Plan Bee (13 page)

The Wild Clover closes at five on Sundays. Due to all the excitement, my workday had barely begun before it was over. Luckily the twins, Brent and Trent, and Carrie Ann had kept the store and booth running smoothly, although business had been light once Ford’s death was broadcast. Everybody congregated down the street, closer to Willow, where residents and visitors alike traded opinions, predicted outcomes, and hoped to overhear some of the juicier details.

The locals hadn’t seen this much action downtown since two years ago when a group of kids smoking behind the post office had burned the old building to the ground. That particular incident still comes up on a regular basis, but it doesn’t come close to comparing to this latest tragedy.

“I took care of Dinky while you were away,” Carrie Ann said when I walked into the store. “In case you want to thank me.”

“Thanks. Really. I totally forgot about her.”

“A raise would be a good thank-you gift. I’m doing a manager’s work half the time. You’re always gone. I keep the place running.”

Where was this coming from? I muttered something noncommittal. Carrie Ann’s work performance went up and down depending on her sobriety, which could change as fast as Wisconsin weather. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t have reliable coworkers right there with her.

“Besides,” Carrie Ann said, “Dinky peed on my foot.”

“That means she likes you.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Carrie Ann said, gathering up her purse and car keys. “You should train her better.”

“I’m too busy chasing down dead people,” I said.

Carrie Ann smiled then. “You’ve been in it up to your armpits, that’s for sure. Hope you have a better evening. See you tomorrow.”

Patti slipped in as Carrie Ann walked out.

“I did some digging for information on Tom,” she said.

“Already? That was fast.”

“An investigator doesn’t let grass grow.”

“Tell me.”

“Before Tom moved to Moraine,” Patti told me, “he lived in northern Illinois with his wife. Then one day she ran off with another man.”

“How awful for Tom,” I said, really meaning it. I knew a thing or two about infidelity, thanks to an ex-husband who thought it was a perfectly acceptable form of physical exercise.

“Worse, she ran off with Tom’s brother.”

“Ford? That’s awful.”

“Ford was a big-time loser.”

“Sounds like Tom’s wife was, too.” I thought about what a jerk both she and Ford had been, then said, “That doesn’t explain why Tom still wears his wedding ring. I would have thrown it away.”

Patti shrugged. “That I don’t know. She died from an
aneurysm a few years ago. In the meantime, Ford has been behind bars more than he’s been out. Petty crimes for the most part, but they start adding up. The guy was poison.”

“How did you find out so much personal information?” I asked.

“I called Tom’s dead wife’s sister. Once she got started, I thought she’d never quit.”

And with those bits of juicy gossip, Patti bounced out the door.

Hunter came along as I was locking up. I’d planned on getting some paperwork done in my office, paying a few overdue bills, late not because I didn’t have the money to pay, but because I really hated detail work. Hunter was the perfect excuse to procrastinate even further.

In the back room I shared what I knew about the situation at Clay’s house, which was mostly my side of the story. Hunter knew very little. Johnny Jay had clamped down on information imparted to other law-enforcement agencies, and no one in the chief’s department was talking to anybody outside, on pain of termination.

“I feel bad for Tom Stocke,” I said, deciding to share a chair with Hunter. I moved to his lap, missing those high school years when we both were lean and could actually fit side by side together in a chair. “I can’t imagine how Tom felt, finding his brother like that. He’s never mentioned a thing about his family. Only it isn’t so odd, once you know about his sordid past.”

Hunter had a pained look on his face and it wasn’t because I was too heavy. “Ah, man, Story, I really dislike gossiping, you know that.”

“I know you do, but you’ll want to hear this.”

So I related all that Patti had shared about the triangle between Tom, his wife, and Ford.

“I knew there was something off about Ford when I met him,” I said, “but I couldn’t put my finger on why he gave me the creeps. If he was such bad news, the list of suspects
could be long.” I didn’t really believe that. The name of a suspect had already hit me like a pile of bricks when I found out Ford was Tom’s brother, but I hadn’t wanted to believe it then and I didn’t want to believe it now. I verbalized it anyway. “Tom did it, didn’t he?”

“Stop, okay, please,” Hunter said, not liking what he was hearing from me. He sighed. “You can’t make an assumption like that. The entire town is going to think exactly the same thing you do once his history is made public.”

“There’s no other explanation.”

“That we know of at the moment,” Hunter added. “Things aren’t always what they appear to be.”

Yeah, right, sometimes they’re even worse. Tom looked like a bad guy, with that crooked nose. And he dodged any questions about his past, which was turning out to be checkered. And his brother had looked even more like a wanted poster.

“What should I do?” I said. “He’s seeing my mother.”

“What you have to do is let Johnny Jay do his job,” Hunter said to me. I hopped off his lap and moved to a metal chair next to my desk, too upset about my mother and the whole situation to sit still. Dinky, lying up against the closed door, looked up when I moved, then went back to licking her paws.

“I wouldn’t think of interfering with the police chief’s investigation,” I said, really meaning it at that moment. “I just hope he moves quickly. This whole thing is chilling me to the center of my bones.”

“I’ll just have to warm you up,” Hunter offered. “Come back over here.” But before I could consider taking him up on that, his phone rang. When he hung up, our brief interlude was over. “Gotta go to work,” he said. He saw the big question mark on my face. “No, the phone call doesn’t have anything to do with what happened here today. It’s county work.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Don’t wait up,” he said, smiling.

After Hunter left, I walked home with Dinky trotting along on her leash. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get Tom and Ford out of my mind. I made a quick salad with some of the vegetables from my garden and ate dinner outside. The garden needed attention and I thought I should look in on my bees, make sure my girls were happy. Getting back into my regular routine, and getting a little dirt under my fingernails, might clear my head so I could sleep tonight.

