A Hive of Homicides

Sowing a seed is the hope—not the guarantee—
of fruit to come.

On Saturday Abby circled the Root Cellar parking lot for ten minutes, hoping someone would back out a vehicle so she could pull in. Frustrated that she’d be late for Kat’s birthday dinner, she reluctantly parked behind the Pantry Hut, a restaurant supply shop. Ordinarily, she would never choose to park in a lot where she’d have to walk up a dark alley.

Bundled against the cold in a calf-length flared coat over wool slacks, a silk shirt, and scarf and carrying her purse and Kat’s gift bag, Abby set off down the alley sandwiched between the Pantry Hut and the Root Cellar. When she had walked halfway into the alley, a car pulled in perpendicular to the entrance and stopped, its engine idling. The automobile blocked Abby’s exit. She stepped into a shadow. Hid. Waited. Watched. It was an old habit: Take evasive action for protection when faced with an ambiguous situation. Assess for danger.

Was she overreacting? Where was the threat? Abby tried to shake the sense of vulnerability eroding her confidence. I’m okay. She remained hidden, observing. Why aren’t you moving, dude? What are you waiting for? The next taxi to Timbuktu? From the store, a woman wearing a hoodie that concealed all but a forelock of platinum hair approached the passenger side of the car.

The vehicle door opened from inside. Dome light came on. Abby could not see the woman’s face. But she could tell that the driver was a man wearing a multicolored, slouchy beanie over a ponytail. With the gift bag and purse in a vice-like grip, Abby watched the car roll forward a few inches and brake. The red lens cover was missing on one of the taillights. Alarm bells went off. Without success, she tried to throttle the energy coursing through her. She pressed her body against the wall and tried to still her shaking hands. Abby stared at the taillight. The memory of the murder resurfaced. That night, a car had rolled by her hiding place, and the killer or someone else in the car had waved a flashlight, searching for her. Was it the same sedan? Same driver?

Rooted to the wall, in the shadows, she watched the car merge into traffic. Her stomach churned. A bilious taste seeped into the back of her throat. She doubled over with dry heaves.

“Are you okay?” A man wearing mechanic’s overalls and a single hoop earring, which glinted in the moonlight, pulled his arm free of his companion—a pregnant woman bundled up against the chill. He hastened toward Abby as the woman waddled behind. “Ma’am, you all right?” he asked.

Abby repeatedly swallowed until the wave of nausea subsided. “Yeah. Dry heaves.”

“Pregnant, right? With our last one, wife puked nonstop for three months. You want us to walk somewhere with you?”

Abby steadied herself. There isn’t always going to be a Good Samaritan in the alley to help you out. You’ve got to face this fear. Abby cleared her throat. “No, no thanks.” She slowly emerged from the shadows and walked toward the man. Maybe she was trying too hard to make a linkage between the cars. Taillight covers are broken all the time. A coincidence? Maybe. But then again, deep down, she didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Where you headed?” the man asked. His tone reflected genuine concern.

“Root Cellar,” said Abby. She lifted the gift bag. “Birthday celebration.”

“Oh, cool,” said the man. “In that case, the Root Cellar is located on the left after you exit the alley.”

“Uh-huh.” Abby forced a smile that she didn’t feel and set off again. She’d grown weary of being over-vigilant every waking hour, distrustful of everything and everyone around her. Her whole life, she’d been strong in the face of adversity, but this challenge of dealing with nightmares and intrusive imagining was unrelenting and insidious in the way it robbed her energy and made her question her sanity.

By the time she’d reached the heavy wooden door of the Root Cellar, she’d decided to have only one celebratory glass of wine and to make it an early evening. Afterward, she’d lock up her farmhouse, soak in a bath, and drink some warm honeyed milk to beckon sleep. And when the weekend was over, she would call Olivia and secure the earliest appointment available. It would be a calculated move meant to seal Olivia’s lips in a doctor-patient relationship. Abby would get help with her panic attacks and ongoing anxiety while at the same time ensuring no one else in town, especially Lucas, would ever know. Without the county’s critical incident stress management team to help her, like when she’d worked on the force, Abby reckoned this would be her best option.

