Eighteen
After shouting a big, heartfelt thank-you to my grandmother, I bolted through the library doors as the last of the board members were taking their official positions. Now that I was present, the meeting couldn’t get under way quick enough for me. I had a stream of adrenaline built up and was in fast forward after all the waiting and worrying.
“I have something to say,” I blurted.
“You always do,” Tom Peterson, one of the town supervisors, said. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the service tray and made his way up to take a seat with the other town supervisors. “You have to follow procedure just like everybody else.”
Town hall meetings are not well-attended events. Every two years we make a big deal of elections for the volunteer, yet highly coveted, positions of town supervisor. Campaign signs line our lawns, the local newspaper covers all sides, then we vote and hang out at Stu’s Bar and Grill waiting for the results. The old-timers almost always win, but that doesn’t stop newcomers from trying. Once in a while, one of the old guard will keel over dead from extreme old age, making room for a younger member, almost always related to the deceased. We still haven’t elected any women yet, but that had to change one of these days soon.
Then, after the residents of Moraine make such a big fuss about the election, we disappear back to our own lives and expect our officials to handle things for us the right way. Sometimes that’s a big mistake.
At the moment, Grant Spandle, Lori’s henpecked husband and poor excuse for a town chairman, sat in the middle of a table at the front of the room. Two town supervisors sat on either side of him with little nameplates in front of each of them in case we forgot who they were.
The town board consisted of:
? Grant Spandle—chairman of the board and local land developer.
? Tom Peterson—supervisor and long-time dairy farmer.
? Bud Craig—supervisor, Waukesha firefighter, and father of my part-time helpers, the twins Brent and Trent.
? Stanley Peck—supervisor and retired farmer.
? Bruce Cook—third-grade teacher, and our newest supervisor, after the unexpected death of his father, our previous supervisor.
Others present were:
? Aurora Tyler—owner of Moraine Gardens, across from my house.
? Emily Nolan—library director.
? Karin Nolan—librarian and Emily’s daughter.
? Larry Koon—frozen custard maker and owner of Koon’s Custard Shop.
? Milly Hopticourt—recipe tester and gifted flower arranger.
? P. P. Patti Dwyre—my neighbor and main town gossip.
? Several others I knew by sight, but not by name. They had paperwork with them, so I guessed they were on the agenda.
Note: My nemesis, Lori Spandle, was MIA. And after all that threatening!
Impatient as I was, I listened to the minutes from the last meeting and the other blah, blah, blah regarding old business. The summaries probably didn’t take as long as they seemed to me. New business was next, but I was last on the agenda, after some issues regarding bike paths and conditional use permits, I couldn’t wait another second, so I pushed off from my position against the back wall and stomped up, hoping I looked confident and firm. No one tried to stop me. Usually the meetings follow an orderly agenda, but this one promised to become a free-for-all.
“You’re out of turn,” Grant said to me.
“For those of you waiting for your turn, do any of you object to me going first?” I glanced around the room. Nobody objected.
“Then say your piece,” Grant said, giving up.
I plowed ahead. “As everyone in this room knows, Manny Chapman died recently—stung to death—and since then, a certain individual has been on a campaign to wipe out all our local honeybees. I’m here to explain why that’s absolutely ridiculous, not to mention against the town’s best interest.”
I began with bullet points.
“Number one,” I said to the handful of concerned citizens and board members, “Manny was stung by yellow jackets, which are wasps, not bees. Number two, since Manny’s honeybees didn’t kill him, why would anyone want to destroy them? Number three, the honey business has benefited our community, and every single one of you has enjoyed having access to local honey products. Number four, why can’t anyone seem to understand that honeybees and yellow jackets aren’t the same thing? If you want, I can explain the difference between bees and yellow jackets right now.”
The board members glanced at each other to see if any of them cared to hear me out.
“We’d all enjoy hearing a biology lesson,” Grant decided for them, “but that won’t be necessary. We have us a teacher right up at this table if we need anybody to explain the birds and bees.”
That brought some chuckles.
“The main point is, I don’t want anyone messing around with my bees,” I said. “Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” Stanley said. “Nobody’s going to bother you.”
“I’m not worried about me, Stanley. It’s my bees.”
I still had a bunch of bullet points, like the importance of pollination and how weak crops could create financial hardship for all the local producers.
Before I got back to my pro-bee argument, Grant piped up, “Let’s vote on this thing and get it over with. If your bees are a threat to our community, they have to be dealt with.” He glanced toward the back door. “Wonder where Lori is? She should be here to make her case. We need to wait for her.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” Bruce Cook said. “She knew about the meeting and she chose to miss it. Besides, most of us know how we’re going to vote.”
Nods around the room indicated Bruce was right about minds already being made up. Other than Milly and maybe Bruce, since his class had visited without incident, I wasn’t sure who else was in my court. I could be in serious trouble if enough votes came in for annihilation.
I would have tried to sneak my sister, Holly, in, but everybody knew she wasn’t a resident of Moraine and didn’t qualify. Same with Hunter, who lived outside the town’s limits. Too bad Carrie Ann hadn’t shown up to give me her support.
