Plan Bee (18 page)

Tuesday morning at The Wild Clover, I wasn’t imagining all the snickering going on behind my back. It was definitely real. In the light of day, my actions last night seemed juvenile at best. I regretted what had happened in the middle of Main Street. Boy did I ever. It’s just that something came over me and I totally lost all self-control.

The worst part was that nobody who came into the store talked about it out in the open. Which made me squirm even more.

Bits and pieces of other information slowly began to surface, sharing the limelight with my public meltdown. Tom Stocke’s entire life story for one, thanks to blabby Patti. Nothing I hadn’t already heard, though—his wife running off with Ford, Ford’s ongoing problems with the law, and Tom’s quiet move to Moraine to bury the past. Until the past followed him here and got itself buried instead.

A catfight in the street should have been overshadowed by that juicy news, but by the sly and amused looks I was
getting from my customers, I knew I was competing with Tom for top news story.

His friendly association with my mother came up, mostly behind my back, too, but my staff clued me in. My perfect mother, who’d spent her life worrying about what the neighbors would say, and blaming me for what they
did
say, was now fodder for gossip herself. At least when she eventually reverted back to her old snarky ways, I would have some ammunition of my own next time she fired a round. After last night, I suspected that round had to be right around the corner.

The senior citizens arrived to play sheepshead, Wisconsin’s official state card game, in the choir loft, a friendly, cozy nook I’d converted into a gathering place. This was their regular card day, but they usually played in the afternoon.

Grams, an avid card player, said it best as she came in carrying Dinky. “We want to be part of the conversation and there’s sure a lot going around.” She handed the dog over to me, saying, “And here’s your adorable Dinky back. Let me know when she’s trained, sweetie.” Grams winked to let me know the deal was still on.

The seniors were mixed on whodunnit. Everybody hoped the killer was an out-of-towner who was gone for good. Of course, Tom’s name came up as the one and only other possibility, but many of the crusty old-timers thought his brother had gotten his just deserts, whether Tom did the deed or not. A small-bit criminal who stole his brother’s wife didn’t garner the same compassion as your average murdered citizen.

Stu walked in the door for his daily newspaper and had a silly smile on his face when he spotted me. He didn’t mention the fight, though. And he had news we hadn’t heard yet. “Aggie and Eugene Petrie are out of jail on bail.”

“Their sidewalk rummage sale days are over, though,” I said. “I hope they learned their lesson.”

What goes around, comes around. Words my sister and I had heard plenty while growing up. Sometimes it’s true. Actions, words, whatever—they all have a way of boomeranging back at you when you least expect it.

Aggie is a perfect example. She shouldn’t have threatened me the way she did. If she hadn’t blackmailed me into letting her set up her junk tables outside my store, she wouldn’t be in trouble now.

After rearranging a fresh batch of red and yellow heirloom tomatoes, I came around a corner and caught Holly, Carrie Ann, and Patti whispering together. When they saw me coming, they pulled apart with guilt written all over their faces. Patti quickly hid something behind her back.

“What?” I asked. “What’s going on? I know you’re talking about me.”

They looked at each other then burst out laughing. All of them were laughing so hard they couldn’t talk, tears running down their faces.

“What!”

Still unable to speak, Patti handed over two pictures that had obviously been printed out from a computer.

“Where did these come from?” I demanded, staring in disbelief. Somebody had captured Lori and me in full motion. On the ground, trying to rip each other’s clothes apart. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“It’s all over the Internet,” Patti said.

By the time my three “friends” got themselves under control, another wave of customers came through and we had to split up to take care of business. But before that, I ripped up the damaging photos and threw the small pieces into the garbage can. It didn’t feel really great being on the outside looking in. Now I knew how P.P. Patti felt her whole life. I always thought she deserved her outcast status. Today, I deserved mine.

When I had a chance, I said to Holly, “You three have your fun. Me? I’m taking an early lunch. If anyone wants
me, I’ll be at the library.” I paused, then added, “On second thought, everybody just leave me alone.”

I grabbed a plastic bag with my scarf inside it and stomped down the street.

Where I promptly ran into DeeDee, sporting an enormous red, white, and blue tote bag slung over her shoulder. “You stay away from my sister,” she warned me with a snarl. “Or you’ll have me to deal with.”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered and kept going.

Moraine’s library is tiny, but well stocked. I hoped to find a how-to book there that would help me figure out how to replace the missing beads. The library is run by Emily Nolan and her daughter, Karin. While the Harmony Festival was a town-hall-run event, all the other community attractions are planned and executed by small committees. The library sponsors most of them, many taking place on the lawn in back of the library when weather permits.

Besides children’s events like story times, we have several book clubs and special visitor talks. Events bring the town together in shared camaraderie and focused missions. At an invasive species discussion in the spring, we were all motivated to attack and kill garlic mustard and buckthorn. We even ran a contest to see who could destroy the most. And not too long ago we had a fabulous chocolate tasting. Then there was music—jazz, folk, country, whatever.

But I wasn’t at the library to talk about any of those things.

As I came up to the front desk, I saw Emily and Karin working hard to control their mouths, their lips curling up on the corners. But being the serious librarians they are, both of them stayed in control, unlike the treacherous trio back at the store. Did every single person in town know about Lori and me?

What a dumb question.

I pretended that nothing was wrong, though, and explained about the beads missing from my scarf.

“Let me see it,” Karin said, taking the scarf and laying it out flat on a counter.

“Great scarf,” Emily said.

“Mom bought it for me.”

“It’s beautiful,” Karin said. “Just a few missing beads. It’s really not that noticeable.”

“It is to me,” I said.

