Chapter 3

Don’t get sidetracked by the hens’ antics if the
rooster is in a foul mood.

—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

 

 

 

Houdini, the rust-colored bantam rooster with weapon-like spurs, eyed Abby, as if ready for attack. She saw him.

“Did somebody get up on the wrong side of the roost?” she asked.

She stepped up the tempo of her chores in the poultry area, collecting eggs and hosing down the water dispenser before refilling it. Keeping Houdini in her line of sight, she plucked the aluminum feeder from its suspension hook and added crumbles. Sooner or later, he was going to make his move. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Houdini begin to pace. Hurriedly, she rehung the feeder. Sidestepping the hens, Abby fetched the bag of wilted spinach and lettuce leaves from the wheelbarrow next to the gate and dumped the entire mound into the large cracked platter on the ground. “Here you go, my darlings.”

So Houdini had gotten his hackles up. Abby wondered what had triggered his agitation this time. She was almost finished with the chores when Houdini flew at her, screeching a shrill warning and flapping his wings as though his tail feathers had caught fire.

“Oh, cool your spurs, big boy,” Abby said, dodging the assault and grabbing the garden hoe. She held the hoe handle in a defensive position and eased out of the gate, stepping backward.

Like an opposing warlord, Abby locked eyes with Houdini. The rooster blinked first. Apparently satisfied that he had sufficiently established dominance over his domain, the rooster promptly herded Henrietta, Heloise, Tighty Whitey, Red, Orpy, and the wyandotte sisters with aggressive pecks. He stopped when finally they stood bunched together in a huddle under the henhouse. The bantam rooster began macho prancing. Abby had seen it before . . . and so had the hens. The girls watched in seeming boredom as Houdini executed the moves of his scratch dance, trying to entice them into exploring what his sharp toenails might have unearthed. On the off chance that he had uncovered a worm, two of the hens wandered over. No worms. Not so much as a grub or a speck of birdseed. They ambled off to a sunny spot for a dirt bath.

“Listen up, ladies, and you, too, Mr. Fancy Pants,” said Abby. “Keep an eye peeled for hawks circling. I’ve spotted three already this morning. One is sitting sentry up there in that pine tree. I don’t want to come home to a pile of plucked feathers and no chickens, and trust me, you don’t want that, either.”

After latching the gate, Abby picked up the basket of eggs, most in hues of brown, white, and tan, with a blue-green one from the Ameraucana. She walked to the water spigot in the middle of the yard. Sugar bounded over.

“You’ve been chasing my songbirds, haven’t you?”

Abby leaned down and turned off the water to the hose. She would have filled the second water dispenser, as she usually did on hot days, but the rubber ring inside the screw-top lid on the older dispenser had snapped, making the dispenser unusable. Knowing that if a chicken went without water, it could stop laying eggs for up to three weeks, Abby made a mental note to keep a close watch on the water level in the sole dispenser. The temperature was expected to climb into the triple digits by late afternoon. On her way back to the kitchen, she plucked a stick from the grass and flung it into the air. Sugar bounded after it and trotted back, leaving the stick where it had landed under the white tea roses.

“Would it be asking too much to bring the stick back?” Abby knelt and massaged the dog’s neck. “If you weren’t such a cutie-pie, with a personality to match, I would have found you a new home long ago. But when the vet said your genes showed English pointer, beagle, and whippet, I got the idea that you might have a talent for tracking. That talent is useful in investigative work. Can you see where I’m going with this?”

Sugar pushed back and gave an impatient, high-pitched yip, yip. She might not be the world’s greatest interpreter of dog speak yet, but Abby felt pretty sure that Sugar wanted a treat or a walk. But conversation . . . not so much.

“Okay, already. Let’s find you a treat and get the leash.”

In the kitchen, Abby searched for the bag of doggy treats. There were only three places in her unfinished kitchen where the bag could be hiding: on top of the double ovens, which had been installed without an upper cabinet; in the pantry of dry goods, next to the fridge; and in the drawer under the counter where she kept potatoes and onions.

“Shoot. Did you eat them all already?” Abby avoided eye contact with Sugar. Without looking, she knew that Sugar was gazing up at her with expectant eyes, making her guilt even harder to bear. How could she not remember having thrown out the empty treat bag? And, worse, why hadn’t she ensured an adequate supply in the first place?

