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wrapped her arms around Tallulah’s bony shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s quite a shock, I know.” She pointed toward Otto, who had lifted the Dumpster lid and was peering in at the contents. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to one of the officers who’ll want to talk with you.”
    Abby led Tallulah over to the blue Dumpster and waited until Otto had lowered the lid.
    “Sergeant Otto Nowicki, meet Tallulah Berry. She worked for the chef in the pastry shop. Says the chef had a visitor on Saturday and they argued.”
    Otto sized up Tallulah. “Are you willing to come down to the station and give us a statement?”
    “If you think it would help, sure. But it won’t take long, will it? I want to light a candle for the chef and see if I can tune in to his spirit . . . help with the crossing over, if you know what I mean.”
    Abby smiled at Otto, curious as to how he would respond.
    “It won’t take long at all, Miss Berry,” Otto said after a beat, taking Tallulah by the arm. “Not long at all.” He led her in the direction of his police car.
    Abby glanced over at the van, where Dr. Figelson had taken her seat and Virgil was turning on the ignition. Kat was giving directions to Virgil.
    “Head that way,” she said, pointing left. “Lemon Lane goes all the way down and exits out onto Chestnut. Chestnut connects to Main Street.”
    Virgil slowly backed up the van and then inched it down the alleyway. After turning the corner, the van disappeared from sight.
    Abby watched in silence and said a mental good-bye to Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur. Their colorful, madcap, illustrious chef was gone. He had blessed Las Flores with his savory tarts, sugar-dusted oreillettes, and delectable honey-almond madeleines. She smiled, recalling how she had wheedled the madeleine recipe out of him, but she knew deep down hers would never taste like his. He had had the gift.
    Whoever had taken Jean-Louis’s life had robbed Las Flores of its culinary genius. For a split second, Abby found herself wishing she were back on the force, one of the team members who would get to the bottom of his mysterious death. But when she heard Kat’s radio go off and Chief Bob Allen’s clipped voice demanding yet another update, she just as quickly surrendered the wish.
    Walking toward her Jeep, Abby called out to Kat and Otto, “Catch you all later. I don’t want to be late for my meeting with the district attorney. I’ve got reports to turn in and a check to collect.”
    “When can I get a look at those photos?” Kat called back, walking toward Abby.
    “Soon. Let me off-load them onto a thumb drive. Question. What’s the coroner’s estimated time of death?”
    “Based on body temp, she’s giving it a window. Between three and five this morning.”
    Abby slid into the driver’s seat of her Jeep.
    “Choir practice later?” Kat called out.
    Kat had used their secret code for “drink after work.” Abby knew that if Otto overheard their plans for a drink, he would insist on joining them. She didn’t mind Otto so much. He seemed starved for company, in spite of being married. His wife was the West Coast regional director of an ambulance company and was gone more than she was home. Otto hung out mostly with Bernie, the annoying skirt chaser who worked in the evidence room. When those guys swilled more than a couple of beers, they turned into Village Idiot One and Two. They unabashedly flirted with the usual barflies and the more respectable ladies, who would just laugh at them as the men one-upped each other with stupid pickup lines.
    Abby cringed as she recalled one Saint Patrick’s Day when some of her fellow officers had finished their shifts and met up at the Black Witch for green beer. Bernie and Otto had shown up, too. She had let Bernie convince her to join him for a new dance step he’d learned. She only had to hold out her arm straight and steady, with her fingers locked with his. Abby hadn’t been too sure she believed