A Beeline to Murder by Meera Lester Page A

aboveground crops during a waxing moon and plants that produce belowground crops during a waning moon.
    —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
     
     
    A t a quarter to six, Abby awoke to the kuk-kuk-kuk chatter of a squirrel in the Black Mission fig tree that towered over the north side of her house. Houdini was already engaged in a crow-off with a neighborhood rooster. Somewhere down Farm Hill Road, a dog barked nonstop at what sounded like a garbage truck, its engine revving for starts and its brakes squeaking for stops as it lumbered along its route. Sugar leaped from the foot of Abby’s bed to engage fully in her role as watchdog. The pooch stood on point beneath the window and barked without letup.
    Abby rubbed her eyes, yawned, and stretched, taking notice of how energetic she felt. Hormones. There were times of the month when she hated her hormones, but then there were other times, like today, when she felt like a world-class gymnast in a thirty-seven-year-old goddess body. Feel like jogging up the mountain. Ten miles over, dip in the Pacific, ten back. Could be fun . . . but then again, those heirloom beans aren’t going to plant themselves.
    “All right. Stop with the barking, already. You’ve made your point, big girl.” After throwing back the covers, springing from the bed, thrusting feet to the floor, Abby bounded to the dresser and rummaged through the drawers, searching for something to wear. She pulled out a pair of denim jeans, a white camisole to wear under her work shirt, and a pair of ankle socks. They were her last clean pair and not the best, because of the lace edging, but serviceable nevertheless. She hated hair hanging in her face and decided that the green bandanna in the top drawer was a practical solution to controlling her curly mass.
    Sugar busied herself with the pile of unwashed laundry. She especially liked Abby’s underwear and used towels. Abby groaned with the realization that with Sugar around, she would no longer be able to leave clothing on the floor, the gate open, or a half-eaten sandwich on a chair while she watered her plants. After putting away the laundry basket, Abby sprinted to the kitchen to swallow a few swigs of hot coffee, even though she didn’t need help waking up this morning. Abby reached for her cell phone, which was lying next to her pocketknife on the kitchen counter. She disconnected the phone from the charger and slipped it and the knife into her back pocket. She hated the interruptions cell phones always brought. But then again, maybe I don’t want any calls to interrupt me today.
    Abby wiggled the phone back out of her hip pocket and laid it back down on the plywood that served as the countertop until she could get the real thing. Surely she could be unavailable by phone for a few hours. Kat and the other officers eventually would get to the bottom of what had happened to Jean-Louis. They knew how to do their jobs. If anything really important turned up and the cops needed her insight, Abby knew Kat would call and leave a message. Feeling justified at disconnecting the phone, literally, from her hip, Abby marched outside with Sugar on the leash. Nothing was going to stop her from getting those beans in the ground today!
    Abby closed the fence gate dividing the front of her property from the back yard before letting Sugar off the leash, then shook the pebbles from her ladybug-patterned gardening shoes and set off for the drying shed. Sugar headed straight for the wild birds balancing on the cosmos blooms, flitting among the sunflowers, and perching in the apple tree. The dog showed a special interest in the yellow finches pecking at the Nyjer seed in one of the feeders that Abby had suspended by a rope from the pole braced between the peppertree and olive tree.
    “Point and bark all you want, but no hurting those birds,” Abby admonished before returning to her beans.
    In the drying shed, Abby seized upon a spool of orange string, a hammer, and a five-gallon