Entering the warmth of the tavern-style bar and eatery, with its Tuscan paintings, mica-lighted booths, and walls glazed in old-world shades of umber, red, and gold, Abby hid her anxiety behind a party face. She threaded her way through the crowd to the tufted leather booth on the second level where Kat stood waving. Dressed in a fitted black dress with sheer sleeves and a bateau neckline, Kat had chosen a simple pair of black pearl drop earrings, which looked sublime against her fair skin, blue eyes, and nearly white blond hair, moussed in 1920s-style finger waves.

“Well, don’t you look fabulous,” Abby said, handing Kat the gift bag. “Hope you like it.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Kat said after bussing Abby’s cheeks. “But I’m glad you did.”

“I had fun finding it,” Abby said. And it was the truth. She loved poking around in antique shops, consignment outlets, and thrift stores. Such outings were even more fun when Kat was with her. After removing her scarf and coat and relegating them to the booth, Abby pushed her reddish-gold mane over the shoulders of her sea-green silk shirt. She slid into the booth, then scooted to the middle so she wouldn’t have to shout to be heard over the clatter and chatter. From the mid-booth vantage point, she also had a clear view into the heart of the tavern. It was another old cop trick picked up from her days on the force—always sit with your back to the wall and in a spot where you can see what’s coming.

“So . . . you started without me.” Abby grinned and pointed to the empty wineglass on the table.

“Exactly why I like this place,” said Kat with the smile of a Cheshire cat. “When I told the headwaiter that it was my birthday, he brought me a complimentary glass of wine and said something in Spanish. Felice, I think.” Kat eagerly reached into the bag, took out the candy box, and loosened the ribbon from around the antique tongs.

“Feliz cumpleaños,” Abby said. “Means happy birthday.”

“Yeah, that was it.” Kat admired the scrollwork on Abby’s gift of tongs.

“Where is he?”

“Well, unfortunately, when I got here, he had just finished his shift and was on his way out. And here I was, hoping we’d have the whole evening to flirt. Bad timing.”

“I guess. There’ll be other times,” Abby said with optimism, although not entirely sure that Kat and the headwaiter would last long enough for there to be another time. Keeping track of Kat’s boyfriends wasn’t easy. There were a lot of them, and they were a diverse lot, to boot. If Kat were a seed saver, she’d have the most interesting collection around.

“Wait until you see him,” Kat said. “The girls in Dispatch weren’t wrong about him.” She gestured with her hands, as if she’d just touched a hot burner. “What a hunk.”

“You are so off the hook, Kat. Have you even had a date yet?”

“No. But, boy, I can tell we click. He’s already given me his phone number.” Kat batted her eyelids like a coquette. “I don’t think it’s going to take him long to make a move. And if he doesn’t, I will.”

Watching Kat set aside the silver tongs to study the box, Abby had to marvel at Kat’s self-confidence when it involved men.

“This is so like you, Abby,” Kat said, looking pleased. “Working seven days a week and you can still find time to search out something special. It’s perfect. You need to apply the same diligence to finding a good man.”

Abby appreciated Kat’s enthusiasm but didn’t want to go there. “Look inside the box.”

Kat eased off the lid and took out a foil-covered truffle. “What do we have here?” She peeled back the foil from the confection to expose a triple-layer cube of white, milk, and dark chocolate. “Zowie, Abby. Do you know me or what?”

“So, these were made by Paola. Eight in all. Each is different,” Abby explained. “There’s an apricot-coconut, one with raspberry filling, and a sea-salt caramel, but my favorite is the limoncello–white chocolate truffle.”

“Wow.”

“You’ve got to pay attention to what happens on your tongue when you eat one of these treats. Paola once told me that each truffle must tell its unique story in a single sensational bite.”

“So I shouldn’t park myself in front of the tube, watch Antiques Roadshow, and mindlessly gorge on them?”

“I didn’t mean that. Just, you’ll enjoy them more if you savor each morsel.”

“Got it.” Kat rewrapped the triple-layer chocolate and returned it to the box. She peeled back the foil on a chocolate truffle dusted in gold luster and licked her fingers. “Wow . . . chilies with the chocolate.”