After grabbing her purse, the leash, and the car key, Abby slid open the screen door. “Come on, big girl. We’d better go get that gasket for the chicken water dispenser and more doggy . . .” She stopped short of saying the word. No point in getting the dog super excited all over again.

Twenty minutes later, Abby navigated the Jeep into the parking lot behind Crawford’s Feed and Farm Supplies. She liked going in through the back door since there was always plenty of parking behind the building. Regular customers parked on the street out front. The store’s employees parked at the rear, where truck deliveries were handled, where the bales of hay and straw were stacked, and where owner Lucas Crawford had a designated place for his pickup. Lucas had been widowed for almost two years now. His wife had died early in her pregnancy from virulent pneumonia. After the funeral for his wife and unborn child, Lucas had thrown himself into running the store, continuing to make deliveries around the county, and working on his cattle ranch near Abby’s small farm. Up there, away from the town and the eager advances of women who wanted to console him, Lucas found solace in raising his grass-fed beef and riding his horses, keeping to himself.

When he had learned that Abby had bought the farmette downhill from his place, Lucas had made a special point of giving her permission to use his old truck if the need ever arose. He’d held on to his late wife’s car, he’d told her, so there was no inconvenience. Abby smiled as she stared at his red truck. She’d borrowed it only twice—once to haul compost from the recycling plant to her gardens and another time to transport some lumber to repair the farmhouse kitchen. Each time she had washed the vehicle and had hung the extra key back on its nail on the wall inside the old gray barn where Lucas kept it.

The ringtone of her cell sounded, jarring her from her thoughts.

“Just a reminder. The estate sale is Saturday.” Kat’s voice practically trilled the words.

“What happened to hello?” asked Abby.

“You have caller ID, girlfriend. Just making sure you remember not to do the farmers’ market. I thought we could take your car to the estate sale since your Jeep has more room than my roadster,” said Kat.

“I’ve circled the date on my calendar, Kat. And yes, we’ll take my Jeep. No problem.”

Abby was more concerned about what the cops had discovered in their investigation of Fiona’s death. With a killer on the loose in Las Flores, Abby could hardly think of bargain hunting. “What’s new with the murder investigation?” she asked, tapping the speaker mode of her cell and setting the phone on the dashboard. She needed both hands to snap the leash onto Sugar’s collar. The dog had already started barking her impatience.

“Lot of info, but few leads.”

Sighing, Abby said, “So no one heard or saw anything?”

“More like no one is saying if they did. We’re ruling out those closest to her and moving out from there. Checking alibis. Working the angles.”

“Gotcha. So exactly where is the estate sale?” Abby asked, still struggling with the leash. Sugar wiggled worse than a bowl of gelatin on a picnic table during an earthquake. Abby had tried three times to connect the leash latch to the ring on her harness and finally gave up.

“Vineyard Lane . . . at the Richardson estate. Two doors down from where Fiona lives.”

“Lived,” Abby said, correcting her. Sugar whined. “Oh, hold on, Kat, while I deal with this dog.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re at the feed store, on a run for chow and treats. Parked around back.”

“And I’m right around the corner. Be there in five. It’ll give me a chance to check out Mr. Action Hero with the washboard abs. I can’t for the life of me figure out why a man that good-looking hasn’t remarried. He can’t still be in mourning.”

“If you mean Lucas Crawford, I’m watching him walk out the door right now. You better hurry, or you’ll miss him,” Abby said, instantly wishing she could call back her words. Kat was her dearest friend, but until Abby figured out why she felt those butterflies in her tummy whenever Lucas met up with her, she didn’t want anyone—including Kat—complicating the situation. Not that there was a situation. And Abby could certainly understand why the single women in town might fantasize about the quiet rancher who lived a stone’s throw up the hill from her farmette.

“Stay put, Abby. I’ll be right there,” Kat said and clicked off.

Abby laid the cell on the console. No point in taking Sugar inside until Kat had come and gone. Through the windshield, Abby watched Lucas check his phone before sliding it into his jeans pocket. Man, did he ever look good in slim-legged, boot-cut dungarees and a cotton flannel shirt. She hadn’t seen him since those heavy winter rains, when he’d dressed in a knee-length slicker. Drought-stricken California always needed rain, but twenty-one straight days of it had worn heavily on the people who had to work in it, like farmers and ranchers. But her misery over the incessant rain and mud had had a bright spot when, at the end of that rainy period in March, Lucas had dropped by unannounced. He’d come to ask about the aged French drain around Abby’s farmhouse. Was it still holding strong and redirecting the rising water?

