Chapter 3
Your dog will guard your house and chickens
but never your snack.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
The whimpering of her darling dog Sugar—who didn’t understand why her owner was so distressed—reminded Abby to snap out of her despair any way she could. When she’d rescued Sugar after the town’s pastry chef met an untimely demise, Abby hadn’t fully understood how to be a perfect dog parent. Still didn’t. She reckoned it would be a lifelong learning endeavor. But even so, she took a therapeutic comfort in the dog’s companionship as she fed Sugar a treat and munched on a piece of dark chocolate, as if it could shift her hormones into feel-better mode.
She hadn’t slept after being questioned by the police. She’d driven Kat home and returned to the farmette and crawled into bed and stayed there well after sunup, despite not being able to sleep. Mid-morning, tired and bleary eyed, Abby made her way to her garden. Behind the last corn row, she picked a bunch of late-blooming sunflowers and put them in a cobalt-blue vase. She took the arrangement to the hospital intensive care unit, hoping to see Paola. The ICU supervisor explained that visitation was limited to immediate family only—two at a time, and then, only five minutes of each hour. Furthermore, flowers and live plants were not permitted. Abby sank into a chair in the empty waiting room. Holding the vase of blooms in her lap, she closed her eyes and pondered the intangible and yet impenetrable wall that now existed between her and Paola.
Abby prayed for Paola’s speedy recovery. Not only because her friend deserved a beautiful life—certainly that—but also because Abby hoped Paola would be able to bring absolute clarity to what had happened the night before. Initially, Abby had felt sure about what she’d seen and heard, but later, she hadn’t been as positive. At times during the night, she had felt so muddled of mind that she wondered if she hadn’t imagined some of the details.
The arrival of the elevator brought Abby to a wide-eyed attention. She watched as a nurse hurried inside the carriage and pushed a button. The doors closed. Alone again, Abby toyed with the idea of investigating Jake’s death on her own. No one could know, of course, not even Kat. Chief Bob Allen had made it clear that if Kat did any more favors for Abby, it could mean losing her job. And if discovered, Abby, too, had plenty to lose, including her friendships with the coroner and the cops she’d once worked with who were still on the force. The chief would not tolerate anyone meddling in an active murder investigation. End of story.
The next day, Abby again drove to the hospital, believing that she would be allowed in to see Paola with Luna, who visited Paola every day. Even if Paola could not respond, she could hear and perhaps recognize Abby’s voice as Abby whispered words of comfort and prayers for healing. But the nursing staff remained firm about adhering to the established protocols, and Luna had arrived with Eva. The nursing staff knew they were sisters. Even when Luna tried to persuade the nursing staff that Abby was more of a sister to Paola than a friend, the nursing supervisor remained unconvinced that it was reason enough to break the rules. On the third day after the murder, Abby asked Luna to keep her informed about Paola’s progress via a daily phone call, and Luna agreed.
For the rest of the week, Abby spent as many daylight hours as possible working around the farmette. The murder dominated her thoughts as she planted bunching onions, radishes, and chives, along with some leafy lettuces and spinach in cold frames. Uncertain of how she would use river rock in her landscape, she restacked the pile under the elm tree in front of her house. And she clipped away the wild side shoots of the Japanese wisteria that were taking over the side gate trellis. Always, her mind returned to questions about who had a motive to kill Jake and critically injure Paola. Abby believed that seeing Paola could help reduce the anxiety she felt daily, but a visit to her friend wouldn’t happen until she was out of the ICU and into a step-down unit. Soldier on, Abby kept reminding herself.
