Chapter 5
Sow plants that produce aboveground crops during a waxing moon and plants that produce belowground crops during a waning moon.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
At a quarter to six, Abby awoke to the kuk-kuk-kuk chatter of a squirrel in the Black Mission fig tree that towered over the north side of her house. Houdini was already engaged in a crow-off with a neighborhood rooster. Somewhere down Farm Hill Road, a dog barked nonstop at what sounded like a garbage truck, its engine revving for starts and its brakes squeaking for stops as it lumbered along its route. Sugar leaped from the foot of Abby’s bed to engage fully in her role as watchdog. The pooch stood on point beneath the window and barked without letup.
Abby rubbed her eyes, yawned, and stretched, taking notice of how energetic she felt. Hormones. There were times of the month when she hated her hormones, but then there were other times, like today, when she felt like a world-class gymnast in a thirty-seven-year-old goddess body. Feel like jogging up the mountain. Ten miles over, dip in the Pacific, ten back. Could be fun . . . but then again, those heirloom beans aren’t going to plant themselves.
“All right. Stop with the barking, already. You’ve made your point, big girl.” After throwing back the covers, springing from the bed, thrusting feet to the floor, Abby bounded to the dresser and rummaged through the drawers, searching for something to wear. She pulled out a pair of denim jeans, a white camisole to wear under her work shirt, and a pair of ankle socks. They were her last clean pair and not the best, because of the lace edging, but serviceable nevertheless. She hated hair hanging in her face and decided that the green bandanna in the top drawer was a practical solution to controlling her curly mass.
Sugar busied herself with the pile of unwashed laundry. She especially liked Abby’s underwear and used towels. Abby groaned with the realization that with Sugar around, she would no longer be able to leave clothing on the floor, the gate open, or a half-eaten sandwich on a chair while she watered her plants. After putting away the laundry basket, Abby sprinted to the kitchen to swallow a few swigs of hot coffee, even though she didn’t need help waking up this morning. Abby reached for her cell phone, which was lying next to her pocketknife on the kitchen counter. She disconnected the phone from the charger and slipped it and the knife into her back pocket. She hated the interruptions cell phones always brought. But then again, maybe I don’t want any calls to interrupt me today.
Abby wiggled the phone back out of her hip pocket and laid it back down on the plywood that served as the countertop until she could get the real thing. Surely she could be unavailable by phone for a few hours. Kat and the other officers eventually would get to the bottom of what had happened to Jean-Louis. They knew how to do their jobs. If anything really important turned up and the cops needed her insight, Abby knew Kat would call and leave a message. Feeling justified at disconnecting the phone, literally, from her hip, Abby marched outside with Sugar on the leash. Nothing was going to stop her from getting those beans in the ground today!
Abby closed the fence gate dividing the front of her property from the back yard before letting Sugar off the leash, then shook the pebbles from her ladybug-patterned gardening shoes and set off for the drying shed. Sugar headed straight for the wild birds balancing on the cosmos blooms, flitting among the sunflowers, and perching in the apple tree. The dog showed a special interest in the yellow finches pecking at the Nyjer seed in one of the feeders that Abby had suspended by a rope from the pole braced between the peppertree and olive tree.
“Point and bark all you want, but no hurting those birds,” Abby admonished before returning to her beans.
In the drying shed, Abby seized upon a spool of orange string, a hammer, and a five-gallon bucket of stakes. Next, she gathered packages of beans with exotic names like Turkey Craw, an heirloom from Tennessee, and Hutterite Soup, an heirloom bean grown by a Hutterite communal sect of Anabaptists in North Dakota. If the latter bean lived up to its reputation of making a magnificent white soup, she might be able to convince Zazi’s to buy some of her crop.
After hammering the first stake into the earth and tying the loose end of the string around it, Abby paced off twenty-five steps to the other side of the garden and repeated the hammering process. She wound the spool of string around the stake, pulled out her pocketknife, cut the string, and tied the loose end. When she had completed ten straight rows, she sank to her knees in the dirt and began to plant the beans in one-inch-deep holes two inches apart. She speared the empty packages onto stakes and stuck them at the end of each row to identify the bean type. I know you babies are going to grow and produce. With the money I’ll make selling you, the honey, and my jams, maybe . . . just maybe I’ll be able to fix up this old place. A granite countertop in the kitchen would be nice, for starters.