He’d offered to bring her some sandbags if flooding seemed imminent. Abby smiled as she recalled how surprised she’d been to see him and also at the excuse he used to explain the visit. The French drain? Seriously?

She’d offered him coffee, a freshly baked cinnamon roll, and a towel to dry his face and his wet hair. His eyes, the color of creek water, gazed at her with such intensity that it seemed almost as if he could see into the depths of her heart. It was then that Abby felt the first flutter of attraction. That day in March, he stood facing her, dripping with rainwater like a drowned kitten, and gave her a rare smile. He took the towel she’d offered, shoved it through his curly, brown locks, and swallowed several sips of the steaming black brew. Under the intensity of his gaze, the butterflies in Abby’s tummy took flight. She wondered then if he felt them, too. But she guessed not, since he suddenly said thanks, handed her the cup, gave Sugar a pat on the head, and left. That was the way of enigmatic Lucas, a man of few words, but full of surprises.

Now, as Abby watched Lucas climb onto the seat of his truck and slam the door behind him, she had to wonder why he hadn’t been around of late. His red truck disappeared around the side of the feed store where an alley turned into the street. Most likely, he was taking off for a new delivery. Nobody provided that kind of customer service anymore. It endeared Lucas all the more to the people of Las Flores and his customers countywide. And today Abby was grateful that she’d parked under the dense walnut tree, next to a pallet of starter feed for laying hens, where she could secretly watch Lucas.

Kat eased her vintage roadster into a parking space just as Abby slid out of the driver’s side of the Jeep. She held Sugar on the leash as Kat exited her sports car and threw her arms around Abby in a demonstrative hug. Kat wore a navy pantsuit with a crisp white shirt, and a vintage brooch pinned to her lapel. Kat loved anything Victorian, from her cottage behind a large Victorian-style home in Las Flores to her collection of sterling silver thimbles and decorative combs, which she sometimes wore, although not today. Her blond tresses sported an expensive-looking cut and, with mousse, had been coaxed into an edgy style. Kat rarely wore makeup, although Abby could tell that today was one of those days when she did—mascara on her lashes and a sheer pink gloss on her lips.

“You get dressed up to come to the feed store? Impressive,” Abby said, amused.

Kat grinned. “Don’t be silly. I’m testifying in court today. But you, girlfriend, look like you’re taking Fiona’s death hard. You’ve got badger eyes.”

Abby heaved a sigh. “It was a long night. Couldn’t sleep thinking about the case. Anything you can share?”

“Not really. The people closest to her all have alibis, so we’re going a little further out in her orbit, interviewing friends, customers, vendors, even the commune residents.”

Before Abby could ask more questions about the investigation, she noticed Kat jerk her head toward the feed-store door.

“Did Prince Charming go back inside?”

“Nope. He hoisted some hay onto his truck and hightailed it out of here.”

Was Lucas the reason Kat had gotten so dressed up? She could have just worn her police uniform to court. Abby felt her stomach lurch.

“Your dance card is usually full, Kat. Are you saving a tango for Lucas?”

“Maybe.”

Concealing her surprise, Abby asked, “What happened to the security guard?”

“Oh, that’s so five minutes ago. But I recently had drinks again with the chef at Zazi’s.”

Abby brightened. “Oh really? So how did that go?”

“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.

Raising the knocker over the carved brass female image on the front door of the cottage, Abby felt a twinge of sadness. She tried to push from her mind the image of Fiona’s engorged, partially burned, black and red blistered face. She rapped the knocker three times. Waited. Rapped again. The dark green patina gave dimension to the brass face, accentuating the creases in the laurel wreath surrounding the woman’s head. The banshee of Irish folklore, Fiona had told her, was a potent image—the harbinger of death. When Abby had asked Fiona why she would dare hang a banshee door knocker, Fiona had replied, “I felt inexplicably drawn to her. She’s the woman of fairies and has power and magic. She foretells death through her wailing. The death is often violent—that much is true. But, look, there are lots of square knots in her cloak. They provide protection.”

