A Beeline to Murder (20 page)

“Did he tell them his name?”

Philippe shook his head. “He stayed a short time. That is all.”

At that moment, a lithe, petite woman in a navy shirtwaist dress and pearls walked through the chapel door. As she approached, Philippe introduced her as Brenda, the coordinator he had been working with.

“We have some business to complete,” he explained.

Abby excused herself and walked to the back of the room, set her phone to video record mode, and waited to see who else would show up. When Brenda left, Philippe sank into the chair nearest the casket to receive the condolences of those attending the viewing. He’d told Abby that if no one showed, the two of them would watch the tribute and drive up the mountain for the burial, then share a simple meal afterward to celebrate Jean-Louis’s life.

From somewhere beyond the chapel, a clock sounded two chimes. At five past the hour, the mayor and the city manager filed in, followed by Nettie, who spotted Abby and nodded. Nettie would not be there except by order of Chief Bob Allen, and Abby knew that Nettie would be watching and listening and reporting back to the chief any relevant information that the police chief should know about. The three spoke to Philippe, waved to Abby, and filed by the coffin before taking a seat. Word traveled fast in a small town, but Abby hadn’t realized just how fast and what the impact would be. Others came. Many others. Abby recognized customers, pastry shop workers, suppliers, and business associates among them, but there were also people she didn’t know, presumably from the art and culinary worlds of San Francisco.

Abby was not surprised that mayoral candidate Eva Lennahan—who once had called Jean-Louis “the most talented pastry chef in town”—was a no-show. Hopeful that the man in the dark suit, the bearer of white lilies, might return, Abby kept a watchful eye on the door as the lights dimmed for the audiovisual tribute.

The soft strains of “Vissi d’arte” from Puccini’s
Tosca,
coincided with an on-screen close-up of Jean-Louis. His large light brown eyes and dark brows dominated his angular face, made more so by a straight nose sans a bump or excessive fleshiness and his smiling Cupid’s-bow lips. The camera loved the handsome French Canadian immigrant who’d made Las Flores his final home. On film, he exuded vitality and a commanding presence. Abby marveled at Philippe’s selection of music. Of course, Jean-Louis would have loved hearing this aria again. Its opening line, “I lived for art, I lived for love,” encapsulated the narrative of his life. And as Chef Jean-Louis had once exclaimed, no one could sing
Tosca
like the incomparable Maria Callas.

The sniffles and muffled cries Abby heard from where she stood at the back of the room tugged at her heart. There were moments during the twenty-two-minute tribute when she had to pinch her nose and squeeze her eyes shut against the tears that were welling. The sequence of shots depicting Jean-Louis at work in the pastry shop kitchen proved the most difficult for Abby to watch. The close-up of his fingers holding scallop-shell pans filled with freshly baked honey-almond madeleines brought new tears. And there, on the counter next to him, was his familiar vermeil teapot and a jar of Abby’s honey, with its unmistakable label, which captured the beauty of Henrietta, her favorite little Mediterranean hen.

Other images depicted Jean-Louis and Philippe in a school yard, as adolescents, arms around each other, their school backpack straps draped over their shoulders. In a picture of the boys at an art show with their father, Abby could see the family resemblance. Yet another showed a teenage Jean-Louis outside a Parisian-style patisserie, studying the offerings through the glass window. There was an image of him with Sugar, the mini English pointer–whippet–beagle mutt, whom Jean-Louis had acquired after moving to Las Flores.

The voices of Bocelli and Dion sang “The Prayer” as the last image lingered—a grinning Jean-Louis in his tropical-print shirt and hiking shorts, hands outstretched to heaven, standing atop the spillway of the Las Flores Reservoir. Jean-Louis’s tall, thin friend—perhaps less adventurous—stood nearby, as if ready to catch Jean-Louis in the event that he slipped. The haunting and unmistakable image of that friend—one Jake Lennahan—stuck with Abby like no other.

As the lights went back on, a priest by the name of Father Joseph entered the room. He gently placed his hand on Philippe’s shoulder and asked if anyone wanted to share stories about Jean-Louis with those in attendance.

