Twenty
Tuesday morning the air was thick and heavy, as though a major storm was gathering, although there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The small world of Moraine had the same storm-brewing quietness and anticipation to it that I’ve sensed before on funeral days.
My friend and mentor would be buried today, and I didn’t want to accept it. For me, the worst part of a funeral service was when the casket was closed up. Every time, the finality of it hit home like a blow to my body.
I wondered about Faye, if her body had been released, and whether her family had made arrangements. And whether Clay was really guilty and how it must feel to be behind bars, locked up like an animal.
As I was getting ready to go to the market, Ray Goodwin knocked on my back door. I felt awful from lack of sleep and, I swear, I could still smell skunk. It had permeated my skin and was running rampant through my blood system. The good news was the effects of the bee stings had almost disappeared.
I went outside to greet him rather than let him inside my home.
“I heard talk about a meeting to destroy your bees,” he said, his head cranked in every direction but mine. “I don’t see ’em—did they get them after all?”
“Nobody got my bees, Ray. I moved them, since Lori was determined to get her way.”
“That’s a relief. I hope my bee stings didn’t make things worse for you?”
“The situation couldn’t have gotten any worse, but that’s Lori’s fault, not yours. Don’t worry about it.”
“Bet you’re wondering why I stopped by.”
“A little, yes.”
“Just to see how you’re doing. I know you and Manny Chapman were real close.”
“That’s nice of you. Actually, you’re just the person I need to talk to.” Ray might know something about Manny’s bees that I didn’t. He was on the road, traveling the county most of the time, and people talked at his stops. “Have a seat.” I gestured to the patio table and chairs.
Ray took a seat without sniffing the air or backing his chair away from me, so I hoped that the skunk odor was a figment of my imagination. “I said I was sorry for what I did with Kenny’s Bees,” he said. “You aren’t going to bust my chops over it again, are you?”
“No, no, I’m not still mad about finding out you were selling honey for Kenny’s Bees as long as you quit.” I didn’t mention that Queen Bee Honey might not even exist in the future.
“I haven’t been over there since our conversation.”
“Good. I need to talk to you about Manny’s bees. They’re missing, and I’m trying to locate them.”
“Did you ask Grace where they went?” Ray readjusted his ball cap.
“She said somebody named Gerald Smith picked them up.”
“Well, there you are.”
“I can’t find him in the directory, and the association never heard of him.”
“Maybe he’s from someplace else.”
“Grace said specifically he was from Manny’s bee association. Have you heard anything on your route?”
Ray looked out over my backyard toward the river, thinking. “I’d heard that Manny had extra-strong colonies and that he wasn’t plagued with colony collapse like a lot of the beekeepers.”
“That’s right,” I said. “He was working on selective breeding, but it was his big secret. That’s all I know. His research was all ‘top secret.’”I used finger quotes to show how top secret it really was. According to Manny, if he came up with a cure for a bee disease or condition, he’d let everyone else know. Other than that, his honey secrets were his private business.
Talking about Manny’s experiments reminded me of his bee journal. I’d have to see if Grace had come across it and ask her again if I could have it.
“Too bad he didn’t tell you more about what he was working on,” Ray said. “There’s money in strong hives.”
“I had my hands full just learning Beekeeping 101 without understanding the financial side of beekeeping.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t any of Ray’s business. Manny’s honey business was a lot of work, but he knew how to turn a profit. “I better get going,” I said. “I’m opening up the store this morning.”
“I have gallons of fresh apple cider from Country Delight Farm,” Ray said. “Want me to drop some off at the market?”
“Sure. By the way, any more trouble with bee stings?”
“No,” he said. “I’m a quick learner.”
I locked up, walked down to The Wild Clover, and went through the routine of opening the store while Ray added gallons of apple cider to my inventory. The phone rang. It was Carrie Ann.
“I can’t make it in today,” she said, sounding like her old, hungover self. “I’m sick.”
How disappointing! I had been rooting for her. At least she’d called in. The old Carrie Ann never even bothered.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Thanks for the offer. But I just need to sleep it off, I mean, you know, sleep is good for you when you’re sick.”
“Right.”
I heard a voice in the background. “Is that Hunter I hear?”
“That’s him.”
“Tell him I’m sorry I called him a jerk.”
“Tell him yourself.” There were sounds of Carrie Ann passing the phone over.
Jeez. I wasn’t ready for a face-to-face apology, or even a voice-to-voice one. I still didn’t like what he had done, coming on to me while having a relationship with Carrie Ann.
“Hello?” Hunter said innocently.
“I’d like to apologize for calling you names,” I said.
There was a pause. “You only called me one,” he said.
“But I thought more of them in my head.”
“Oh.” Another pause, then, “We should talk.”
“Yes, soon.”
I hung up wondering if I still had to honor my promise to Hunter to give Carrie Ann another chance. He’d continue to push for it, I was sure, and she had been good for a few days. But I didn’t have time to think on the cousin problem any longer because the store got jumping with business.
Stu Trembly came through on his way to the bar. He bought a newspaper and a bag of small chocolate bars.
“Has Carrie Ann been hanging at the bar?” I asked him.
“Last night was the first time this week.”
Confirming my suspicions. “It’s only Tuesday, Stu.”
Aurora Tyler from Moraine Gardens came in for yogurt.
“Any idea who called in that fire alarm?” she still wanted to know.
