The Murder of a Queen Bee (4 page)

“Oh, you know, he's nice enough. . . .”

“But?”

“I don't know. I prefer my tomatoes and onions on a plate, not tattooed on the forearms of the guy handing me the plate. Always . . . with the sleeves up. I've got nothing against ink, but I'm not feeling the sparks. Wishing I could find a nice Silicon Valley engineer type to hook up with. The trouble is, most around Las Flores moved here with a wife and kids.”

“I'm not making the connection here between your chef, the engineer you want, and Lucas Crawford. Can you clue me in?”

“Well, Lucas, now, he's a looker. He's also eligible, available, and as you told me, he can cook.”

Abby felt taken aback. Kat had remembered that detail. Momentarily caught off guard, Abby sputtered, “Yes, so I've heard. But he isn't really your type, is he?”

Kat's brow shot up. “And what type would that be?”

Abby fumbled for words, waved her hand, as if to dismiss the notion. “I . . .” She blew air between her lips. “I don't know. Polar opposite, maybe?” She wished now that she'd said something long ago to Kat about how she felt around Lucas.

“Polar opposite? Really?” Kat looked surprised. “Well, opposites attract, or so they say. Lest you forget, it was you, Abby, who suggested I be more choosy, set my sights higher. Lucas Crawford would be a great catch. Maybe I could get him off that ranch. He might enjoy dating a fun-loving cop.”

Abby leaned against the Jeep, nodding her head.
He might indeed.
She'd said enough. She had trusted Kat with her life when they were partners on the force. Life had taught Abby a hard lesson about trust and betrayal. When Abby was in her midtwenties, her best friend, Josephine, had seduced Abby's then boyfriend behind her back. He had left Abby for Jo, then had ditched Jo to romance a female recruiter for the military and had soon joined up. Kat wasn't Jo. Abby knew that. If Kat only knew how a mere look from Lucas could stir Abby's emotions. But Kat didn't know.
And whose fault is that?

Sugar wanted her treat. She clearly didn't like being tethered while Abby chitchatted with Kat. The medium-sized dog had lunged at a passerby and now had grown bored barking at a gray squirrel in the tree. Abby applied a reassuring pat on Sugar's head to calm her.

“Well, who knows?” Abby said to Kat with a smile. “Maybe Lucas will rock your world.”

“The way I see it, Abby, Lucas needs a good woman in his life. The whole town felt bad when his wife passed away so young, being pregnant and all. I'd just like to be there for him.”

Abby smiled.
You and every other single woman between twenty and sixty. But your heartfelt sentiment is sweet.
Kat was gorgeous, openly flirty, intensely funny, and had a heart of gold. If Kat wanted to start something with Lucas, Abby wouldn't stand in the way.

“Has he asked you out?” Abby asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“Not yet,” Kat replied. “And I never seem to catch him here at the feed store.”

Her spirits suddenly buoyed, Abby grinned
.
“So people don't usually dress up to buy feed. What were you going to tell him you were shopping for?”

“Dunno. Don't have any pets. There's a mouse in my house. Maybe a trap?”

“Seriously?” Abby snorted. “Wouldn't that be just the thing? A trap?”

Kat chuckled. “I see what you mean.” She glanced at her watch. “Listen. I have to go in a minute, but about the estate sale . . . I've heard there will be lots of antiques and dishes and farm tools.”

“Great,” said Abby, relieved the conversation had taken a new direction.

“I happen to know that old lady Richardson collected gobs of fine china. I'll be looking for porcelain and pottery marks while you hunt for garden stuff and old books.”

“You know I like good china, too,” Abby replied. “But back to Fiona for a moment. I saw a box or two of old gardening books in her shop that she planned to donate. What do you suppose will happen to those volumes?”

Kat's brow puckered. “I couldn't say. At some point, there'll have to be a funeral. Might be a good time to ask her brother, who has to settle her affairs.”

“To hear Fiona tell it, he was the only stable person in her crazy quilt of a life. How's he taking her death?” Abby asked.

“Like a man who has lost a loved one to a murderer. He's grieving. Wants her killer brought to justice.”

Abby nodded. “We all want that. What did Fiona's autopsy reveal?”

