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
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
Similar Books