“I think Paola calls that one Aztec Royale.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to expand my horizons from those plain milk chocolate bars in the family-size bags.”

“Atta girl. Aim for a more sophisticated palate.” Abby chuckled.

“I’m all for that, but just so you know, I got plenty of that ‘try this’ and ‘try that’ from my last boyfriend.”

“The chef with the tats of vegetables over his forearms? You ended it, right?”

“Well, not exactly. I thought I’d dumped him. But then he called to see if I wanted to go away for a weekend. You know, to one of those fancy bed-and-breakfasts near a winery. Tastings. Mud baths. Massages. The whole shebang. How could I say no to that?”

“If anyone deserves the whole shebang, it’s you, Kat.” Abby glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes seemed like a long time to have been seated and not served. Not even a menu. She checked out the bar area—not a single stool open and already the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for tables. Abby resigned herself to what might be a long evening, instead of that early night she’d planned.

“So, Kat,” said Abby, figuring that this was as good a time as any to broach the subject of the case. “When we last spoke, you said Lieutenant Sinclair was on his way to interview Paola about the murder. Learn anything?” Abby pushed back against her seat and crossed her legs.

“Not really. Docs say it’s a little too soon to be grilling Paola.”

“What about the bullet? It had to pass through both sides of Jake’s skull, which would have slowed it down before it passed out and hit her. I’m assuming that she slipped down and forward in a defensive position or that it might not have hit her at all.”

“That’s what the bullet trajectory suggests.”

“Maybe she saw that the killer had a weapon and ducked. Did you find the casing? Know the caliber or anything else about the bullet?” Abby realized that the rapid-fire sequence of her questions made her sound terribly eager for information. Kat was her best friend, but Abby knew it would be prudent not to let Kat know she was secretly working the case.

“None of us are ballistics experts, even if we do have the casing and the lead from the bullet.” Kat scanned the room, then threw a hand up to flag down a waiter. “We know the ammo was nine millimeter.”

Abby’s thoughts raced. “Well, street thugs like to spray and pray with their semiautos, and nine is cheap ammo. The military uses it, too. And Brianna Cooper kept a Sig Sauer model P229 in the middle drawer of her desk at the winery. With it were boxes of nine-millimeter ammo.”

Surprise claimed Kat’s face. Her eyes narrowed. “And I suppose her desk drawer just happened to be standing wide open, with the gun and ammo in plain sight?”

Abby arched a brow. “Kind of. So, didn’t Brianna tell you all about the gun? Because I know if you have the casing and lead from the bullet, it’s possible to match them to a suspect gun. I mean, if you had a suspect gun.”

Kat looked suspiciously at Abby. “Which we don’t. But you can bet we’ll be having a chitty-chat with Ms. Cooper. I’d love to have a look at that gun of hers.” Kat put the truffle box back into the gift bag and dropped in the tongs. “I’ll just put this under my coat so I don’t forget it when we leave.”

Abby reckoned it was time to shift the conversation. “Did you know Lucas Crawford has a sister?”

“News to me,” said Kat. “Where’s she been hiding?”

“Living and working up the peninsula, I guess. I recently saw Lucas in the pie shop, and she was with him. Olivia is her name. Seems nice.”

A waitress approached and diverted Abby’s attention.

“About time!” Kat whispered.

The waitress, dressed in a black shirt, tie, trousers, and a crisp white ankle-length apron, set a basket of warm bread and pats of butter on the table and handed them menus. “We’re swamped tonight,” she said. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”

“Two white zins,” Kat said. “And I have a couple of questions about the specials—eggplant parmigiana and the osso buco with polenta.”

As Kat quizzed the waitress about those and other menu options, Abby allowed her gaze to sweep the room. When the waitress had left, she told Kat, “Don’t look now, but the mayor and his wife are dining over in the corner, and Chief Bob Allen is there, too, sitting with his back to the wall.”

Kat strained to see him. “Well, that’s a surprise. The mayor has the chief on speed dial. They were at each other’s throats yesterday. The mayor says the chamber of commerce members are on his back and have convened an emergency meeting to see how they can attract more people to our downtown during the holidays. Local businesses should be seeing an uptick in shoppers, but it’s been just the opposite. Solving the case would help, of course, but, like the chief says, we don’t need city hall on our backs, telling us to get on with it.” Kat pursed her lips and then continued. “Really . . . like we’re somehow not taking the murder seriously. And like the mayor could rustle up some more resources if we just told him that’s what we needed, when we all know he can’t deal with the budget shortfall this year.”

