Beeline to Trouble (2 page)

One

It took me and Hunter Wallace a long time to nail
down the specifics of “living in sin” (as my mother is sure to call it the minute she finds out). We both did a whole lot of foot dragging. I was most surprised by my own heavy, cold feet, since at thirty-four I’ve also been experiencing that hormonal ticking clock thing, and Hunter is one fine man.

Still, when it came to the obvious next step in our relationship, the part where we made a commitment, the little voice in my head wouldn’t shut up with all its insecurities. I suspect Hunter must have been experiencing the same thing, but if so, he kept it to himself.

The first issue was mine. I’d been (unhappily) married before and couldn’t bear the thought of another scorching relationship, unless it involved love bites rather than burn scars. Second issue (okay, this one’s mine, too): Hunter Wallace had lived a carefree single-guy existence, and I feared the idea of compromise and tolerance might be foreign to him. Based on the previous man in my life, I assumed that Hunter would be majorly set in his ways. But so far, I’m happy to report the toilet seat issue has been the only bump in the road. Still, as the pessimist side of me reminds the more optimistic part, Hunter and I are still in honeymoon mode.

Three blissful days and counting.

The last detail to be hammered out, the biggie that had held us up for the longest time, had finally been resolved. Sort of. The problem was that we both owned our own homes, and argued over which one we should live in. When Hunter first proposed our new arrangement, he said at the time, “I don’t care where we live as long as we’re together.” But that romantic statement managed to slip his mind, because later we couldn’t agree on where to live: his place, which was in a charming wooded setting but about the size of an outhouse built for two, or mine, which happened to be smack-dab in the center of town. I also have a thriving honeybee business due to a community of hives in my backyard, and my house is situated on the Oconomowoc River, not two blocks from The Wild Clover, the grocery store I own on Main Street here in Moraine, Wisconsin.

Guess who won that round? Me, that’s who.

Besides, this was the Victorian where I’d been raised. I silently thanked my lucky stars that it was still in my family, that it was my home, and maybe, if Hunter and I had children, it would stay in the family for another generation.

Imagining the two of us with kids was so strange, but I kind of liked the idea. My biological clock ticked louder, trying to hurry me up, but I stopped the sound right there and then. I might have an impulsive streak—okay, I absolutely do—but rushing headlong into another marriage wasn’t on my rash decisions list.

Hunter hasn’t talked about putting his house up for sale yet or even suggested renting it out, which I guess is okay. We both have a little insecurity about this move, and I think we’re both hanging on to what we had in the past. Just in case things go south.

But so far, so good. Fingers crossed.

At the moment, on a sunny Saturday morning in the first week of July, Hunter was watching me from a safe distance as I prepared to plunder my bees’ overstocked honey pantry. And since honeybees have lots of eyes, I didn’t stand a chance of sneaking up on them. Zillions of eyeballs were trained on me as I began suiting up in protective gear. Not only do my favorite flying insects have eyes on the sides of their heads, they also have three more tiny optics buried in body hair on their crowns.

I really hate wearing the bee suit and avoid it as much as possible, but since looters after their honey tend to tick off bees, I wasn’t taking any chances.

I paused briefly in the midst of donning all my gear to rake my own eyes over the hot man I had decided to cohabitate with, a guy I’d known my entire life and had even dated all through high school. I regretted not having stayed with him after we graduated, and I definitely regretted tying the noose in my bad first marriage. But maybe Hunter and I had needed time to grow up, to take a shot at what else was out there, to come to the realization that the grass was greenest in our own backyards.

Hunter was about to head off for work at the Waukesha sheriff’s department, but he doesn’t look like your average cop. He wasn’t dressed in a uniform (not that I would have had any complaints about that, since a man in uniform can be sexy as hell), but instead wore stylish undercover garb: a black T-shirt (with bulges where they should be), jeans (tight in all the right places), and Harley boots (which were cool, except that one of my fave male body parts are feet, and I like them best unshackled. Hunter, I should point out, has spectacular feet).

Next to Hunter, Ben sat watching me prepare, too. He came as part of the Hunter package when I said yes to our new living arrangement. Ben is Hunter’s K-9 Belgian Malinois partner. He’s smart, tough when he’s asked to be, and gentle all the rest of the time. I breathe easier knowing Ben is watching Hunter’s back, especially when they’re out on Critical Incident Team business. C.I.T. handles the stuff that the local police aren’t adequately prepared for, anything high risk, like escaped and dangerous criminals or hostage situations. It’s our version of a tactical unit, not unlike a SWAT team.

Anyway, I’d barely zippered up my protective jacket when my sister Holly popped her head around the side of my house and whimpered, “Story, I have a big problem.”

My sister usually looks like she just stepped off a catwalk. Tall, slender, perpetually tanned, expensively dressed, and impeccably groomed. But this morning her hair was as wild as her eyes.

“Anything that requires manly assistance?” Hunter asked, knowing full well that most of Holly’s problems aren’t much bigger than one of my honeybees. Then again, since Holly rarely makes any appearances before noon, and this was 6:00 a.m., I suspected her current problem might be a little more substantial than usual. If not to me, at least to her.

“No, thank you, Hunter,” she said, barely giving him a glance. “I need Story.”

Story Fischer. That’s me. Daughter of Helen and Mike Fischer (dearly departed dad, who lost his life over five years ago to heart complications), older sister to Holly Paine (married to Max “The Money Machine” Paine), and granddaughter to Grams (who is sweeter than any honey I’ve ever tasted). When it comes to matriarchal families, we are one strong example of female-ruled hierarchy.

That might be why I love raising bees so much. Those girls run the show.

