The Murder of a Queen Bee

Book 2: Henny Penny Farmette Mystery

by Meera Lester

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Former police officer Abigail Mackenzie has made a fresh start as a beekeeper and farmer in picturesque Las Flores, California—but she never suspected her new hometown would prove to be abuzz with murder . . .
 
Only hours after Abby’s free-spirited friend, Fiona Mary Ryan, owner of Ancient Wisdom Botanicals, missed their lunch date, her body is found in a burning car—a tragic accident until the coroner’s report points to murder. Driven by her loyalty to her friend, and her deeply ingrained skills as a trained investigator, Abby sorts through suspects who seem to be sprouting up everywhere. Luckily, Abby isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty to smoke out a killer . . .
 
Includes farming tips and delicious recipes!
 
Praise for the Henny Penny Farmette Mysteries
 
“A lady cop turned farmer . . . What fun!”
—Joanne Fluke
 
“Will leave readers buzzing happily.”
—Leslie Budewitz
 
“Beekeeping, organic gardening, pastry ­baking—an engaging debut mystery.”
—Library Journal

Release date: September 27, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Abigail Mackenzie reached across the lace cloth covering her patio table, lifted a corner of the bread from a bite-size tea sandwich, and grimaced. The bread had dried out, and the lettuce clinging to the mayonnaise had gone as limp as a rag in a wash bucket. If the egg salad filling had gone bad, it would be the final straw. Pretty much everything that could go wrong on this day had.

Heaving a sigh, Abby let go of the bread and sank back into the patio chair. She locked eyes with Katerina Petrovsky, her former partner with the Las Flores Police Department. When Abby left the force to buy and renovate the old farmette, they’d stayed best buddies, and when the situation warranted it, they still had each other’s backs.

“Don’t say it, Kat.”

Ignoring the peeved expression on the face of her blond, blue-eyed friend, Abby stewed in silence. It was the hottest day in April, but for Abby, it had been raining cow patties from heaven. The intimate luncheon for Fiona Mary Ryan, who had wanted to talk to Abby as soon as possible without saying why, had seemed in jeopardy when Abby discovered dead bees at the base of her hives. Worker bees were a tidy bunch; they kept the hives clean and clear of bee corpses. Large numbers of dead bees at the hive entrances had meant Abby would have to open the hives and check them. Several neighbors in rural Las Flores kept bees. It wasn’t unheard of for marauding bees to take over a hive, often fighting it out at the entrance. It was something Abby hadn’t personally witnessed, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

Flinging open the door to the garden shed to retrieve her beekeeper basket containing her suit and smoker, Abby had recoiled at the stench of a dead rodent. Forgoing the rodent problem to assuage her concern about the honeybees, she had spent the next couple of hours smoking the bees and examining the ten frames in each hive. Relieved that there hadn’t been a rogue bee invasion, Abby had searched for an increase in mites or anything else that might explain the die-off. Finally, it had dawned on her that farmers within a five-mile radius might have applied insecticide on their fields or chemicals harmful to bees on their garden plants. And folks wonder why the honeybee population has been diminishing. When food prices hit sky high, maybe then everyone will take the issue more seriously and realize how much we need our pollinators.

After disrobing from the beekeeper’s suit and pulling off her jeans and T-shirt, Abby had showered the smoke scent from her body and hair. She negotiated a quick wardrobe change into sandals and a seventies-inspired peasant dress. Although she wasn’t too crazy for the dress, with its embroidered detail on the bodice, she knew Fiona would love it. She wove her reddish-gold hair into a shoulder-length braid and secured the end with an elastic band. After sliding a chocolate sheet cake into the oven, Abby was setting about making the tea sandwiches when she heard Kat calling from the farmette driveway.

Finally, it seemed that the negative energy of the day had shifted into positive territory. Grateful for an extra pair of hands, Abby tossed a pinafore apron to Kat and put her to work dressing the table with a cloth of ivory lace and matching napkins. They laid out silver serving pieces and arranged the food—egg salad tea sandwiches, bowls of freshly picked strawberries, a rich chocolate sheet cake, and an antique sugar bowl filled with crispy gingersnaps. The tea in the vermeil pot smelled fragrant with leaves of spearmint and lemon balm, lavender buds, calendula flowers, and chamomile—Fiona’s favorite. All that remained was for her to show.