The narrative of Jake and Paola’s married life might have been tempestuous, but it didn’t support a case of murder-suicide, and the police had found no gun at the scene. Every question Abby conceived returned in a circular fashion. Who had a motive to murder Jake, and was he even the primary target? Did the killer know Jake would be driving Paola’s car that night? Had the murderer intended to kill Paola? Had Paola offended a town merchant in that dispute over rental space she wanted for a truffle shop? Could that have driven someone to murder? Could the killer have shot Jake before realizing that Paola wasn’t driving her car? How had the killer convinced Jake to lower the window on such a cold, foggy night? Did the killer know Jake? Or Paola? As Abby knew, Paola didn’t have an enemy in the world, so why would anyone want to hurt her? None of it made any sense.
* * *
By Halloween, seven days after the murder, Abby had grown impatient to find out how Paola was progressing physically. She telephoned Luna and learned that Paola was in stable condition but that the doctors were keeping her in a medically induced coma to allow the swelling to subside. Luna told Abby that it could be weeks before her sister would regain consciousness—and then someone would have to tell Paola about Jake’s death.
Abby cringed at the thought of Paola trying to process the reality of what had happened, even as the poor woman was trying to recover and heal. Still, the cops would need to know if she saw the killer and who might have wanted to harm her and Jake. In the meantime, the knowledge that Katerina Petrovsky and Sergeant Otto Nowicki were on the case gave Abby some comfort. Those two, along with Lieutenant Sinclair, who was a new officer, and Chief Bob Allen, would be casting a wide net. Nettie, the CSI technician, and Bernie de la Cruz in the evidence room might also help with the case. Jake’s killer wouldn’t be on the loose for long.
Eager to resume her normal life, Abby decided to spend the day in town. The swelling beneath her eye had gone away. She dressed in one of her many plaid flannel shirts and jeans. She tugged on lug boots and slipped into an old leather jacket she’d bought several seasons ago at Twice Around Markdowns. On the way out, she wrapped a scarf around her neck and grabbed her daypack. After driving into Las Flores, she parked her Jeep on Main Street and dashed into Edna Mae’s antique store and quilt shop.
The scents of autumn potpourri, cinnamon, and apple cider permeated the brightly lit interior. Under her arm, Abby carried a cardboard box with an orange lid that contained an unfinished quilt from Edna Mae. Abby also had tucked into the pocket of her leather aviator jacket an eight-ounce jar of her Henny Penny Farmette trademark honey.
“I owe you this for the quilt pieces,” Abby said, pulling the jar from her pocket.
The big-boned woman, well past middle age, looked up from the spools of thread she had been organizing on a Peg-Board. “Well, thanks, Abby. I hope you didn’t make a special trip into town just to bring it?”
“No, not really. Now that the weather’s turned nice again, I thought I would run some errands on this lovely Halloween day. You know, like check my post office box, see if there’s any work for me at the DA’s office, and get my honey deliveries back on schedule. This jar comes from the fall harvest, so it’s darker in color and earthier in taste. I hope you like it.”
“Well, of course I will,” said Edna Mae. She gave Abby her full attention. “So how’s the quilting coming along, dear?”
Abby rolled her eyes. “I wish I could say it’s coming along, but that wouldn’t be the truth.... Something’s gone very wrong with the pattern.” She frowned. “And I’m not sure piecework suits me.”
Surprise lit the bright blue eyes peering from behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, let me see what you’ve done.”
Abby set the jar of honey aside on the glass countertop next to the register and opened the orange-lidded box.
Edna Mae examined the blocked pieces that were sewn together. “Oh, dear, dear. I see it. Your attention wandered right here.” A twisted, arthritic finger, its wrinkled knuckle swollen into deformity, pointed at a row of squares where the pattern clearly had changed. “But it can be fixed,” Edna Mae said in an optimistic tone. She picked up the large square and flipped it over. Then, shaking her head, she returned the piece to its right side.
“How?” Abby exhaled a long, deep breath. “Let me guess. I have to start over?”
“Well, yes, dear, you have to reestablish the pattern.”
Edna Mae reached into the box, beneath folded pieces of whole cloth and a pile of fabric squares, as if feeling for something. Eventually, she pulled forth a paper with shaded boxes and a key. “Now, dear, were you following the diagram?”