Humph! Some protection.

When no one answered the door, Abby put her hand on the knob and slowly turned it. The door flew open. Abby stumbled down two steps into a bright interior. Surprise registered on the face of the man who had opened the door from the inside. Sugar barked without letup.

“Who are you?” the man asked. He stood maybe five feet, ten inches. He had striking pale blue eyes and curly, brown hair with silver threads running through it. His face looked gaunt, and his puffy eyes were ringed in red, as though he had gone days without sleep.

“Abigail Mackenzie, formerly with the Las Flores Police Department.” Abby extended her hand. “Are you Jack Sullivan, Fiona’s brother, the ethnobotanist she always talked so enthusiastically about?”

“You found me. What is it you want?”

Abby decided to be straight with him. He looked like he’d been through the ringer. “Sorry for your loss. To be honest, I’m looking for clues. Fiona and I were friends, and I made a promise to find the person who hurt her. I was hoping to take a quick look around, if that’s okay with you.”

If it was possible for his expression to harden, it did. “Excuse me,” he said, “but the police have already been here. I’ve got funeral arrangements to make. I can’t see any reason for them to send an ex-cop to poke around. So if you don’t mind, please just leave. Take that dog with you.”

Taken aback, Abby gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Your sister’s passing has shaken me up, too. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Our whole community is worried that a killer is on the loose among us.”

He glared at her.

Abby proffered the scarf. “It’s Fiona’s. She left it at my farmette the last time we were together. I meant to return it.”

“Sure you did,” he said, his tone conveying a biting sarcasm. “That scarf is your cover. You came up here to snoop,” he said, warily eyeing her. “Did you think you’d unearth some salacious details about my sister’s life? Juice up your copy? Hit on a provocative headline?” He tightened his hand around the doorknob, pulling the door open. “I’d really appreciate it if you would just go.”

Abby’s stomach clenched. “Look, Mr. Sullivan . . . you’ve made a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes about women like you. I can smell small-town reporter.” His brows furrowed. “I’ve had to protect my sister from people like you in the past.”

Her shock was met with a sobering stare.

“Ms. Mackenzie, do I have to ask you twice?”

“Of course not.” Abby felt her throat closing up, her lips tightening. “My condolences.” Tugging on Sugar’s leash, she said softly, “Come on, sweetie.”

Abby tramped from the foyer to the porch, then beyond the mailbox, and was at the end of the driveway, by the big red barn, before she realized she had walked clear past the Jeep. Turning around, Abby had one thought. What did he mean by having to defend his sister in the past? What did Fiona do?

Tips for Making Tea from Fresh Herbs

Homemade herb tea starts with fresh herbs picked at their peak around midmorning, after the dew has dried. If dust clings to the leaves, wash them and dry them with a paper towel. Drop two handfuls of the leaves into a one-gallon glass jar and fill the jar with water to within three inches of the rim. Add fresh organic orange slices or lemon slices or zest (wash the rinds before slicing) to the jar. Place in the refrigerator and let it stand for one to two hours. Strain the herb tea into tall glasses with ice.

To sweeten the tea, add honey or rose-scented sugar. Some of the herbs that make delicious tea are the following:

 

• Mint—Choose from the estimated six hundred varieties of mint, including apple mint, chocolate mint, ginger mint, mojito mint, orange mint, peppermint, pineapple mint, and spearmint, to name a few.

 

• Lemon Balm—This is also known as balm mint, and it is a calming herb.

 

• Bee Balm—This herb is also known as wild bergamot. The red blooming variety, known as Oswego tea, was the tea of choice for the American colonists after the Boston Tea Party.

 

• Hyssop—This herb is used by herbalists to improve digestive issues. However, it contains a chemical that may affect the heart and lungs.

 

• Sage—This perennial mint has a long history as a medicinal and culinary herb. It was cultivated in medieval monastery gardens.

 

• Horsetail—Herbalists have noted that this herb’s high silica content is beneficial for the hair, nails, and bones.

 

Note: Although humans have used herbs for thousands of years for culinary and medicinal purposes, it’s always a good idea to check with your doctor before including herbs in your food and drink. Some herbs are more potent than others and may have unwanted side effects, and they can interact adversely with prescription drugs.