Just when everybody was getting ready to cast their votes, the siren went off at the fire department south of town. That wail meant we had an emergency situation and all available volunteers better get down there pronto.
At that point, the meeting fell apart, since we lost two of our elected officials, Tom and Bud. Bud was a paid firefighter in the city of Waukesha, but he also volunteered in Moraine. I have to give them credit; Tom and Bud took their emergency response positions seriously, and they disappeared like the last clap of thunder in an electric storm, leaving the room so quiet I could hear Grant Spandle recap his pen.
The meeting over, the rest of us began filing out of the library and into that moment between dark and light right before the streetlights go on. We gathered in front of the library, wondering what emergency had happened.
“Where’s Lori?” Milly asked.
“Here she comes,” I said.
Lori Spandle came down the sidewalk, traveling fast. Under the streetlights that had popped on that very moment, I could see she was wearing her bee veil, the one she had left at my house. Unless she had more than one, that meant she’d been trespassing on my property again. Were my bees safe? Had she used the meeting as an opportunity to kill them? I fought an urge to rip the veil off her face and tear it to shreds.
“Meeting’s over,” I said to her, refusing to show panic over my bees’ safety. “Your side lost. No more talk of killing.”
“That’s not true,” her husband told her. “The vote’s been postponed, that’s all. Sorry, Sweety-poo, I know how important it was to you. Where have you been anyway?”
“I misplaced my car keys,” Sweety-poo said. “Then my sister called with another one of her dramas, and I couldn’t get off the phone.”
“Why don’t we adjourn to the custard shop,” Larry said, always one to make a sale if he saw an opportunity.
“Let me close up the library first,” Emily said. “Are you buying, Larry?”
“Now, Emily,” Larry said. “You wouldn’t begrudge a man his livelihood, would you?”
“I’m allergic to ice cream,” P. P. Patti announced. “My stomach starts rolling around and sometimes I upchuck.”
“Thank you for sharing that, Patti,” Stanley said. “I think I’ll stick to beer just in case. I’m going to Stu’s Bar and Grill once we find out what the emergency is all about.”
Before the crowd could break off into the beer guzzlers and the custard lickers, we collectively paused to listen to the sirens coming our way. I started toward home to check on my bees. If Lori had harmed a single one while I was at the meeting trying to save them, the police chief would have another murder suspect in custody before the night was over.
The rest of them stood on the sidewalk, watching a fire engine as it passed The Wild Clover. An ambulance and Johnny Jay’s official police vehicle followed close behind, turning onto Willow Street ahead of me. Onto my street.
I broke into a run, rounding the corner. The vehicles had stopped in front of my house; Clay’s place and mine were the only buildings there other than Moraine Gardens and Patti’s house on the corner, which they passed right by.
The garden owner, Aurora Tyler, was right on my heels, breathing hard. We both stopped in the middle of the street. In which direction would the firefighters head when they poured out of the fire truck? Emergency vehicles continued to turn onto Willow. Any situation in our area brings out every single fire and police unit in the surrounding towns. This time was no exception.
Aurora clutched my arm when the first responders headed for her flower nursery. I felt guilty about the wave of relief that swept through me, but it was immediately replaced with concern for Aurora.
I’d never seen so many axes in my life. The firefighters all carried axes and wore helmets and boots ready to fight whatever they encountered. According to residents unfortunate enough to have had small electrical fires, those guys can do some major damage. They have been described by many as overzealous.
They have also saved plenty of lives.
“Where’s the fire?” one of them said to Aurora. In the dusk and with them wearing suits that covered their entire bodies, I couldn’t tell one from the other.
“I don’t know. I didn’t call you about any fire,” she said.
“Well, somebody did. Let’s take a look.”
Aurora ran ahead, unlocked the door to her shop and the firefighters poured in, axes at the ready. By now, most of the town watched from across the street, shooed there by Johnny Jay. I saw lights go on in the main building, then in the greenhouse and supply shed. Voices called out.
I took a moment to hustle around the back of my house and check on my bees, confirming that the veil was gone from the patio table, so Lori must have been here. Not a good sign. The flashlight I kept near the hives lighted the way. Nothing unusual stood out, but my heart was beating an irregular pattern as I lifted a frame from the box.
Bees! Thank goodness they were all still here. And they were crawling around, seemingly unharmed. I checked more frames. Everybody was safe for now.
As I returned to the front sidewalk, Grams pulled up, almost swiping the police chief’s side mirror off his squad car, and either ignoring or not seeing him as he frantically waved his arms to get her attention. This was serious stuff to get Grams out this late.
“You can’t leave that car there,” Johnny called to Grams. She didn’t pay any attention. Grams, Holly, and Mom all got out, spotted me, and came over.
“Is the greenhouse burning?” Mom asked.
“I don’t see flames or smoke,” I answered.
“False alarm,” we heard, coming from the back of the greenhouse.
