she should take the service elevator down there or the stairwell next to it.

  As she contemplated that option, Abby spotted a man wearing a beanie crocheted in rainbow colors. He shrank back into a doorway and stared in her direction. Alerting on her gazing back at him, the man walked quickly from the room and hurried to the stairwell. In a moment of intuitive recognition, a shiver shot down her spine. Jeez. You’ve been following me. Abby’s heart scudded against her chest wall. The elevator came and went.

  She willed herself to the window to scan the parking lot. At the lot’s edge a coffee kiosk and a fall produce stand had been set up. The number of people coming and going during the lunch hour seemed enormous. In due course, however, Abby spotted the rainbow hat. She tracked the man as he began weaving among the parked cars. She watched him slow his gait to peer in the vehicles, as though casing them for valuables, but as he rounded the coffee kiosk, she could no longer see him.

  Abby walked back to Paola’s room. She stood in the doorway, waiting for Luna to look up. Since she did not know what the man’s purpose or intention was for being at the hospital, it made no sense that he’d be on this floor, Paola’s floor. Abby tried without success to calm her galloping heartbeat. Breathe, Abby. Slow and easy calms the heart.

  Seeing her, Luna hurried over. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Call it a premonition or whatever you like, because I know this sounds silly, but I don’t think Paola should be left alone.”

  “Why? Is she in danger? What is it? Abby, tell me.”

  “I don’t want to alarm you. I just saw someone suspicious. A scuzzball in a beanie. I can’t see any reason why
he’d be on this wing of the surgical ward.”

  “A visitor, you mean?” Luna asked.

  “I don’t think so. But to that point, have any workers from the winery come to visit Paola?”

  “Jake’s parents came once. Paola was friends with Scott Thompson, but he hasn’t been by, nor has anyone else from the winery, unless you count Emilio.”

  “I feel strongly about this, Luna. Schedule family member visits in shifts, if you have to.”

  “Why? There are many doctors and nurses and other staff here.”

  “And they won’t guard and protect Paola like you will.”

  Luna’s eyes swept the corridor. “Okay,” she said and headed back into the room.

  Minutes later, Abby reminded herself to include the guy with the beanie on her incident poster and to try to find out who he was. She guided her Jeep from the hospital parking lot and navigated the course to town. She headed down Chestnut, turned on Lilac, and then onto Wisteria Lane, where Charlotte had said she shared a Victorian with Dori Langston and others. Parking next to a sycamore tree with white bark and yellow leaves three houses from the end of Wisteria Lane, Abby reckoned the only sure way to know which house Dori had lived in was to knock and ask for Charlotte and/or Dori at each one. From the console, she took a pen and a spiral-bound notepad and jotted down the addresses of the Victorians on the street for later reference. Still holding the writing materials, she looked up to see two people in the rearview mirror.

  The couple walked their dog on the same side of the street as the Jeep was parked. As if a divine hand were orchestrating a piece of good luck just for Abby, the two tramped right past her. Abby realized the woman was Charlotte. With her was a man in his late twenties, wearing cargo pants, a thermal pullover, and a tattered sweatshirt. But as Abby studied him, she began to think he looked a lot like the dishwasher with the stringy, long ponytail in the kitchen the night she’d encountered Dori Langston slicing persimmons. The couple led the dog up to a distinctive white Victorian with turrets and a wraparound porch. Abby circled the house number on her notepad and then placed the pad and pen back on the console.

  She watched Charlotte hand off the dog leash to her companion and unlock the door. The dog bounded inside. With the door closed, Charlotte and the man talked. The conversation grew heated. Abby rolled down her Jeep window to listen, but too late. Charlotte stormed inside the house, then slammed the door behind her. The man turned, trotted down the steps of the Victorian, and walked back in the direction from whence they’d come.

  Well, well, Miss Charlotte, you knew the sous-chef but said nothing about knowing the dishwasher. Why was that? Abby thought.

  After adjusting the view of the mirror, Abby watched Charlotte’s companion. He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and made a call. Perhaps he wanted to summon Charlotte back outside. Or maybe he’d called someone else. Abby twisted in the driver’s seat and observed him until he reached the end of the lane, put away his phone, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit up. Paced and smoked. After about ten minutes of chain-smoking, a motorcyclist arrived to give him a lift. After he climbed on behind the driver, the two sped away.

  Tempted to follow, Abby decided instead to question Charlotte. She grabbed the remaining box of cookies, meant for Kat, thinking that Charlotte might view Abby’s sudden visit less intrusive if Abby came bearing a holiday offering. With her gift in hand, Abby rang the doorbell.

  “What are you doing here?” Charlotte asked, peeking out the crack of the partially opened door. “Is there something wrong with the stemware?” Charlotte pushed her dog by the collar back behind her, stepped outside, then closed the door.

  “Oh, no. Not at all.” Abby cleared her throat. “Think of it as paying it forward. You know, you do something nice for someone. Then they do something nice for someone else. I’m taking homemade cookies around to all my friends. Just now, I saw you and remembered how patient you were with me at the Pantry Hut. I was so indecisive over those glasses. So these sugar cookies are for you.”

  “Yeah?” Charlotte studied the decorated box that Abby held aloft. “Thanks.”

  “And I’m so sorry to learn about Dori’s death,” Abby said, jumping right into the subject of murder. “I saw it earlier on the TV news. You must be devastated.”

