A Beeline to Murder Read Free Page A

work our way out. I’ll bag and tag everything on the countertop.”
    “I suppose you’ll want me to get some shots of the scene, the body, and close-ups of the ligature mark on his neck.”
    “Uh-huh.” Kat’s gaze swept the room, as though she was searching for something, anything that could help her understand what had happened here that had resulted in the death of the town’s award-winning chef. Once the crime-scene tape had been strung, and evidence collected and labeled, Abby pulled the camera from her shirt pocket. “Besides the interior photos and the body, anything else you want me to shoot?”
    Kat motioned toward the kitchen’s back door. “In the café, get some shots of the baker’s rack and close-ups of items on the shelves like the recipe binders and that box up there, but don’t remove anything.”
    “Okay,” Abby replied.
    Kat looked around. “I want images of the blue metal Dumpster between the pastry shop and the theater, a shot of the back door of the pastry shop all the way to the biker bar, and a panorama shot of the back of the building, since those two other businesses share common walls with the pastry shop.”
    “You got it. Are you thinking that somebody from the theater or the bar might have had a run-in with our chef?”
    “We can’t rule out anything at this point,” Kat said. “I think a Dumpster search for a rope or the apron might be in order. The murderer could have tossed them, unless, of course, the chef hung himself, which I’m not buying.”
    Abby walked across the alley and turned to face the building’s back side. She took several shots of the weather-beaten, stucco-covered grand ole lady, which the townsfolk considered a landmark of sorts. Built in the 1930s, it had remained unchanged as businesses emerged and closed while the town evolved into a chic little enclave of stylish shops and restaurants. The old building had endured the October 17, 1989, earthquake in the Bay Area, with only a few horizontal fissures to prove it, but the city engineers had found it stable enough to leave it standing.
    Other buildings in town had not been so lucky. Bright red CONDEMNED notices had been tacked or taped to them, indicating they were to be torn down. The replacements, such as the row of small office buildings on the opposite side of the Lemon Lane alleyway behind the pastry shop, provided commercial tenants more functionality, but without any of the charm or character of the older buildings, which reflected the pre–and post–World War II architecture of Las Flores.
    Returning to the chef’s kitchen, Abby determined the best angles for her shots. She wanted clear and focused images for the investigation. Police chief Bob Allen didn’t need another reason to be angry or upset with Kat . . . or her.
    To establish the distance and relationship of the back door to the island and the restroom, she positioned herself at the back entrance to the kitchen. Later, she shot images from the opposite direction. Then, climbing on a chair next to a tall wire baker’s rack, Abby clicked off a couple more photos. When she leaned into the last one, she nearly lost her balance. Grabbing the top of the baker’s rack to steady herself, she knocked over a basket of dusty faux ivy that concealed a small security camera. Dismounting from the chair, she sidestepped the camera until Kat could bag and tag it, tugged a pencil from her pocket, and used it to pick up a plastic cup that had tumbled to the floor. Before setting it aside for Kat, Abby sniffed it and made a mental note to tell Kat about the booze smell in the cup.
    Working the room, Abby photographed from every conceivable direction and angle. As she zeroed in on the area occupied by the body, Abby recalled the first homicide she and Kat had worked together. The victim had been a local divorcée who had met a man for drinks at the Black Witch. The man had driven the woman home. The next morning, the woman’s boyfriend had found her