Abby hummed while she worked, and the work went swiftly. With the beans finished, she retrieved the flats of herbs she’d been growing on the patio and began planting them. She lost track of time, but her skin felt prickly from the sun beating down on her. When she stopped to dab perspiration from her forehead using the tails of her faded work shirt, she heard a voice call out from the front of her property.
“Abby? Hey, girlfriend, you here?”
Abby groaned. Wouldn’t you know? And I’m just beginning to make headway. Tree canopies blocked the view to the gravel driveway at the front of the property, but she recognized Kat’s voice.
“Back here,” Abby called out.
Kat’s willowy body in her uniform emerged from the other side of the gate. “Brought someone to see you.”
“Yeah? Hope he’s good-looking.”
“Oh, he is,” Kat replied.
“I wasn’t being serious,” Abby told her.
“I was.” Kat shot her a chimpanzee grin and took several steps toward the newly planted area before Abby asked her to stay where she was.
“Can’t have you trouncing on the rows I’ve just planted. I’ll come to you.”
“Oh, gotcha,” Kat said, backing up.
Abby hoisted a flat of herbs in cell packs onto one arm and slid her hand under a second flat. Balancing the two flats, she gingerly walked toward the patio. Sugar, eager to meet the new visitor, bounded between Abby’s legs.
“Watch out!” Kat shrieked a millisecond too late.
Abby hit the ground, landing on the side of her face and sending cell packs of oregano, thyme, and tarragon seedlings flying in every direction.
“OMG! You all right?” Kat called out.
“Been better,” Abby drawled, pushing up into a sitting position. “That dog is going to be the death of me . . . the dog and those darn twine lines.”
“Why are they even there?”
“They’re marking the gravel paths, which will prevent this sort of stumbling and bumbling through the garden.”
“Well, girlfriend, they do make marking paint in spray cans now.”
Abby grimaced. “Yeah, but a hand guided by the eye will never make a line as straight as a piece of string tightly strung between two stakes.” Abby dabbed at the blood oozing from her left nostril.
“Can I get you some ice?” Kat offered, softening her tone.
“Forget it. This isn’t serious. It’s just—” Abby sucked in a breath before spitting out the word. “Stupid.” She pushed herself to an upright position and dusted dirt from her clothes. Then, she began picking up the cell packs of broken seedlings, only to toss them aside. She looked at Kat, not even trying to hide the gloom she knew her face showed.
Kat shook her head. “You are going to break your neck one of these days.”
“Well, if I do, just put me out of my misery, because with my gimpy thumb and a broken neck, I wouldn’t make much of a farmer, would I?” Abby said and dusted dirt from her clothes.
From beyond the gate, a male voice called out, “Hello? Are you ladies back there?”
Sugar ran to the gate, which Kat had closed, pawed the boards, and barked incessantly.
“No,” Abby commanded in her most authoritative voice. To her utter surprise, Sugar dropped down and trotted over to her.
“Looks like she recognizes you as the top dog,” Kat said.
But the moment of pleasure Abby felt was short lived, as she watched Sugar spring to life upon spotting finches foraging in the giant sunflower near the gate. The dog sprang into the air in a flying leap. She thrust her weight against the stalk, taking down Abby’s prized sunflower. From the head of this one flower, Abby had hoped to harvest seeds enough to sell alongside her honey at the farmers’ market. Abby shot a grimacing look at Kat.
“I’m so over that animal,” Abby lamented. “Why couldn’t the chef have been a cat lover instead?”
“She just needs training, and you need time to bond with her,” said Kat. Then, turning her attention to the voice calling to them, she replied, “Be right there, Mr. Bonheur.”
“Bonheur?” Abby arched her brow questioningly. “A relative of the pastry chef?”
Kat nodded, grinned. “Brother.”
“Is he here to take the dog? Oh, thank goodness!”
“No. He’s here to see you.”
“Why me?”