Abby chitchatted with Kat—first about the flapper-girl haircut Kat now sported and then about the upcoming county fair and whether or not Abby should enter her honey and jams—and the time passed quickly. But all that talking made Abby thirsty, and she soon realized she’d forgotten to set out the water pitcher and glasses. After hustling back to the kitchen, she rinsed and cut a lemon into thin slices before dropping the slices into the clear glass pitcher and adding water. Glancing at the wall clock on the way back outside with the pitcher and glasses, Abby frowned, pursed her lips, and blew a puff of air. Fiona was over an hour late.

“What do you think’s keeping her?” Kat asked.

“Darn if I know.” Abby set the pitcher and glasses on the table. She dropped onto a patio chair, leaned back, and surveyed the surroundings.

The backyard ambiance of her farmette created the perfect setting for a tea party. Blossoms and birdsong in the apricot and cherry trees seemed to proliferate. The tall tea roses held aloft large peppermint-striped blooms. The verdant lawn appeared as green as a hay field in spring. Cream-colored flowers dotted the blood orange, tangerine, and lime trees, their scent permeating the backyard with sweet, citrusy fragrance. Quite possibly, her garden had reached its zenith on this very day. Abby secretly smiled at the notion that despite a shaky start, the day had turned so lovely. The garden seemed as pretty as a Monet painting, and the luncheon would be something that she and Fiona and Kat would talk about for a very long time—whenever Fiona managed to show up.

While Kat rambled on about the handsome new hire at the fire station, Abby strained to hear the sound of a car approaching on Farm Hill Road. As it sped past her farmette, Abby’s thoughts ticked through plausible reasons for her friend’s tardiness. If there had been an accident, surely someone would have called, since Kat routinely chatted up the police dispatcher ladies, and they always seemed to know how to reach her. And if Fiona had fallen ill, she would have answered when Abby phoned the cottage and the botanical shop Fiona owned. Abby quickly abandoned the idea that Fiona had suffered an accident while out searching for herbs, since she no longer hiked much in the mountains after being assaulted by a stranger. And if she did go out alone looking for wild herbs, she always took her cell phone. She hadn’t answered that, either. So one glaring possibility remained—Fiona had bailed on their luncheon.

As her concern shifted to irritation, Abby grasped the stand of the patio umbrella and gave it an aggressive twist. With the shade now covering the food and Kat’s side of the table, Abby moved over next to her former partner, leaving the spot in the sun for Fiona. Good thing Fiona loved the heat. Eyeing the herb garden from a new vantage point did little to assuage Abby’s frustration. And her frustration level was rising by degrees, like the heat of the day. As if mirroring her mood, the drifts of lemon balm, elderflower, skullcap, sage, oregano, motherwort, and other herbs seemed to struggle to stay upright in the partial shade under the late April sun.

Kat finally spoke. “She might be helping somebody. You know what a sucker she is for every Tom, Dick, and Harriet with a sob story.”

“True,” Abby conceded. “She helped me a lot when I dawdled over whether or not to plant the herb garden—you know herbs can take over a place. I do appreciate how she spent hours with me discussing the culinary and medical uses of them. And it was her idea to put in a miniature medieval garden in raised beds, laid out with a Latin cross design. She was the one who found the illustration in an old gardening book.” Abby waved her hand toward a cluster of raised beds on the east side of her property. “The garden was pretty this morning. Now it looks wilted.”

“Oh well.” Kat crossed her legs, repositioning the napkin over her lap.

Abby heaved a sigh. Okay. Not interested. So luncheon tea parties are about delicious food, polite manners, and convivial conversation. Move on. Abby changed the subject. “Fiona told me she’d recommended my honey and herbs to some of the local businesses,” said Abby. “Already, Ananda Bhojana, that new vegetarian eatery, and Smooth Your Groove, the smoothie shop run by those commune people, have placed orders. And Fiona is stocking my honey in her Ancient Wisdom Botanicals store on Main. I mean, she gets a lot of traffic from Cineflicks, Twice Around Markdowns, and even the Black Witch.”

“You don’t say. The Black Witch, the only bar in town and a biker bar, to boot. Bet they don’t buy much honey. I mean, how many mixed drinks use honey as an ingredient?” Kat asked. She seemed unimpressed.

“Well, there’s the Bee’s Knees. It uses gin, lemon juice, and honey syrup.” Abby struggled to think of others.

Kat rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Abby. Can you see a biker strutting up to the bar and ordering a Bee’s Knees?”

“Point taken,” said Abby.

In silence, the two sat staring up into the towering peppertree at the center back of Abby’s property line. The tree’s lacy green fronds and bracts of newly formed red berries hung in perfect stillness. Now and then a berry dropped into the chicken run.

