Buzz Off (22 page)

“Everybody’s home nursing hangovers,” Carrie Ann said at one point, sounding slightly wistful that she hadn’t participated in the morning-after headaches and stomach churns. “Should I leave? I could really use the money, though.”

“Stay,” I told her. It was the least I could do for her after my disgraceful behavior with her boyfriend. “I have to follow up on some things. This is a good time to take care of them.”

I needed to know why Stanley Peck had a bee reference book from the library. And why the nonexistent Gerald Smith was searching for Manny Chapman’s journal. Not to mention the rumors surfacing about Clay and Grace.

I drove my truck into Waukesha and used my driver’s license to get into the jail.

“I’m Clay Lane’s wife,” I said, showing them my ID, which still said “Melissa Lane.” I made a note to myself to hold off changing the last name on my license until some time when I didn’t need to pump my ex for information while he was incarcerated. Although claiming that I was Clay’s wife made me almost physically ill.

“We buried Manny Chapman yesterday,” I told Clay from the free side of the Plexiglas. “Grace took it hard.” Clay’s expression didn’t give anything away. If he had a secret affair going with Manny’s wife, he didn’t show it.

Clay looked out of place in a jumpsuit, a sad fashion statement coming from a man who wore a diamond earring. “Aren’t you here to get me out, honey?” he said.

“Quit calling me honey. And I can’t get you out. Why would you think that?”

“I thought, when they said you were here, that . . .”

“Bail’s been set, then?”

“This morning.”

“I’m not here to bail you out.” Did he really think I would bail him out even if I could? “How’s the food?” I asked, not sure what to say. This was my first experience visiting someone in jail. Should we move to small talk? The weather? The comings and goings of mutual acquaintances?

Clay took the lead. “You didn’t come to ask about my jail diet. You came to hear me say I killed my girlfriend so you can go back to Moraine and spread it around. Well, I didn’t do it,” he said. “I didn’t kill Faye.”

“That’s not why I’m here. I want you to talk to Johnny Jay, admit that you tried to frame me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You went to the library.” I added an accusatory tone to my voice for maximum effect.

“Is that a crime now, too?”

If Clay was playing dumb, he was doing a good job of it. But then, he’d had plenty of practice.

“You tried to set me up, to make it look like I killed Faye,” I said. “You used the library computer to send an e-mail to the police chief, lying about seeing me arguing with Faye.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

“So Johnny Jay would lock me up instead of you. But it backfired on you.”

Clay stared at me. “You’ve finally gone over the edge.”

“Not me. Nope. If anyone went over the edge, it was you. Did you snap? Because the man I knew, the man I remember, was a rotten husband and a womanizer, but I never thought he was a killer. Or that he’d stoop so low as to try to blame me.”

I was getting worked up, hot and flushed at the thought of what he’d tried to do to me after all the stuff I’d already endured because of him. “You deserve to rot here,” I said.

“Guard?” Clay looked around wildly, but he was locked in a cubicle-sized room with no way out. For once, he couldn’t run away from me. “Can someone take me back to my cell? Please?”

No one responded.

“And another thing,” I continued, “you slept with Grace Chapman. How could you?”

“Oh, please.” Clay tried to do a snorty, jokey laugh. “And thanks for visiting. It’s been a real trip. I tell you, once I’m out of jail, I’m going to seriously consider leaving Moraine. I’m sick to death of all the talking behind everybody’s back. I should have known you’d turn everybody against me.”

“Me, turn everyone against you? Ha!” I said. “Maybe, if you didn’t give the people I’ve known my whole life so much to talk about, they would have accepted you.”

“Look who’s talking!” He should have shut up and left it right there, but Clay never did know when to quit. He continued. “
You’re
the one who made a mockery of our marriage.
You’re
the one who broke our sacred wedding vows by divorcing me.”

My turn. I really tried not to resort to name-calling. I really, really tried—for about ten seconds. It didn’t work.

Painful and unpleasant memories from our toxic marital past were coming back to me, fast and furious. As though we had any other kind. Like all the times we’d argued about other women and where he had been all night and how he’d refused to confess his indiscretions even when I had concrete, indisputable evidence against him. And how I’d become spitting mad and start calling him names. No one in the world, not even my mother, could make me so hopping angry and frustrated.

“You sleaze-bucket,” I said. “You #@!!%.”

“Oh, that’s really mature,” Clay said before raising his voice. “Guard! Guard!”

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep, calming breath and wishing for another of Grams’s magic pills. “I’m all right now. I didn’t mean to go off. It’s just that when I heard about you and Grace . . .”

“I hardly even know the woman. She came to my place one time. Just one time.”

Clay was a one-time type of guy. One time was all he really wanted. Pursue, conquer, move on to the next woman. Classic sex addiction. And I couldn’t help noticing he didn’t flat-out deny my accusation. The creep.

“I still can’t figure out why you would kill Faye,” I said. “You could have just dumped her like all the others. Wouldn’t that have been the easiest way to break up?”

“Exactly right,” Clay agreed. “If anyone’s an expert at break-ups, it’s me.” He grinned, that little-boy impishness I used to find so cute. “When I get out, I’d like to spend time with you again. You know.” He raked me with his eyes. I gagged.