“Well, if you’d answered your darn phone, I could have told you that Chief Bob Allen shared the findings of the coroner’s office with Jean-Louis’s brother. The death was the result of asphyxia by hanging. Then our visit to Dora under the bridge, in the homeless encampment, confirmed it for us.”
“Really? How?”
“In her shopping cart, we found a bucket that matches the others in the pastry shop.”
“How about the twine from around his neck?” Abby asked.
“No twine, no apron. She says she can’t remember those. And, believe me, we pressed her.”
“Slips in and out of lucidity, I suppose,” Abby said.
“But she admitted to cutting him down. Thought if she straightened him out on the floor, he’d get up and get her coffee.”
“No kidding? And when he didn’t?”
“She helped herself to his heavy-duty utility bucket—the one he must have stood on, until . . . he wasn’t standing anymore.”
“Ladies . . . hello,” the man called out again, sounding slightly impatient.
“We gotta go, but one more thing,” Kat said softly as she made a sweeping gesture to invite Abby to start walking to the gate. “Two friends who knew Jean-Louis well said he struggled with professional and personal difficulties. Defaulting on loans, losing his lease, and having to fire his protégé had to be extremely stressful. Chief Bob Allen says we can’t spare anyone to conduct what would amount to an unnecessary investigation, when it seems clear it was suicide, so case closed.”
Abby wondered if Chief Bob Allen wasn’t being premature in his decision, but she said nothing.
Kat called out, “We’re coming, Mr. Bonheur.”
Chief Bob Allen would want the whole ugly mess to go away, of that Abby was certain. The negative publicity would stop. Many of the shops in Las Flores depended on summer tourist dollars, and those dollars also boosted the town’s economy. People on their way over the mountain to the seaside villages and beach towns often stopped in Las Flores for lunch and a bit of antiquing, but they wouldn’t if a murderer was on the loose. With suicide, things could return to normal.
“So how’s the brother taking the news?” Abby asked.
“Not well. He argued with Chief Bob Allen, who listened like he was the man’s best friend and then told Philippe Bonheur that he’d seen plenty of cases where the family couldn’t accept suicide as the finding, but that is what happened. End of discussion.”
“So, how is it that my name came up?”
“That was later, when I was driving Mr. Bonheur back to his hotel. I might have mentioned your name.”
“Oh, yeah? What else did you tell him?” Abby slipped her fingers under the bandanna, inched it off her head, and pushed her fingers through her hair to comb it. She must look a mess, particularly after she literally rubbed her face—and hair—in the dirt.
“Not much. Well, your track record, of course—your strength at crime solving. Oh, and I also mentioned your love of rhubarb and honey. I’m sure I told him about your luscious honey.”
“Of course you did.” Abby smiled and shook her head. She reached down and scratched Sugar between the ears.
Kat flashed a wide grin. “Look, Abby, you know when the chief says to back off, we can’t touch it. But you could. You’ve solved more cases than anyone else on our force.”
“But I’m not on the force, am I? I’m a farmer now. And honestly, Kat, I don’t think you know how much I’m trying to do here. Don’t you think I would bring in day laborers to help me if I could afford it?”
Kat’s tone shifted to a tease. “You’ll thank me when you find out how much money he wants to give you.”
Abby arched her eyebrows. “Okay, so tell me.”
Kat smiled. “And steal his thunder? Uh, no. I’ll let him tell you.” She turned and quickly marched back to the front of the house, where her cruiser was parked. Kat called out over her shoulder, “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
Following Kat through the heavy wooden gate and then latching it to keep Sugar from taking off, Abby noticed a lot of bee activity on the gate’s driveway side, where she had planted a circular-shaped wildflower garden. The honeybees loved the pollen in the flowers of the giant pink, red, and white cosmos. No matter what time of the day Abby went to water them, she would see the bees foraging.
Abby looked past the cosmos to the forty-something, tall, dark-haired man with silvery threads of gray at his temples. Casually dressed in jeans and penny loafers without socks, he held his sport coat in the crook of an arm while his other hand squeezed a tiny ball of fruit hanging on the two-year-old blood orange tree. The sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled up, exposing lithe forearms.
“A man that good looking has to be married,” Kat whispered.
