Mind Your Own Beeswax (3 page)

With monthly library events and weekly arts and crafts at my store, word had gotten around that Moraine was worth the stop. I had almost a full class of eighteen students for the candle-making class. Only two spots left. Yes, today’s event promised to be a killer.

A killer event, is what I’d been telling customers all week.

Looking back, I really wish I hadn’t called it that.

Ten minutes before the candle-making class was scheduled to begin, Holly still hadn’t arrived, which had me grinding my teeth, chewing my nails, and considering ripping out every hair on my head. Or on hers, if I could get a firm grip on it once I tracked her down. I worked hard to have a full staff every Saturday. That meant at least two—better yet three—of us at all times. But today was one of those out-of-control staffing situations that come up constantly for those of us in the service industry. The twins, after witnessing the tense condition I was in, felt badly that they couldn’t help me out, but they had a wedding to attend, which was a perfectly good reason not to stay. Even in my desperation, I could see that.

As I was punching keys on my cell phone, trying to contact Holly for the hundredth time—not much of an exaggeration—my sister strolled in the door. I reined in my impulse to attack her with a Momlike tongue-lashing. Genetics, I’m discovering, are hard to overcome.

Holly managed to agitate me more than the twins, who rarely bugged me, or even Carrie Ann, who brought on some serious cases of frustration. Mainly Holly drove me nuts because she was supposed to be my partner, and partly because she was family, which I figured gave me carte blanche in the major annoyance department.

Holly was three years younger than me, making her thirty-one. She had married into big money when she said
I do
to Max Paine. The upside of marrying rich was all the disposable cash she had access to, and her seemingly unlimited generosity in loaning me what I needed to buy out my ex-husband’s share of the store and to obtain all the honey-making equipment and supplies to go into the bee business. The downside was that since Max happened to be on the road most of the time making all that dough, Holly chose (okay, maybe it was mostly Mom’s idea) to entertain herself by getting involved in the actual everyday workings of The Wild Clover. That loan I’d so gratefully accepted wasn’t without permanently attached strings, as I found out too late.

Although if I wanted to be honest, I would have taken the offered loan anyway, but with my eyes wide open, not blindsided.

Regarding her involvement in Queen Bee Honey: Holly was afraid of honeybees and would rather be stomped to death by wild horses than walk into the apiary, where the only risk I could see was a bee sting here and there. Big deal. And she wasn’t even allergic! Her bee phobia was a problem I decided to help her get over by engaging her in bee activities every chance I got. And if she never got over it, at least there was the revenge factor for letting Mom talk her into getting involved where she shouldn’t.

Besides, anyone who can afford to drive a Jag needs a reality check every once in a while.

“About time,” I said when she strolled up to the cash register finally ready to make a condensed contribution of time and effort. I heard a little witchiness in my voice as several candle-making students walked by and descended into the workshop where I’d already set up the supplies we’d need. “Why didn’t you answer your cell? I’ve been calling for hours.”

“Dead battery,” she said, holding up her cell phone, showing me the black screen.

I glared.

“Didn’t you get the MSG?” Holly asked.

Now, for most of us
MSG
would be an Asian food additive, a different kind of salt than the ordinary table variety. In Holly’s world where text-speak threatened to take over her vocabulary, it meant something entirely different.
MSG
equaled message. So what she really meant to say was “Didn’t you get the message?”

“Carrie Ann said you’d be late,” I answered, still really mad. “That’s not the point.”

“SS (
So Sorry
),” Holly said, dripping with sarcasm, as if I was the one with the problem, as if she hadn’t done anything wrong, as if—

I took a deep breath.

I was flustered, a condition brought on easily by most of my family members, excluding Grams, the only one in my family who never had a single mean-spirited thought or word for anybody.

In my haste to start the class on time, I almost lost my footing while hustling down the stairs, causing me to arrive at the bottom with a little too much noisy flair. A real attention-getter when I would have preferred a graceful entrance. A moment of silence ensued as everyone in the room turned and stared. Then I took another calming breath and propelled myself into the midst of a roomful of eager candle-making dippers.

The scoop on beeswax, as I explained to my students, was:

I had already prepared the beeswax by rendering it—cleaning and draining—and had melted it in slow cookers borrowed from friendly customers, since the church didn’t have its own kitchen facility. There were all sizes and shapes of beeswax candles, but for this event I’d decided on tapered candles, those elegant ones we used for special occasions.

We were all set to go.

The great thing about candle making is that it attracts all kinds of people—young, old, male, female. Most of the people at the table were locals, and the others were folks who came my way often enough for me to learn their names and remember their faces.

Stu Trembly, the owner of Stu’s Bar and Grill, sat at the end of the table next to his girlfriend, Becky, the expression on his face showing that this wasn’t his idea of how to spend a Saturday afternoon, but he was going along and making the best of it. What a guy!

Stanley Peck, sixtyish, good friend, amateur beekeeper, and a widower before his time, sat to the right of Stu and Becky. Stanley had a noticeable limp when he walked, ever since the time he shot himself in the foot while squaring off with temporary field workers who had been tending to his farm. Stanley had lost that round without any of the workers making a single move.

