kooky.”
“No, listen. The chef actually came out to the farmette to inspect the bees. He wasn’t afraid. He just walked to the hives and stood there, watching and listening, as if he was tuning in to the bees and allowing the bees to sense him. He tasted the honey, loved it, and told me he wanted regular deliveries.”
“Hmm,” Kat murmured, shaking her head, as if she wasn’t fully comprehending but was thinking that perhaps it didn’t matter. “I’d still love a swig of red, if you don’t mind. What say we make it a quick one?”
Abby found the crowd at the Black Witch Bar unusually animated for a work night. As she and Kat pushed past people to a table at the back, Abby overheard some at the bar wildly speculating.
“Do you think it was murder? Or did the chef kill himself because of depression over a lover’s spat?”
“Did his business partner do him in?”
“Is the killer on the loose in Las Flores?”
The chef’s demise had become heady leavening for local whispers. Gossip had increased in volume like a loaf of yeasted dough resting in the sun. The chatter annoyed Abby, and she tried not to listen to the conversations around the room by checking her watch against the clock on the back wall, next to the bathrooms. Both timepieces affirmed what her body was already telling her: 11:30 p.m., well past her usual time for bed. Houdini would be sounding his cock-a-doodle-doo long before dawn.
The din of the bar had gotten so loud that Abby dreaded the thought of even trying to talk. Three bikers in leather club jackets and jeans, one with a Hells Angels insignia, began a game of darts in the alcove at the end of the bar. Elsewhere, tall bistro tables and wooden booths—gouged, carved, and burned with initials, hearts, peace symbols, and other graffiti—served as conversation pits for the rough crowd of locals who had drifted in and anyone else seeking companionship in a social setting that included alcohol.
On the large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bar, a perfectly coiffed blonde with large lips painted hot pink and wearing an indigo suit, a white blouse, and a fuchsia scarf, offered a sound bite to the local television crew about her plan for fiscal change and jailhouse reform when she was elected mayor. Abby leaned toward Kat.
“Isn’t that the councilwoman in the mayor’s race?”
“Sure is. Her name’s Eva Lennahan. Already acting like she’s governor. Her detractors say she has a huge ego and is politically driven. But others love her for her charity work. She has quite a few supporters, and . . . guess what? Our very own Chief Bob Allen is one of them.”
“Airbrushed makeup. Perfect hair. Her own entourage,” said Abby. “She must have dough.”
“More money than God. She’s married to a venture capitalist, you know. He keeps a low profile, but I’m guessing he’s just like the others who build McMansions and think they can do whatever they want, whether or not it’s good for the rest of us or our local environment.”
Abby was about to ask Eva’s husband’s name when the waitress hustled over to take their drink order. The old gal was wearing a low-cut top that showed a little too much of her aging boobs, which resembled wrinkled goose eggs. The cheap perfume she wore did little to mask the smell of tobacco smoke. The overpowering scent was almost more than Abby could bear in the poorly ventilated room.
“I know you ladies need a glass of something. What can I get you?” the waitress asked in a gravelly voice.
“I’ll have the house merlot,” Abby said, then leaned forward to read the woman’s name and added, “Toots.”
Kat chimed in, “Oh, make it two.”
“Coming right up,” said the overly cheerful waitress, turning away.
Abby watched as the woman balanced her tray and cruised by two other tables before scurrying back to the bar with new orders. With her thoughts drifting back to the case, Abby said, “If the cause of death is
“No, listen. The chef actually came out to the farmette to inspect the bees. He wasn’t afraid. He just walked to the hives and stood there, watching and listening, as if he was tuning in to the bees and allowing the bees to sense him. He tasted the honey, loved it, and told me he wanted regular deliveries.”
“Hmm,” Kat murmured, shaking her head, as if she wasn’t fully comprehending but was thinking that perhaps it didn’t matter. “I’d still love a swig of red, if you don’t mind. What say we make it a quick one?”
Abby found the crowd at the Black Witch Bar unusually animated for a work night. As she and Kat pushed past people to a table at the back, Abby overheard some at the bar wildly speculating.
“Do you think it was murder? Or did the chef kill himself because of depression over a lover’s spat?”
“Did his business partner do him in?”
“Is the killer on the loose in Las Flores?”
The chef’s demise had become heady leavening for local whispers. Gossip had increased in volume like a loaf of yeasted dough resting in the sun. The chatter annoyed Abby, and she tried not to listen to the conversations around the room by checking her watch against the clock on the back wall, next to the bathrooms. Both timepieces affirmed what her body was already telling her: 11:30 p.m., well past her usual time for bed. Houdini would be sounding his cock-a-doodle-doo long before dawn.
The din of the bar had gotten so loud that Abby dreaded the thought of even trying to talk. Three bikers in leather club jackets and jeans, one with a Hells Angels insignia, began a game of darts in the alcove at the end of the bar. Elsewhere, tall bistro tables and wooden booths—gouged, carved, and burned with initials, hearts, peace symbols, and other graffiti—served as conversation pits for the rough crowd of locals who had drifted in and anyone else seeking companionship in a social setting that included alcohol.
On the large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bar, a perfectly coiffed blonde with large lips painted hot pink and wearing an indigo suit, a white blouse, and a fuchsia scarf, offered a sound bite to the local television crew about her plan for fiscal change and jailhouse reform when she was elected mayor. Abby leaned toward Kat.
“Isn’t that the councilwoman in the mayor’s race?”
“Sure is. Her name’s Eva Lennahan. Already acting like she’s governor. Her detractors say she has a huge ego and is politically driven. But others love her for her charity work. She has quite a few supporters, and . . . guess what? Our very own Chief Bob Allen is one of them.”
“Airbrushed makeup. Perfect hair. Her own entourage,” said Abby. “She must have dough.”
“More money than God. She’s married to a venture capitalist, you know. He keeps a low profile, but I’m guessing he’s just like the others who build McMansions and think they can do whatever they want, whether or not it’s good for the rest of us or our local environment.”
Abby was about to ask Eva’s husband’s name when the waitress hustled over to take their drink order. The old gal was wearing a low-cut top that showed a little too much of her aging boobs, which resembled wrinkled goose eggs. The cheap perfume she wore did little to mask the smell of tobacco smoke. The overpowering scent was almost more than Abby could bear in the poorly ventilated room.
“I know you ladies need a glass of something. What can I get you?” the waitress asked in a gravelly voice.
“I’ll have the house merlot,” Abby said, then leaned forward to read the woman’s name and added, “Toots.”
Kat chimed in, “Oh, make it two.”
“Coming right up,” said the overly cheerful waitress, turning away.
Abby watched as the woman balanced her tray and cruised by two other tables before scurrying back to the bar with new orders. With her thoughts drifting back to the case, Abby said, “If the cause of death is
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