A Beeline to Murder by Meera Lester Page B

bucket of stakes. Next, she gathered packages of beans with exotic names like Turkey Craw, an heirloom from Tennessee, and Hutterite Soup, an heirloom bean grown by a Hutterite communal sect of Anabaptists in North Dakota. If the latter bean lived up to its reputation of making a magnificent white soup, she might be able to convince Zazi’s to buy some of her crop.
    After hammering the first stake into the earth and tying the loose end of the string around it, Abby paced off twenty-five steps to the other side of the garden and repeated the hammering process. She wound the spool of string around the stake, pulled out her pocketknife, cut the string, and tied the loose end. When she had completed ten straight rows, she sank to her knees in the dirt and began to plant the beans in one-inch-deep holes two inches apart. She speared the empty packages onto stakes and stuck them at the end of each row to identify the bean type. I know you babies are going to grow and produce. With the money I’ll make selling you, the honey, and my jams, maybe . . . just maybe I’ll be able to fix up this old place. A granite countertop in the kitchen would be nice, for starters.
    Abby hummed while she worked, and the work went swiftly. With the beans finished, she retrieved the flats of herbs she’d been growing on the patio and began planting them. She lost track of time, but her skin felt prickly from the sun beating down on her. When she stopped to dab perspiration from her forehead using the tails of her faded work shirt, she heard a voice call out from the front of her property.
    “Abby? Hey, girlfriend, you here?”
    Abby groaned. Wouldn’t you know? And I’m just beginning to make headway. Tree canopies blocked the view to the gravel driveway at the front of the property, but she recognized Kat’s voice.
    “Back here,” Abby called out.
    Kat’s willowy body in her uniform emerged from the other side of the gate. “Brought someone to see you.”
    “Yeah? Hope he’s good-looking.”
    “Oh, he is,” Kat replied.
    “I wasn’t being serious,” Abby told her.
    “I was. ” Kat shot her a chimpanzee grin and took several steps toward the newly planted area before Abby asked her to stay where she was.
    “Can’t have you trouncing on the rows I’ve just planted. I’ll come to you.”
    “Oh, gotcha,” Kat said, backing up.
    Abby hoisted a flat of herbs in cell packs onto one arm and slid her hand under a second flat. Balancing the two flats, she gingerly walked toward the patio. Sugar, eager to meet the new visitor, bounded between Abby’s legs.
    “Watch out!” Kat shrieked a millisecond too late.
    Abby hit the ground, landing on the side of her face and sending cell packs of oregano, thyme, and tarragon seedlings flying in every direction.
    “OMG! You all right?” Kat called out.
    “Been better,” Abby drawled, pushing up into a sitting position. “That dog is going to be the death of me . . . the dog and those darn twine lines.”
    “Why are they even there?”
    “They’re marking the gravel paths, which will prevent this sort of stumbling and bumbling through the garden.”
    “Well, girlfriend, they do make marking paint in spray cans now.”
    Abby grimaced. “Yeah, but a hand guided by the eye will never make a line as straight as a piece of string tightly strung between two stakes.” Abby dabbed at the blood oozing from her left nostril.
    “Can I get you some ice?” Kat offered, softening her tone.
    “Forget it. This isn’t serious. It’s just—” Abby sucked in a breath before spitting out the word. “Stupid.” She pushed herself to an upright position and dusted dirt from her clothes. Then, she began picking up the cell packs of broken seedlings, only to toss them aside. She looked at Kat, not even trying to hide the gloom she knew her face showed.
    Kat shook her head. “You are going to break your neck one of these days.”
    “Well, if I do, just put me out of my misery, because with my gimpy