  Eyeing Abby with suspicion, Charlotte shrugged. “I guess we didn’t really know her that well. Sure will miss her cooking.”

  “At least now you have cookies,” said Abby. Charlotte eyed her with curiosity. “What about your guests?”

  “What about them?” Abby asked, not sure where she was going with the question.

  “Isn’t that why you needed the stemware?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Abby, racking her brain for an excuse that wouldn’t appear too lame. “But you know how iffy guests can be when they’re driving in from out of town. Late and later.” She sniffed and looked out over the lawn. The dog whined on the other side of the door. Abby pushed on. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? You and I were just talking about Dori at the Pantry Hut. Now she’s gone. Have the Las Flores police been around yet?”

  “One officer,” Charlotte said. Her voice assumed a hint of hostility. “He questioned us for an hour or more before allowing us to take my dog for a walk.”

  “I saw you with the dog and a young man.”

  “My boyfriend. Trevor Massey. He works at the winery, too. Shares a shift from time to time with his cousin Gary Lynch.”

  Abby, thinking these were two more names for her incident board, said, “Oh, and what’s his job at the winery?”

  “Buses tubs of glassware, washes dishes, recycles, collects the trash . . . whatever needs doing.”

  “And did they ride to work together?”

  “Of course. She lives here, and he practically does, too. And they work at the same place.”

  “I don’t see his car here.”

  “That’s because he rides a bike. His cousin has his car today.”

  “Cousin?”

  “Yeah, cousin. Why all the questions?” Charlotte’s brows knitted into a scowl.

  “I’m just trying to understand the people who were her friends or were in her orbit. Yesterday was Wednesday. She would have been working, right?”

  “No, they were both off.”

  “She was found floating in the regional park reservoir, and I’m trying to understand how she got there.” Abby had already surmised that if Dori had died someplace other than the reservoir, her body would have to be transported there for dumping. That likely meant she’d been in a car or a truck, not on a motorcycle.

  “How should I know? Last night I worked until closing. When I got home, she was leaving to have a drink with a friend.” The frantic scratching of canine nails against the inside of the front door diverted Charlotte’s attention away from Abby. The dog’s whining had progressed to full-on barking. Charlotte’s face contorted with stress. “Sorry, but I’ve got to deal with my dog.”

  “How can I reach Trevor?” Abby knew she was pushing hard, but there was a lot at stake.

  “Why are you asking me all these questions? You said you weren’t a cop. What then? Private investigator?”

  With no clear way to evade the question, Abby met Charlotte’s direct gaze. She took out her phone and said, “You’ve figured it out. Help me contact Trevor. I’ll never bother you again.” Abby proffered her phone. “Please.”

  Charlotte’s lip curled. Clearly, she was fed up. But she took the phone Abby handed her and punched in some numbers. Glowering, she thrust the phone back into Abby’s hands and disappeared inside the house.

  The door slamming in her face did little to dampen Abby’s enthusiasm. She dialed Trevor and got a message machine. No answer, no good. Back inside her Jeep, Abby added Trevor’s number to her contact list and called him one more time.

  “Yeah,” answered a male voice, clearly annoyed.

  “Trevor Massey?”

  “So what if it is?”

  “I s
upply honey to the chefs, Emilio and Dori, up at the winery where you work.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m calling about Dori. I’ve got a couple of questions.”

  “Nope. I answered the cop’s questions. I don’t have to answer any more of them, especially from a beekeeper.”

  Abby protested, but the line went dead. It had been a long shot, but worth a try. If you won’t talk to me, maybe your new boss, Don Winston, will.

  Tips for Feeding Bees When Food Sources Are Limited

  Beekeepers understand that their honeybees derive nourishment from honey and pollen. Honey provides calories the bees need for energy, while pollen provides minerals and protein. The following tips involve the proper feeding of honeybees during winter or other periods when pollen sources and access to honey are limited.

  • Do not take honey from the hive if doing so means you’ll then have to feed the bees come winter.

  • Ensure the bees have access to their sealed combs of honey. Alternatively, feed them sugar syrup (made with white cane sugar, not brown, because of bee digestion issues).

  • Make certain honey destined as food for the bees comes from a source free of disease.

  • Use as little heat as possible for food destined to be consumed by bees, since heating honey produces a compound shown to cause honeybee gut ulceration.

  • Avoid feeding high fructose corn syrup to the bees, since much commercially grown corn involves the use of pesticides and often GMOs.

  Chapter 15

  Pomegranates are an ancient symbol of fertility;

  jelly made from the juice of the ruby-red seeds

  makes a lovely filling for layers of a trendy

  wedding cake.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  Abby lay low for a while, lest word got around that she was badgering witnesses, gathering names, checking out old-model sedans, and demanding phone numbers. But laying low didn’t mean she wasn’t dealing with her anxiety. She’d been steadily working on the incident poster, adding new info as it became known. The poster with lines and notations in different colored inks had taken on the look of a road map rather than an organized chart. And even with the case always within view, she still could make no sense of Jake’s murder. As a distraction more than anything else, she resorted to reworking Edna Mae’s quilt. Then, unexpectedly, a neighbor called. The old curmudgeon, who had served in the military and lived down Farm Hill Road from her, called around four o’clock in the afternoon to ask if she’d be willing to bring him two dozen organic eggs and a one-pound jar of lavender honey. His wife, he said, “had the hankering to do some baking.”