Buzz Off (9 page)

After I took a hot shower at home, Mom handed me a cup of steaming tea, settled me in a kitchen chair, put on her everyday scowl, and went to work on my confidence. “What were you thinking to get involved in something like this?”

My defensive hackles went up. I forced them down.

Being the oldest sucks. Personally, I’ve always suspected our mother/daughter conflict has everything to do with me being the firstborn female. I had a theory about relationships between mothers and oldest daughters. They couldn’t get along no matter how hard they tried. I’d seen it time and time again by observing other families. While Mom had a hot, poisonous tongue and spoke out before thinking about how harsh her comments were, most mother/daughter relationships were cooler and crisper. Sometimes I wished for a cold, restrained version of Mom.

Since most of my immediate family lives within a ten-mile radius of each other, I really try to get along with them the best I can. But I seem to be the only one who has unresolved issues with Mom.

Grams squeezed my arm to show support. She had her gray hair pulled up in her standard cute little bun with a new, fresh daisy tucked into it. Grams, at eighty, was an avid flower gardener, card player, and amateur photographer.

“You didn’t kill that girl, did you?” Mom asked. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Of course not. I just found her. That’s all there is to it.”

“What must people think?” That’s my mom, she really focused on the important things in life.

“Now, Helen,” Grams scolded my mother. “It’s your daughter we should be most concerned about, not the neighbors.”

With a little coaxing from Grams, I told them what I knew, which was next to nothing other than that my kayak had gone missing and Clay had given me the impression this morning that Faye was with him, when all along she must’ve been lying dead in my kayak.

“You’re still shaking,” Grams said when I tried to take a sip of my tea and my trembling hand gave me away. “I’ll get you a sweater.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

Grams didn’t believe me about being fine. She went into my bedroom to find a cover-up. Her departure gave Mom another opportunity.

“When are you going to stop causing problems for us?” she complained. “This is killing your grandmother. First, you marry the wrong man . . .”

True. I had liked Clay more than I should have simply because my mother hadn’t.

“Your personal life is spread over the entire town like a B movie . . .”

Not my fault that Clay tried to sleep with every woman in town.

“And poor Manny Chapman is killed by the same kind of bees you have, and I can look right out this window and see them all over the place. What do you have, a death wish?”

Heavy sigh.

“Now you’re linked to what might turn out to be murder, through some kind of sex triangle!”

“Okay, that’s going too far,” I said. “I have a few bullet points for you. One, I have no control over Clay’s actions. Two, Manny’s death has hit me hard enough without you going through this big lecture, okay? Three, he was killed by wasps, not honeybees. Four, I’m not involved in any triangle. And five, I refuse to take responsibility for Clay’s bad behavior ever again.”

“Not taking responsibility has been your problem all along.” Mom made a sour expression. Worry lines were permanently etched in her forehead. I knew that if I pointed them out to her, she’d blame those on me, too.

Grams came out of my bedroom carrying a cardigan.

“Mom’s ready to leave,” I said to her, taking the sweater and putting it on. But my goose bumps and shivers weren’t from coldness. Extra layers wouldn’t help bring back Manny or Faye. “Thanks for rescuing me at the river.”

Grams beamed. “You’re welcome, sweetie. Take care of yourself. If you don’t want to be alone, you can come stay with us for a while.”

“I’ll remember that.”
No, thanks!
Eating poisonous mushrooms would be less painful than staying with my mother.

“I’ll drive,” Mom said to Grams at the door, picking up an ongoing conversation that they carried from one scene to another. You’d think she’d have given up by now.

“I’m perfectly capable, Helen.” Grams refused to give up the driver’s seat, which annoyed my mom no end. The Cadillac Fleetwood was Grams’s pride and joy. It had been the height of luxury in the mid-nineties, she took great care with it, and she never, ever allowed anyone else to drive it.

Mom gave me an eye-roll and grimace that implied we were on the same side. It said,
Look what I have to put up with
.

Grams is third-generation Morainian, Mom is fourth, making me fifth, and our family one of the oldest in town. The old cemetery, next to The Wild Clover, is filled with names from both sides, since my father came from this area, too. If you’ve been in Moraine as long as we have and you’re from Grams’s generation, you get automatic acceptance in the old guard’s eyes. They watch out for each other and know more of the goings-on than they’d ever admit.

My cousin Carrie Ann came up the sidewalk as Grams and Mom were leaving.

“How are you doing, Carrie Ann?” Mom said, rather stiffly. Carrie Ann was my dad’s sister Marla’s daughter. Mom had never gotten along with Aunt Marla and she didn’t have any use for my cousin or her hard ways, but she was bound by her manners.

“Pretty good,” Carrie Ann said. “Thanks for asking.”

We watched them drive away at a max of ten miles per hour with a jerky stop at the Main Street crossing.

“I’m ready to chew off my left arm,” Carrie Ann said. I noticed she had a hunk of gum in her mouth. She was a visual gum chewer, rolling it around while she talked. I couldn’t help staring at it. “I quit smoking this morning and it’s killing me. This nicotine gum is the only thing saving my sanity.” She pulled a piece out of her pocket, peeled off the foil and popped it in her mouth right along with the old one.

It was beyond me how my cousin could pull off quitting two addictions at once. But it was her business, not mine. Hunter had refused to date smokers in high school and probably still avoided it. Was she quitting for him? I wanted to ask her about AA but I didn’t know if I’d blow a confidence if I did. I was sure she wouldn’t have wanted Hunter telling me.

