A Beeline to Murder

If you want to lower your cholesterol, decrease your stress level, and improve your blood pressure, adopt a dog.

Abby awoke hours before dawn. In the dark, she lay unmoving . . . listening. It was hot, stiflingly so. A sound had awakened her—a long creak. Then a thud. Someone or something was on her roof.

Even groggy, Abby remembered the ladder that she had propped against the south side of her house, where she had torn out a paper-wasp nest a week ago. She had left the ladder there, intending to pick the ripe figs and then cut the branch overhanging the roof. The last thing she needed was a colony of roof rats. But she had never gotten around to finishing, and the ladder was still there, waiting.

She eased off the mattress, feeling chilled in her short cotton gown, and searched for her flashlight on the bedside table. Her fingers soon touched the grooved metal. Leaving the flashlight turned off so it wouldn’t signal to the intruders that she was on to them, Abby felt her way in the dark along the hallway wall and over to the kitchen sliding-glass door. Sugar was not to be left behind. She bounded off the foot of the bed and shot past Abby to the door, her strong tail rhythmically smacking the wall.

“You stay here. Guard the inside. I’ll be right back.”

Sugar was having none of that. She squeezed right through the door, between Abby’s legs. Whatever! Abby slipped outside, then limped, barefoot, along the gravel path to the ladder. She climbed up it until her fingers felt the edge of the roof. Sugar had bounded off into the black night, whining and sniffing. Suddenly Abby brought the light beam up and shined it across the roof. The blinding light exposed the black, banded eyes, the white-tipped ears, and the ringed tail of a raccoon on a predawn raid with her three youngsters. The mother coon was standing on her hind legs, reaching upward for the figs and knocking some down in the process. Abby swore under her breath and backed away down the ladder. It was never a good idea to get between a wild coon and her cubs, especially when they were dining on their favorite food. Abby didn’t mind sharing, but she could have done without the startling fear that a dangerous man might be on her roof.

“Sugar, come here.” Abby flashed the light around the yard. She spied Sugar at the back gate, where the raccoons must have come onto Abby’s property. “Sugar! Come here, girl. Come.” Oh, good grief, dog. Tune me out, as you always do.

Abby returned to the kitchen and fished some doggy biscuits from a canister. Maybe one of these babies will bring you back. Abby found her shoes, slipped her feet into them, and walked toward the back fence, where Sugar stood on her hind legs, pawing at the fence. She leaped backward. Barked. Pawed some more.

“Look. Look what I have here,” Abby said as she walked toward the back fence. “Doggy biscuits. Come get ’em.”

Sugar took a flying leap at the fence, knocking over a pottery saucer filled with water. Now the poor animal had drenched herself. Abby shined the light at the back of the gate and saw another raccoon cowering in a half-turned position, as if ready to run. It would not be good for either Abby or the half-pint-sized dog to be trapped between two groups of coons. Abby dropped the biscuits, lunged, grabbed Sugar, and carried the wriggling, wet, yapping dog to the safety of the farmhouse.

Back inside, Abby flipped on the light and looked at the clock. It read 5:30 a.m. The raccoons would leave before sunup—they were shy creatures who foraged at night. Most likely, their den was close by, probably on the deserted property in back of the farmette. Abby had noticed lately that the fresh water she put in the birdbath each day would go muddy overnight—a sure sign of raccoons on the prowl. They liked washing up.

Sugar was now dripping on the clean kitchen floor. When Abby grabbed a towel to dry the dog, Sugar darted from Abby’s arms and made a mad dash for the couch pillows, where she threw her body upside down and sideways, wiggling in delight. Next, she dried her ears and head, rubbing her wet fur against Abby’s new throw rug, and when Abby lunged to capture her, Sugar flew to the bedroom and dried her dirty paws on Abby’s white sheet and hand-embroidered quilt.

“Dang it, Sugar. If there was the slightest chance I might have gone back to bed, it’s not possible now! Thanks to you the bedding has to be washed. And just FYI, that is my grandmother’s quilt.”

Sugar cocked her head to look at Abby.

Like you care. “Arghh!”

Abby pulled the sheets from the bed and the pillowcases off the pillows and threw them into the washer. At least an early start meant she could get some chores done before the funeral. She made a pot of coffee, dressed in work clothes, and pulled her copper-colored hair into a ponytail. Coffee cup in hand, she headed to the back part of the property to pluck some squash for dinner and the last of the spring peas—vines and pods—to throw to the chickens.