“Who the hell called it in?” asked another voice that sounded like Bud’s.
“Pranksters,” Mom said to anyone who wanted to listen, shaking her head in disgust. People began wandering away.
Johnny Jay came stomping over to us.
“Quite a coincidence,” he said, looking right at me. “Tell me, how did the town meeting go?”
“It broke up almost before it got started,” Grant Spandle said from close by. “Half the board members are fire volunteers. Can’t vote without them.”
“My point exactly,” the police chief said, still staring at me. “Let’s see your cell phone.”
I rolled my eyes. Johnny Jay actually thought I would call in a false fire report just to disrupt the meeting? How pathetic was that? If anyone should be under suspicion, it should be Lori. She’d been late to the meeting and I had evidence that she’d been on my property without my permission. I couldn’t think of any reason why she would call in a false fire alarm, but the woman was nuts. Did she need a reason?
“I’m refusing to show you my cell phone,” I said to Johnny Jay. “If you’d think this through, you’d realize I couldn’t have called it in because I was making my case to the town board.”
Grams was firing on all cylinders, sharp as a filet knife in spite of the fact that it was now way past her bedtime. “Are you suggesting that one of my own did something unscrupulous?” she asked him, in her sweet little voice. “Because my granddaughter is a real peach.”
“I’m sure she is, ma’am,” Johnny Jay said. He dropped the subject for the moment; he’d never go up against Grams because she might round up the rest of the locals and go after him. In Moraine, you showed respect for the old-timers, or you paid the price.
“Let’s get a nice picture of the two of you together,” Grams said. “Story, come over here next to the police chief.”
“Oh for cripes’ sake,” Mom blurted. “No more pictures.”
Grams flashed one in Johnny Jay’s face anyway.
Even though there was no sign of a fire, the firefighters stuck around to make sure there wasn’t a spark smoldering somewhere in an overlooked corner. Brent and Trent Craig arrived, reassuring me that the market was locked down tight for the night and that sales had been good for a Monday evening. At that moment, I really missed the store—the banter, the smells, the whole atmosphere. It was the only place where things seemed normal lately.
Hunter and Carrie Ann roared up on his Harley Davidson. Too bad it was Carrie Ann with her arms wrapped around Hunter’s tight abs.
Hunter gave me a friendly wink, but kept his distance. I didn’t blame him. I’d have done the same if he’d been the one who’d called me names. Carrie Ann joined us while Hunter headed for the cops doing crowd control.
“False alarm,” I said to my cousin.
“Thank God,” she said. “I thought it might be your place.” Grams took another picture.
After that, the excitement died down.
“We need to talk,” Mom hissed at me when we had a private moment. “Alone.”
“It’s been a hard day,” I replied. “Lori Spandle tried to kill my bees, Clay was arrested for murder, the police chief invited me down for a consultation, and for a brief second I thought my house was on fire.” I wasn’t telling her anything that she didn’t already know. “I’m beat.”
“I feel bad for you, but this time you’re going to sit down and listen to me, and that’s final. Holly, take your grandmother to the frozen custard shop.”
I watched in dismay as Grams and Holly did what Mom said, leaving me without a defensive line to back me up.
Mom and I sat in my Adirondack chairs on the front porch, watching the last of the spectators leave. I lit a lantern and turned on a small heater I kept on the porch so I could enjoy the outdoors well into late fall. The temperature had dropped to the low fifties, but by tomorrow it would climb to the high seventies as long as the sun came out.
Mom had never been an overly affectionate mother. I couldn’t recall more than a handful of times that she’d told me she loved me, and none of those times were recent. And she was never any good with timing. A thought would hit her brain and come out her mouth seconds later. This time she surprised me.
“Have you heard any more about Clay?” she asked and for once she didn’t sound angry or disgusted.
“Only that he’s in jail and not talking.”
She nodded. “And the town meeting? It was postponed?”
“Yes. I could almost feel the hostility in the room. No one wants to listen to the facts.”
“Mob mentality. They can be like a pack of wild dogs.” Her voice was gentle when she said, “You know you’re killing me, right? I’ve spent my life living up to the standards of this community. Appearances are important with my generation. Yours doesn’t seem to care what people say or think.”
In the soft light from the lantern, I could see her eyes tearing up. This was tons worse than being yelled at. Now I felt bad for coming back to Moraine two years ago and dropping my personal problems and Clay’s bad behavior into Mom’s perfect world.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’ve really tried to measure up.”
Which wasn’t exactly a lie. I loved Moraine and wanted to be accepted, but circumstances kept dragging me into the limelight and not in a good way.
“Lie low for a while,” Mom said. “Tend your store, get into a routine. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”
“I promise.”
Well, what else could I say? She wanted to hear it. And I promised with total sincerity.
“Whether your honeybees are dangerous or not is beside the point,” she went on. “They’ve caused too much division among our residents. Promise me you’ll get rid of them.”
I was silent for a minute.
“Promise me?”
“Okay, I promise.”
And I said it with the exact same sincerity.