Abby leaned in and said, “Sorry, Kat. It sounds like you are under a ton of stress.” She decided against talking about her own issues.

“Yeah, well, everyone needs to take a deep breath and a step back.” Kat plucked a slice of bread from the basket on the table and buttered it. “Lieutenant Sinclair is a micromanaging controller, and Chief Bob Allen is constantly checking our work. We’re in a pressure cooker, for sure, but all for the greater good, I guess.” She pushed the bread basket toward Abby.

Abby waved the basket away. “Well, I’m an outsider now, but it seems that focusing on Emilio is a waste of time and resources. He’s—”

“Not a suspect anymore. Passed a poly yesterday. We’ve moved on.”

Abby hid her delight by shaking out her napkin and laying it across her lap. No point in harping about Emilio now. Maybe she’d have some bread, after all.

“It’s good for Emilio but not swell for us,” said Kat. “Somebody killed Jake. And so far we’ve got zip.”

Abby understood the difficult challenges facing the cops during the initial phase of an investigation. “With all the people in Jake’s orbit, there must be quite a pool of possible suspects, especially women with whom he’s had affairs, resentful boyfriends, and ticked-off spouses.”

Kat swallowed a mouthful of warm bread and seemed ready to say something when the waitress reappeared and set two glasses of wine on the table.

“Ready to order?” she asked.

Kat ordered first. “I’ll have the cheese fondue and more of this bread.” She handed the menu back to the waitress.

“I’ll have the spinach salad with goat cheese,” said Abby, “and the salmon with the honey-miso glaze.” She glanced at Kat. “Let’s you and me split the salad,” she told her.

“You got it.” The waitress tucked the menus under her arm and scurried away.

“So . . . I’ve been checking Jake’s cell phone log for calls and texts,” Kat said before taking a sip of the chilled rose-colored wine. “During his last twenty-four hours, he took several calls from Brianna Cooper and also the sous-chef. Lina Sutton sent a text, too, saying pretty much what she said on the steps of the church.”

“Accusing Jake of killing her sister?”

“Yep.”

Abby lifted her glass and touched it to Kat’s. Taking a sip, she savored the chilled wine and wondered why Brianna would call Jake repeatedly in the hours before he was to renew his wedding vows with Paola. After returning the glass to the table, she touched the cloth napkin to her mouth. “Why do you think Jake’s female employees were calling him right before he was murdered?” asked Abby. She made a mental note to jot down the linkage on her incident poster on the living room table. She would also be adding Lina Sutton’s name to the board.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Well, what bothers me is the strange posturing of the sous-chef. When I asked her if she knew where Emilio was, she jerked a thumb toward the back parking lot. So why did she tell Lieutenant Sinclair that she didn’t remember pointing me anywhere and that she thought I might have returned to the party?”

“Dunno. But she has a rock-solid alibi—waiters and the dishwasher were in that kitchen when the murder happened.”

“What’s Lina Sutton’s story?” Abby asked.

“Student nurse. She works in the hospital’s emergency room. On the night her sister was brought in, she was working a shift.”

“Oh, that had to be horrible for her,” Abby said. “Such a tragedy. No wonder she’s so angry with Jake. Could be a motive for murder.” She sipped the chilled wine from her glass, set it down, and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

“Yeah,” Kat said, looking pensive. “But she’s got Father Joseph as an alibi. She went back to talk with him after leaving the church in a huff.” Kat tucked a tendril of hair behind her right ear and continued. “Jake was right. Lina’s sister had gotten drunk after their breakup and should have called a cab. Luckily, no one else was in the path of her car when it veered from the road and hit the tree.”

Abby posed another question. “So the sister died in the ER?”

Kat nodded. “We interviewed the physician in charge that night. He told us that they did everything they could to save her.” Kat lapsed into silence.

