Two
My hometown of Moraine is in southeastern Wisconsin, tucked between two ridges that were formed during the Ice Age when two enormous glaciers collided. Visitors to this part of Wisconsin are always surprised to find hills and valleys instead of flat cow country. Like most small towns, Moraine’s enterprising founders planned the community along a highway to take advantage of travelers passing through. Since those times, however, faster, more efficient roads have been built that pass by us instead of through.
Besides The Wild Clover, which is the only grocery story within ten miles, we have:
? Koon’s Custard Shop: frozen custard is a Wisconsin favorite, much like soft-serve ice cream only softer and richer
? A popular antique store with the less-than-original name of The Antique Shop
? Stu’s Bar and Grill for beer, pizza, and other bar food, mostly breaded and fried
? Moraine Library, with its herb garden outside and extensive collection of local history inside
? A postage-stamp-sized post office
? Moraine Gardens, across the street from my house, specializing in native plants
? A seasonal roasted-corn-on-the-cob stand with all the trimmings that opens for several months in late summer and fall—like now
? And Clay’s jewelry business—although I prefer to pretend that doesn’t exist
I stepped out onto The Wild Clover’s front lawn into the sunny September afternoon and plunked myself down in one of the brightly colored Adirondack chairs I’d painted.
The church that housed my store had been constructed with Cream City brick, which was made from a special clay found only along the banks of the western shore of Lake Michigan, mostly in the Milwaukee area. When it was fired, the clay turned a creamy light yellow color. The church’s steeple and bell tower were whitewashed and wood-framed, and the church bells were still intact.
Milwaukee was forty minutes away, close enough to Moraine to visit whenever we needed culture and fine dining. I’d spent enough years living in the city to appreciate what it had to offer. All the same, when I first left home to move to Milwaukee, I couldn’t wait to get away; but by the time we decided to relocate, I couldn’t wait to come back. It’s weird how your priorities change over time.
While I sat admiring my store, Holly came out, waved good-bye, and roared away in her Jag. A few minutes later my grandmother’s Cadillac Fleetwood pulled over, its tires kissing the curb. Mom was on the passenger’s side as usual, since Grams, at eighty years old, refused to give up the driver’s seat.
The Caddy’s window slid down, and Mom poked her head out.
“What’s going on inside the store?” Mom asked, even though she knew perfectly well.
“September is National Honey Month,” I said. “The store is celebrating.”
“Looks to me like you’ve been drinking.”
Now how could she tell from where she was? Then I noticed that I had an empty flute in my hand. “Only a little,” I said, walking over to the car.
My mother had done me a huge favor when Clay and I decided to move to Moraine, by selling us the family home for a very low price—making it affordable enough for us to also buy the house next door as well as the market. My dad had died several years ago, dropping at the age of fifty-nine from a massive heart attack, and Mom never got used to living alone. After the house closing, Mom moved in with her mother, my sweet-apple-pie Grams, who was presently looking happy and pretty with a daisy from her garden tucked into her little gray bun.
Unfortunately, all my mother’s genes came from my ornery grandfather’s side, not from my grandmother’s. Mom had a negative outlook on life. Worse, since the house sale, she thought she owned me.
“Are you coming in?” I asked, noticing that they weren’t getting out of the car.
Grams leaned over Mom to join the conversation. “We’re going to the beauty shop over in Stone Bank,” she said. “We only stopped because we saw you outside and wanted to say hi.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking on the job,” Mom said, puckering her lips in disapproval. “You aren’t serving alcohol inside the store, are you?”
“When’s your appointment?” I said to Grams, who caught my hint.
“We have to go, Helen,” she said to my mom. “Or we’ll be late.”
My mother hated being late for anything. “Fine,” Mom said.
Grams pulled out at a snail’s pace and disappeared from sight.
I stood on the curb, considering the virtues of a hot cup of coffee.
While I went over my limited beverage options—coffee from Koon’s Custard Shop or more champagne, which would have been the absolute wrong decision—Hunter Wallace, my first high school flame, pulled up at the curb in a Waukesha sheriff’s SUV and decided for me.
I’d get neither.
