A Beeline to Murder (6 page)

“Suit yourself,” the bartender replied and returned to wiping down the counter.

“Sir.” Kat addressed Harlan in her most authoritative tone. “These men have every right to be here.”

“These aren’t men. They’re sissies.” The biker pivoted his large frame awkwardly to lock eyes with Kat. “And who the hell are you, anyway? Why don’t you just keep movin’ toward that there door?” Harlan said. “Or I’ll give you a reason to wish you had. Show you what a real man can do.” He stepped forward in his steel-toed boots. “This is none of your freaking business, little lady.”

“Actually, it is,” Kat replied coldly. “What say, let’s share some ID?” She opened her purse and flashed her badge at Harlan and the barkeep. “So, I’ve shown you mine. Let’s have a look at yours.”

“Cop. Shoulda known.” Harlan gave a yank on the chain attached to the wallet in his rear pocket. He removed his identification and handed it to Kat.

“Your name, sir?” Kat asked, glancing over at the bartender, who held up eight fingers, apparently one for each beer Harlan had downed.

“You can see right there, it’s Sweeney. Harlan Sweeney.”

“Well, Harlan Sweeney, are you drunk?”

“Maybe. Free country. I gotta right to drink and to express my opinion.”

“Just the same, Mr. Sweeney.” Kat handed back the ID. “You are harassing these men. Here’s your choice.... You can go back to your own crib or the jail.”

He seemed at a loss for words. The din dropped to a murmur. Everyone’s attention was now on the biker and Kat. A few patrons, apparently not wanting to hang around for a police action, dashed for the door.

Abby watched the man, thinking maybe Kat should have called for backup before confronting him. Abby knew from experience that showing the bad guys your badge always seemed to piss them off. But she also suspected that Kat was packing a concealed weapon, in case things got too out of control. As the man slid his wallet back into his jeans pocket, Abby’s gaze followed his hand’s movement. She noted the narrow strip, which resembled twine, threaded through the biker’s belt loops.

“I get claustrophobic in tight places,” the man finally drawled, stepping back to let Kat pass. “Besides . . .” He drilled his eyes into Abby’s and cocked his head toward the two young banker types. “You never know who has sprawled on those jail cots.” His wink at Abby was unmistakable even in bar light. “I hate boozin’ with fairies.” His forced laugh was as coarse as sanded grout.

Abby flinched. She knew better than to comment. Kat told the bartender to call a cab for Mr. Sweeney and said she’d get a cruiser out to make sure the guy actually got home. Abby followed Kat past Sweeney, but he reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Next time,” he said, addressing Abby, “why don’t you and I have a drink together? Get to know each other better?”

“In your dreams,” she hissed, wrenching free of his grasp.

Outside, Abby watched the bar door, while Kat called in the disturbance. They waited until they saw the cruiser pull up. Kat briefly exchanged words with the officer. Then she and Abby walked in lockstep past the dozen or so motorcycles parked at the meters in front of the bar. They strode at a brisk clip past the pizza parlor, the antique shop, and the quilting store, then finally turned the corner onto Church Street, where they stopped momentarily in front of the padlocked wrought-iron gates of the Church of the Holy Names. Holding on to the gate, Abby removed her left high heel to rub her foot.

“You let him off easy,” she said.

“Seriously, you think me and you and Toots could’ve taken him?”

“Not in heels,” Abby joked.

“A guy like that is easy to find. He mouths off too much. We’ll get around to questioning him, if not in this case, then in another one.”

 

 

Tips for Growing Lavender

Chapter 4

Producing manure is easy; it’s the moving of it that takes patience and the right shovel.

 

 

A
bby leaned on the wooden handle of the utility broom and stared at the small mountain of black compost she’d swept from the truck bed onto the ground. Pulling the broad brim of her straw hat down to shield her eyes from the sun, she proffered silent thanks for friends like Lucas Crawford, who had given her the key to his 1958 Ford pickup and permission to use it whenever she needed to haul supplies or building materials. Lucas had lovingly restored it but hardly used the truck anymore. Most people who knew him figured Lucas saw his truck as part of the past.... And Lucas was trying to forget the past.