Kat glanced at her watch again. “Cardiac arrest due to asphyxia was the cause of death. No trauma to the body. The coroner's report is inconclusive. And, as you know, the toxicology report takes as long as it takes. For now, that's about all we have.”

“Asphyxia?” Abby blinked with bafflement. “Drowning causes asphyxia. Inhaling a toxic gas causes asphyxia. Choking . . .”

“Before you ask me if she was choked,” Kat said, “the answer is no. There were no marks on her neck or the rest of her body.”

“Well, that's just weird,” Abby said. She recalled Fiona's body in the car, with the front windows down. Fiona was seated behind the wheel and was leaning back in the seat. But her feet, as far as Abby could tell, didn't quite reach the brake or the gas pedal.

“You and I were a great team, Abby. We still are. But Chief Bob Allen told me not to involve you in this case, so what I tell you can go no further. Abigail, I'm dead serious about the need for secrecy. Otherwise, I could lose my job.” Kat's expression reflected the sober reality of what she apparently felt.

“I would never do or say anything to jeopardize your job, Kat. I hope you know that.” Abby suddenly lurched as Sugar pulled against the leash with a high-pitched
yip
,
yip
,
yip
, apparently after spotting a pair of squirrels scrambling along a limb of the tree.

Kat nodded. “Of course, but I need assurances that we're on the same page. So, here's a scoop. Fire investigators say an accelerant was used, but the coroner says no smoke or soot in her lungs, meaning—”

“Fiona was dead when someone torched the car,” said Abby. She leaned against the Jeep door, shaking her head, feeling sorrowful all over again.

“Oh, but there were traces of emesis in her mouth,” said Kat. “What do you make of that?”

“She threw up?” Abby asked, frowning. “You know, I've been with Fiona when she's plucked a leaf from a plant and chomped down on it. I often wondered how she always seemed to know whether or not it was poisonous.” Abby scratched her head. “Maybe she knew from the bitterness or chalkiness or acidity. I don't know. Regardless, it's possible that this time she ate something toxic, something that caused her to vomit.”

“No evidence of it in the car or anywhere we searched . . .” Kat's sentence trailed off.

“So if she was poisoned and threw up, the killer cleaned her up. Don't you have any idea where the killer took her life?” Abby asked, trying to make a linkage without enough facts.

“No, we don't. It's possible she was at her cottage, or someone took her someplace else. What's certain is that the murderer wanted the body and the car burned.”

“To cover his tracks.” Abby tried to wrap her mind around the puzzle. “Any sign of a struggle at her cottage? Or even the foul scent of someone being sick?”

Kat shook her head. “Nope. And there were no traces of botanical material on the car seats, floorboards, or in the trunk.”

Abby scratched her head. “So here's a hypothesis. Fiona ingested or inhaled a lethal dose of something that caused her asphyxia. But it would have had to be quick acting, wouldn't it? She threw up before dying. Her killer cleaned her up and drove her to the site at Kilbride Lake. He staged her body behind the wheel, used an accelerant, and set the car afire to conceal his crime. Car torched, body burned, and the killer gets away.” Abby waited for a response from Kat.

“It's plausible. The toxicology screen will tell us more,” said Kat.

“But we both know forensic tests don't happen in the real world like they do on TV. A toxicology screen is going to take a while—two to three weeks or more. Right now, I think the murderer would have had someone to help with the move and the disposal, possibly a second person to drive a getaway car from Kilbride Lake.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Kat said. She glanced again at her watch. “Oh, my gosh, I've got to get to court.”

Abby nodded. “Oh, before you leave . . . What about the tire print?”

“That piece of tire tread was awfully small. I don't think the lab will be able to use it,” said Kat.

Abby nodded. “And Chief Bob Allen made such a big deal about it, as if I were a rookie whom he had just pinned. Whatever. I'll help the investigation any way I can, Kat, but for now I'd better hustle home before Sugar snaps this leash.”

Kat was already climbing back into her roadster. “Let's get an early start Saturday, say seven thirty. Don't be late, or we'll lose out on all the good stuff.”

“You just worry about getting the coffee ready. I'll bake lemon scones and bring fresh strawberries and crème anglaise,” Abby said. She waved as Kat pulled away.