I could barely sputter my outrage. “You have got to be
kidding
.”

Was there a way to get to Clay so I could strangle him? There wasn’t a door on my side or I might have tried.

 

 

“Patron privacy,” Emily said, shaking her head when I asked her about Stanley’s bee book checkout. “We can’t discuss our patrons or their individual selections.”

“Okay, then. Can you tell me when the book will be available for another patron to check out?”

All I wanted to know was when Stanley had checked out the book, either before or after Manny died and his bees had disappeared. How hard was that?

“You can use the computer over there to place a hold.” She pointed at a row of computers against the wall.

I refrained from rolling my eyeballs skyward, although the temptation was almost irresistible.

“Emily, you’re taking the privacy act way beyond its original intention. You know the computer program won’t tell me when I can expect to get the book because I already tried looking that information up. When will it be available? That’s all I want to know. If you can’t get it for me soon, I’ll have to try to get it from another library.”

I hoped the threat of visiting another library would change her mind. Emily hated when her patrons went astray.

“I can get another one for you,” she offered. “I can reserve one from a consortium library and have it sent over.”

Frustrated, I tried another tack. “I hear that my ex-husband was in here the night of the bluegrass jam.”

Emily brightened. Library events were her favorite topic. “I’m planning more like that. One every month, I’m thinking, to develop continuity and big audiences. Do you have any recommendations? Something you think will go over well?”

“I’ll think on it. But getting back to that particular occasion. Remember, that’s the day we found Faye Tilley in my kayak? What I want to know is, did Clay use one of your computers while he was here?”

“Again, patron privacy.”

Just then, Stanley Peck walked in the door, or rather rushed in, threw a book on the counter, waved a hurried hello in our general direction, and disappeared out the door. I heard a sputtered word that sounded like “late.”

“Wonderful,” Emily said with glee after glancing at the front cover. “Now you can check it out.”

My only regret was that I wasn’t more discreet when I raced away without the bee book. But I didn’t have time to dally and make excuses. And I didn’t really care about the book at this point. I wanted to check out Stanley, not the book.

I was on his tail before he made a right turn out of the library’s driveway.

He headed north on Main Street, passed through town, then turned right and followed the rustic road with open pastures on one side and woodlands on the other. The country air smelled like freshly mowed lawn. As I drove, I rolled down my window and inhaled some of the fresh fragrance, trying to stay back far enough that he wouldn’t notice me. My truck wasn’t exactly camo-colored. I didn’t blend in well with the landscape in a bright blue vehicle. And I had to constantly remind myself to remain calm and to ease up on the accelerator each time I became over-eager. I’d start catching up in my excitement, then have to slow down when I realized the gap between us was closing.

If my hunch was right, I’d have Manny’s bees back today.

Because I was convinced Stanley was leading me right to them.

Facts about Wisconsin’s rustic roads:

Like this one, which was thirty-five miles per hour because of the winding, hilly route.

Did I mention winding?

The road curved one way then the other and before long I had a sneaky suspicion I’d lost Stanley. Worse yet, I wasn’t sure how far back he’d slipped my loose noose, since the road had been twisting for the last mile or so. It hadn’t intersected with any other roads, so he’d either pulled off into one of the driveways along the way or he’d sped up and outrun me, which wouldn’t be hard to do. My truck was reliable, but I never said it was fast.

The first scenario, turning into a driveway, was the most likely. Only someone with a death wish would take these hills and curves at high speeds.

I turned around and retraced my route, counting seven driveways in the area where I thought I’d lost him. None of the houses were visible from the road, one of the reasons this qualified as a rustic road. But it was an incredibly annoying designation at the moment.

I tried one of the driveways, following it in. Then I tried another and another until I’d checked out every single driveway Stanley might have ducked down.

He had simply vanished.

Not letting my failure get me down, I rerouted toward Grams’s field to check on my girls and whatever boys hadn’t been kicked out of the hives.

Grams’s car was in her driveway, and I saw Mom getting out of the passenger’s side. I blew by, slouching down, hoping they wouldn’t see me. As though slinking down in my seat would help conceal my truck.

I really, really wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

Pretty sure I’d slipped under Mom’s radar, I bounced along the edge of the cornfield and parked close to the hives. All was in order. The nail bed had worked perfectly to convince the skunk to find a snack alternative, one more healthful to his paws. On routine inspection, my little workers were coming and going as though nothing had happened the night before.

I had washed my skunked clothing and beekeeping equipment in soap, water, and ammonia, but I’d forgotten to bring them along. After all, I’d had other ideas for the day, ideas that hadn’t gone exactly as I’d expected. My original plan had me visiting my bees later in the day.

No big deal, I decided. I’d seen Manny work with his bees numerous times without protective gear of any kind. No veil or hat or gloves. He had gone among his honeybees with gentle bare hands and slow movements. I could handle that, too. Besides, didn’t my bees know me by now?

After pulling a bucket of bee syrup from the bed of my truck, I opened one of the hives and poured some into a feeder. As I said, bees are hungry at this time of year when the flowers are still blooming but pollen is getting scarce. To preserve their stores of honey until they really need them the most, Manny always supplemented their diet with sugar syrup. I intended to follow his lead.

The tricky part when dealing with so many honeybees is making sure they aren’t underneath your fingers.