Abby suppressed an urge to high-five Otto. She felt giddy with excitement. Abby knew how things would proceed now. Harlan Sweeney would be interviewed before being booked into the county jail. Abby just hoped the evidence would support a charge of capital murder. He was in this up to his elbows, with Eva Lennahan most likely calling the shots, until she pushed him the wrong way or Abby’s investigation caused him to be concerned about being found out. But Abby knew these were just her suspicions. Otto would have to back him into a corner if he was going to trip up Harlan Sweeney with his own statements.
They entered the break room. Otto poured himself a cup of coffee, added sugar, and then made a beeline for the cookies.
Watching Otto pop a cookie in his mouth and wash it down with sugary coffee, Abby said wryly, “Well, some things haven’t changed.”
“Carbs reduce my stress,” Otto confessed, reaching for another cookie. “Want one?”
“I’ll pass. More for you.”
Abby suggested that Otto push hard on Roy Sweeney. “Those two have a linkage in more ways than as blood relatives,” Abby said. Leaning against the wall, she added, “I’m thinking he’s weaker than his cousin Harlan. Implicate them both in Eva’s murder, and I think Roy will sing like a songbird.”
“Roy will say he was busy when Eva Lennahan died, and he’d be right,” Otto said. “In a strange twist of irony, you, Abby, will be his alibi. He’ll say he was defending himself against your friend Mr. Bonheur here, who tried to kill him with a stone after he mistakenly walked onto your property and roused your dog.”
Abby asserted, “Well, the dog . . . Sugar was protecting me from that thug.”
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the conversation. Her question intended for Otto, Nettie called out, “Which interview room?”
“Number two,” Otto called back. “I’m thinking it’s going to be a long day,” he said.
Kat marched a disheveled Harlan Sweeney in handcuffs past the break room and toward the interview rooms. Another officer, whom Abby didn’t know and who, she surmised, was a new recruit, judging from his youthful face, followed Kat and the handcuffed Harlan.
“Good luck,” Abby said. “Philippe and I will be waiting for news.”
Otto nodded and gave her a half smile, which, Abby knew from working with him, meant that he was already thinking of the order of the questions and his approach to the interview.
It was 6:12 p.m. when Abby got a text from Kat asking her where she was. Abby replied via text that she and Philippe were at his brother’s apartment, packing the last items to be shipped to New York. Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. Leaving the bags of leftover bubble wrap, packing paper, and clear tape, Abby offered to answer the door.
“Hey there, girlfriend. Could we talk for a minute in the cruiser?” Kat asked, glancing past Abby toward the open door to the bedroom, where Philippe was tucking books of a similar size into cardboard boxes.
“Sure,” Abby said. She called out to Philippe, “I’m going outside for a moment to chitty-chat with Kat. I’ll be right back.”
He smiled and, flicking his fingers sideways, waved her on.
On their way to the cruiser, Kat said softly, “Otto and I thought you’d like to be the one to inform Philippe that Harlan Sweeney has confessed to murdering Chef Jean-Louis and also Eva Lennahan. And it went down, Abby, just like you said. Harlan Sweeney heard Etienne spreading that ridiculous lie about Jean-Louis and figured Eva could use it to her advantage.”
“How did someone like Eva know a thug like Harlan Sweeney?”
“Mutual associates. The night the chef died, Eva met Harlan in the alley behind the bar and the pastry shop, where they sat in her black Mercedes and hatched their plan to kill the chef.”
Kat opened the cruiser door and slid into the driver’s seat. Abby climbed in on the passenger side and waited as Kat scrolled to an image on her laptop. “Do you know what this is?”
Abby looked closely at a picture of a gold medallion hanging from a chain. “Looks like a man’s necklace. Saint Honorius, I think. Where did you get it?”
“Harlan Sweeney had it in his pocket, along with Eva’s credit cards, when I took him in.”
“That looks like the medal the chef always wore.”
“That’s what I thought. And it has a nice fat fingerprint on it that could be Sweeney’s.”
