Buzz Off

Table of Contents

 

 

When we arrived at the Chapman property, an ambulance, three fire trucks, and several police vehicles were parked off to the side of the house. Paramedics and firefighters huddled together, studying the beeyard out in the back field. Both the Waukesha Sheriff’s Department and the Moraine Police Department were represented. I saw Johnny Jay, the Moraine police chief, off by himself, talking on his phone.

I’d never seen a dead person outside of a coffin, and seeing Manny lying there almost brought me to my knees. If I’d still had a champagne buzz after riding over in Hunter Wallace’s truck, I instantly sobered up when I walked into the apiary and saw Manny Chapman’s body.

I wanted to be alone someplace, crying my eyes out. I couldn’t stop thinking that if I had been here, none of this would have happened. Logically, however, I knew that I couldn’t fall apart. I was the only living and breathing person available at the moment who knew anything about bees. I had to help.

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BUZZ OFF

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Deb Baker.

 

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My deepest gratitude to:

If I hadn’t been drinking champagne at noon on Friday, I would have been over at the honey house with Manny Chapman, my beekeeping mentor and owner of Queen Bee Honey, and possibly, just possibly, I might have saved him from what must have been a very painful death. Instead, oblivious to his pending demise and feeling slightly tipsy, I popped open bottle number three and filled more flutes.

I’m the only grocer in the unincorporated town of Moraine, Wisconsin, which has a population base climbing steadily toward eight hundred residents. I work hard to fill the needs of the community. Today, business was brisker than usual at my shop, The Wild Clover, mainly because of the free champagne and the one-day sale on everything in the store, including special bullet items such as:

There’s nothing like the lure of freebies and discounts to bring out the best in people. Everyone in my little hometown made a point of stopping by my store to tip a glass and wish me well, whether they meant it or not.

Well, maybe not
everyone
stopped by. My ex-husband, Clay Lane, didn’t show up, even though he lived only two blocks away and must have seen the banner tacked to the awning, announcing my freedom party.

“You should call him up, Story,” Carrie Ann Retzlaff, my cousin and very part-time employee, said in her husky chain-smoker’s voice. My cousin had close-cropped yellow-as-straw hair and a toothpick-thin body, since she ingested more nicotine and alcohol than nutrients. “Invite the ex to join us,” she suggested.

I scowled playfully to let her know that was a bad idea. Celebrating a divorce is a lot like celebrating a successful heart transplant. They both hurt like hell, and your quality of life would be much better if the issues leading up to the situation had never happened in the first place. But at least I can say I’m still in the game, still alive and kicking. It’s all about attitude.

“Cheers to all of you from me, Story
Fischer
,” I called out, placing special emphasis on my last name and noting by the clock above the register that I’d been a free woman for almost twenty-four breezy, wind-at-my-back hours. Fischer. My maiden name. The one I’d reclaimed yesterday afternoon. It sounded so right! Why had I ever given it up?

Story was my nickname, bestowed by childhood friends because I used to be quite the storyteller—in a friendly, silly sort of way, of course. I liked Story much better than my given name, Melissa, which my family shortened to Missy before I could even lift my bald baby head. As I grew up, Missy didn’t exactly shout out strength and intelligence. Besides, the other kids came up with a bunch of variations for Missy that were truly mean and hurtful. Plus, Story has a bit of intrigue to it.

Story Fischer, that’s me.

At the moment, I really missed my most loyal part-timers, twins Brent and Trent Craig, local college students in their sophomore years, working reduced hours at the store around gaps in their class schedules. That left me pretty much alone most days until they eventually reappeared like glorious gifts from heaven.

For this special event, I’d been forced to ask Carrie Ann, smoke-scented perfume and all, to work for me while I hosted the party. “Don’t think anything of it,” she said when I thanked her for the third time. She reached under the counter, then tipped back and drained an entire flute of champagne with one chug. “This is like hanging at Stu’s Bar and Grill, only better because I get paid.”