Mind Your Own Beeswax (15 page)

My bees looked good. Almost all of them had made it through the winter while under my rookie care and protection. A big surprise since it was also the first winter I’d had such a large beeyard and I was still learning the ropes as I went along.

Not that I hadn’t had a few disappointments. In early spring when I pried open the top of one of the hives and found the entire colony dead, my heart hurt for days. I felt so responsible and helpless.

That colony was gone, and nothing I could do would bring it back, but they’d been replaced with a new queen and workers, and life went on. I was happy to see yesterday’s recaptured swarm moving around and adjusting to their upgraded, spacious new home.

Dinky trotted around the yard, exploring her vacation property. She seemed to understand that when it came to my bees, she’d better mind her own beeswax. She instinctively gave the beeyard a wide berth, standing and watching me work from its perimeter as though the area had been dog-proofed with invisible electric fencing.

My backyard was a kaleidoscope of spring colors, with blooming lilacs, lavender, verbena, and scented geraniums filling my flowerbeds. Other perennials were forming buds and the trees were leafing out.

“Hey, Story,” I heard a voice call my name and cringed, keeping my back to her while I continued to check on each hive. If I ignored her, would she go away? Fat chance.

“Story!”

“Hi, Lori,” I said to my least-favorite real estate agent, who unfortunately stood in my ex-husband’s driveway next to the house she hoped to sell for him. The woman had always been a barracuda, but she was even worse since the housing market had taken a hit and business had slowed.

“It’s bad enough,” Lori griped, “that you have all those damn hives in your backyard, and now we just had two deaths in the vicinity.”

I glanced her way. “Yeah, it’s a crying shame that Hetty and Lauren went and got killed like that and might have ruined your chance for a big commission. They should have discussed the timing with you first.”

Lori had a perfectly round face that was quick to redden when she was angry. If the woman had a speck of self-consciousness, her mug should also have changed color in times of extreme embarrassment—like when she’d snuck through my yard to visit my husband and banged into one of the beehives, creating a scene that would have sent any other human being into extended hiding—but humility wasn’t one of Lori’s attributes.

“Your bees are making the sale of this property almost impossible,” she said. “And I’m
never
going to sell it if you don’t clean up your lawn and try to act like a normal person. Nobody intentionally grows dandelions.”

“Go away, Lori.” I went about my chores, making sure each hive still had enough stored honey.

“I’ll pay to have your weeds sprayed. Out of my own pocket. How’s that?”

“No way. Absolutely no poisons in my yard,” I said, turning fully to address her. Lori wore a prissy face, an ill-fitting pantsuit, and Barbielike high heels.

“Why not kill all those weeds?” she pressed. “Everybody else does.”

I couldn’t help what I said next. The words just slipped out. After all, I am my mother’s daughter. “Look at yourself,” I said. “If you want to know why I don’t use poisons, look in the mirror. You’re living proof of what toxins can do to what was once a living organism.”

Lori stared at me. “We’re not done with this,” she croaked. “I’m taking my complaint to the town board.” With that, she stomped off.

This wouldn’t be the first time Lori and I had gone rounds. Despite having the town chair (aka her husband) in her corner, she had still managed to lose the last time she’d tried to run my bees out of town. If anything, I thought that beekeeping in towns and cities should be encouraged more than it is, not eliminated. Since neighborhoods have more diverse nectar sources, all those lovely annuals and perennials, honeybees stay healthier and produce better honey than those that have to rely on wildflowers and monofloral crops. And I’d say all that if Lori involved the town board again.

I thought a few very bad thoughts about Lori before scooping up Dinky and heading to the store. My Sleeping Beauty sister wasn’t an early riser, so opening The Wild Clover fell to Carrie Ann or me every day. I’d hoped to leave Dinky home, but didn’t trust the little female as far as I could see her. During the night, she’d chewed up one of my favorite flip-flops, which was the worst thing she could have done if she wanted to stay on my good side.

Monday mornings usually started out slow at the store. This one didn’t.

“Hunter’s waiting for you,” Carrie Ann said, looking perky with her short, straw-colored hair all spiked. I couldn’t help thinking her hair reminded me a lot of Dinky’s, only with more unnatural color. “He tried to sneak in the back door, but I’m on to him.”

“Did you two talk,” I asked, “about you-know-what?”

“Uh-huh. We’re good.”

I breezed by, relieved. Carrie Ann certainly looked upbeat and sober to me.

“Wait a minute,” she called. “Not so fast. Where’s Dinky? You didn’t do something you’ll regret later, did you? Please tell me she’s okay. You didn’t lose her? Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Relax.” I had the dog stuffed under my arm, where she peeked out like a big ball of armpit hair. I was intent on getting to my back office without any of the customers noticing my hairy new addition. Thanks to my cousin’s yelling, several customers had turned our way. “She’s right here,” I whispered, quickly showing living proof to Carrie Ann before racing away. I opened the door of my office/ storage area/break room to find Hunter and Ben waiting. Both looked rugged and manly, especially Hunter, considering he was the man and Ben was a dog.

I closed the door behind me.

“I had planned on stopping at your house,” Hunter said, with a teasing, amused grin, “but then I saw Lori next door, standing in the driveway with a rabid expression on her face. It looked like you two were having one of your friendly conversations. I didn’t want to intrude.”

I made a mental note to add another bullet point to Hunter’s pro and con list. Con: he needed to be more protective. “What you really mean,” I said, “is that you were afraid you might get caught in the crossfire.”

“Exactly. I could have called, but I wanted to see your perky, smiling face before I started my day.”

“Aren’t you sweet!” I couldn’t help grinning at that.