For years, Lucas and his red truck with
CRAWFORD FEED AND FARM SUPPLIES
emblazoned on the doors were as much a part of the landscape as the two-lane roads that crisscrossed Las Flores. Lucas delivered bales of hay, various types of feed, salt licks, and even baby chicks throughout the county and sometimes across the county line. After he married, Lucas’s feed-store employees joked that he had fixed up that old truck—which matched his wife’s hair color—so that if Lucas, who seemed to be a woman magnet, was ever tempted to dally, he’d see the truck and fear the wrath of that little redhead to whom he’d hitched his destiny.

Abby stiffened at the thought of the tragedy that had befallen Lucas in the past year. Business had been so good that when Lucas found out he was about to become a father, he and his wife had purchased a prime piece of real estate in the southern part of the county. There they planned to build their dream home. Six weeks after the building started, Lucas’s wife, who was recovering from the flu and was feeling well enough to visit the construction site, suffered a relapse. Fungal spores in the dust out there, which were known to cause valley fever, increased the load on the poor woman’s weakened immune system. Pneumonia set in. Her passing had shocked everyone.

After the burial, Lucas wanted nothing to do with the south county property. He secluded himself on the ranch up the hill from Abby’s place. Back at the feed store, where Abby bought her chicken pellets, customers and staff gossiped about how his wife’s death had pushed Lucas off purpose with the life he had planned. Abby felt sorry for Lucas but refused to be another one of the town’s unmarried ladies who delivered casseroles to the poor guy. He had lost his wife and unborn child and needed time to grieve. Lucas, everyone said, showed up for work as punctually as ever but kept to himself. He seemed to have lost his passion for everything, including his prized red truck. Most days, it could be seen parked in front of the old gray barn at the entrance to the Crawford property—one hill away from Abby’s farmette.

That was where Abby had found it when she needed to haul the compost. Just as she’d expected, it was Houdini’s crow—not the alarm she’d set—that had awakened her before six o’clock. Fifteen minutes later, she’d arrived at the Crawford place. A raccoon had left a pattern of fresh paw prints across the truck’s dusty hood. Abby had smiled when she’d seen it, and had reminded herself to wash the truck before returning it. Back in the day, Lucas had kept that truck spotless. She figured it was the least she could do after using it at the Go Green and Recycle facility where she’d gotten the load of aged manure.

Now, back at the farmette, with the compost swept from the truck bed, she would have the rest of the morning and the greater part of the afternoon to ferry the earthy-scented black mound from the front of the property to the back garden. Tossing the broom to the ground, Abby jumped off the tailgate, latched it, and marched through the big wooden gate with the broken hinge to retrieve the faded blue wheelbarrow that was behind her house.

Abby’s high spirits sank when she spotted the wheelbarrow’s flat tire. Grimacing, she realized that not only would she would have to fix the tire, but she would also have to plant those six raspberry vines. Their roots remained suspended in the galvanized bucket of water that sat in the wheelbarrow bin, right where she’d left them the day the DA called. That was the day before Jean-Louis died.

“Arghhh,” she growled under her breath.
Serves me right for thinking I was going to catch up. The vines, the tire, the truck . . . Better do them in that order.
Resigned to the tasks ahead of her, Abby turned and stiffly marched to the toolshed to fetch the shovel, a tire patch, and the bicycle pump. When her cell phone chimed in her jeans pocket, Abby jumped.
Now what?
After removing a glove, she retrieved the phone, pushed the side button, swiped her finger across the screen, and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Etienne
is
in that picture . . . but is not one of the guys in a suit.... He is the one with the shaved head.” Kat’s voice sounded matter-of-fact.

“Whatever happened to saying hello first?” Abby asked en route to the toolshed. Noticing the profusion of leafy grapevines spilling over the fence into weeds that threatened to dwarf the toolshed, Abby blew air between her lips.
Pull weeds. Oh, and by hand, too, seeing as how the weed whacker is broken.
She uttered a barely audible “Rats!”