“Is he?” Abby whispered back.
Kat shrugged and kept walking.
When the man spun around to face them, Abby noted the family resemblance to Chef Jean-Louis but also that drawn, haggard look that took over a healthy face when someone suffered a shock or was grief stricken.
“Philippe Bonheur,” the man said, extending his hand to Abby.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Kat said, “I’ve got to check in with dispatch.” She walked a discreet distance down the gravel driveway and stopped at the mailbox, which was mounted on a fence post. Abby could tell from the way Kat was leaning her head in toward her shoulder that she was talking on the two-way.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bonheur.” Abby tried to say his name correctly, to pronounce it Bon-NEUR, but it didn’t sound right to her. She’d nearly failed high school French. “Abigail Mackenzie.” She extended her right hand but yanked it back when she noticed dirt clumped under her nails and streaks of soil still on her palm and wrist. “Sorry . . . I . . . I wasn’t expecting anyone to show up at my door. I’ve misplaced my gardening gloves.”
“It’s no problem, mademoiselle.” Philippe clasped her hand, then pulled it back into his and shook it firmly. His red, puffy eyes dominated his gaunt face, which sported a day-old beard and a weak smile.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Bonheur.”
“Thank you. C’est une affaire terrible.” His voice broke from a sudden huskiness as he lapsed into his native language.
Abby’s heart sank. She hated to see an obviously strong, healthy man in such terrible pain. Empathy had been the bane of her life, especially in police work. Kat had once told Abby that her personal sense of outrage on behalf of the victims and their families was why she was so good in law enforcement. But Abby too keenly felt the pain of the victim, sometimes feeling compelled to work a case as if it were personal, when her primary task was simply to keep her personal feelings in check and just do the job.
Now, as Abby observed Philippe Bonheur struggling to show composure under the most trying of circumstances, she inhaled a long, deep breath and heard herself ask politely, “Mr. Bonheur, how can I help?”
“This Chief Bob Allen, you worked for him?”
Abby nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“I will speak frankly. I do not agree with Chief Bob Allen and the coroner. Suicide? Non. I tell you, it was not. It was murder!”
At that moment, Kat returned. She thrust her hands into her uniform pants pockets and leaned against the cruiser, swatting occasionally at a bee if it flew too close.
“But how can you be so sure?” Abby looked directly into his eyes, thinking their hue lighter than the new leaves on her apple tree.
“I know my brother.” Philippe Bonheur reached into his white dress-shirt pocket, removed a silver lighter and a small box, and opened the box. It was lined in foil and contained cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” Not waiting for her reply, he plucked out a cigarette, flipped open his lighter, set fire to the cigarette tip, and inhaled a deep, long drag.
Abby took a step backward. Seriously?
A sheepish expression claimed Philippe’s countenance, as if he had picked up on her thought and now felt awkward about smoking.
“You Californians, you do not like smoking, c’est vrai?”
Abby nodded. “Some of us don’t.”
Philippe took another long drag of the cigarette and then flipped it to the ground. “Jean-Louis tells me on the phone about a man named Dobbs. They argued about the patisserie lease.”
“Yes, I know about that.” Abby asked, “Was your brother assaulted by him?”
“No.”
“Well, then, perhaps they ironed out their difficulties.” Abby was starting to wonder if Philippe could tell her anything, anything at all, that could convince her that the case had merit.
Philippe looked at her incredulously and shook his head. “Jean-Louis, he tells me about a man who attacked him behind the patisserie.”
“When did that happen?” Abby asked, looking for a response from Kat, who had folded her arms across her chest and was listening intently.
“A week . . . two or three weeks ago. My mind does not think so well now.” Philippe ran his hand through his hair. He seemed to be struggling with how best to express what he wanted to say. He finally spoke. “My brother, he was not like everyone. People did not understand him. Some did not like him, because—”
Abby waited for the words that did not come. “Did Jean-Louis’s family . . . did they know . . . Did you know he was gay?”
“Oui.” Philippe seemed relieved that she had said what perhaps he could not. “We know. Jean-Louis feared for his life sometimes. That man who attacked Jean-Louis, he rode a motorcycle. He called my brother names. Jean-Louis followed him into the bar one night. They argued. The bartender made them leave.”