I put Dinky on the floor near Hunter’s feet, which were encased in Harley Davidson motorcycle boots. I couldn’t satisfy my foot fetish. Darn.

Dinky, with four paws on the floor, promptly peed, creating a now-very-familiar yellow puddle. “According to Norm Cross,” I said, “that means she likes you.”

“I have that effect on women.”

While I wiped up the mess, Ben stared at the goofy-looking creature sniffing around his massive paws. Ben was as puzzled as the rest of us when it came to determining what species the little ball of fur was. He lifted the paw she was currently inspecting and gingerly set it down again. Then he backed away.

“Since when do you allow dogs in the store?” Hunter wanted to know, suppressing a chortle.

“Ben just walked right in, and you didn’t ask permission.”

“He’s a service dog. He can go wherever he wants. I’m pretty sure that Dinky doesn’t meet the qualifications as outlined under—”

“Stop, please, I have an idea,” I said, interrupting. “I completely agree with you. I don’t want anything to do with this dog. Arrest it. Take it away, please.”

“Don’t look to me for assistance. Ben could eat her for lunch. Just keep her in this room and no one will have to know. But you better hope Johnny Jay doesn’t find out. He’s gunning for you.”

That’s all I needed on a Monday morning. Johnny was like an enormous vulture waiting for an opportunity to strike. “So why are you two here so early in the morning?” I asked, shaking off the negative, going for the positive. “It must be really important if it brought you into the store.”

Hunter usually avoided The Wild Clover, claiming it was, in his words, “a hotbed of rumor and innuendo and a den of dubious drama.” Which was probably true. The Wild Clover was a meeting of the minds and not all of them were firing on all cylinders.

“We need to talk,” Hunter said. And he wasn’t smiling when he said it.

Yikes! Whenever a man said he wanted to talk, I expected nothing but bad news and trouble. In the space of two seconds, all kinds of thoughts rushed through my head. Were we over before we barely got started? Was this the let’s-just-be-friends discussion? Couldn’t he have picked a better time to drop a bomb on me than first thing in the morning at the store?

“Talk?” I said, dumbly. “Uh-uh . . .”

“About some stuff from the past. A few things I don’t remember too clearly.”

“Sure.” Did he mean our past?

“But not here. Can you meet me at Stu’s at noon? I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Okay.” Was I easy or what? “But can you give me a teensy, tiny hint what it’s about?” I could have added “so I don’t dwell on it all morning and drive myself nuts,” but I left that part out.

“We got a warrant and searched Norm Cross’s house. We found something.”

“So he killed Lauren and Hetty?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What did you find?”

“Not here. You’ll have to wait.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t bring Dinky.”

I suddenly remembered something. “Oh no, I’ll have to find someone to cover for me. I totally forgot I have a dental appointment at eleven.”

Hunter lifted his eyebrows. “Okay, then, forget it. We’ll talk later.”

“No!” And lose an opportunity to help out and get inside information at the same time? No way. “I’ll meet you as soon as I can. I’ll be there. For sure.”

After Hunter and Ben disappeared out the back door of the store, I considered workable options for the few hours I’d be gone. Holly (once she showed up) and Carrie Ann should be able to handle business for a while. They had already assured me they could handle the hour I’d be gone to the dentist. Another hour wouldn’t hurt if business stayed steady and not too busy.

I poked my head out of the back room. We were already too busy.

“I could use some help up here,” Carrie Ann hollered, reminding me to oil the squeak out of the door I had just peeked out. I saw a long line forming at the register, a sight we went out of our way to prevent if at all possible. Carrie Ann and I worked nonstop for several hours. When Holly arrived, I took a quick moment to give Dinky a potty break, before which I discovered she had gnawed through a box filled with bags of Wisconsin-made beef jerky and had scattered pieces all over the room. I picked up the mess.

Outside on the lawn, Dinky refused to go.

Back inside, a call to the twins to ask if one of them could come in for a few hours produced nothing but a request to leave a voice message and little hope that one of them would return my call in time. So I was stuck. Now what?

Meeting Hunter for lunch and the lure of finding out what he’d found in the Cross’s house was too much to resist. So I did the one thing I had promised myself I’d never do. Never, ever, ever. Which proves I should never ever again say never.

But these were extenuating circumstances.

Sometimes a woman has to do what a woman has to do, even when it means going against her principles.

So I called my mother and arranged for her to work for me.

Doctor T. J. Schmidt had all the stereotypical characteristics of a dentist. For one, his teeth couldn’t have been more perfect. They were bigger, straighter, and whiter than anybody else’s, a constant reminder to his patients that if we’d just taken better care of our own teeth (brushed more, flossed regularly) we could have had what he had.

Nobody in Moraine had healthier teeth.

For another, he had a happy, smiley face on all the time, like he really enjoyed what he did for a living and couldn’t wait to inflict pain and torture on his next patient, which happened to be me at the moment.

For another, he talked nonstop, asking question after question I couldn’t answer, while he filled my mouth with metal implements and gloved fingers.

“How’s the family?”

“Ahkay.” I mean what did he expect, a detailed report on each and every family member from this position? I wasn’t sure he really cared about my answers, but I was bound by social conditioning to attempt responses. Although whatever happened to “Don’t talk with your mouth full”? The thing that really amazed me was how well he understood the slobbering and babbling coming from my vocal cords while he pressed down on my tongue.
“Isthiedklsithkelsk.”

“Really, that’s great.” He poked and prodded, x-rayed, cleaned, and polished, all the while asking me a few more cordial questions. Then we got to the meaty stuff. The topic turned to murder, although we didn’t have much of a two-way conversation going. T. J. brought it up and this time all I had to do was listen to his opinion on the subject.