“Abby?”

“I’m here. Just . . . here,” Abby said with resignation.

“I know that tone of voice,” Kat said. “You’re annoyed about something . . . or everything.... What died, broke down, or can’t be fixed on the farmette today?”

Abby kept silent. What was the point in giving more power to Kat, who insisted that the farmette was a headache and a money eater . . . even if it was true? Better to keep silent. One did that for best friends who could never truly grasp one’s infatuation with the scent of loamy earth, the sight of flower spikes swaying in a vagrant breeze, and the screech of a scrub jay hidden in a bush, or one’s delight at the first bite of a ripe persimmon plucked from your own tree.

“Okay,” Kat said. “Let’s start again. Good morning, girlfriend. Is all well on the farmette?”

“Just dealing with the usual annoyances,” Abby replied.

“I know you don’t want to hear this again,” Kat said, “but, honestly, Abby, you’re living like an old lady. You seem to have forgotten that there is a whole world of things you used to love . . . going down to McGillicutty’s to listen to the Irish fiddle music or over to the theater to watch the latest foreign film. You never want to have dinner at Zazi’s anymore, because you worry that if you don’t make it home before sundown, the hawks will carry off your chickens. You’re thirty-seven, Abby, and single. There’s plenty of time to be sixty-seven in about three decades! Girl, your chickens get more action than you do.”

“You think?” Abby didn’t hide her irritation at being reminded of what she clearly knew.

“Look, I tell you these things only because you’re my friend and I care about you.”

“I know . . . and I’m sorry the farmette is so labor-intensive right now. But, Kat, I’m empire building here—one plant, one tree, and one jar of honey at a time. I can socialize once I’m through with this intense period of work and the farmette is supporting me.” Abby quickly changed the subject. “So let’s get to why you called. You’ve identified Etienne?”

“Yes. When Otto interviewed him, he had hair, but Tallulah says that shaved-headed guy in the picture is Etienne. His real name is Steve Flanders, and Chef Jean-Louis was the only person to ever call him Etienne. Steve, she said, was always reinventing himself and thought the name had more culinary cachet than his given name. Apparently, this is his French phase. Oh, and get this.... Tallulah said she suspected the chef and Etienne had a little pas de deux going on, until Etienne stopped showing up for work. Tallulah said Chef Jean-Louis suspected Etienne of sticking his fingers in the cash register, where they didn’t belong, and the chef was tired of it and canned him.”

“That so? We know the killer didn’t hit the cash register, so Etienne’s firing becomes his motive for murder? Doesn’t seem like a strong enough reason.” Abby turned away from the toolshed and continued down a gravel path to the apricot tree where she had propped supports under the limbs heavy with nearly ripe fruit. “Anyway, you said Etienne had an alibi. Is it airtight?”

“Not a hundred percent. Checking it out right after I leave here.”

“So where are you?”

“At the county health department.” Kat lowered her voice. “With Chief Bob Allen. Lordy, he’s all over this. Even canceled a meeting this morning to be here. Just like when you and I were partners, and he never wanted one of us to tell the other anything until we had told him first. The chief still insists on not just being in the loop but also being the first to know everything. I was thinking that he could actually help us by steering the investigation, because, you know, we don’t get that many deaths with unusual circumstances here, and then he goes and gets all jellylike while taking a call from Miss I’m Going to Be the Next Mayor . . . or governor. Like we’re not investigating a serious situation here. Hello.”

Imagining the chief smitten, Abby suppressed a smile.

“He must be in a midlife crisis or something,” said Kat. “He turned to glare at me and then walked out of earshot.”

“But he’s married—”

“To a sweetheart of a woman, whose volunteer work is sewing prayer blankets for sick kids. Chief Bob Allen, for the brainiac he claims to be, doesn’t seem to appreciate what he’s got at home. Know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh. Like a lot of guys.” Abby knew that Kat found the police chief irritating and often abrasive.

