Read Online A Beeline to Murder by Meera Lester - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meera Lester
Ads: Link
Tossing the broom to the ground, Abby jumped off the tailgate, latched it, and marched through the big wooden gate with the broken hinge to retrieve the faded blue wheelbarrow that was behind her house.
Abby’s high spirits sank when she spotted the wheelbarrow’s flat tire. Grimacing, she realized that not only would she would have to fix the tire, but she would also have to plant those six raspberry vines. Their roots remained suspended in the galvanized bucket of water that sat in the wheelbarrow bin, right where she’d left them the day the DA called. That was the day before Jean-Louis died.
“Arghhh,” she growled under her breath. Serves me right for thinking I was going to catch up. The vines, the tire, the truck . . . Better do them in that order. Resigned to the tasks ahead of her, Abby turned and stiffly marched to the toolshed to fetch the shovel, a tire patch, and the bicycle pump. When her cell phone chimed in her jeans pocket, Abby jumped. Now what? After removing a glove, she retrieved the phone, pushed the side button, swiped her finger across the screen, and lifted the phone to her ear.
“Etienne is in that picture . . . but is not one of the guys in a suit.... He is the one with the shaved head.” Kat’s voice sounded matter-of-fact.
“Whatever happened to saying hello first?” Abby asked en route to the toolshed. Noticing the profusion of leafy grapevines spilling over the fence into weeds that threatened to dwarf the toolshed, Abby blew air between her lips. Pull weeds. Oh, and by hand, too, seeing as how the weed whacker is broken. She uttered a barely audible “Rats!”
“Abby?”
“I’m here. Just . . . here,” Abby said with resignation.
“I know that tone of voice,” Kat said. “You’re annoyed about something . . . or everything.... What died, broke down, or can’t be fixed on the farmette today?”
Abby kept silent. What was the point in giving more power to Kat, who insisted that the farmette was a headache and a money eater . . . even if it was true? Better to keep silent. One did that for best friends who could never truly grasp one’s infatuation with the scent of loamy earth, the sight of flower spikes swaying in a vagrant breeze, and the screech of a scrub jay hidden in a bush, or one’s delight at the first bite of a ripe persimmon plucked from your own tree.
“Okay,” Kat said. “Let’s start again. Good morning, girlfriend. Is all well on the farmette?”
“Just dealing with the usual annoyances,” Abby replied.
“I know you don’t want to hear this again,” Kat said, “but, honestly, Abby, you’re living like an old lady. You seem to have forgotten that there is a whole world of things you used to love . . . going down to McGillicutty’s to listen to the Irish fiddle music or over to the theater to watch the latest foreign film. You never want to have dinner at Zazi’s anymore, because you worry that if you don’t make it home before sundown, the hawks will carry off your chickens. You’re thirty-seven, Abby, and single. There’s plenty of time to be sixty-seven in about three decades! Girl, your chickens get more action than you do.”
“You think?” Abby didn’t hide her irritation at being reminded of what she clearly knew.
“Look, I tell you these things only because you’re my friend and I care about you.”
“I know . . . and I’m sorry the farmette is so labor-intensive right now. But, Kat, I’m empire building here—one plant, one tree, and one jar of honey at a time. I can socialize once I’m through with this intense period of work and the farmette is supporting me.” Abby quickly changed the subject. “So let’s get to why you called. You’ve identified Etienne?”
“Yes. When Otto interviewed him, he had hair, but Tallulah says that shaved-headed guy in the picture is Etienne. His real name is Steve Flanders, and Chef Jean-Louis was the only person to ever call him Etienne. Steve, she said, was always
Abby’s high spirits sank when she spotted the wheelbarrow’s flat tire. Grimacing, she realized that not only would she would have to fix the tire, but she would also have to plant those six raspberry vines. Their roots remained suspended in the galvanized bucket of water that sat in the wheelbarrow bin, right where she’d left them the day the DA called. That was the day before Jean-Louis died.
“Arghhh,” she growled under her breath. Serves me right for thinking I was going to catch up. The vines, the tire, the truck . . . Better do them in that order. Resigned to the tasks ahead of her, Abby turned and stiffly marched to the toolshed to fetch the shovel, a tire patch, and the bicycle pump. When her cell phone chimed in her jeans pocket, Abby jumped. Now what? After removing a glove, she retrieved the phone, pushed the side button, swiped her finger across the screen, and lifted the phone to her ear.
“Etienne is in that picture . . . but is not one of the guys in a suit.... He is the one with the shaved head.” Kat’s voice sounded matter-of-fact.
“Whatever happened to saying hello first?” Abby asked en route to the toolshed. Noticing the profusion of leafy grapevines spilling over the fence into weeds that threatened to dwarf the toolshed, Abby blew air between her lips. Pull weeds. Oh, and by hand, too, seeing as how the weed whacker is broken. She uttered a barely audible “Rats!”
“Abby?”
“I’m here. Just . . . here,” Abby said with resignation.
“I know that tone of voice,” Kat said. “You’re annoyed about something . . . or everything.... What died, broke down, or can’t be fixed on the farmette today?”
Abby kept silent. What was the point in giving more power to Kat, who insisted that the farmette was a headache and a money eater . . . even if it was true? Better to keep silent. One did that for best friends who could never truly grasp one’s infatuation with the scent of loamy earth, the sight of flower spikes swaying in a vagrant breeze, and the screech of a scrub jay hidden in a bush, or one’s delight at the first bite of a ripe persimmon plucked from your own tree.
“Okay,” Kat said. “Let’s start again. Good morning, girlfriend. Is all well on the farmette?”
“Just dealing with the usual annoyances,” Abby replied.
“I know you don’t want to hear this again,” Kat said, “but, honestly, Abby, you’re living like an old lady. You seem to have forgotten that there is a whole world of things you used to love . . . going down to McGillicutty’s to listen to the Irish fiddle music or over to the theater to watch the latest foreign film. You never want to have dinner at Zazi’s anymore, because you worry that if you don’t make it home before sundown, the hawks will carry off your chickens. You’re thirty-seven, Abby, and single. There’s plenty of time to be sixty-seven in about three decades! Girl, your chickens get more action than you do.”
“You think?” Abby didn’t hide her irritation at being reminded of what she clearly knew.
“Look, I tell you these things only because you’re my friend and I care about you.”
“I know . . . and I’m sorry the farmette is so labor-intensive right now. But, Kat, I’m empire building here—one plant, one tree, and one jar of honey at a time. I can socialize once I’m through with this intense period of work and the farmette is supporting me.” Abby quickly changed the subject. “So let’s get to why you called. You’ve identified Etienne?”
“Yes. When Otto interviewed him, he had hair, but Tallulah says that shaved-headed guy in the picture is Etienne. His real name is Steve Flanders, and Chef Jean-Louis was the only person to ever call him Etienne. Steve, she said, was always
Similar Books