Philippe rose and spoke endearingly about how the loss would affect him and his family. “My mother, especially, doted on him. He was born late in her life, and she always called Jean-Louis her late season surprise.” Philippe talked about how Jean-Louis had a guiding principle, which was always to put people before material possessions. “He lived as if tomorrow might never come,” Philippe said. Choking up, he added, “He believed it was how we all are meant to live.”

When Philippe finished talking, there seemed to be a collective reluctance by everyone else to speak, but finally Tallulah stood. She spoke of using her empathic powers when she first interviewed for a job with the chef, and described how she sensed a deep vulnerability, which he would not discuss. “He told me once that prison takes many forms, that to be an artist is to be a pilgrim ever haunted by the thing that desires to be created.”

A prayer followed and then the blessing of the body. During it all, Abby thought about Jake Lennahan, who was clearly the friend who had seemed ready to protect Jean-Louis, whatever the price. And now she was beginning to wonder whether the relationship Jake shared with Jean-Louis might have had a dark side.

 

The Jeep radio was tuned to the weather report as Abby and Philippe drove to the Church of the Pines. The afternoon had become warm and muggy, and winds were kicking up. According to the local weather report, the easterly onshore breeze that served as California’s air conditioner had combined with a low pressure at the coast, causing the wind to gust up to forty-plus miles per hour at the crests of high hills and mountain peaks. A heavy fog would set in along the coast later that night, but inland areas, like Las Flores, would remain clear enough to view the full moon.

At the grave site, the winds were already howling. Abby held on to the billowing overskirt of her black, cap-sleeved mourning dress and said to Philippe, “It’s ironic and sad that so many showed for the wake, but just you and I are here to see him off.”

“Oui,” Philippe replied. “It’s better this way, no? We two care the most about what happened to him. We two will lay him to his rest.”

Abby nodded in agreement. She watched as the six pallbearers, faces glistening with sweat, walked slowly and with solemnity, holding the casket by its handles. When she and Philippe had reached the mountain summit, she’d set her cell phone to vibrate so it would not ring during the short service. And now it was vibrating. Abby checked the screen, then took the call.

“Say it quick, Kat. . . . My phone doesn’t have much battery power left.”

“Thought you’d want to know, girlfriend . . . the bicycle guy you reported, with the two dogs . . . just took him in for a hit-and-run.”

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s more. He collided with Dora.”

“Is she okay?”

“Hospital staff says she’s lucky. Nine lives, that one. Has a fractured hip and a broken right wrist. Malnourished, of course, so they’re keeping her long enough to build up her stamina.”

“So, our colorful Dora will have hot meals and a roof over her head for a while.”

“Yep. At the taxpayers’ expense.”

“What about those poor dogs?”

“They’re being checked over by a vet at the animal rescue.”

“Dare I ask about the bags in Dora’s shopping cart?”

“Well, unfortunately, some were ripped.”

“Meaning stuff spilled out, and you didn’t need that pesky little search warrant to find it.” Abby’s adrenaline kicked in.

“Why, yes, it did, and we couldn’t help noticing the bag contained Chef Jean-Louis’s apron.”

“
No.
Really?”

“And that’s not all. Dora has a thing for string. We found a bag full of the nasty stuff—all sorts, used for God knows what. There was a long piece of twine in there, too, with a slipknot, cut at one end.”

“Ha! So she had the twine from the chef’s neck all along.” Abby’s heart leaped. “Ooh, I’d love to talk about this more, but we’re up here at the grave site. I’ve got to go. The priest is walking toward us. We’ll talk later.”

As if fearing a powerful wind gust would topple him, the priest held on to a walking stick and clutched his Bible, its purple ribbon hanging loosely from the frayed edges, as he picked his way from the stone pathway over to the gaping hole in the ground, where freshly dug dirt had been heaped into a black pile. The casket was positioned atop the wide straps laid out so that the pallbearers could easily take hold and lower Jean-Louis into the ground. They stood ready.