At the chicken house, she spotted Henrietta already on the nest. The bantam rooster Houdini was in a mood and jumped on the back of Henrietta’s sister—who was too quick for his advances—before settling on one of the brown hens, who was larger, slower, and more submissive. The hen shrieked her objections in ear-piercing squawks as Houdini mounted her, and then she wriggled out from under him after he had had his way with her. The proud Houdini pranced around the pen, his chest out and his iridescent blue-green tail feathers flicking. The poor hen ruffled her feathers, squawked for a while, and proceeded to find a quiet corner where she could scratch and peck in peace.

Abby watched Houdini strut the cock walk. “You think you are such hot stuff, but here’s a news flash, Mr. Dandy in Short Pants. Fertilizing eggs produces roosters as well as hens. Trust me, you don’t want more roosters in the henhouse. You remember Frank, don’t you? After a rooster half his age almost did him in, we had to find him a new henhouse with some ladies who were, let’s just say, getting up there in years.”

Houdini defiantly flew up to a fence post and let go a gravelly cock-a-doodle-doo, which sounded to Abby a lot like “Not listening to you-ooo.”

When the chicken chores were finished, Abby walked past the open-pollinated corn patch. The ears were filling out nicely, but some were covered in ants. The ants had to have a food source, a fact that worried Abby and prompted a closer look. Colonies of corn leaf aphids had formed, their numbers no doubt amplified by the extreme heat and the dry soil, and the ants were feeding on the sticky honeydew produced by the aphids. She spotted a couple of ladybugs and hoped for lacewings, the natural predator of the aphids. Their presence suggested there was potentially an eco-balance in place, but she still might have to mix up a quantity of insecticidal soap. What she didn’t want was a major infestation that she couldn’t control. But harsh chemicals and poisons would harm her bees. She’d deep soak the corn patch with water and keep a close eye on the pest problem.

Her next stop was the garden. The eggplants were plump and had turned from white to shiny dark purple, almost matching the Ananas Noire heirloom tomatoes. Abby plucked the biggest tomato she could find. Back in the farmhouse, she washed and cut the tomato, then tossed it into a bowl, along with slices of Armenian cucumber, red onion, baby spinach, pine nuts, and feta cheese, which she spritzed with basil-infused olive oil and vinegar. Perched on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, she bit into the crisp Greek salad. Two bites later, her cell phone rang. Philippe was calling to tell her not to pick him up. He’d meet her at the funeral home.

“Afterward, shall we take one car up the mountain, Abby?”

“Why not?” she replied, trying to crunch a piece of crisp, cold cucumber quietly.

“Then would you mind driving? I find those switchbacks daunting.”

“Uh-huh.” She swallowed the mouthful of salad and held the phone away from her mouth as she chugged some iced green tea to wash down the lump.

There was a pause.

Philippe said, “A staff member of Shadyside Funeral Home called and asked me to meet her earlier today. She wanted to know Jean-Louis’s favorite music. She also wanted pictures of him for an audiovisual tribute to Jean-Louis. This idea, it made me crazy at first. But then I searched for images of my brother on my laptop. I took Jean-Louis’s phone to her. She removed the pictures. Wait until you see what we’ve made.”

“Philippe, it sounds lovely. I can’t wait to see it.”

“It is beautiful.”

“So, see you there.” Abby understood that many things could facilitate coping and healing. Working on something that celebrated his younger brother’s life—even against a time constraint—might help Philippe begin to heal his grief. And a memorial in the form of an audiovisual tribute might help him gain closure. She liked the idea that Philippe would have emotional support, and found herself actually looking forward to the closure the ceremony would provide.

Abby showered and changed. In fact, she was in such a good mood, she decided to take the last of the salad to the chickens and check to make sure all the gates were shut so Sugar could romp out back while Abby was gone. Turning the corner past the flowering purple wisteria and the blooming Iceland roses, Abby looked around for the dog. She soon spotted Sugar digging like crazy, dirt flying high behind her long white legs, in the very patch where Abby had newly planted the beans.