“Not really. The truth is, I never noticed it.”
“Never noticed it?” Edna Mae unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the counter. “That’s so unlike you, Abby. You notice everything.”
Abby thought of offering up an excuse to explain why she’d ruined the quilt pattern. Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe I was still obsessing over a murderer on the loose, she mused silently. In spite of the congenial and friendly manner in which Edna Mae offered advice, Abby felt her face flush warm. Her heart raced. There was no reason for the apprehension she felt, but it was there all the same.
Looking directly into Edna Mae’s bright, inquisitive eyes, Abby replied, “I guess I had murder on my mind.”
“We all have, dear. That manifestation of evil has marred our lovely little town. It’s just so terrible that you had to witness it. The whole downtown is talking about it.” Edna Mae took a white hankie from inside her sweater sleeve and blotted it against her nose. She slipped the hankie back into her pocket. “Not me, of course, but lots of townsfolk are saying that Jake Winston deserved what happened to him. Sorry to say.”
Abby felt her body tense. She quickly corrected Edna Mae about being an eyewitness. “I didn’t see the shot being fired or the person who fired it. I heard it.”
“But I thought you’d found the bodies.”
“Well, yes, I did, but I wish I’d never seen them that way.”
“I’m sure it was terrible for you.” Edna Mae’s energy shifted. Her tone softened. Reaching out an arthritic hand, she touched Abby’s shoulder.
Abby flinched without understanding why, and Edna Mae withdrew her hand. “It’s just wrong,” said Abby. “Nobody has the right to snatch away another person’s life. And Jake’s reputation aside, he didn’t deserve to die like some animal in a hunter’s gun sight. Paola didn’t deserve what happened to her. She’s an innocent in all this.”
“Some say she had a little something going with that barrel room worker. Surely, you’ve heard the talk, dear.”
Abby’s body tensed. “I don’t believe it. That’s just utter nonsense . . . gossip from people who have nothing else to gab about. Give me a break.”
Edna Mae’s shocked expression made Abby wish she could call back her words, start the conversation over. Her heart pounding like a hammer, Abby wanted to run straight out the door, but she managed through sheer will to remain rooted in place. What’s got ahold of you? Get a grip.
The lines in Edna Mae’s face etched themselves into a concerned expression. “Don’t take this the wrong way, dear, but you talk like you might have a smidgen of post-traumatic stress. You’re no longer on the force, now are you? You saw your friend Paola hanging to life by a thread. On the force, you could get some counseling. But now . . . I wonder, dear, is there anyone you can discuss this with? Talking can help, you know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Abby, not meaning for the words to come out so forcefully. She didn’t want to get into this subject with Edna Mae. The last thing she wanted to happen was for the locals to gossip about her mental state.
Edna Mae’s lips thinned as she appeared to be thinking through a new tack. “Look, dear, I’ve got some cider heating in the back, on a hot plate. Shall we have a cup?”
“No, but thanks, anyway,” said Abby. “I’m sorry for speaking so sharply. I really should go.”
Edna Mae put her hand on Abby’s arm. “Oh, no, dear. Not just yet. Please. I need to tell you something that might be relevant. I’ve told the police already. It’s not hearsay. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Abby dropped her defensiveness. She waited for Edna Mae to reveal some little detail that would likely have no relevance to anything but the gossip the antique shop owner had been hearing and repeating.
“That man, Jake Winston,” said Edna Mae. “He came in here the day before he died.”
“I’m listening.” Abby stared intently at Edna Mae’s bright blue eyes behind her wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “Did he say why he’d come to a shop of antiques and quilts?”
The bell jingled on the front door. Two senior citizen quilters strolled in. One wore a quilted vest over her sweater. The heavier of the two wore a lightweight coat and walked with a cane. They called out their good mornings to Edna Mae and headed to the other side of the store.
