Jean-Louis there front and center. It’s hard to make out the young man with the shaved head. The other two guys in suits look out of place. Why not see if Tallulah can identify the men in this photo?”
“Sure,” Kat said, bobbing her head.
“You know,” Abby mused, “the chef’s business partner could give you access to personnel records.”
“Otto is already doing database cross-checking of the people the chef knew and worked with.”
“Good.” Abby studied the image on the screen, as if doing so could somehow reveal more than what her eyes could actually see. Her intuitive sense was both a blessing and a curse, one that had surely been passed from her grandmother Rose after skipping a generation. Rose could be briskly walking hand in hand with Abby, late to church, only to change direction to avoid crossing paths with someone she sensed bore an ill temper.
When Abby was only four years old, she had rightly discerned that the messenger knocking on her grandmother’s door was bringing devastating news. Rose’s husband, Mac, Abby’s grandfather, had been thrown from the horse he’d been riding to inspect the farm fences. Grandma Rose had warned him not to get on that horse, but Mac had laughed off her worry as just a woman’s prattling. In the accident he had injured his back in two places and had broken several bones. The vet had had to put down the mare. It took nearly a year for Mac to mend, and after he did recover, he never saddled up again without first checking with his wife.
Kat said, “Whatever else went on, those ligature marks make it pretty clear Jean-Louis passed away from asphyxiation by hanging.”
“It’s so late. Should we still have that nightcap?”
Kat tilted her head toward the door. “I’m up for it if you are.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll have one glass of wine and then head home. First thing tomorrow, I’ve got to pick up a truckload of compost.”
“Again?”
“Yep. I’m going to put in some plants just for the bees.”
“But I thought that’s what you did last year, when I helped you plant all that rosemary and lavender.”
“Yes, but bees need year-round food sources, so I keep thinking of new flowers, blooming trees, and bulbs that the bees will love and that will impart good flavor to the honey they produce. I get the dark amber honey that tastes earthy and comes from the pollen of the early blooming eucalyptus and the long flowering stems of lavender, but not until late summer. I’m already thinking ahead to next spring.” Abby’s voice bubbled with perkiness, as it always did whenever she talked about her bees. “Kat, just imagine the palest golden honey, harvested in early spring, that tastes exquisitely like the earliest woodland wildflowers.”
Kat regarded her longtime friend with a bemused expression. “A truckload of compost sounds like a lot.”
“The farmette soil is clay, like concrete. It might take a couple of truck-bed loads, along with some gypsum, to get the soil amended correctly. Then I’m going to plant a couple of fast-growing eucalyptus trees. I’ve been coveting the ones with the green-gray leaves and the creamy white flowers that bloom from spring through summer, like those on that land adjacent to mine. Although, back there, other varieties of eucalyptus have pink, wispy blossoms that bloom in late September. Oh, the bees will love that flower, and Chef Jean-Louis will love—” The words caught in Abby’s throat. She bit her lower lip and heaved an audible sigh upon realizing the chef was gone . . . truly gone.
“He would surely have loved your spring honey, girlfriend. I guess now you can sell it to other pastry shops.”
Abby looked at her darkly and girded herself with resolve. “No. I can’t do that. I promised Jean-Louis that I wouldn’t.” She thought for a moment before revealing to Kat, “You know, I haven’t yet told the bees that Jean-Louis is gone.”
Kat raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re sounding
“Sure,” Kat said, bobbing her head.
“You know,” Abby mused, “the chef’s business partner could give you access to personnel records.”
“Otto is already doing database cross-checking of the people the chef knew and worked with.”
“Good.” Abby studied the image on the screen, as if doing so could somehow reveal more than what her eyes could actually see. Her intuitive sense was both a blessing and a curse, one that had surely been passed from her grandmother Rose after skipping a generation. Rose could be briskly walking hand in hand with Abby, late to church, only to change direction to avoid crossing paths with someone she sensed bore an ill temper.
When Abby was only four years old, she had rightly discerned that the messenger knocking on her grandmother’s door was bringing devastating news. Rose’s husband, Mac, Abby’s grandfather, had been thrown from the horse he’d been riding to inspect the farm fences. Grandma Rose had warned him not to get on that horse, but Mac had laughed off her worry as just a woman’s prattling. In the accident he had injured his back in two places and had broken several bones. The vet had had to put down the mare. It took nearly a year for Mac to mend, and after he did recover, he never saddled up again without first checking with his wife.
Kat said, “Whatever else went on, those ligature marks make it pretty clear Jean-Louis passed away from asphyxiation by hanging.”
“It’s so late. Should we still have that nightcap?”
Kat tilted her head toward the door. “I’m up for it if you are.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll have one glass of wine and then head home. First thing tomorrow, I’ve got to pick up a truckload of compost.”
“Again?”
“Yep. I’m going to put in some plants just for the bees.”
“But I thought that’s what you did last year, when I helped you plant all that rosemary and lavender.”
“Yes, but bees need year-round food sources, so I keep thinking of new flowers, blooming trees, and bulbs that the bees will love and that will impart good flavor to the honey they produce. I get the dark amber honey that tastes earthy and comes from the pollen of the early blooming eucalyptus and the long flowering stems of lavender, but not until late summer. I’m already thinking ahead to next spring.” Abby’s voice bubbled with perkiness, as it always did whenever she talked about her bees. “Kat, just imagine the palest golden honey, harvested in early spring, that tastes exquisitely like the earliest woodland wildflowers.”
Kat regarded her longtime friend with a bemused expression. “A truckload of compost sounds like a lot.”
“The farmette soil is clay, like concrete. It might take a couple of truck-bed loads, along with some gypsum, to get the soil amended correctly. Then I’m going to plant a couple of fast-growing eucalyptus trees. I’ve been coveting the ones with the green-gray leaves and the creamy white flowers that bloom from spring through summer, like those on that land adjacent to mine. Although, back there, other varieties of eucalyptus have pink, wispy blossoms that bloom in late September. Oh, the bees will love that flower, and Chef Jean-Louis will love—” The words caught in Abby’s throat. She bit her lower lip and heaved an audible sigh upon realizing the chef was gone . . . truly gone.
“He would surely have loved your spring honey, girlfriend. I guess now you can sell it to other pastry shops.”
Abby looked at her darkly and girded herself with resolve. “No. I can’t do that. I promised Jean-Louis that I wouldn’t.” She thought for a moment before revealing to Kat, “You know, I haven’t yet told the bees that Jean-Louis is gone.”
Kat raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re sounding
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