A Beeline to Murder

“If you are sure you don’t mind.” Abby grabbed the pan and spoon and dashed outside, closing the slider behind her. The last thing she needed was to have that dog, as curious as she was, underfoot and getting stung. With a little luck and a lot of noise, the bees might become disoriented and take refuge nearby.

Balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder as she made her way to the elm tree, Abby said, “Philippe, you were only here once. Do you remember where I live?”

“Oui, but not exactly.”

“Last house, Farm Hill Road. Right side. If you hit the T, you’ve gone too far. Just look for the chicken on the mailbox.”

“Oh, mon Dieu. What if it flies off before I arrive?”

“It’s not a real chicken, Philippe.”

He laughed. “Très bon. Nevertheless, for me . . . the chicken . . . it belongs on a plate, not on the box.”

Amused, Abby replied, “Now you’re teasing me. Seriously, do you think you can find your way here?”

“Do not worry, Abby. My phone, it has the navigation.”

Abby watched the bees begin to drift from the tree. She clanged the spoon against the pan bottom. “Great. I won’t worry, then.” The bees lifted higher, as though suddenly caught in a whirlwind. Abby pounded the pan with such vigor, her arm ached.

“What is that racket, Abby?”

“I’m trying to disorient my bees so they won’t take off.”

“Is it working?”

“I can’t tell yet. Might take a while.”

“In that case, Abby, I will find you. I will look for the chicken and listen for the banging. A bient?t.”

Abby clicked off the call, dropped her phone into her shirt pocket, and banged the spoon slowly against the pan until the bees coalesced, wrapping themselves in a writhing mass around a limb. Please, just stay put.

After racing back to the kitchen, Abby dropped the pan and spoon on the counter. She checked on Sugar, who was chewing on a rawhide bone that, apparently, she had just rediscovered in a hiding place behind the couch. Just as well you stay put inside, where it’s cool. We’ll go for a walk later. Abby darted back to the patio. From an oversize basket, she snatched her elbow-length kidskin leather gloves and her white beekeeper suit. Searching the backyard, she spotted the ladder lying on its side near the apricot tree from which she’d rescued the last swarm.

With the ladder in hand and her suit and gloves under an arm, Abby lumbered toward the elm. She positioned the ladder as close as possible to the bees’ branch. Then she darted into the hive area, where she located the bee box that she’d prepared for the swarming season. In it, she’d placed one frame with a little honey and nine others without. Once the bees were inside that hive, they would have plenty of work to keep them busy, as they would build comb onto those empty frames. She wouldn’t have to worry about them taking off again.

Abby suited up, then picked up the bee box, walked back to the elm, and mounted the ladder. Stopping short of the top three rungs, she aligned the bee box directly under the swarm, wedging it between the ladder and her body.

You guys ready? Count of three. One . . . two . . . three. Abby gave the limb a muscular jerk. Thousands of dislodged bees vibrating en masse tumbled onto her and into the open box. What a rush! Their collective piping sound seemed to Abby like a wild cry of disorientation, but she was confident it soon would return to the happy buzzing of worker bees building a wax honeycomb onto the frames. The honeycomb would hold the colony inside, while sealing out intruders.