“Assuming Jean-Louis was wearing it when he was killed—and Harlan Sweeney removed it from the body—this could be the proof that you’ll need to prove he’s a murderer, just in case he tries to retract that confession.” Abby studied the medallion closely. “See the imagery there? It tells you that this man is Honorius, or Honoré, as they say in French. In his right hand, he holds a paddle for sliding loaves of bread into the oven. On the table are the loaves. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”
“I figured there was no need to research this, since you’d probably know what it is. You’ve got more trivia in your brain than anyone I have ever met.”
“Why, thank you.”
“So, this is how we think it played out,” Kat said. “Eva Lennahan paid Harlan Sweeney five thousand dollars to help her murder the chef. The Black Witch was about to close when Eva sent Sweeney back in to buy a couple of glasses of brandy. Eva—who suffers from asthma and carries capsules of diphenhydramine around with her—heavily spiked one of the drinks. She knocked on the pastry shop back door, told the chef that she wanted to talk and that she’d brought drinks in honor of his upcoming birthday.”
“Okay. I’m with you so far.”
“According to Sweeney, Eva told the chef she wanted discuss the upcoming Caribbean trip her husband had scheduled. Of course, she knew that Jean-Louis would be going with him, and that infuriated her. Once inside the pastry shop, Eva made small talk until the chef could no longer fight off sleep. She had used several high-dose capsules, and it took only about twenty minutes, Sweeney said. At some point, she motioned for Sweeney to come in. He overpowered Jean-Louis, then strung up the chef with a long piece of twine that Jean-Louis kept in a bucket in his shop kitchen. Apparently, he recycled the twine taken from the daily newspaper bundles.”
“What about the messy kitchen? It was so unlike Chef Jean-Louis to have his work area in such disarray.”
“All part of the staging, during which Eva lost her earring.”
“Dora must have arrived at the back door for her coffee shortly afterward,” Abby said. “Poor woman. I can only wonder what she must have been thinking as she cut the body down and removed the twine from around his neck.”
“As I told you already, we found the chef’s apron and the rest of the twine in a plastic bag in Dora’s shopping cart.”
“I cannot even imagine how she must have felt seeing him like that. It had to be traumatic for her,” Abby said, reaching back to adjust her ponytail. “If money was Sweeney’s motivation to murder the chef, what motivated him to kill Eva?”
Kat shook her head. “He is such an idiot. He was afraid she’d talk. But he was the one doing the talking. He likes booze. Drank too much and spilled to his cousin what they’d done.” Kat met Abby’s gaze. “Don’t you remember me telling you when we met him in the bar that night that his kind mouthed off too much and that would be his undoing sooner or later?”
Abby nodded. “His cousin Roy Sweeney might have been next on his list. It’s crazy.” She looked toward the apartment. Philippe was standing in the doorway, the light behind him. He was leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets, grinning and shaking his head, apparently finding it humorous that the two women were hunkered down, heads together, in conversation . . . in the cruiser.
“I need to get back, Kat,” said Abby. “But I have to know why Roy Sweeney attacked me.”
“As a favor to Harlan, who was giving him shelter and a helping hand. Those two were not too happy about how you were turning up the heat on the investigation just when they hoped it would go down as a suicide. It was payback for your interference.”
“What a hot mess!” Abby said. “But thank goodness, it’s all over.”
“Yeah. I hear you.” Kat leaned down and looked past Abby out the window. “When is Philippe flying back to New York?”
“I suppose soon, now that his brother is buried and the Sweeneys are in jail,” Abby replied.
“He’ll be back,” Kat said. “He seems to appreciate you. If he doesn’t come back because his heart tells him to, then he’ll surely return to visit his brother’s grave, and let us not forget, the trial of his brother’s murderer. . . .” Kat heaved a tired sigh. “Well, that’s it, girlfriend. I think I’ll head home now, take a shower, have a sandwich, and call it a night.”
Abby leaned over and gave Kat a quick hug. “You’re the best,” she whispered. “Thank you, Kat.”
“Thank me? No, I think we should all be thanking you. This case was closed until you gave us a reasonable theory and evidence to reopen it.”
Abby grinned and allowed herself to feel a moment of personal pride before getting out of the car and waving good-bye. Philippe had strolled away from the apartment’s doorway and was walking toward her.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“More than all right,” Abby answered. “It’s over, Philippe. Two people took your brother’s life. One is dead, and the other is in police custody.”