Abby dropped the plastic container of salad remnants, rushed to the bean patch, and found it totally destroyed. She soon spotted a long ridge in the dirt and volcano mounds of freshly dug soil. A mole. It had to be a mole; gopher mounds were crescent shaped. Abby stared at the dog. “I don’t know who upsets me more—you or the mole.” She looked around for the beans, which were now scattered on top of the dirt. “Ooh, you little brat.”

She pulled the dog away from the mounds and carried her back to the house.

“You’re in big trouble, little girl.” She pulled the patio door ajar so that Sugar could come and go as she pleased. “Just don’t take down the rest of the farm while I’m gone,” she admonished.

Abby pulled up to Shadyside Funeral Home at 1:30 p.m. Finding a parking space proved difficult. After three times around the lot, she gave up and parked on the street. Shadyside’s director had warned her that the funeral home had two funerals scheduled that afternoon, so she shouldn’t have been surprised that the lot was so full. She made her way into the chapel area.

Sprays of white lilies, roses, and gardenias were positioned on either side of the doorway. As Abby stepped inside, she was shocked to see how many more arrangements lined the interior walls, creating a lush floral backdrop for the casket. Pristine white orchids with a startling reddish-purple hue staining the inner edges of the blooms rested in pots atop faux marble columns at the head and the foot of the casket. Who had sent such an abundance of beautiful flowers? And where was Philippe? she thought.

Abby walked over to the casket. A peaceful-looking Jean-Louis was visible from the head to just below the waist. The bottom half of the casket was covered by a massive spray of white lilies. Philippe had dressed his brother in a tropical-print shirt of muted colors, which made Abby smile. Jean-Louis looked like a carefree young man napping on his favorite beach on the island of Hispaniola.

“Chef Jean-Louis,” Abby whispered, leaning in. “Just so you know, I was on time for the last honey delivery.” Unexpectedly, a shiver shot up her spine. Abby tensed as she stared at the corpse. His features, once so expressive, seemed intensely somber now, as if holding a secret. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. “I hated finding you like that.” The back of her eyes burned as she stifled the cry building within. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell the bees about your passing. I’ll have to tell them, although I guess I’m more of a bee whisperer than a talker.” Abby’s lip quivered. “You know, they sometimes”—her voice cracked—“sometimes sing to me.” She swallowed a sob and sniffed hard.

“My grandfather, may God rest his soul, now, he was a bee talker,” she explained. “He was the one who told me that when someone close to the bees dies, the bees know. They sometimes fly away with the spirit of the dead. Listen, Chef, I don’t want to lose my bees, so if they fly off with you, please tell them to come home to the farmette.”

The tears that had welled now trickled over her cheeks. Abby dabbed them away with the backs of her hands. “Once we get you tucked in, I’ll open the hives, I promise, and whisper what they surely already sense. You know they liked having you visit them. I’m going to find out who did this to you, Jean-Louis. I promise.”

“Abby,” Philippe’s voice called out softly.

Abby quickly wiped the tears and turned to greet him.

Philippe took her in his arms and held her close.

Abby felt her heart aching, her stomach knotting. Even as she told herself to hold it all in, a sob erupted. Pull yourself together. From Philippe’s warm and sheltering embrace, she began to draw strength and calmness.

“Philippe, he’s so beautiful, so peaceful,” she said when they parted. “And the flowers are exquisite. Your doing?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand.

“Non. They have been delivered with cards, all but this one.” He reached out and touched the spray of white lilies tied with ribbon that lay atop the casket. “The staff told me a thin man in a dark suit and sunglasses brought these. There are also two roses just there, where the casket lid comes down. He laid them in a way, it seems, to suggest that Jean-Louis carry them into the afterlife.” Abby knelt down to see the two roses for herself and then stood up again, facing Philippe.

“Do you know who that man might be?”

“Non. He requested time alone with Jean-Louis. The staff told me that he sobbed so hard, they brought to him tissues and a glass of water.”

“Did he tell them his name?”

Philippe shook his head. “He stayed a short time. That is all.”

At that moment, a lithe, petite woman in a navy shirtwaist dress and pearls walked through the chapel door. As she approached, Philippe introduced her as Brenda, the coordinator he had been working with.

“We have some business to complete,” he explained.

Abby excused herself and walked to the back of the room, set her phone to video record mode, and waited to see who else would show up. When Brenda left, Philippe sank into the chair nearest the casket to receive the condolences of those attending the viewing. He’d told Abby that if no one showed, the two of them would watch the tribute and drive up the mountain for the burial, then share a simple meal afterward to celebrate Jean-Louis’s life.