“You smell nice, instead of like smoke,” I said, trying to give her encouragement. I knew she expected to be invited in, but I just couldn’t entertain at the moment. “Like lilacs.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“I heard hypnotism helps if your willpower starts breaking down.”

“Ha. I’ll keep it in mind. Right now I’d like to beat my head against a wall. Anything to numb my brain. And my hands. I don’t know what to do with them.” She gave me a studied look. “I heard about what happened. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. “

“You’re awfully pale.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Okay, if you insist.” Then Carrie Ann got to the point of her visit. “Did you figure out when I work again? I know this isn’t the best time to talk about it with a dead person in your kayak and all, but I need to pay my rent and I’m a little strapped right now.”

I took a moment to realize how lucky I was that The Wild Clover market was doing well enough that I could hire extra help. Times were tough. The twins needed to pay for college; Carrie Ann had rent due. Financially, I wasn’t in bad shape. Although, if things had gone like Manny and I had planned and we had expanded Queen Bee Honey, my future finances would have been even more secure.

“Come by the store tomorrow afternoon,” I told her. “We’ll talk about it and work up a plan.”

With that, Carrie Ann took her leave and went off down the street. I wondered where she was heading—home or to the bar. I hoped it was the former.

I went back inside and lay low, watching the world through the cracks in the blinds. Cop cars came down Willow Street and parked behind each other. Law officials began canvassing the neighborhood. A team swarmed into my backyard, staying wide of the beehives. They began searching along the waterline. I saw a deputy go into Moraine Gardens across the street. Clay’s car was next door, so he was home. The police chief’s SUV pulled up to the curb. Johnny Jay rang my bell. I had been surprised when none of the others had bothered to check to see if I was home, but now I knew—they must have been ordered to stay clear. It seemed that the police chief wanted first crack at me.

I decided to ignore him. I was all worn out emotionally and didn’t have the strength to take on Johnny Jay in the manner in which I had become accustomed. When I didn’t answer my door, he went over to Clay’s house. My phone rang multiple times, but I didn’t answer that, either, preferring to let the answering machine take over.

Not only are bullet points important in life, so are priority lists. My heart was heavy from the loss of Manny and the discovery of Faye’s body. All I wanted to do was stuff myself in my bedroom closet for the rest of eternity. But I still had a bee mission to complete. I didn’t want to lose them, too. Time was running out. Before long, someone was going to show up at Grace Chapman’s and take the beehives.

So when the sun began its descent over the horizon and the cops had finished in my backyard, and when the squad cars disappeared from my street, I cleared my mind of all whiny, self-pitying thoughts and called Grace.

“Grace, it’s Story Fischer.”

“My sister-in-law had a few rather unpleasant things to say about you,” she said, making this one of the poorest beginnings to a conversation in my history.

“I was upset,” I said. “And rightly so, I might add. She was rather unpleasant herself. But please, tell me about the bees. Where are they going?”

“Someone called and offered to take them off my hands. What else was I going to do with them?”

“What about giving them to me?” Was Grace really this dense?

“I never thought you’d be interested.”

“I love those bees. So did Manny. You can’t give them to just anybody. I’ll buy them from you.”

“Story, they killed Manny. How could you get up every morning and look out on a bunch of killer bees after what they did? Besides, I’m already getting paid for them. I tried to explain the risk, but this beekeeper didn’t seem worried.”

“I know they didn’t do anything to Manny. It had to have been—”

But Grace wasn’t going to listen. “I won’t discuss it with you anymore. I’ve made my decision and I’m sticking to it.”

“What about the equipment and some of the other things? Can you give me first dibs on the honey extractor and Manny’s journal?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. And, trust me, I’m not doing an inventory any time soon. I never set foot in the honey house when Manny was alive and I’m not changing that now. I’ll allow you to come out and get honey, though. To sell, I mean, and I’m counting on you to be honest with the proceeds.”

“Of course.” I was so relieved that I let the honesty shot fly by without comment. At least she would be open to working with me in some capacity. But she was one unbending woman.

“What’s the name of the bee association member who’s taking the bees?” I wanted to know.

“Gerald Smith,” she said. “He’s coming in an hour or so.”

“I’m so sorry about Manny,” I said, but Grace had already hung up.

I knew now what I had to do. My motive was crystal clear and there would be no turning back.

I was going to steal as many of Manny’s beehives as I could.

 

 

Black is a cool color. For starters, it’s slimming. You can wear it for any occasion—working out, sleeping, dressing up, and for blending in to the dark of night.

I pulled on black sweats and a black tee. Then added a black fleece after I opened the door and realized that the night air was a bit brisk. I had a black ball cap on my head with my hair tucked up inside.

I’d left my truck at The Wild Clover, which was standard operating procedure for me. Living two blocks away, I didn’t see the need to drive it back and forth constantly, and I used it more for work than for personal errands anyway. Once I was sure that there were no more cops on the street, I headed out, careful to stay in the shadows.

I worked on a plan as I snuck over. Beehives aren’t the lightest things to move, so I’d be physically handicapped working alone. And I couldn’t transport all of them in the short time I had. But I could take a few, disappear into the night, then work later on getting the rest of them in a less-covert manner.

My brilliant plan blew apart when the police chief honed in on me the second I tried to pull my truck out from its parking space at The Wild Clover. Johnny Jay blocked me in, got out of his vehicle, hitched his pants, and approached my truck. I refused to roll down the windows or step out of the truck until he threatened to smash my windshield with the butt of his gun. Then I rolled down the window on the passenger’s side, but only partway. He was standing on the driver’s side, so he had to walk around to the other side.