The Murder of a Queen Bee Read Online Free PDF Page B

when Houdini flew at her, screeching a shrill warning and flapping his wings as though his tail feathers had caught fire.
    â€œOh, cool your spurs, big boy,” Abby said, dodging the assault and grabbing the garden hoe. She held the hoe handle in a defensive position and eased out of the gate, stepping backward.
    Like an opposing warlord, Abby locked eyes with Houdini. The rooster blinked first. Apparently satisfied that he had sufficiently established dominance over his domain, the rooster promptly herded Henrietta, Heloise, Tighty Whitey, Red, Orpy, and the wyandotte sisters with aggressive pecks. He stopped when finally they stood bunched together in a huddle under the henhouse. The bantam rooster began macho prancing. Abby had seen it before . . . and so had the hens. The girls watched in seeming boredom as Houdini executed the moves of his scratch dance, trying to entice them into exploring what his sharp toenails might have unearthed. On the off chance that he had uncovered a worm, two of the hens wandered over. No worms. Not so much as a grub or a speck of birdseed. They ambled off to a sunny spot for a dirt bath.
    â€œListen up, ladies, and you, too, Mr. Fancy Pants,” said Abby. “Keep an eye peeled for hawks circling. I’ve spotted three already this morning. One is sitting sentry up there in that pine tree. I don’t want to come home to a pile of plucked feathers and no chickens, and trust me, you don’t want that, either.”
    After latching the gate, Abby picked up the basket of eggs, most in hues of brown, white, and tan, with a blue-green one from the Ameraucana. She walked to the water spigot in the middle of the yard. Sugar bounded over.
    â€œYou’ve been chasing my songbirds, haven’t you?”
    Abby leaned down and turned off the water to the hose. She would have filled the second water dispenser, as she usually did on hot days, but the rubber ring inside the screw-top lid on the older dispenser had snapped, making the dispenser unusable. Knowing that if a chicken went without water, it could stop laying eggs for up to three weeks, Abby made a mental note to keep a close watch on the water level in the sole dispenser. The temperature was expected to climb into the triple digits by late afternoon. On her way back to the kitchen, she plucked a stick from the grass and flung it into the air. Sugar bounded after it and trotted back, leaving the stick where it had landed under the white tea roses.
    â€œWould it be asking too much to bring the stick back?” Abby knelt and massaged the dog’s neck. “If you weren’t such a cutie-pie, with a personality to match, I would have found you a new home long ago. But when the vet said your genes showed English pointer, beagle, and whippet, I got the idea that you might have a talent for tracking. That talent is useful in investigative work. Can you see where I’m going with this?”
    Sugar pushed back and gave an impatient, high-pitched yip , yip . She might not be the world’s greatest interpreter of dog speak yet, but Abby felt pretty sure that Sugar wanted a treat or a walk. But conversation . . . not so much.
    â€œOkay, already. Let’s find you a treat and get the leash.”
    In the kitchen, Abby searched for the bag of doggy treats. There were only three places in her unfinished kitchen where the bag could be hiding: on top of the double ovens, which had been installed without an upper cabinet; in the pantry of dry goods, next to the fridge; and in the drawer under the counter where she kept potatoes and onions.
    â€œShoot. Did you eat them all already?” Abby avoided eye contact with Sugar. Without looking, she knew that Sugar was gazing up at her with expectant eyes, making her guilt even harder to bear. How could she not remember having thrown out the empty treat bag? And, worse, why hadn’t she ensured an adequate supply in the first place?
    After grabbing her purse, the leash,