I always hoped he wasn’t armed when he visited the store, but I’m pretty sure that was wishful thinking. Stanley had a bit of a temper—displayed only once or twice in my presence—and add to it a concealed, loaded, illegal weapon? Not a good combo.

Next to Stanley sat Milly Hopticourt, The Wild Clover’s official newsletter editor and recipe tester. Then there were the weekend shoppers who had signed up earlier today. Finally, unfortunately, there were several kids in the mix.

I say unfortunately, because these kids were Kerrigans and had reputations for their unruliness and lack of anything remotely hinting of discipline or constraint. The Kerrigans had lived in Moraine even longer than my family, and they procreated as though they were trying to repopulate the world after an apocalypse wiped out most of humanity. Many of the kids in the room were Gus’s grand-children. Gus was close to my mom’s age, had a total of eight children and his was only one small branch of the Kerrigan clan. Plus all Gus’s kids stayed close by, having families of their own. Kerrigans were everywhere. Even though the business owners cringed every time Kerrigans brought their kids to town and had been reacting with that same dread throughout the generations, the children usually grew up to be honest, loyal, and hardworking members of the community.

At least most of them did. Like any big family, there were bound to be a few exceptions.

Ten minutes into my spiel, the kids were getting antsy and leaning over the pots of melting wax whenever they weren’t handling every single item on the table. Then two more adults came down the steps, about to fill those last two empty spots at the table and make me the winner of a bet I had going with Carrie Ann that every last seat would be taken.

I immediately recognized one of the latecomers as Rita Kerrigan, Gus’s sister-in-law. Rita hadn’t aged nearly as well as my own mother even though they were around the same age. She carried a lot of extra weight and it had worked a number on her knees. Just getting down the steps seemed like a major effort for her.

The other woman, who came downstairs right behind Rita, was twig-thin and a stranger to me. She seemed nervous and shy, carefully avoiding meeting my gaze. The last thing I wanted to do was single her out by asking her to introduce herself, since she was obviously uncomfortable. Instead, I smiled warmly and welcomed both of them.

“Let’s get started with the actual process,” I said, after summarizing what we would do in the next hour. How we would dip our wicks (that got a snicker from Stu’s end of the table) into melted wax to begin to create tapered candles, then let them cool a little before dipping again. Each dip into the melted beeswax would add another thin layer of wax to the wick, until slowly but surely candlesticks would form.

The fun began. Or continued, as in the case of the kids, who dripped melted wax everywhere on the table (smart me, I’d put down layers and layers of newspapers) and on the chairs. That was going to be a mess!

The naturally sweet fragrance of honey filled the room.

The woman who joined the group late wasn’t doing much other than nervously wrapping her wick around her fingers, so I went over to help her. Although dipping candles was hardly rocket science. Even the youngest kid was into the groove.

“Like this,” I said, taking the wick and making the first dip for her, then handing it back. A few drops of wax fell on the newspaper-lined table. “Hold it in the air for a few seconds before dipping it again. Let it cool slightly.”

Then I noticed, since I was up closer than before, she was wearing a cheap brown wig that didn’t fit quite right, as if it were at least one or two sizes too big. She was older than me, or so I thought, and her wrists were excessively thin, the skin on her hands transparent, with protruding blue veins. When I handed the wick back, her fingers were ice cold to the touch.

And I thought she smelled like death, even over the sweet fragrant honey coming from the melted beeswax. Don’t ask me why that idea popped into my mind, because I didn’t know what death smelled like, or even that it had a smell. But if it did, this woman emitted it. Not powerful or overwhelming, more subtle and impossible to put into words.

I took a step back and saw Rita Kerrigan glance over, as though she was assessing the woman. When they had come downstairs, I thought they were together; but neither had spoken to the other, so I figured my first impression had been wrong.

Then I got busy with others in the class, enjoying the excitement on my students’ faces as the candles they were dipping began to form. Afterward, we strung our creations to dry from a long dowel I’d hung especially for this event.

The emaciated stranger disappeared at some point, leaving behind the candle she’d made.

Something about her seemed vaguely familiar, so when the others left with their candles, I checked the class sign-up sheet lying near the checkout counter. The last two places were still blank. Rita Kerrigan and the unidentified woman hadn’t registered.

“Why should they have registered, coming in at the last minute?” Holly said a little snappily when I questioned her. “I was checking out Ali Schmidt’s cart full of items; she came back because she ran out of sugar, and they whizzed right by us. GMAB (
Give Me A Break
), will you!”

“Well, did they pay?”

“Um, no. I forgot.” Holly didn’t have enough respect for the good old dollar bill most of us worked hard for. But knowing Rita, she’d remember later and pay up. The other student . . . well . . . that one was lost.

“Did they arrive together?” I pressed on.

“How should I know?”

“What’s going on with you?” I said. “First you show up hours late for work, then you’re crabby and defensive. What happened to my perky, positive sister?”

Holly leaned against the counter. “Max and I had a fight on the phone last night. I’m staying with Mom and Grams.”

That
explained her bad mood. She had two perfect excuses for being cranky. She’d actually argued with her husband, as amazing as that was since those two always acted like honeymooners. Worse, she’d been overexposed to Mom. Our mother was a lot like the sun—fine in small doses, but stick around too long and you’ll get a bad burn.