Karin studied it a little more. “You don’t need a book to fix this. I’m pretty handy with this sort of thing. I can do it. Where are the beads?”

“I looked for them this morning,” I said, which was true. I’d returned to the street and hunted for them. “Now what?”

“Do you know who made it?”

I nodded. “Alicia Petrie.”

“See if you can get more beads from her. Leave it here. I’ll match up the bead thread in the meantime.”

“I really appreciate your help,” I said. “A nice gift from Mom is something to cherish.”

After that, I sat down at a picnic table behind the library.

Holly popped around the corner.

“Go away,” I said, wrapping my arms across my chest in classic ticked-off mode.

“Listen, we need to talk.”

“Make it short, as in text-speak,” I said. Then realized how insensitive that was. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“You’re going to get even crabbier with me when you hear what I have to say, but hear me out. And don’t interrupt till I’m done, okay? You’ve been acting weird ever since you found out Mom was dating.”

I opened my mouth to set her straight. The problem wasn’t that Mom was dating. It was
who
she was dating. Wasn’t it?

Holly held up a warning finger. “Let me finish. Dad’s been gone five years, but to me it’s like he died five minutes ago. Sometimes, I even forget he’s not here and when I
remember, it hurts like heck all over again. I bet Mom feels the same way. And I bet you do, too.

“So seeing Mom with another man is difficult. Believe me, I have all kinds of emotions bouncing around inside of me. I don’t like it. Part of me thinks it’s the right thing for her to do. Another part of me feels like she’s cheating on Dad. But look at Mom. How happy she is. Tom is making her feel good about herself again. She’s positively glowing. And she deserves to feel that way. Story, it’s been five years! We have to let her start living again.”

Tears welled in my eyes and I didn’t fight them.

“I miss him so much,” I said, wiping at tears.

“Me, too.”

“You’re getting really good at that therapy stuff.”

Holly patted my hand in appreciation then said, “You had a fight with Lori because you were angry about Mom and Tom.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Did you know Mom was inside the bar?”

I nodded.

“And when was the last time you and Lori got physical?”

“Last year. When she tried to spray poison on my bees.”

“Then you were defending your hive, protecting them because they couldn’t help themselves. Why did you fight this time?”

I thought about the reason. Lori had made a stinky comment about my reputation. But I’d put up with much more than that from her without snapping. “She said I was sleeping with Ford.”

“Are you mad at me, too? Mad enough to fight with me? Because you know I’m the one who started it.”

“I’m not exactly happy with you.”

“I’m really sorry. I had no idea how that one comment would take on a life of its own and bite you in the butt.”

And in that second, all the meanness and bitterness and
anger washed right out of me. A simple apology from Holly had done the trick. I thought over some of my own actions recently and decided to make some amends, too.

“I’m going to apologize to a few people myself,” I said, giving my sister a big hug.

Tom Stocke’s antique shop was located between Moraine’s new post office and a seasonal corn stand, where Country Delight Farm operated a successful business on weekends selling fresh corn on the cob dripping with pure Wisconsin butter.

The sidewalk outside Tom’s store was jam-packed with various items he hauled out every morning to entice potential customers. Every night he hauled them back inside.

I’m not much of an antique collector, but I had to pause to admire a Schwinn bicycle in perfect condition. Then I realized I was stalling and went inside where I saw mahogany and wicker, spinning wheels and toys, glassware and crocks, a Popeye tray next to two cartoon character metal lunch pails. Almost too much to take in all at once.

I found Tom at the back of the store, sitting in a wooden rocker. And he was cleaning a firearm. Like the one that shot out Patti’s window and telescope. That’s the first thing that popped into my head even though I couldn’t tell one
type of gun from another. But didn’t Tom complain to me recently about Patti’s snooping? In the past, I had intentionally overlooked the fact that Tom had a wanted poster face, mainly because of his mellow personality. If I’ve learned nothing else in life, I
have
learned not to judge a book by its cover. Although, on second thought, haven’t I picked up lots of books because they had cool covers? Only to find sometimes that the insides didn’t measure up?

Anyway, right now, I saw Tom in a whole new criminal-element light. It’s amazing how a weapon in somebody’s hand can change your perspective on their capabilities.

“Hi, Story,” he said, looking up and seeing me before I could hightail it out of his store.

“Is that a rifle?” came out of my mouth, because suddenly I forgot why I’d come here in the first place.

“Pretty, isn’t she?”

I couldn’t peel my eyes away. “Is it an antique?” It looked old even to my inexperienced eyes. Not exactly like something you’d see in a war movie, not the kind that had to be loaded with gunpowder. But cowboy flicks had firearms that looked a lot like the one in Tom’s lap. Where was Hunter with his weaponry knowledge when I needed him?

“She’s not exactly an antique,” Tom said, moving it to his knee so the barrel pointed at the ceiling. My eyes swept the immediate vicinity in case he had bullets close by. I didn’t see any. “She’s vintage.”

“Oh, right,” I agreed, like I had a clue what the difference was between antique and vintage.

He gave the weapon a final swipe with a rag and propped it against the wall. “What brings you here?” he asked.

For a panicked second or two, I still couldn’t remember. Then it came to me.

“I came to apologize for my bad behavior last night. You must think I fist fight on a regular basis, but I don’t. Really I don’t. And I’m sorry I upset you and Mom.”

Tom stood up. I realized how tall he was, as though I
was seeing him for the very first time. He literally towered over me. I started backing up, not willing to turn away. My imagination took off with visions of him grabbing that rifle and using it on me.

“I appreciate that,” he said. “We’ve been retail neighbors for five years. I know you aren’t normally a rabble-rouser.”