As the women began thumbing through the first round rack of quilted shams on hangers, Edna Mae leaned in closer to Abby and whispered conspiratorially, “He asked me to show his young friend some of my Amish quilts. They’re collectibles, you know, and quite expensive. It cost me a lot to get them insured and shipped here.”
Abby’s antenna went on high alert. “Young friend, you say? A woman?”
“Yes, a woman. Jake’s interior decorator, I think is how he introduced her. Although I must say, the lady didn’t seem to know much about quilts.”
“Did you catch her name?” Abby asked. Such details could be significant.
“Let me think. Dorothy, Deidre . . . No, it was Dori something.”
“Purchase anything?”
“No. She wanted silk. I tried to tell her the quilts I carry are all made of colorfast cotton or lightweight wool. The quality and craftsmanship are superior. If she wants silk, I told her, visit a specialized bedding shop elsewhere in the county.”
“Could you describe her?”
Edna Mae removed her wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Lemme see. About five feet ten inches, or so . . . platinum-colored hair with dark roots. I’d say she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Oh, and that animal-print dress she wore wouldn’t have required more than a yard of material to make. You could almost see her V-Secret.”
Abby smiled. “That’s funny.”
An amused Edna Mae put her glasses back on and pointed to the diagram again. “This crisis will pass, Abby, so let the police do their job, and you get to work on this quilting pattern. It’ll take your mind off that nasty business. Now, look. See how the whole thing increases to this point and then decreases starting in the very next row?” she said, tapping the paper. “That row there is exactly the midway point in your quilt. Use this legend as your guide, your blueprint. When you follow it correctly, you’ll end up with a gorgeous quilt.” She folded the pieces to put them away and then remembered something. “Wait a minute. I recall there’s a picture of it in here somewhere.” Rummaging through the box of fabric, she located a clear plastic bag with a folded sheet of newspaper inside. She pulled it out.
Abby watched Edna Mae unfold and spread the newspaper on the countertop. Next to a half-page ad picturing the quilt, the headline read OUR QUILT COLLECTION—BEYOND COMPARE. The slug line at the top noted that the date was Wednesday, March 24, 1993, and the paper was the Kansas City Star.
“Would you look at that?” said Edna Mae. “Can’t you picture that quilt all finished and covering your bed?”
Abby nodded but wasn’t so sure. Maybe the pattern would grow on her. Or not. She was still thinking about Dori.
Edna Mae refolded the paper and slipped it back into its plastic sleeve. “This box came from an estate sale in the Midwest. Quilters are not the type of people to stop in the middle of a project. That puzzles me.”
Abby arched a brow. Really? People move. Get sick. Lose interest. Die. Don’t they?
The older woman pushed back her glasses and pulled her sweater a little tighter around her buxom body. She leaned in to study the key for the diagrammed pattern. “It’s fairly straightforward. There are only five variables of the squares—light green, dark green, light yellow, dark gold, and a floral print of all those colors. You’ll need to pull the stitches out from here on.” Edna Mae reached for a red pincushion and took a large pin with a yellow plastic head and marked the spot. “It’s working a puzzle, isn’t it? Five different pieces are rather like five suspects or five clues that you have to place correctly in your mystery for the proper solution to appear. And just like with a mystery, sometimes you have to start over at square one.”
“Thanks,” said Abby, thinking it wasn’t that great of an analogy. “When you told the police about Jake and the woman, did they think it might be important to their case?”
“I don’t know. They listened, wrote a note, and that was that.” Edna Mae flashed a smile.
“Good that you reported it,” said Abby. “I don’t keep up with Officer Petrovsky and Sergeant Nowicki as much as I used to. As you know, I’m not a cop anymore. I’m a farmer lady.”
“True,” said Edna, putting the items back in the box. “If you have trouble with the pattern again, bring the quilt back. I’m happy to help.”
After leaving Edna Mae’s shop, Abby put the quilt box back in her Jeep and strolled up the street and entered the Las Flores Police Department. At the glass partition, she asked to speak to Chief Bob Allen.