Abby zeroed in on that detail. “And that man assaulted Jean-Louis?”
Philippe nodded.
Abby looked over at Kat. “Police report filed?”
Kat shook her head. “Nope. First I’ve heard of it.”
Abby addressed Philippe. “Any chance you got the name of that biker from Jean-Louis?”
“He never told me.”
“How about the name of the bar?”
“The Black Wench or Witch . . . something like that.”
The only bar in Las Flores. Abby considered how desperate Philippe must feel. How hard he must be searching his memory for names and situations that might prove his brother was the victim of an enemy. She gauged the distance between her dusty gardening shoes and the discarded, still smoldering cigarette, reminding herself to dispose of it properly once he and Kat had left. Unconvinced that a biker, landlord, or any local had killed Jean-Louis, Abby couldn’t shake the feeling that suicide explained the death. And without a good motive or a prime suspect, there didn’t seem to be any good reason for her to take the case, despite details about the local bar and its mostly biker patrons. Details anyone could know.
How she hated these situations.... How many times can you say, “Sorry for your loss,” before it begins to sound like it’s just an excuse to end the conversation so you can go back to your life?
Philippe inhaled deeply. “Jean-Louis. . . .” His voice became husky. “He mentions to me friends, too.”
Abby smiled at him reassuringly. “I’m sure Jean-Louis had many friends in Las Flores.”
Philippe’s haggard face managed a weak smile.
“Can you recall any of his friends’ names?” Abby asked.
“Charles, Joseph, Patrick, and someone he called Vieillard, ‘old man’ in English.”
Abby shot a quizzical look at Kat, who had flipped open a small notebook to jot down the names. Abby wondered if the word might mean a man who was older than Jean-Louis or if the chef had used the word as a term of endearment.
“Did your brother often use pet names for friends?” asked Abby.
“Oui. Vieillard. A nickname, perhaps?” Philippe brushed his fingers against a tuft of hair over an ear, where a honeybee had just alighted.
“Don’t move,” Abby quickly cautioned. “Just try to be still. If you swat at it, it will sting you.”
“Arghh,” Philippe growled. He followed her directions, staring intently into her eyes, apparently awaiting a sign that the bee might depart.
Abby moved a step closer to him, watching closely as the bee took its time exploring. The insect must have found Philippe’s cologne to its liking. And what wasn’t to like? High notes of mint and basil counterbalanced with a woodsy undertone and a hint of musk. Attractive to her, attractive to the bees. Abby considered what it would feel like to have her face as close to Philippe Bonheur’s as the bee was. She slowly lifted her hand, thinking of how she might help the little insect on its way, but at just that moment the bee’s tiny body waggled. The honeybee flew upward, turned in midcourse, and headed in the direction of the hive behind the weathered wooden fence.
Philippe relaxed his posture; his attention again became fixed on Abby. “Surely, you do not raise these . . . these abeilles?”
Abby nodded. “Honeybees.”
“It is dangerous, n’est-ce pas?” He looked over at Kat. Kat shrugged, as if she couldn’t understand Abby’s love for bees, either.
Abby smiled disarmingly. “No. It’s not dangerous. I love the bees and their honey. Actually, no one appreciated their honey more than Jean-Louis.” She decided to ask a point-blank question. “Was there someone who disliked Jean-Louis enough to want him dead?”
Philippe rubbed an unshaven cheek, as though thinking about the question. “Jean-Louis, he tells me he thinks his business partner or someone—how do you say?—détourné de l’argent.”
Abby searched her memory for the meaning of the phrase and then proffered an alternative in English. “Embezzled money?”
“Oui, embezzle, but Jean-Louis, he could not prove it.”
Abby sighed. Suspicion. Not the same as proof. She lifted the collar of her work shirt and shook it slightly to allow a bit of air to circulate over her flushed skin. “Truly, I wish I could help.” She knew it was not what the man wanted to hear. To avoid what she was sure would be a pleading gaze, Abby glanced over at Kat, who was staring at the ground, as if not wanting to telegraph her personal feelings about the case. “Look, we really don’t have much to work with here.” Abby straightened her spine, as if standing taller and stiffer would make her appear more resolute. “I try not to insert myself into police business. Chief Bob Allen would not welcome my intrusion, and, besides, he and I are not exactly buddies.”