From somewhere beyond the chapel, a clock sounded two chimes. At five past the hour, the mayor and the city manager filed in, followed by Nettie, who spotted Abby and nodded. Nettie would not be there except by order of Chief Bob Allen, and Abby knew that Nettie would be watching and listening and reporting back to the chief any relevant information that the police chief should know about. The three spoke to Philippe, waved to Abby, and filed by the coffin before taking a seat. Word traveled fast in a small town, but Abby hadn’t realized just how fast and what the impact would be. Others came. Many others. Abby recognized customers, pastry shop workers, suppliers, and business associates among them, but there were also people she didn’t know, presumably from the art and culinary worlds of San Francisco.

Abby was not surprised that mayoral candidate Eva Lennahan—who once had called Jean-Louis “the most talented pastry chef in town”—was a no-show. Hopeful that the man in the dark suit, the bearer of white lilies, might return, Abby kept a watchful eye on the door as the lights dimmed for the audiovisual tribute.

The soft strains of “Vissi d’arte” from Puccini’s Tosca, coincided with an on-screen close-up of Jean-Louis. His large light brown eyes and dark brows dominated his angular face, made more so by a straight nose sans a bump or excessive fleshiness and his smiling Cupid’s-bow lips. The camera loved the handsome French Canadian immigrant who’d made Las Flores his final home. On film, he exuded vitality and a commanding presence. Abby marveled at Philippe’s selection of music. Of course, Jean-Louis would have loved hearing this aria again. Its opening line, “I lived for art, I lived for love,” encapsulated the narrative of his life. And as Chef Jean-Louis had once exclaimed, no one could sing Tosca like the incomparable Maria Callas.

The sniffles and muffled cries Abby heard from where she stood at the back of the room tugged at her heart. There were moments during the twenty-two-minute tribute when she had to pinch her nose and squeeze her eyes shut against the tears that were welling. The sequence of shots depicting Jean-Louis at work in the pastry shop kitchen proved the most difficult for Abby to watch. The close-up of his fingers holding scallop-shell pans filled with freshly baked honey-almond madeleines brought new tears. And there, on the counter next to him, was his familiar vermeil teapot and a jar of Abby’s honey, with its unmistakable label, which captured the beauty of Henrietta, her favorite little Mediterranean hen.

Other images depicted Jean-Louis and Philippe in a school yard, as adolescents, arms around each other, their school backpack straps draped over their shoulders. In a picture of the boys at an art show with their father, Abby could see the family resemblance. Yet another showed a teenage Jean-Louis outside a Parisian-style patisserie, studying the offerings through the glass window. There was an image of him with Sugar, the mini English pointer–whippet–beagle mutt, whom Jean-Louis had acquired after moving to Las Flores.

The voices of Bocelli and Dion sang “The Prayer” as the last image lingered—a grinning Jean-Louis in his tropical-print shirt and hiking shorts, hands outstretched to heaven, standing atop the spillway of the Las Flores Reservoir. Jean-Louis’s tall, thin friend—perhaps less adventurous—stood nearby, as if ready to catch Jean-Louis in the event that he slipped. The haunting and unmistakable image of that friend—one Jake Lennahan—stuck with Abby like no other.

As the lights went back on, a priest by the name of Father Joseph entered the room. He gently placed his hand on Philippe’s shoulder and asked if anyone wanted to share stories about Jean-Louis with those in attendance.

Philippe rose and spoke endearingly about how the loss would affect him and his family. “My mother, especially, doted on him. He was born late in her life, and she always called Jean-Louis her late season surprise.” Philippe talked about how Jean-Louis had a guiding principle, which was always to put people before material possessions. “He lived as if tomorrow might never come,” Philippe said. Choking up, he added, “He believed it was how we all are meant to live.”

When Philippe finished talking, there seemed to be a collective reluctance by everyone else to speak, but finally Tallulah stood. She spoke of using her empathic powers when she first interviewed for a job with the chef, and described how she sensed a deep vulnerability, which he would not discuss. “He told me once that prison takes many forms, that to be an artist is to be a pilgrim ever haunted by the thing that desires to be created.”

A prayer followed and then the blessing of the body. During it all, Abby thought about Jake Lennahan, who was clearly the friend who had seemed ready to protect Jean-Louis, whatever the price. And now she was beginning to wonder whether the relationship Jake shared with Jean-Louis might have had a dark side.