“He’s out,” said the fresh-faced uniformed officer behind the window.
“Then I’ll talk to the guy heading up the investigation into the Jake Winston murder.”
“Lieutenant Sinclair? Is he expecting you?”
“No.”
“The nature of your business?” The woman drilled Abby with a stare.
Abby hoisted her daypack a little higher on her shoulder. “I have information for him about the murder.”
“Right. I’ll let the lieutenant know you’re here. Name?”
“Abigail Mackenzie.”
Seconds later, the latch on the door clicked, and the female officer held the door open and invited Abby into the same hallway she’d trod down countless times in years past on her way to the break room, the interrogation rooms, and the chief’s office. Almost immediately, Sinclair appeared from the men’s room down the hallway.
“Oh, Lieutenant,” the fresh-faced officer called out. “Got a minute? Abigail Mackenzie here says she has information about your murder case.”
“In here,” Sinclair said. With his gruff tone, unshaven gray-streaked beard, and heavy-lidded eyes, he looked and sounded like a man who desperately needed sleep and was getting by on caffeine. He held open the door to the first interrogation room.
Abby walked in.
“Sit there,” he commanded.
Abby slid into an institutional chair, aware that it was the seat most often occupied by those suspected of breaking the law rather than upholding it.
Sinclair, middle-aged and tall—standing at least a foot taller than Abby’s five feet three inches—wore wrinkled gray dress slacks, a white oxford shirt, and a blue striped tie, its knot loosened. His light gray eyes and crew-cut gray hair gave him a weary, washed-out appearance, made worse by sallow circles beneath his eyes. To Abby’s dismay, he closed an open file on the desk and slid some other manila folders across pictures and data sheets. If there were documents, images, or files relating to the Jake Winston murder investigation on his desk, he apparently wanted to make certain she didn’t see them, at least not yet. “What do you have?”
“It might not be significant,” said Abby. “But you’ll be the judge of that.”
He stared at her. Silent. Waiting.
She repeated the information that Edna Mae had told her. “Naturally, you’ll want to get Edna Mae’s statement firsthand rather than relying on hearsay.”
“I know how to do my job, Ms. Mackenzie.”
“Of course you do. I just meant—”
“Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Abby, chalking up his ill temper to lack of sleep. Abby decided she’d ask him a question, anyway. “I was wondering if the killer left evidence at the scene, like a bullet casing or—”
“You can stop right there. What we know about this case is none of your business. Chief Bob Allen has briefed me on your service here. I’ve also heard that you don’t seem to have a problem inserting yourself into an active investigation. I can’t help it that you still have close friends in the department and somehow find out information before anyone else does, but that doesn’t mean I like it. You made that call to dispatch in the nick of time to save your friend Paola Varela’s life. That does not entitle you to special consideration. It certainly doesn’t give you the right to learn insider information about this case. You’ve given us your statement. So I’ll just say this once. Stay away from the Jake Winston murder case.”
Abby sat in stunned silence.
He drilled her with a steely-eyed stare. “In general, I’ve found that when people take an undue interest in an active case, it generally means they have an ulterior motive or something to hide.”
“Oh, please. Don’t be ridiculous.” Abby felt her pulse quicken. Her stomach knotted. She rose. He remained seated. She glared at him, wondering if she should just say what she was thinking. You don’t treat witnesses this way. In a clipped tone, she said, “You’re right about me not being a cop. But as an ex-cop, I know that alienating people around you who might be able to help solve the case, disregarding relevant information, and badgering a key witness are no way to launch a murder investigation.” Surely he didn’t already suspect that she intended to do her own secret investigation, or did he?
Abby jerked open the door and stormed down the hallway. She had no more time to waste on a tired cop who seemed intent on asserting his authority but doing it in a way more suggestive of having a chip on his shoulder and an attitude to go with it, rather than using a thoughtful, more professional approach. Maybe he was just having an off day. Or was tired. Or he was suspicious of her showing up with a possibly spurious detail from a third party.