Kat continued her diatribe. “The way I see him right now is with his knuckles dragging the ground, Abby. Totally Neanderthal. Now, why do you think he’s behaving like a stupid teenager?”

“Well, I’ll venture a guess. Chief Bob Allen is like an artichoke—you’ve got to peel back a lot of layers of ego to discover who or what is hiding underneath. Might be a little boy cowering in a corner, with a huge inferiority complex, or a man consumed with self-loathing.”

“Uh-oh. He’s coming. One more thing . . . I almost forgot. A neighbor of the pastry chef called us. He’s an independent consultant and works from home, but he’s leaving town on a business trip tomorrow, and he’s got Sugar, Jean-Louis’s dog. Any chance you could take her for a few days? The animal shelter is overpopulated right now and begged us to find someone who would foster the dog until they could take her for adoption, or they’ll have to place her with another rescue operation somewhere. I mean, you’ve got all that room out there, and you could use a watchdog, right?”

“I guess so. I’m not really into pets, other than my chickens and my bees. Maybe the chef’s neighbor can take the dog back when he returns from his business trip?”

Kat’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Got to go.”

 

By the time Abby had finished all the chores for the day, the sun had dropped behind the hillside, leaving in its path wispy streaks of pale pink and gold. She had patched and inflated the wheel on the wheelbarrow, planted the raspberry vines, and ferried the compost to the garden and then tilled it into the soil. The weeds would wait for another day. She had also washed Lucas Crawford’s truck and returned it, with a jar of honey and a thank-you note tied to the steering wheel with gingham ribbon. And finally, she’d made it into Las Flores to take charge of the pastry chef’s dog, Sugar.

Sugar was a two-year-old mixed breed. According to the neighbor, Jean-Louis had told him that the dog had some English pointer, beagle, and whippet in her, showing up in rounded eyes, long legs, a lean body, and a short-haired white coat with liver-colored freckles and spots. She also had a long, sloping neck and a thick tail. Abby worried that the dog might be highly energetic, needing to hunt and run every day—a concern borne out by the neighbor, who had said he was marathon runner and had taken the dog with him on his daily practice runs. What if the dog went after the wild birds that were attracted to the feeders she’d hung around her property? That would never do. On the upside, maybe the pooch’s mixed breeding had tempered an aggressive hunting tendency. In the final analysis, Abby reminded herself that the arrangement would be temporary—she’d be the foster parent to Sugar, but only until other arrangements could be made.

After latching the chicken-house door, Abby trudged back to the kitchen as the clock struck nine bells. She flipped on the light and opened the fridge, then stared at the contents—a jar of jam and a plastic tray with six eggs. Dinner could wait, too. What she really longed for was muscular hands to massage her aching back, a glass of wine, and a long hot bath.

Sugar looked up at Abby with big brown eyes, her tail wagging, as if to say, “What about chasing some birds or running up Farm Hill Road? Or is it time to eat yet?”

Abby stared back at the dog. “I don’t speak dog. How are we going to learn each other’s signals? Oh, Lord, what was I thinking? I don’t need a dog.” She took a bowl from the cupboard and poured some dog food in it from the bag that Jean-Louis’s neighbor had given her. After putting down the bowl of dog food and a bowl of fresh water, Abby said, “Well, go ahead. Have at it.”

Sugar contented herself with crunching on the doggy nuggets and slurping water until Abby trudged over to the antique Queen Anne chest, where she kept an unopened bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. Sugar leapt up against the antique chest and began pawing it, as if the old piece of furniture hadn’t already been scarred enough over the past hundred years.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Down. Get down now!” Abby immediately regretted how loud and mean she sounded. She mentally chastised herself for being unduly harsh with the poor creature.

The dog dropped to all fours, but its body quivered.

Abby sank to her knees. “I’m sorry, Sugar. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just this chest is one of the few things I have left from my grandmother. It’s irreplaceable. Oh, I do hope you understand.”