The Murder of a Queen Bee (21 page)

“Never been to one of those,” said Jack.

“It's Mass, but more like those held during the first centuries of the Roman Catholic Church, with lots of music, praying in tongues, and anointing of the sick with holy oil.”

“Well, we can't know until we get there,” said Jack.

“You're right about that. The church secretary will have gone home for the day, and I don't think they put the dates for those special Masses in the church's regular recorded messages.”

* * *

After explaining to the officer at the Las Flores Police Department how they came by the safe and how it was relevant to the open murder case, Abby drove Jack to Holy Names. The funeral home had delivered Fiona's casket, which rested on a stand in a private area to the side of the cavernous interior. Only two other parishioners, whom Abby didn't recognize, occupied the place. Jack and Abby lit candles and quietly said the prayers of the rosary. Afterward, Abby dropped Jack off where his car was parked near Tilly's Café, made a quick stop for the nails that Clay wanted at the DIY center, and headed out of town to her farmette. Hoping to make it before dark, she arrived just after sunset.

Sugar rushed toward Abby, and Clay called Abby's name, as she headed toward the side gate to the backyard with her daypack and the box of nails. She frantically brainstormed simple explanations for why she looked as though she'd been in a brawl, without admitting she had.

“Abby, the bees—” He stepped forward, looked her up and down. “My God, woman, what happened to you?”

“Obviously, I ran into something. I can be a klutz at times . . . but do you mind waiting until breakfast for the highlights? I know I'm late, and I'm sorry.”

“Fine. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Perfectly.” As much as she wanted to take a hot shower and to climb in bed, Abby knew Clay expected her to cook something. After all, he'd been working on her farmette all day. She'd have to praise him for whatever work he'd done in the master bathroom.

“I know what it is to be drop-dead tired,” Clay said. He opened the gate, took the nail box from her, and set it on the ground. After drawing her into the yard and latching the gate, he embraced her tenderly, ignoring Sugar's incessant whining for attention. Abby pulled away long enough to kneel and hug Sugar.

“Good girl. I missed you, too. Settle down, now. Quiet.”

Clay pulled her close again. “How about I tell you,” he whispered in her ear, “that I've already eaten and so have Sugar and the hens? I refilled the chicken feeder with crumbles, checked the water level in the dispenser, and brought in the eggs. And the bed's already turned down.”

“Music to my ears,” Abby whispered back. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she dared not close them out of fear of falling asleep right then and there, on her feet, in his arms.

“Let's go inside,” he murmured.

“Mmm . . . yes. If we don't, the mosquitoes will have us for dinner.”

* * *

Abby awoke from sleep as a breeze gusted through the harmonic chimes beyond the bedroom window. Lying on her back, with her head resting on the cool cotton pillow, she breathed in the scent of night-blooming jasmine and tuberose mingled with Clay's citrusy aftershave. She could hear Sugar snoring like a big dog at the foot of the bed.

Turning her head slightly, she opened her eyes to narrow slits. Clay rested next to her in a semi-upright position against a pillow, scrolling through images on his laptop screen. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she lay listening to his pattern of clicking and stopping before clicking again. It was kind of nice having his company, although it no longer felt as special as it once had. Still, he loved her and wanted to give her his life, or so he'd said. She would give their relationship a chance.
Scroll . . . stop . . . linger.
When Abby opened her eyes to see if he was shopping for building materials, her breath caught in her throat. He wasn't shopping for building materials; he was shopping for a woman. Abby's heart scudded against her chest wall.
Oh, no . . . no, no, no, Clay.

Apparently unaware Abby was watching, Clay spent a minute more gazing at the woman with long raven-colored hair, who wore tight jeans and cowboy boots. The name Randi was printed in big sparkly letters on the paper fan she held, as if her very presence could turn up the heat. Clay clicked off Randi, only to pause again to view a woman with toffee-colored hair who wore red lipstick and a frilly knit shirt with an image of the state of Texas outlined on it. When he reached for his smartphone, Abby felt her anger rise like a simmering pot on the verge of a boilover.
The Lone Star State . . . Oh, really? His next port of call? A new location, a new woman?
She could hear him entering the woman's information, or at least she assumed that was what he was doing. Abby closed her eyes, feeling too tired and too angry to confront him. She lay still as a corpse, listening to her heart gallop like a stallion fleeing a wildfire.

As if mirroring her discord, the chimes clanged from a sudden wind gust. She rolled away from him to face the window, slowed her breath, and tried to center herself. Her mind struggled to process her discovery. What possible explanation could there be, except that he was surfing dating sites?
Why are you so surprised? Despite what he said when he showed up here, he just needs a place to land between jobs. He must have figured he could rekindle your feelings for him faster than a rooster could hop a hen.
Abby pulled the sheet over her eyes to blot her tears.

She lay there for a long time, so long it seemed like several hours had passed since Clay had turned off his laptop and fallen asleep. Even after she'd reasoned through her feelings of betrayal, she couldn't stop obsessing about exactly when he might leave her. He would have the electrical work on the master bath completed sometime tomorrow. The next day, most likely, he'd get the windows and insulation in place. Then the backer board would have to be installed before he could move in the jetted tub and the showerhead. He would need another day or so to hang Sheetrock. Hopefully, he'd stay long enough to tape and plaster the walls. That would leave her with sanding, tiling, painting, wiring the lights, and laying the floor—jobs he knew she could handle. It would just take some time. Oh, how perfectly he had played his hand. She wanted to punch him.