“And the police, they can prove it was murder?” Philippe asked as they headed back to the apartment.
“Yes. Well, they’ll give the case to the DA to prove in court. But the murderer is going away for good.”
Philippe ran his fingers through his hair. “
Fantastique!
” Once they were back inside the apartment, he closed the door and look at Abby tenderly. “What about the man who hurt you?”
“That hooligan is in custody, too.”
Philippe sighed and pulled her into his arms. “There is only the silverware to pack now. Let’s finish this tomorrow, Abby. You are welcome to stay in town tonight, or I could accompany you home . . . make sure you get there safely.”
Abby turned over the options in her mind. “Both are lovely choices, but home is calling. Sugar will be waiting for me, and I want to check on the bees and my chickens.”
Philippe stroked her hair and whispered, “I’ve never met anyone like you, Abby. Whatever happens, I hope you’ll always remember that for me you are a woman
extraordinaire.
”
Abby relaxed into his embrace. As she tilted her head up to look into his eyes, he leaned down and touched his warm, soft lips to her, at first kissing her slowly and then devouringly. Maybe Sugar and the chickens could wait a while longer; it wouldn’t be dark for a few more hours.
She melted under his kisses. He responded with a passion lit, apparently, by an inner fire. After gently pushing her against the wall, he pulled the elastic band from her hair, swooped the mass from her shoulders and began to kiss the length of her neck, earlobe to décolletage. As he reached for the top button of her blouse, his cell phone rang.
“Mon Dieu!” He fumbled with the button, ignoring the cell. When the phone continued to ring, he said in a voice edged with exasperation, “Let me answer and be done with it.” After pulling the phone from his pants pocket and glancing at the screen, he frowned. “C’est mon père.”
Abby sucked in a long breath and exhaled as Philippe answered the call from his father. She scanned his face for signs that the call brought good news or bad. When his expression darkened and he wiped his palm over his mouth and stepped away, turning his back to her, it became apparent that he needed to some space.
“Right,” she murmured and headed toward the kitchen to finish packing the utensil drawer. After a few moments, Philippe strode into the kitchen, still holding the phone to his ear.
“Eh bien! Je prends le premier vol demain.” He sighed heavily. “Moi aussi.”
Abby watched him pocket his phone and stare at the floor, a forlorn expression claiming his features. No longer did he look like the devastatingly handsome man about to make mad, passionate love to her. He looked vulnerable and sad, as if he’d lost his only friend. Abby dropped the forks, rushed over, and threw her arms around him, laying her face against his chest. They held each other in silence.
“What’s happened?” she asked finally.
Philippe kissed her head. He cleared his throat and in a husky voice said, “It’s my mother. This Parkinson’s disease—it has ravaged her body. It has robbed her of her mind. The pneumonia has cleared, but this is the second time she has had it in three months. My father says she doesn’t eat. She sleeps most of the time. Her tremors continue, even in her sleep. She thinks her husband is her brother. My father believes her time is coming to an end. He’s inconsolable.” Philippe curled a finger under Abby’s chin, then tilted her face upward. “I must go, Abby, back to New York tomorrow.” His eyes caressed her face.
“Of course,” Abby said, trying to convey understanding and strength in her tone. “Your family needs you.”
He bit his lower lip and nodded.
“The last of the packing is done. I can meet the shipper for you tomorrow . . . get all these boxes out of here, so you don’t have to think about anything but your parents,” Abby offered bravely.
Philippe nodded.
“So,” she said with hesitation, “I guess I’d better let you get on with packing your suitcase and checking flights leaving for the East Coast.”
“Not so fast,” Philippe said. “That can wait until morning.”
“Oh, I see,” Abby said, but she didn’t see. Surely he would not want to waste a minute more than necessary in Las Flores.
“Is it all right if I stay with you and Sugar tonight?”
Abby’s eyelids batted in sudden disbelief. “Really? Well . . . what I mean is . . . I’d love that.”
He grinned. “I intend to see to it that no one interferes with your sleep tonight . . . unless, of course, it’s me.”
Heat crept into her cheeks. “How gallant of you.”