A long and brittle silence ensued before Philippe said coldly, “It is not police business, not anymore. My brother, he tells me he was going to the Caribbean for his birthday. His good friend Vieillard had access to a yacht on the southeast coast of the Dominican Republic, near Casa de Campo. So, pardon me, mademoiselle, but does that sound like he intended to end his life?”
Logic compelled her to agree with Philippe Bonheur. People who were about to check out usually did not take a vacation first.
“Remind me of when Jean-Louis’s birthday is,” Abby said.
“July eighteenth.” Philippe glanced at Kat, apparently in an effort to gauge whose side she was on, but Kat remained silent, still staring stone-faced at the ground. An awkward and tense silence ensued.
“You are repairing this place, oui?” Philippe asked, apparently wanting to shift the direction of the conversation. He slid his fingers, with manicured nails, into his pants pocket and drew forth a folded piece of paper. He handed the paper to Abby. “It is not complicated.” His tone warmed slightly. “You help me. I help you.”
Abby opened the folded paper and stared at a check in the amount of ten thousand dollars. She took a quick, sharp breath. Granite countertops! Her heart raced as she pondered the possibilities of what else she could accomplish with that amount of money. Replace the shower-tub combo. Buy a rototiller. Pay the second installment of the property tax bill without having to sell the 1929 Duncan Phyfe dining table and chairs. Hire some help. As her mental list grew, so did Abby’s excitement, but she tried not to show it.
Running her fingers along the crease of the check, Abby thought about how Philippe Bonheur must have written that check before even meeting her. That could mean only that he and Kat had discussed what a money pit the farmette had become. Abby’s cheeks grew hot with humiliation. She’d have a chat with Kat later. For now, she reasoned she would take Philippe’s money as a fair wage for the time she would have to put into the investigation. And she would certainly ask him to take responsibility for Sugar—surely he would want to keep his brother’s dog.
“If I take your money, Mr. Bonheur, I ask only that you not talk about the case with anyone else. If your brother’s death is a homicide, we don’t want the murderer to know we are looking into this, at least not yet.”
A warm smile made its way across Philippe’s face. His eyes crinkled in an expression of joyful relief. “We have a deal?”
Abby nodded. “Seems so.”
“Oh, merci beaucoup.”
Abby needed to tell him that her investigation would stop if she discovered proof that his brother’s death was not due to foul play. But maybe now was not the time to go over her conditions. The poor man surely needed a bright spot in the darkness he was enduring.
“Look, I’m not making any promises, Mr. Bonheur, but—”
He interrupted, “S’il vous plaît, Philippe. We are friends now, non?”
Abby nodded. Suppose associates might be more correct, but whatever. “My friends call me Abby. I hope you will, too.”
Kat was already in the cruiser when Philippe extended his hand and surprised Abby with a vigorous, firm handshake. “Au revoir, Abby.”
Abby smiled sweetly. Okay, so bring up the dog issue next time.
As Philippe slid into the passenger seat of the black-and-white cruiser, Abby caught a quick glimpse of a honeybee riding in on the back side of his shirtsleeve. Not wanting to race down the driveway after the police car, Abby hesitated briefly. She didn’t like the idea of Philippe swatting away at the poor insect, either, so she sprinted, calling out in her loudest voice, “Roll down the window.” But the cruiser had already passed the mailbox, turned onto Farm Hill Road, and sped away.
Tips for Relocating Bees
• Do not move a hive of bees until you’ve fulfilled the necessary requirements for them at the new location: a water supply with a pump, a platform on which the hive will rest, and a waterproof covering to protect the hive from rain.
• Make sure the hive faces east or southeast for maximum light, warmth, and dryness.
• Always move bees at night, after they have settled into their abodes.
• Insert pieces of foam in the mouth of the hive to seal the bees inside before the move.
• Remove the foam before you leave the new site so the bees can begin exploring and foraging with the first light of dawn.