As Hunter rounded the SUV, his body language screamed official business. He’s a member of the Critical Incident Team, aka C.I.T., which comprises law enforcement officials from the surrounding towns and villages. They respond to anything considered high risk. The C.I.T. would swing into action, for example, if we had a hostage situation or a gunman entrenched on a rooftop. Not that we get much of that kind of crime. C.I.T. also handles potentially risky situations like search warrants and arrests, but again, not much of that action around here.
Although last year, when Stanley Peck had summer workers staying at his farmhouse, C.I.T. had to break up a drunken shooting incident that left poor Stanley with a hole in his foot.
Stanley, all sixty-plus years of him, still owned one of Wisconsin’s disappearing farms, although he leased out most of his acreage to other farmers. His wife, Carol, had died that year. I thought about how lonely he must’ve been without her, and how that emptiness might have been the reason he invited temporary summer workers to stay with him in the first place. Rumor has it Stanley did the shooting himself and blamed it on his houseguests, but since he has deep-rooted family ties and is as local as you can get, the town sided with him and sent the so-called rabble-rousers packing.
Stanley still had a slight limp.
Because Hunter looked so businesslike, my eyes swept up to The Wild Clover’s bell tower. I didn’t see any gun-men up there. Stanley Peck was inside the store, but last I looked, he hadn’t been toting any dangerous weapons—visible ones, at least.
“Hey, Hunter,” I greeted him, taking in his tight jeans and untucked, button-down blue shirt with rolled sleeves. The shirt matched the blue of his eyes.
Hunter lived about ten miles north of Moraine and worked in the City of Waukesha, which was twenty-five miles southeast of my town. Our paths hadn’t crossed on a daily or even weekly basis in the two years I’d been back in Moraine. We didn’t see much of each other in the fourteen years that I had lived in Milwaukee, either (between the time I went to college there and when I came back, with a lot of baggage in the form of Clay Lane). Still, Hunter was usually happy to see me when we came face-to-face here and there. But today he wasn’t in a joking, flirtatious mood.
“Story, I need your help,” he said. “Right now.”
“Sure.”
“I see Grace Chapman’s car. Is she inside?” He motioned to the market.
I nodded, sensing this wasn’t the best time to invite him in to toast my newly single status. “What’s up?”
“I have bad news. Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
With that he yanked open the door and disappeared inside.
What could Hunter possibly need me for? What bad news was he about to deliver? Was it bad news for me? Or for Grace?
Before I could ponder the cryptic message further, Hunter came out, leading Grace by her elbow and carrying a small bag of groceries tucked under his arm.
“What’s going on?” Grace asked him.
“Just get in, please.” He held open the front passenger’s side door. “You, too, Story. Please. Hurry. I’ll tell you on the way.” Grace slipped in first, and I got into the backseat. Hunter handed me Grace’s bag of groceries, slammed the door, and trotted around to the driver’s side.
I heard heavy breathing behind me, glanced back, and saw a crate in the cargo area. Dark canine eyes peered back at me. Large or small, dogs get the hairs on my arms standing at rigid attention. The big ones have big teeth and most of them think they are the leaders of the pack, which includes any humans around. The little ones are even worse, all hyper and ready to latch on to sensitive body parts.
Getting bitten by a dog as a kid has made me leery of all canines.
This one was big. I scooted closer to the door.
As we pulled out to make the short run to the north side of town where Manny and Grace lived, Hunter was more serious than I’d ever seen him. “Have you been home in the last few hours?” he asked Grace.
“Not since earlier this morning. I’ve been visiting my brother and sister-in-law. Why? Did something happen to Manny? Is my husband okay?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Grace,” Hunter said. “But Manny’s unconscious out by the beehives, and it doesn’t look good.”
“Oh, no!” Grace said.
“Who called you?” I asked.
“Ray Goodwin stopped by to pick up a honey delivery and found him.”
Hunter glanced back at me. Grace looked over at him, and I could see the shock on her face and how pale she was, before I met Hunter’s blue eyes. The message they conveyed wasn’t good. He was preparing her for even worse news.
“Hunter, you have to be wrong!” I said, a little too quickly, a little too loudly in such a confined space, but I’d been caught off guard. “Manny was perfectly fine yesterday morning when I saw him.”
“I came from their place just now,” he said, looking at me in the rearview mirror, “and saw it with my own eyes. That’s why I need your help, Story. Manny’s covered with bees and we can’t get near him.” Then to Grace, “I can’t tell you how bad I feel. You’d better brace yourself for the worst possible case.”