“You ever grind those peppercorns?” Kat asked.

Abby nodded. “Once. Too much work. You have to clean, toast, and roast them first.” Her stomach growled, long and loud.

“Sounds like you’re as hungry as I am,” said Kat.

Abby pushed a springy forelock of her reddish-gold hair away from her face and cupped a hand over her light eyes to gauge the position of the sun. “Where on God’s earth can Fiona be? We could get sunburned out here without hats. Maybe we should move the food inside. Darn it all! Everything was perfect an hour ago.”

Kat leaned forward. “My advice, girlfriend, call or text one more time, and if she doesn’t answer, we will eat without her.”

“If she didn’t answer the six previous calls, what makes you think she’ll pick up on the seventh?” Abby snapped, even as she tapped Fiona’s number on her cell again and listened for one, two . . . five rings, with no answer.

“The tea is tepid,” Kat said, touching the pot next to the perfusion of orange nasturtiums in a widemouthed jar. “Dried bread, soggy sandwiches, and tea that probably should have been iced to begin with—”

“Oh, Kat, for goodness’ sake, please stop grousing.”

“Guess the heat and hunger are making a beast of me. I’m losing all sense of civility,” said Kat.

“Well, you’re not alone. My feathers couldn’t be any more ruffled than if I were a hen with an egg stuck in her butt,” said Abby.

Kat flicked at a small insect moving on the strap of her blue cotton sundress. The tiny creature spread its wings and flew away.

Abby blew air in exasperation. “It won’t hurt you.”

“How would I know?” Kat snapped. “There have been two cases of West Nile virus already reported in the county.”

“Mosquitoes,” scoffed Abby. “West Nile is carried by mosquitoes, not ladybugs.”

“Whatever,” said Kat. “I don’t rehabilitate bugs, like some people.” She rolled her eyes at Abby.

They sat in tense silence. Kat shooed the flies.

Abby fumed. After a couple of minutes, she reminded herself that there might be a good reason for Fiona being late. It served no good purpose for her to be locking horns with Kat.

“Sorry to be so testy, Kat,” said Abby. “I’m worried and annoyed at the same time. I was in Fiona’s shop yesterday and reminded her of our tea luncheon. I can’t believe that in only twenty-four hours, she could forget. And . . . it’s not like her to bail.”

“I hear you, girlfriend.” Kat used her napkin to wick away the moisture collecting on either side of her nose. “Okay, so here’s an earthshaking idea—maybe she’s in a funk. You did say she had hit the big four-o, right?”

“Yeah, but that was a week ago, and, anyhow, the forties are the best years of a woman’s life.”

“According to?”

Abby gave her a quizzical look. “Lidia.”

“Vittorio?” Kat asked incredulously. “The old lady on Main, with the jewelry store?”

“The same.”

“Yeah, well, Lidia should know. From the looks of her, she’s hit the big four-o twice already. Maybe three times.”

“Oh, please. Even if she is retirement age, she’s still working. And Main Street hasn’t exactly attracted a Ralph Lauren Home store, an upscale art gallery, or an artisan chocolate shop. Lidia and her handcrafted jewelry shop are our town’s best hope for a bit of class now that the patisserie is gone.”

“Suppose you’re right about that.”

Abby decided to wait five more minutes. Then she and Kat would devour the food and enjoy the rest of the day. Maybe they’d go antiquing. It would be Fiona’s loss, and she’d have some explaining to do when they next saw each other.

“Fiona’s store is nice in a hippie, Zen kind of way,” said Kat. “But it bothers me that it occupies the same space as where the pastry shop used to be. I can’t go in there without thinking about Chef Jean-Louis. Her herb-inspired, nutrient-dense, gluten-free, low-salt, low-taste bars made of who knows what can’t compare to our late chef’s exquisite madeleines.” Kat reached for a tea sandwich. She parted the bread and tossed the lettuce onto her plate before taking a bite. Chewing, she said, “I think Fiona’s a hippie, living in the wrong era.”

Abby stared incredulously at her friend for throwing aside the lettuce. “Seriously, Kat?”

“What?” Kat asked. “Your chickens will eat this, won’t they? Even if there’s mayo on it?”

Abby shook her head. “Whatever.” She reached for the pot and poured herself a cupful of tea. “Fiona sells good stuff. Almost everything is eco-friendly. And she isn’t a hippie.”

“Well, she dresses like one.”