The Jeep radio was tuned to the weather report as Abby and Philippe drove to the Church of the Pines. The afternoon had become warm and muggy, and winds were kicking up. According to the local weather report, the easterly onshore breeze that served as California’s air conditioner had combined with a low pressure at the coast, causing the wind to gust up to forty-plus miles per hour at the crests of high hills and mountain peaks. A heavy fog would set in along the coast later that night, but inland areas, like Las Flores, would remain clear enough to view the full moon.

At the grave site, the winds were already howling. Abby held on to the billowing overskirt of her black, cap-sleeved mourning dress and said to Philippe, “It’s ironic and sad that so many showed for the wake, but just you and I are here to see him off.”

“Oui,” Philippe replied. “It’s better this way, no? We two care the most about what happened to him. We two will lay him to his rest.”

Abby nodded in agreement. She watched as the six pallbearers, faces glistening with sweat, walked slowly and with solemnity, holding the casket by its handles. When she and Philippe had reached the mountain summit, she’d set her cell phone to vibrate so it would not ring during the short service. And now it was vibrating. Abby checked the screen, then took the call.

“Say it quick, Kat. . . . My phone doesn’t have much battery power left.”

“Thought you’d want to know, girlfriend . . . the bicycle guy you reported, with the two dogs . . . just took him in for a hit-and-run.”

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s more. He collided with Dora.”

“Is she okay?”

“Hospital staff says she’s lucky. Nine lives, that one. Has a fractured hip and a broken right wrist. Malnourished, of course, so they’re keeping her long enough to build up her stamina.”

“So, our colorful Dora will have hot meals and a roof over her head for a while.”

“Yep. At the taxpayers’ expense.”

“What about those poor dogs?”

“They’re being checked over by a vet at the animal rescue.”

“Dare I ask about the bags in Dora’s shopping cart?”

“Well, unfortunately, some were ripped.”

“Meaning stuff spilled out, and you didn’t need that pesky little search warrant to find it.” Abby’s adrenaline kicked in.

“Why, yes, it did, and we couldn’t help noticing the bag contained Chef Jean-Louis’s apron.”

“No. Really?”

“And that’s not all. Dora has a thing for string. We found a bag full of the nasty stuff—all sorts, used for God knows what. There was a long piece of twine in there, too, with a slipknot, cut at one end.”

“Ha! So she had the twine from the chef’s neck all along.” Abby’s heart leaped. “Ooh, I’d love to talk about this more, but we’re up here at the grave site. I’ve got to go. The priest is walking toward us. We’ll talk later.”

As if fearing a powerful wind gust would topple him, the priest held on to a walking stick and clutched his Bible, its purple ribbon hanging loosely from the frayed edges, as he picked his way from the stone pathway over to the gaping hole in the ground, where freshly dug dirt had been heaped into a black pile. The casket was positioned atop the wide straps laid out so that the pallbearers could easily take hold and lower Jean-Louis into the ground. They stood ready.

The priest took a moment to put down his walking stick and look into the eyes of each person before commencing the service, and then he began to speak, projecting his voice over the howling wind and making the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We meet on this solemn occasion to honor the life and the passing of Jean-Louis Bonheur, a beloved son and a much-loved brother. With reverence, we lovingly place his body into this sacred dwelling place, as a sign of our respect for Jean-Louis, who lived among us for a time. We commend his spirit to the heart of the Lord. And we comfort one another in our grief.”

Opening his Bible with the ribbon, the priest spoke again. “For it is written in Psalm forty-six, God is our refuge and strength.” He read on and then paused, as if trying to think of some other words of comfort. Finally, he closed his Bible. “Let us pray. Look upon us, O Lord, with compassion, as you did when Jesus cried at the grave of his friend Lazarus. Give us hope. Strengthen us with faith. Safeguard the friends and family of those who must now carry on without their beloved in their midst. Amen.”

The priest asked Philippe if he wanted to open the casket one last time before it was lowered into the ground. Philippe nodded. Abby had slipped a small vial of rose geranium water into her purse and had told Philippe he might use it to anoint his brother’s forehead. Philippe now looked at her, as if needing her support and strength. His eyes, gray-green now, turned misty as he took the vial from her.