Outside, Abby leaned against the streetlamp post. You’ve dealt with Sinclair types before. Why let him get under your skin? And ditto for responding so sharply to Edna Mae. Abby struggled for composure, trying to make sense of her overreaction. Back in the day, her fellow cops could always count on her to remain calm, clear eyed, and focused in any situation. Maybe Edna Mae was right. Maybe she ought to talk to someone about the reactionary feelings she seemed unable to control. Abby made a mental note to get checked out when she had more time and money. In the meantime, she would rely on her herbal remedies and teas to calm her frazzled nerves. And she’d find some paper and make an incident poster on which to list relevant facts, list the people in Jake’s orbit, and create a timeline. As she uncovered more information, she’d add it to the poster and start making linkages. Taking action rather than doing nothing would help her face the darkness within that was robbing her of peace. Of that, she felt sure. And sooner or later, the killer’s name would emerge.
After hoisting a case of honey from the passenger seat of her Jeep, Abby walked into the kitchen of Zazi’s bistro and handed the chef the jars of honey with an invoice. After they’d settled up, she returned to her Jeep and drove to the post office to retrieve her business mail. And then it was on to the DA’s office to see if she could pick up some part-time work over the holidays. After being told that the DA didn’t have any new work for her and probably wouldn’t have any until after the New Year, Abby left and steered a course to the pie shop.
“Here you go, Maisey. Six jars, eight ounces each.” Abby set the carton on the counter. “This is a little earthier tasting than my spring honey,” she explained. “That’s because in the fall, my bees gathered pollen from mostly star thistle, eucalyptus blooms, and whatever else they can find in addition to the lavender. But a lot of my customers favor the autumn honey.”
Maisey pulled a jar from the box and inspected it. “Oh, it’s a lovely color. Six jars. Was that all I ordered? What was I thinking? Already the holiday pie orders are rolling in. Next chance you get, bring me another six, will you, Abby?”
“You got it.” Abby grinned and presented the invoice. While Maisey wiped her hands on the apron covering her floral-print dress and then counted out the payment from the cash drawer, Abby admired the wide assortment of pies in the display case.
“Here you go. Sixty dollars.” Maisey picked up a napkin holder that needed filling. “So, how have you been, Abby?”
Abby slipped the money into her blue zippered banking envelope and tucked the envelope back into her daypack. “Guess I can’t complain.”
“Now, you’re not being entirely truthful, are you?” Maisey’s look challenged Abby to be more forthright.
“Okay, so I’ve been better,” said Abby.
Narrowing her eyes and lowering her voice, Maisey put her hands on her hips, leaned in, and said, “We’ve all heard about the murder up at the Country Schoolhouse Winery. You found the victims. I forget who it was who told me one of those shot was your truffle-maker friend. So how can you trivialize it? Of course you can complain. That must have been horrific for you.”
Feeling as though she were walking on an emotional tightrope, Abby tried unsuccessfully to push back tears. With her moist eyes shimmering, she looked at Maisey and said, “I’m not dealing with it very well. Maisey. I just want my old self back.”
Maisey walked around and encircled Abby with her arms, embracing her like a mama bear enfolding her cub. “Well, where did she go, darling?”
Abby buried her face against Maisey’s apron and mumbled, “I don’t know. Honest to God, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Six Facts about Honeybee Queens
1. A healthy bee colony will have roughly forty thousand to sixty thousand bees but only one queen.
2. A queen bee lives between three and four years and can lay a million eggs during her lifetime.
3. The queen mates a few days after she emerges from her birth cell.
4. She stores a lifetime of sperm in her body from her mating flight with drones.
5. A honeybee queen controls hive activity through chemical messages that dictate bee behavior.
6. If the queen dies, the worker bees will ensure the hive gets a new fertile queen by feeding a diet of royal jelly to a selected female worker.