“In fairness, she wears those bohemian circular skirts, because that’s the way the other women in the commune dress. You must have seen them. Some work here in town.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been up to their compound, if you can call it that. We’ve had a lot of complaints. The families in those mountains do not like the drumming, chanting, and clapping. They complain of harmoniums droning on endlessly. And they don’t like the weekly bonfires. They’re afraid that one of these days a spark will ignite the mountain. It’s a tinderbox up there, Abby. You know that.”

“Maybe in summer . . . not right now,” Abby said. “I was just up there last week with Fiona, checking on the progress of the commune gardens. From bio-intensive double digging to planting heirloom seeds, she’s taught those devotees everything she knows. The gardens are lush and green and thriving. But don’t take my word for it. You should go see them. The gate to their property is always open.”

Kat stopped chewing long enough to say, “Nah.” She wrapped a blond lock of hair behind her ear and pushed back her bangs, as if preparing to lean forward and do some serious damage to the pile of sandwiches. “And you couldn’t pay me to live there. As far as I can tell, the place looks like a dumping ground of old buses, RVs, and shacks.”

Abby corrected her. “The guru has a nice house.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Kat said.

Abby shrugged. “The gardens produce an abundance of organic vegetables. The commune residents have opened their facility to people who want to view and purchase the produce. They’re also selling it along the roadside up there. Fiona told me the gardens are what she loves most about the place.”

“If she loves them so much, why isn’t she still living there?” Kat poured herself some tea and stirred in some milk.

“She moved into the cottage on Dr. Danbury’s estate because she can’t stand that guy in charge at the commune.” Abby finished drinking her tea. She placed a silver tea strainer over her porcelain teacup, reached for the pot, and poured its lukewarm tea through the strainer into her cup.

“You mean Hayden Marks?” asked Kat.

“He’s the one.” Stirring a spoonful of rose-infused sugar into her tea, Abby said, “Got himself appointed the successor when the old guru left for India. But according to Fiona, Marks modified his predecessor’s teaching to make it more understandable to Westerners, and then he changed how the commune worked, establishing a hierarchy of power, with himself as the supreme authority.”

“Yeah, well, we know Mr. Marks,” said Kat. “He’s the charismatic son of an ex-con, who supposedly found solace in the Good Book and became a preacher.”

“Really?” Abby arched a brow. “Fiona never said anything about that. Maybe she didn’t know. But she sure couldn’t abide that Marks insisted all the devotees call him Baba. It means ‘wise old man’ or ‘father’ or something like that. She found him to be the antithesis of a father figure, more like a dictator. For refusing to show proper reverence, she was asked to leave. Imagine that . . . for not calling him Baba.”

“Baba-shmaba. A pig doesn’t change its trotters.” Kat’s hand formed the shape of an L, for loser. She pushed back from the table and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “We’ve been watching that commune bunch for a while.”

Abby swallowed another sip of tea and looked at Kat over her teacup. “I’m all ears.”

“You hear the talk. Let me put it this way. Why would a peaceful sect of New Agers need firearms?” asked Kat.

“I don’t know, but it’s not illegal if they have permits.”

“Yeah, well, according to the gossip along Main Street, they’re stockpiling up there, and not only firearms. Do you want to know what Willard down at the hardware store says?”

“What?” Abby slid her cup back into its saucer and set both on the table.

“They’ve emptied his place of axes, freeze-dried food, and bottled water. He says he can’t keep canning supplies or even basic tools like shovels in stock.”

“Why?”

Kat devoured two sandwiches in quick succession and then wiped her fingers with the napkin. “Who knows? But you can’t blame the locals for getting paranoid.” She reached for the antique silver serving knife, slashed off a slice of the sheet cake, and dropped the slice onto a dessert plate, licking the excess buttercream frosting from her fingers.

Abby raised a brow. “You’re like the sister I never had, Kat, so I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. You’re eating like a cop who doesn’t care anymore whether or not she can make it over the training wall.”

“Yeah, well, I missed breakfast, and I’m starving.”

Abby brushed a crumb that had fallen from the silver serving knife. “I can see that. So eat, already. Getting back to the subject of the commune, I’m not taking sides, but we do live in the land of earthquakes, mudslides, and seasonal wildfires. Maybe Baba thinks a natural disaster is in the offing.”

“Or the end is near, and they want to be ready, like that Heaven’s Gate cult, who waited on a spacecraft following the Hale-Bopp comet,” Kat said. “We can only hope the shovels aren’t for burying the dead.”

“Now, that’s just too far-fetched,” Abby chided.