“Not a hint,” I said. “All I’m sure of is that it wasn’t anybody who was at the meeting.”
“Kids, you think?”
“Probably,” I agreed.
Next, Lori Spandle came in without her headgear, looking for eggs—and trouble.
“My bees are gone,” I told her.
“Good riddance. Mind if I check that out for myself?”
“Go ahead, just don’t put one foot in my yard.”
“Then how can I verify whether you are telling the truth or not?”
“Stu has a canoe. Use the river like the Indians did.”
Lori smirked. “No way. I heard what happens on that river when you’re around.”
I overcharged her on the eggs. She didn’t notice.
Her husband, Grant, showed up ten minutes later.
“My Sweetie-poo is seriously upset,” he said.
I picked up a honey stick and held it out. “This should help with her condition. And a case of them might make a dent in sweetening her tart disposition.” Tart having two meanings in this case.
“Why can’t you be friends with her?” he asked. “That’s all she wants.”
Oh yeah, right. The poor mistreated schemer just wants to be friends.
Milly Hopticourt arrived with fresh bouquets for the flower bin, followed by P. P. Patti Dwyre, just the woman I needed.
“Patti, I’ve been hearing rumors,” I said. If anyone knew the gossip, Patti would, that is if there was gossip to know.
That perked her up. “Really!”
“About my ex.”
She flapped a wrist at me. “Common knowledge. Yesterday’s news.”
“About him and Grace Chapman.”
Patti’s eyes lit up. “What do you know? Let’s compare.”
“All I heard was that she and Clay had . . . you know . . . something going.”
Milly, still arranging bouquets, clucked in disapproval. “Grace is burying her husband this afternoon.”
“You’re right,” I said. “How tacky of me.”
Which it was.
Milly went on arranging the bouquets, tucking one here, moving one there, standing back and eyeing her work. Patti wandered off with a wink that said as soon as Milly left, we’d trade info.
She had to wait awhile because business stayed strong. When I had a chance, I opened a jug of the cider Ray had brought and set it out with little paper cups for customers to sample.
The phone rang a few times, and I had to let the answering machine pick it up. I needed to grow extra hands, or find more reliable help. Patti went outside and sat on a bench, determined to continue our conversation if she had to wait all day.
Some of the seniors who had been in the choir loft playing cards when the police chief took me away wanted to know the scoop.
“Vindicated,” I said. “The police chief was overreacting.”
“What do you think about that ex-husband of yours? Did he do it?”
“He’ll get his day in court.”
I should have gone into politics, I was so smooth at saying nothing. Not that I knew much. I hadn’t heard any updates on Clay’s situation or on the investigation into Faye’s murder, which I assumed would be ongoing. Johnny Jay had a suspect in custody but he still had to prove Clay did it.
Milly rounded up the seniors to all go out for corn on the cob, and they set off up the street—corn on the cob drenched in butter and salt sounded good, but I couldn’t leave the store. Instead I downed a handful of almonds.
My sister, Holly, finally arrived to help me. I let out a sigh of relief. “Eleven o’clock already?” I couldn’t believe where the morning had gone. My sister wore a white, low-cut V-neck tee with jeans, and rings the size of rocks on her fingers. Expensive-looking ones, too, compared to the sterling silver, twelve-dollar Celtic knot ring I wore on my right hand. I always noticed these things about Holly, and it annoyed me that I had such a jealous streak. I wasn’t exactly perfect, but I vowed on the spot to be a better sister and friend.
Holly sniffed. Either she was still angry, or I had leftover skunk smell on me.
“Can you smell skunk? You can, can’t you?”
“Only if I try.” Then she started laughing and wouldn’t stop.
“I don’t see any humor in the situation.” I bristled. “And you didn’t, either, last night.”
“You should have heard what Mom said on the phone to me this morning.” Holly wiped away tears. I was pleased to see that her mascara streaked—and I wasn’t going to tell her.
“I don’t want to know what she said.”
“K. It would only make you mad,” Holly agreed. “What should I do first here?”
“You have the hang of the cash register?”
“Like it’s my own.”
Which it sort of was, considering the fine print and the line I’d signed on.
“Then I’m going to sit outside for a few minutes. Get off my feet.”
Outside, Patti slid over and patted the bench.
“Milly’s right,” I said. “Today isn’t the day to dis Grace.”
“Funeral days are the biggest gossip days of the year,” Patti said. “That’s when the family’s past comes up for review. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
Now that she mentioned it, I had. People liked to tell stories about the deceased and that involved stories that included the loved ones left behind. Some of the stories were told in groups, some during eulogies, and some in quiet corners where the main focus of the story couldn’t be overheard.
“I still think we should wait.”
“Okay.” Patti shrugged like it didn’t matter. “But I have inside information and I might think it over and decide to keep it to myself.”
She was making it hard on me.
“Who around here found out about them first?” I asked.
“Me, of course. I saw them together.”
Right then, DeeDee Becker, Lori Spandle’s little sister, walked past and entered The Wild Clover without a glance in our direction. DeeDee was into lots of pierced flesh, loud clashing colors, and carrying a purse the size of a suitcase. I was sure she’d been shoplifting from my store, but I hadn’t been able to prove it. Then I realized I hadn’t warned my sister to keep an eye on her.
“Sorry, Patti, I’ve got to get back inside,” I said, deciding on the spot to speak only kindness about surviving loved ones. At least for one day.