Abby dashed inside the feed store, with Sugar behaving like a dog who knew good behavior would get her a reward, and she and the clerk located a rawhide bone, a chew toy, and some dry doggy biscuits, along with a bag of dog food.

“Check back with us about that water dispenser gasket,” the clerk said. “I'll let Lucas know we need more.”

“Sounds good,” said Abby. She left with her purchases in one hand and Sugar's leash in the other.

Watching Sugar devour her treat, Abby decided to take another look at where Fiona had lived and died.
We're already in town. That puts us halfway there.

“What do you say to a drive into the mountains, Sugar Pie? Would you like that?” Abby fastened her seat belt, shifted the gear into reverse, and backed up the Jeep. Sugar cocked her head to one side. Looking over at her, Abby could almost swear Sugar was smiling back.

Abby stuck to the back roads through Las Flores, then drove through the mountains until she reached the red barn signifying the turnoff to Fiona's cottage. After navigating up the short gravel road, she parked at the mailbox and read the sign on the front porch:
WELCOME LITTLE PEOPLE, FAIRY FOLK, AND BEINGS OF LIGHT
. Abby smiled and wondered how Fiona had managed to persuade Dr. Danbury to let her put that up. But then again, who would read it, except maybe the mail carrier and the two of them? Of course, there was also the occasional transient Fiona brought home when rain or freezing temperatures threatened. A couple of weeks ago, Fiona had told her about picking up an Iraqi war vet who was hitching his way through the mountains to the valley of towns on the other side. He had slept on her couch for two nights. Abby sighed at the realization that for all her compassion, Fiona's rescuing personality might have been her undoing.

Turning off the engine, Abby looked for signs of life. Perhaps the doc would peek out the window. Dr. David Danbury had been a successful surgeon at the local hospital. He'd purchased the property right after marrying a pretty psychiatrist from Stanford University who was doing the rotation part of her residency program at his hospital. When their growing family outgrew the cottage, the doc built a larger house right next door and connected the two homes with a breezeway. Later, when the marriage failed and his wife moved back east, taking their daughters with her, the doc gave up his lucrative practice to make wine. He rented out the little cottage and eventually became an alcoholic recluse.

Fiona had confided to Abby that she and the doc had initially got on just fine. But with booze on board, it was another story. The affable doctor turned into a pushy, mean drunk. He would talk about his life and insult each person as he remembered them. There was never a kind word for anyone. When Fiona didn't want to keep drinking with him, he insulted her, too, saying she was an emasculator, like his wife had been. After that, Fiona had to tread upon the proverbial razor's edge between being friendly with the doc and spurning his advances, which put her chances of staying in the cottage in jeopardy.

She loved her small home, positioned as it was in the middle of Dr. Danbury's ten-acre vineyard. At the back, there was a Christmas tree farm that bordered another forty acres of wilderness. The latter provided refuge for wildlife, a small stand of old-growth redwoods, and many indigenous plants. When Fiona decided to leave the commune for good, it had been a stroke of good fortune to find Dr. Danbury's cottage. She'd tried to stay in the doc's good graces by offering to plant him a garden that included heirloom vegetables and herbs. One day, he'd pointed to a swath of land near a large olive tree, which he said he'd planted years ago for the wife who left him. The doc had plowed a section under the tree and had told Fiona, “Plant there.” That was the extent of his interest in gardens with anything that wasn't a grapevine or a Christmas tree.

Abby held Sugar's leash securely. She'd brought along the scarf Fiona had left at her house, Now, with Fiona's scarf in hand, she approached the mailbox and looked around. Maybe if she stood there long enough, someone would notice. She didn't want to look like a trespasser, a prowler, or, God forbid, an identity thief. She was, in fact, standing next to the mailbox. Mountain people didn't take kindly to strangers walking about, so Abby hung back and held Sugar in check by her side.

After a few minutes, when nobody had acknowledged her presence, Abby embarked upon the path through the grassless yard—a patchwork of poppies and plants growing in wild abandon near square-shaped raised beds of herbs. Chaotic and ordered, wild and cultivated, the garden seemed an accurate reflection of Fiona.