After some deep breathing to calm down, Abby remembered that Clay had mentioned his truck would arrive on Saturday. By her rough calculations, he'd likely be free to leave on Tuesday or Wednesday. Clay must have had a pretty good idea of his exit date from the moment he waltzed into her house. Abby wished he could have just been straight about it, could have told her the truth. Why had he felt it necessary to give her the “I can't live without you” speech? And she'd bought his act, which lessened her guilt about spending so much time on Fiona's murder case and with Jack. Fuming inside, Abby decided to let the future unravel. Why confront Clay when she wasn't thrilled to be in this relationship, anyway? Maybe the wisest thing would be to remain civil and keep up appearances until he left. She hated dramatic scenes and honestly just didn't have the energy to “go there.”

The next day, before sunup, Abby checked on Ruby after feeding and watering the chickens. The Rhode Island Red hen had no problem running to the feeder or following Abby around in the run. Perhaps Clay had misread Ruby's walk or imagined a problem when there wasn't one. However, the bee swarm was another story. Abby thought about not bothering to ask him to help her and trying to retrieve it herself. But it was too high. She needed a pair of helping hands. Luckily, he was nearby and eager to assist. Perhaps he felt guilty about surfing the Internet for a new paramour, she thought.

Abby donned her beekeeper's suit and positioned the empty hive box under the swarm. Without a second suit for Clay, she relegated him to remaining on the ground while she climbed the ladder and, on her cue, to pulling hard on the rope to dislodge the bees. Worried that the bees might also just fly off, Abby devised a means to try to capture the greatest number of them and, hopefully, the queen for her hive. In the garden shed, she located a five-gallon plastic bucket and cut away the bottom. Using duct tape, she attached a black plastic contractor's bag to the bottom opening, and using wire and a couple of screws, she connected an extendable painter's pole to the bucket's top rim.

Pulling her elbow-length goatskin gloves over her bee suit sleeves, she told Clay what he needed to do. “Stand to one side, and when I give you the signal to pull, give the rope a hard yank.” Abby hustled up the ladder and positioned the plastic bucket on the pole directly beneath the swarm after extending the pole to reach the swarm. She made a motion like pulling on a bell and readied the makeshift swarm catcher.

Clay jerked so hard, he snapped off the end of the limb. Luckily, most of the swarm dropped into the bucket and right on down into the contractor's bag, just as Abby had envisioned. She descended the ladder, struggling not to drop the bag of bees, while Clay took off running. Thousands of bees, still sensing the queen's pheromones, which were telling them to swarm, encircled Abby.

“Get farther back,” she called to Clay. She could see angry scout bees buzzing past him as he watched the spectacle.

Abby turned the makeshift swarm catcher upside down and shook the bees into the empty hive box. She adjusted the box's position so its opening faced the tree that had just held the swarm. That would make it easier for the bees still circling to find their way into their new home. After laying aside her makeshift swarm catcher, Abby walked over to the patio and retrieved ten wax frames, drained of honey and previously cleaned by the bees. These she inserted into the hive box. Slowly, she slid the lid along the box top, leaving a two-inch gap for any bee laggers to make their way in.

With the bees dealt with, Abby unzipped her suit and stepped out of it. She folded it and placed it in the large basket that held the smoker, pellet fuel, the powdered sugar medicine, the hive clamp, and the wax scraper. She took the basket of materials and the swarm catcher back to the apiary. Before returning to the patio, she dropped to her knees by a raised bed and picked some fresh strawberries for breakfast.

“So what's your plan today?” Clay asked after they'd dined on yogurt, fresh berries, and toast spread with homemade apricot jam. “I feel bad that we've hardly spent any time together.” He handed Abby his empty yogurt bowl. She set it on hers, strolled to the sink, and placed the bowls alongside the mugs of coffee and glasses of juice they'd drained.

“'Fraid I'll be gone most of the day, dealing with things in town again,” she said in a quiet tone. She avoided looking at him, hoping not to slide into the anger simmering under her calm exterior. “I've got to take care of some farmette business and attend Fiona's funeral.” She changed the subject. “There are sandwich fixings and potato soup in the fridge . . . and don't go claiming that you can't cook, as it's something we used to do a lot together.”

“I remember,” he said, pinning her at the sink and slipping his arms around her. “When will you be home?”

Abby shrugged. “I'm not sure. Why?”

“Well, I thought that if I knocked off early, we could share a glass of wine and cook dinner together. After that, we could see what kind of trouble we could get into.”

Perfectly understanding his intention, she nudged him back, reached for the tea towel, and began to wipe her hands. “I'll let you know if I'm going to be later than seven o'clock.” She hung the towel over the oven door handle and leaned down to pat Sugar on the head.

“I hope you don't think I'm pushing you, Abby,” said Clay. “I can't change what I did before, but I'm trying to make it up to you now.” His tone became animated. “You just wait. Your master bath is going to be so dramatic, it'll stop traffic on Farm Hill Road.”

“It's a little early for such hyperbole, isn't it?” She forced a smile. “But you must know that I appreciate your efforts, Clay. I am truly grateful.”

Abby opened the patio slider and pulled back the screen door. Sugar bounded out, and Abby followed, then closed the door behind her, hoping Clay wouldn't follow. Walking the farmette with Sugar had become one of the most relaxing things she did. Today, more than ever, she wanted to stroll solo through the orchard, past the raised beds of strawberries, over to the herb garden and the vegetable patch, and then back to check on the chickens and bees. Luckily, Clay didn't follow, which, as she walked quietly with Sugar, soon brought Abby a measure of peace. She stopped to listen to a mockingbird sing its bright song—
thweeet-thweeet-thweet
,
right-here
,
right-here
,
worky-worky-worky
. A few minutes later, the nail-gun compressor started up, drowning out the bird's song.