Not that the Fischer women are really bossing any men around at the moment. Mom and Grams are both widowed and live together in Grams’s old farmhouse, and although Mom’s in a new relationship with local antique-shop owner Tom Stocke, it’s way too early to start ordering him around. Holly’s husband is on the road most of the time, making him hard to pin down with orders. And Hunter and I are still in delusional mode. Real life hasn’t intruded on us yet.

“In that case, since I’m not needed here, I’m off to go bring home some bacon,” Hunter said, eyeing me up like I might be his BLT lunch.

“Working on the weekend?” Holly asked him.

“Have to,” he answered. “Crime happens around the clock.”

Hunter gave me a wink, then he and Ben hopped into his SUV and took off.

Holly hovered at the edge of my house. “No way am I coming into your backyard,” she announced, “and you know it.”

“Honestly,” I sighed, unzipping the jacket. “You flip out over nothing.” My sister has an unhealthy phobia when it comes to flying insects, in particular bees, even though she isn’t allergic and she’s never had a bad experience with them in the past. “Do they look like they care about you?” I asked, walking toward her. Unfortunately, some of the more curious honeybees must have been clinging to my jacket (which they tend to do), because as I approached Holly, she let out a bloodcurdling scream and ducked out of sight. I sighed again, in a combination of frustration and annoyance, removed the jacket, inspected the rest of me for miniature hitchhikers, brushed a few stragglers off, then found Holly on my front porch, sitting sullenly on the steps.

She started right in. “Max invited one of his company research and development teams to our house for this weekend. And I don’t know what to do.” The gathering surprised me, since her husband is a big honcho with an international company and spends what seems like three hundred and fifty days every year traveling. This had to be the first time he’d ever brought anybody from work home with him. “I really don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said again.

“You don’t know what to do about what?” I asked, sitting down next to her. “It’s not like you have to worry about taking care of the guests yourself.” Which was true. A few months ago, Holly had hired Effie and Chance Anderson to be her live-in housekeeper and gardener/handyman.

Chance Anderson was our age, and had been born and raised in Moraine. All of us here had thought he’d eventually settle down with a local girl, but Chance had had his own ideas—he and Effie met through an online matchmaking service and had a long-distance courtship before they got married and Chance brought her home with him. When Holly found out they needed a place to live, she made them an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they moved right into Max and Holly’s “carriage house,” as Holly insists on calling the guest suite above the garage. Apparently the original building was used to house horse-drawn carriages, and Holly likes the old-time reference. The apartment, like my sister’s mansion, had been updated by the last owner and was a sweet little cozy den.

“But who’s going to
feed
those people? I told Max I could do it, you know, play Martha Stewart for the weekend, but you and I both know I can’t.”

Unfortunately, she was right about that. My sister can’t boil water, let alone an egg, so I could see her problem.

“How many are coming?” I asked.

“Three. And they’re already here.”

“They’re at your house right now?”

Holly nodded and visibly slumped. “They came in last night in time for a sunset boat ride. They’re all still sleeping. What am I going to do when they wake up? OMG, what if they’re awake right now?” Holly, the acronym queen, just finished several months of therapy to control her nervous habit of using text-speak in place of plain English. She hasn’t slipped up in a long time. Until now. And if she stopped right there, this would be only a minor setback. I couldn’t help thinking that spitting out, “Oh! My! God!” instead of “OMG” would take the same amount of effort and be much more satisfying.

“Can’t Effie handle it?” I asked.

Effie handles all Holly’s housework. She’s a few years younger than her new husband, in her late twenties, has a farm-girl frame, the strength of a mule, and should be perfectly capable in the kitchen.

“I asked her,” Holly said. “Actually begged, but she said no, she doesn’t cook.”

Chance is a big guy, slightly overweight, which meant he likes his food. Maybe he was the cook in the family. But Holly shook her head when I suggested it. “Well, someone over there must know how to cook for a small group.”

“Small!” Holly huffed. “We’re talking
five
of us.”

Like that was some humungous gathering. Good thing Max didn’t suggest entertaining at their house more often. Ongoing dinner parties would send Holly deep into text-speak for sure.

I don’t know much about what Max Paine does for a living other than he works for Savour Foods, and he’s way up on their food chain, in more than one sense of the word. His company develops flavor enhancers, making things taste better—seasonings, sauces, that sort of thing. Which is ironic, really. Here’s Max with a successful career in the food industry, and a wife who can’t cook.

“Tell me, what does this visiting team actually work on?” I asked Holly.

“All I know is that they develop top-secret product lines,” she said. “The reason I’m so stressed out is because they’re food flavorists.”

“So?”

“So,” Holly said, “they know good food from bad food. They’re
flavorists,
for God’s sake!”

“I bet they’re all a bunch of geeky chemists with slide rules in their pockets,” I said. “Probably really dorky, and when they do take time to eat it’s probably fast food. Relax.”

To tell the truth, I didn’t have a clue what a flavorist really was or whether they had gourmet taste buds. What I did know was that my sister Holly is a drama queen. Just because she’s a few years younger than me shouldn’t give her the right to act like a big baby and expect her older sister to take care of all her problems. We’re talking about a woman who has been known to tackle shoplifters and wrestle them to the ground. What had happened to her all of a sudden?

“Hire a caterer,” I said next, which seemed like a no-brainer for my wealthy sister.

“I tried,” she responded. “Nobody can come on such short notice.”

“What about Mom and Grams? They cook.”

“Mom said you should do it. Grams can help make lunch. And Mom will take care of things at The Wild Clover while you help me out with tonight’s menu.”

Great. Just great.
Thanks a bunch, Mom.
“How hard can it be to throw together breakfast?” I said, realizing my fate was sealed. “Go pick up a dozen doughnuts and coffee, then take them out for lunch and dinner.”