Kat smiled and began nibbling the cake. She licked her lips. Holding the empty fork aloft, she looked at Abby. “Lord, have mercy, girlfriend! You nailed the cake.” She took a bigger bite and writhed in pleasure. Swallowing, she reached for her cup of tea to wash it down and then did a little shoulder dance. “Um, um, um!”

“Glad it meets with your approval.” Abby grinned. “I added last summer’s raspberry jam to the buttercream.”

Kat used the silver serving knife to coax a chunk of buttercream from the chocolate cake. After dropping the buttercream onto her plate, she scooped it into her mouth with her fork and licked her lips. “Don’t know about it being an end-time cult, but it’s a cult. Of that, I’m sure. But like I said, my peeps are watching. When Baba’s gang breaks the law, we’ll make the arrests.”

Laying aside the fork, Kat poured herself a glass of water. “For the life of me, I can’t imagine why anyone would join a commune or a cult. You have to give up your personal ambitions in life, sell your possessions, and donate all your money to the group. Fiona doesn’t seem the type, although I can’t say I know her that well.” She pushed down the lemon slice and sipped some water from the glass.

Reaching again for the teapot to refill both empty cups, Abby felt as though Kat didn’t understand Fiona’s quirkiness. “She’s just searching for deeper meaning, and perhaps joining that commune and dressing in that folk-boho style are an extension of that.”

“Someone should buy her a watch and suggest she check the time once in a while,” Kat said. “I’m not saying it to be mean-spirited, but it’s thoughtless of her not to call and let you know she’s been delayed.”

Abby popped a piece of a sandwich into her mouth and nearly choked when the sound of gunfire rang out. After swallowing, she exclaimed, “Darn it, Kat! That ringtone is just plain annoying.”

“Tells me it’s Otto calling,” Kat said, then licked her fingers and fished her cell from her pocket. After sliding a dry knuckle across the screen, Kat answered, “Hello, big daddy. What’s up?”

Abby knew Sergeant Otto Nowicki wouldn’t be calling Kat on her day off without good reason.

“Don’t tell me. He’s calling you in?” Abby whispered.

Kat nodded. “He’s up at Kilbride Lake.”

“What’s going on?” Abby asked softly.

Kat shook her head and listened intently. She then whispered, “Canal patrol found a body in a burning car.”

Abby stiffened. “A body?”

Kat listened, locked eyes with Abby. Her expression darkened. “It’s Fiona’s car.”

Abby’s stomach tightened. Her heart pounded. Oh, good Lord.

“So, it is a woman’s body. Okay. See you in a few,” Kat said. After thrusting the phone into her pocket, she grabbed a couple of sandwiches in a napkin and slipped them into her other pocket. “Could be a long night. I’m hoping it’s not Fiona.”

“Who else could it be?” Abby said, pushing away from the table. “I’m coming, too.”

Guiding her Jeep out of Las Flores and along the blacktop roads that twisted through the foothills, Abby managed to keep Kat’s vintage silver roadster in sight all the way to the summit. However, after the cutoff, which was only about eight minutes from downtown Las Flores, Abby lost sight of her former partner. After the cutoff, Abby negotiated the steep switchbacks of the narrow two-lane road until it dipped into a heavily forested area of pine, oaks, and redwood trees. Through the open Jeep windows, the mountain air smelled of sun-drenched earth and dried plant matter. Soon she turned off onto a link road leading to Kilbride Lake. The mountain lake supplied drinking water through a series of canals and reservoirs to Las Flores residents, as well as to the mountain people who lived on the western side of town.

Pulling off the road behind police cruisers and a fire truck, Abby guided the Jeep beneath a towering sequoia with a trunk nearly as wide as the fire truck Kat had parked behind. Abby jumped from the Jeep and slammed the door. The stench of burnt plastic, rubber, and human flesh turned her back. She opened the door and searched the vehicle for something to use as a mask. Behind the driver’s seat, she found a package of work gloves. After ripping open the plastic bag, she removed a pair, then held them against her nose and mouth as she strode toward the coterie of first responders.

Firefighters from Cal Fire had already extinguished the blaze and were mopping up. Las Flores police chief Bob Allen and Sergeant Otto Nowicki assessed the scene. Kat, in her sundress, looked totally out of place as she stood next to a uniformed officer. Sheriff’s deputies, a canal patrol agent, and the local forest ranger huddled together a few feet away, chatting, apparently awaiting the arrival of the coroner.

Abby’s heart pounded as she spotted Fiona’s car. She took i. . .