Abby refolded her napkin and thought about how difficult it must have been for Lina to have witnessed any part of a frenetic scene in which the hospital staff worked to save a life—a scene Abby had seen on more than one occasion. “What did the winery’s CCTV show?” she asked.

“Not much. The fog that night was thick. We hoped to find the killer on camera, but we didn’t.”

“What about a getaway car?”

“If that’s what it is. It’s a fuzzy image at best.” Kat took a sip of wine, pushed her glass aside, and leaned in. Looking intently at Abby, she asked, “Do you know something about that car? Is there something else you want to share . . . ’cause if you do, I’m all ears.”

“Okay, this is going to sound crazy. I gave my statement that night, but . . . as it turns out, it might not be entirely complete.”

“And why would that be? Why would you leave out anything?”

“Faulty memory?”

“What? Don’t be silly. Right after the murder, as I recall, your statement was the first taken down. You can’t get impressions fresher than that.”

“I know, but I felt flustered. Everything had happened fast. I think it’s possible I might have seen more than I thought I did that night.”

Kat’s expression darkened. She leaned back and reached for her glass. “I’m listening.”

“Well, let’s start with that older-model, light-colored sedan that rolled past me that night.”

“We know that from your statement.”

“Yes, but the car was missing the red lens cover over one of its taillights. Passenger side. That detail was not in my statement, was it?”

Kat straightened. “No. Is that something you saw? Or you think you saw?”

“I’m pretty sure I saw it.”

“Pretty sure? You either saw it or you didn’t, Abby.” Kat clearly was pushing her to take a position on that detail. “So which is it?”

Kat had slipped into her cop persona. Abby felt flustered. Warmth surged into her cheeks. She swept aside her doubt. “I saw it.”

Kat stared at the folds in the napkin that she’d not yet put on her lap and seemed to be reflecting on the significance of Abby’s new information. “Well, that particular detail is backed up by the CCTV. Because of the fog, we couldn’t see much, but we could sure make out the missing taillight lens. So anything else?”

Abby shrugged. Though validated by Kat’s revelation, she wasn’t ready to go out on a limb with thoughts, hunches, and ideas she couldn’t validate or prove, not that she didn’t have plenty of them. False info and bad leads equaled a lot of wasted time for investigators working a murder case against the clock, which was always ticking. And . . . this one was already a hot mess.

“If you remember any new details, let me know ASAP.” Kat handed her a coconut-covered white-chocolate truffle. “For your dessert.”

“Sure.” Abby’s thoughts wrapped around the runner she believed she saw in the dark parking lot at the time of Jake’s murder. That idea yielded another. Might the woman wearing the hoodie and getting into that car outside the Pantry Hut have been the sous-chef? Whether or not it had been Dori Langston, Abby couldn’t be certain. But searching for stemware and jelly jars might be the perfect ruse to ask someone if they perhaps remembered Dori shopping there.

Coconut-Covered Limoncello White Chocolate Truffles

Ingredients:

½ cup heavy whipping cream
20 ounces white chocolate (chopped into small pieces)
2 tablespoons Limoncello Italian liqueur
½ tablespoon finely grated lemon zest
Parchment paper, for lining a cookie sheet
½ cup shredded dried coconut

Directions:

Slowly heat the whipping cream in a small pan over low heat until it is just boiling. Remove from the heat and set aside.

Melt half of the white chocolate pieces in the top of a double boiler. Pour the reserved cream over the melted chocolate and stir until the mixture becomes uniform. Add the Limoncello and the lemon zest and stir to combine well. Cool the truffle mixture on the counter for 1 hour, and then refrigerate it overnight.

Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper. With gloved hands and a melon scoop, form the chilled truffle mixture into 1-inch balls. Place each truffle ball on the lined cookie sheet and stick a toothpick into each.

Place the remaining white chocolate pieces in a double boiler and gently heat over low heat. Stir the chocolate continuously to distribute the heat evenly and melt the pieces. When the chocolate has melted, dip each truffle ball into it to coat. Set each dipped truffle back on the parchment paper–lined cookie sheet.

Sprinkle the coconut over the dipped truffles while the outer coating of chocolate is still warm. Let the truffles cool before enjoying.

Makes 48 truffles