The priest took a moment to put down his walking stick and look into the eyes of each person before commencing the service, and then he began to speak, projecting his voice over the howling wind and making the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We meet on this solemn occasion to honor the life and the passing of Jean-Louis Bonheur, a beloved son and a much-loved brother. With reverence, we lovingly place his body into this sacred dwelling place, as a sign of our respect for Jean-Louis, who lived among us for a time. We commend his spirit to the heart of the Lord. And we comfort one another in our grief.”

Opening his Bible with the ribbon, the priest spoke again. “For it is written in Psalm forty-six, God is our refuge and strength.” He read on and then paused, as if trying to think of some other words of comfort. Finally, he closed his Bible. “Let us pray. Look upon us, O Lord, with compassion, as you did when Jesus cried at the grave of his friend Lazarus. Give us hope. Strengthen us with faith. Safeguard the friends and family of those who must now carry on without their beloved in their midst. Amen.”

The priest asked Philippe if he wanted to open the casket one last time before it was lowered into the ground. Philippe nodded. Abby had slipped a small vial of rose geranium water into her purse and had told Philippe he might use it to anoint his brother’s forehead. Philippe now looked at her, as if needing her support and strength. His eyes, gray-green now, turned misty as he took the vial from her.

The pallbearers pulled the casket cover back to reveal the face of the deceased. Philippe knelt in the dirt to draw the sign of the cross over his brother’s forehead. He tilted the vial against his thumb and middle finger just as a heavy wind gust pushed him forward and sent the vial flying from his fingers. Simultaneously, a paper wafted upward from the casket and drifted on the wind. Abby didn’t care about the vial, and she was pretty sure Philippe was all right, but her instincts screamed for her to chase after that paper as the wind lifted and dropped it on an erratic path. She breathed a sigh of relief when it snagged on the base of a bush several yards away.

The priest helped Philippe to his feet and carried on. “Although your hearts grieve”—the priest motioned for the men to take their positions and lower the casket into the earth—“you can take solace in the words faithfully recorded in the Gospel of John. The Lord says, ‘I will not leave you comfortless. I will come to you.’ ”

Leaning down to place his Bible next to his walking stick, the priest picked up a handful of dirt. He motioned for Philippe and Abby to do likewise. As they did, the clergyman intoned, “We have committed our beloved’s spirit to your eternal keeping, Father. We now commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Merciful God, we do this with the belief and absolute hope in the resurrection to eternal life. . . .”

Abby didn’t hear the last words. The wind wasn’t just gusting. It howled now. She held her breath in hopes that the paper didn’t cast off again. As soon as she heard “Amen,” she backed away from the burial site and swiftly marched toward the bush where the paper waved still. Leaning down, Abby plucked the piece of paper from its entrapment. The paper was actually a small colored photograph of Jean-Louis and Jake Lennahan. The image showed them clowning around, both displaying unmistakably happy smiles. Jean-Louis wore his chef’s toque and double-breasted shirt. Jake wore a sandwich sign with straps over his shoulders. A multilayered, frosted cake had been painted on the sign. On the back of the photograph, in cursive, was written,
Happy Birthday, Jean-Louis. My grief is unbearable. You are my heart. I never believed she would make good on her threat, but now she has taken from me everything, even my reason for living. I curse the day I married her. May she burn in hell!—J.

Abby tucked the photo in her purse, steeled herself against the gusting wind, and returned to the grave, where the priest was shaking hands with the pallbearers. The diggers had already begun filling the grave. Abby joined Philippe and the priest as they picked their way back to the stone path. Shadows had already lengthened on the mountain. Abby touched Philippe’s arm and pointed to the blazing orange ball of a sun sliding down into the now gunmetal-gray Pacific.

He dropped back a step to create space between himself and the priest. “Abby, what was on that paper?”

“Just a missing puzzle piece. For a bowl of white bean soup, I’ll tell you all about it. What do you say?” Abby asked, trying to assuage his sadness and quell the singing of her heart at their stroke of good fortune. She was certain that Jake was the distraught man who had delivered the lilies and those two roses, and that, while alone with the body, he had secretly tucked the photo inside the coffin.

“Sounds good,” Philippe replied, taking her arm to help her negotiate the stone pathway.

She stopped. “And pie at Maisey’s.”

“I would never say no to that.”