The pallbearers pulled the casket cover back to reveal the face of the deceased. Philippe knelt in the dirt to draw the sign of the cross over his brother’s forehead. He tilted the vial against his thumb and middle finger just as a heavy wind gust pushed him forward and sent the vial flying from his fingers. Simultaneously, a paper wafted upward from the casket and drifted on the wind. Abby didn’t care about the vial, and she was pretty sure Philippe was all right, but her instincts screamed for her to chase after that paper as the wind lifted and dropped it on an erratic path. She breathed a sigh of relief when it snagged on the base of a bush several yards away.

The priest helped Philippe to his feet and carried on. “Although your hearts grieve”—the priest motioned for the men to take their positions and lower the casket into the earth—“you can take solace in the words faithfully recorded in the Gospel of John. The Lord says, ‘I will not leave you comfortless. I will come to you.’ ”

Leaning down to place his Bible next to his walking stick, the priest picked up a handful of dirt. He motioned for Philippe and Abby to do likewise. As they did, the clergyman intoned, “We have committed our beloved’s spirit to your eternal keeping, Father. We now commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Merciful God, we do this with the belief and absolute hope in the resurrection to eternal life. . . .”

Abby didn’t hear the last words. The wind wasn’t just gusting. It howled now. She held her breath in hopes that the paper didn’t cast off again. As soon as she heard “Amen,” she backed away from the burial site and swiftly marched toward the bush where the paper waved still. Leaning down, Abby plucked the piece of paper from its entrapment. The paper was actually a small colored photograph of Jean-Louis and Jake Lennahan. The image showed them clowning around, both displaying unmistakably happy smiles. Jean-Louis wore his chef’s toque and double-breasted shirt. Jake wore a sandwich sign with straps over his shoulders. A multilayered, frosted cake had been painted on the sign. On the back of the photograph, in cursive, was written, Happy Birthday, Jean-Louis. My grief is unbearable. You are my heart. I never believed she would make good on her threat, but now she has taken from me everything, even my reason for living. I curse the day I married her. May she burn in hell!—J.

Abby tucked the photo in her purse, steeled herself against the gusting wind, and returned to the grave, where the priest was shaking hands with the pallbearers. The diggers had already begun filling the grave. Abby joined Philippe and the priest as they picked their way back to the stone path. Shadows had already lengthened on the mountain. Abby touched Philippe’s arm and pointed to the blazing orange ball of a sun sliding down into the now gunmetal-gray Pacific.

He dropped back a step to create space between himself and the priest. “Abby, what was on that paper?”

“Just a missing puzzle piece. For a bowl of white bean soup, I’ll tell you all about it. What do you say?” Abby asked, trying to assuage his sadness and quell the singing of her heart at their stroke of good fortune. She was certain that Jake was the distraught man who had delivered the lilies and those two roses, and that, while alone with the body, he had secretly tucked the photo inside the coffin.

“Sounds good,” Philippe replied, taking her arm to help her negotiate the stone pathway.

She stopped. “And pie at Maisey’s.”

“I would never say no to that.”

Abby grinned and grabbed him with both hands to steady herself as a wind gust tugged hard at her balance. “And maybe a drink at the Black Witch after dinner?”

He arched his brows. A quizzical look crossed his face. “Maybe even two. And stiff ones at that. Should I read something more into this?”

“It’s up to you. I’ll explain while we fill our tummies with comfort food,” said Abby.

“Bean soup is comfort food? Americans!”

White Bean Soup

Ingredients:

1 cup dried Hutterite small soup beans or other white
beans
3 medium celery stalks, diced
2 large carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 large smoked ham hock
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and diced
½ cup torn fresh spinach leaves
1 packet Lipton Golden Onion Recipe Soup & Dip Mix
6 cups chicken stock
2 to 3 medium bok choy leaves, torn into small pieces

Directions:

Combine the beans, celery, carrots, ham hock, onions, spinach, and Lipton mix in a Crock-Pot. Pour in the chicken stock. Cook, adding water as needed, until the beans are tender, about 5 to 6 hours. Add the bok choy during the last 5 minutes of cooking.

Serve the soup with slices of warm homemade bread, a chunk of Manchego (or another sharp cheese), and a crisp, chilled salad.

Option: You can make this dish vegetarian by omitting the ham hock and using vegetable stock in place of chicken broth.

Serves 4