For the next several hours until the sunset, I worked hard. First, I cleaned up the honey house, my sweet little shed where I harvested and bottled honey products. I sterilized jars, getting them ready for the upcoming honey harvest, which promised to be a bumper crop.

Then I weeded the garden, hoeing between the rows of beets and Brussels sprouts and my greens. I like to grow mustard greens, arugula, and a wild assortment of leaf lettuces. And I love tomatoes. The tomato vines were heavy with fruit, still green but starting to ripen.

Working my muscles felt good after the stressful day I’d had.

But later when I tried to fall asleep, I still couldn’t get Tom and Ford out of my mind.

Or should I call them Cain and Abel?

Dinky and I arrived at Grams’s house before the sun rose, but I knew she and Mom wouldn’t mind. They’re the early-to-bed, early-to-rise, get-the-worm type of women. Peeking in the screen door, I saw Grams already at the stove, making blueberry pancakes, my favorite breakfast food. She wore a brightly colored flowery robe and had a fresh daisy tucked into her bun.

I love anything with blueberries—pancakes, buckle, pie, crisp, you name it. My ex-husband had hated them, which should have been a big tip-off that there was something majorly wrong with him. Shaking Clay out of my mind, I made a mental note to talk to Milly about putting a blueberry recipe in the next newsletter.

“Come in, sweetie. Is everything okay?” Grams looked worried. My early appearance in her kitchen must have seemed like the dreaded late night phone call, the one that always brings bad news.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly to reassure her, then took a seat
at the table in front of a Ball jar filled with maple syrup. Grams put a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

“She’s fixing herself up. She’ll be out for breakfast soon. Want pancakes?”

“You bet.”

Grams eyed me up, still suspicious. Well, to tell the truth, since Mom moved in with her, I didn’t exactly pop in on a regular basis. Mostly just when they invited me, and even then I made more excuses than appearances. Mom and I crossed swords more often than the Vikings raided coastal towns. Why would I willingly go into that arena?

The only reason I made an exception this morning was that I wanted to save my mother from Tom Stocke. I couldn’t let her continue to see him until this whole business was behind us. I might say a lot of negative things about my mother, but deep down I love her immensely and would never stand back and let someone dangerous near her.

“Hey, sweet puppy,” Grams said to Dinky. “Want a treat?” And Dinky trotted right over to where she knew Grams had a stash of liver snaps.

While I was waiting for Mom and pancakes, Holly called my cell, giving me the same kind of scare I’d just given Grams. My sister isn’t usually functional until closer to noon. I hustled outside for privacy and confirmed that Holly was fine except she couldn’t sleep because yesterday’s drama continued in her dreams. Or nightmares.

I told her why I was over at Mom’s, and that led to relating the inside information I had on Tom thanks to Patti.

“Mom isn’t going to be happy with you if you interfere,” Holly said. “Not one bit.”

“What else is new? I just want her to be careful around Tom, that’s all.”

“I’ve been analyzing Mom, and I’m pretty sure she’s been depressed.”

“Depressing, you mean?”

“No. Depressed. She has all the symptoms of someone suffering from depression. Ask her if she’s been sleeping. Or if she’s had suicidal thoughts.”

“I’m not asking her that.” I really wish my sister would give up with the psychoanalyzing stuff. She had me almost convinced I really was passive aggressive. I sighed into the phone before saying, “She’s always been like this.”

“Only since Dad died.”

“She’s a pessimist, that’s all. She can’t help it. She’ll always be like this.” As I said it, I couldn’t help noticing I’d started to sound just like my mother. Mom didn’t believe that people could change. Was I thinking the same way? Jeez.

Holly went on, “Don’t you notice how nice she’s been since dating Tom?”

Now that I thought about it, Mom hadn’t given me any grief recently except our brief encounter over the observation beehive. Was Holly onto something?

“So you think she just needed a little romance in her life?” I said. What a simple solution to the conflict between us that would be. “If she has a love interest in her life, then she’ll be sweet and loving to me?”

“That’s what I think. You better leave things alone.”

“Let her go out with a possible killer?”

“I would,” my sister said and hung up.

Grams stuck her head out the door. “Your pancakes are ready,” she said.

Behind Grams, I saw Mom come into the kitchen. She already had her makeup on. And she was wearing a brand-new shade of lipstick, cranberry colored.

“Hi, Story dear,” Mom said from the doorway, causing me to trip and fall on the steps, banging my left knee. “It’s those things you wear on your feet,” she said. “Thongs are the worst footwear.”

“We call them flip-flops now,” I said, bouncing up,
going in, and sitting down at the table. “Thongs are skimpy underwear.”

“What’s the reason for this lovely surprise visit?” Mom had a smile on her face. Now that Holly had pointed it out, I couldn’t believe the change in her.

“Is Mom sick?” I asked Grams. “Why is she in such a good mood?”

“She’s been like this since the other night.” Grams flipped a pancake in the air. “Since her last date with Tom Stocke, but she’s keeping the juicy-fruit details to herself.”

Mom actually blushed. “And the poor man just lost his estranged brother in a horrible, horrible way,” she said, all sadness and concern now. “Has there been any new news? Did they catch the killer yet?”

“Nothing on the early morning news,” Grams said. “I bet the killer is long gone. They don’t stick around waiting to get caught, you know.”

It was obvious that Mom and Grams hadn’t come to the same conclusion I had. “Maybe someone local did it,” I ventured, easing into the subject, hoping someone else in this kitchen would mention Tom before I had to.

Grams put a plate of blueberry pancakes on the table and sat down. “That’s not possible,” Grams said. “Nobody around here would do such a thing.” That’s my grandmother, never thinking a mean-spirited thought about anybody, even about the bottom-of-the-barrel kind of humans.