Plan Bee (3 page)

I slunk away from my mother and into the back room of The Wild Clover, which doubled as a storage room and my office. Carrie Ann and I both jumped about two feet when I opened the door. I hadn’t expected to find anyone back there, and apparently she hadn’t either, probably assuming I’d be busy outside with festival preparations. My cousin had a dog on her lap and her fingers poised over the keyboard of my computer.

“Uh, just checking for messages,” she said, quickly closing the browser window before I could see the screen. Then she passed the little mutt over to me on her way out.

Somehow I’d become a permanent dog-sitter for Norm Cross, one of my old neighbors, who had had a family crisis a while back, and had dumped his dog Dinky on me, claiming he’d return soon. Then he decided not to come back at all, which I suspect had been part of his original secret plan from the very beginning. Plus, he informed me that his new digs didn’t allow dogs. Which was just great.

Dinky is a Chihuahua mix with hair in all the wrong places and a major-league small-dog complex. She’d been the runt of the litter so, according to Norm, had had to fight harder for her share of food and attention. At least that was his excuse for her bad behavior.

Dinky licked my face and snuggled closer. She
was
affectionate; I’d give her that. She regally adjusted herself on my lap when I sat down, as though she was Honey Queen and I was her throne. Well, she could think that way for now, but I was looking for a new home for her and her wayward attitude.

Did I mention Dinky prefers doing her business indoors rather than outside? Or that if she likes a person, she pees on them? Or that I didn’t have a single pair of panties without chew holes? She’s even turned some of them crotchless, which never fails to amuse my boyfriend, Hunter, whenever she drags a pair out to share with him.

I spent basically my whole life until now in total fear of dogs, ever since a nasty dog attack when I was a kid. But I did a 180 recently, and I have Hunter and his awesome K-9 partner Ben to thank for my conversion from a trembling mess to an avid admirer. Although Dinky works my nerves hard.

Hunter Wallace, my main man, is a county cop and head of the K-9 unit. His hours are varied and long, but so are mine. The long absences and brief moments together work for us.

Hunter and I have a history as long as I’ve had my nickname. We were friends before high school and had a serious relationship during. Then I got wanderlust and moved away to Milwaukee, where I married the wrong man. While I was gone, Hunter had made his own share of mistakes, too, including apparently going through just about every bottle of booze he stumbled across. But by the time I came back and got my divorce, he’d long since turned himself around, even sponsoring Carrie Ann to help her the same way his sponsor helped him.

Hunter doesn’t mind wearing the label of recovering alcoholic, but I have a serious issue when someone labels me. Like a few minutes ago when my sister called me passive aggressive.

Once I was settled in my office chair, I went online and looked up the definition of
passive aggressive
just in case the term had evolved into a hip, new, positive meaning. Holly was always ahead of me on the latest fads, fashions, and definitions.

All I found was the same old bad stuff, some of which I already knew. My sister had not been paying me a compliment. No big surprise, since her tone hadn’t been exactly bursting with friendliness. According to the definition, a person with this condition has a deep-seated resistance to following through with another individual’s expectations. Now who would think that of me?

But there was more. Symptoms included:

• stubbornness

• procrastination

• intentionally failing at tasks

Causes might involve:

• repressed feelings

• vindictive intent

None of those things matched my personality. Not one thing. Although ignoring Mom’s no-bee-zone demand might be considered borderline by some people. But I never put off things until the last minute. With a successful store to run, how could I? And intentionally failing at tasks? Like what? I worked hard, and it showed in The Wild Clover.

And stubborn? Well, okay, maybe a little.

But wasn’t practically everybody?

After shutting down the computer screen, last-minute festival details got in the way, and it wasn’t until a little later that I had time to focus on Holly and her annoying, outrageous statement. As if she knew I was thinking about her, the next time I went into the back room to get Dinky and take her for a walk, Holly trotted in and plopped down in a metal chair next to my desk.

“How can I possibly be your problem?” I blurted out, a trait I’m trying to control, with limited success.

“I’m in therapy because of your honeybees,” Holly said, starting the Fischer family blame game, which I liked to call “the lame game.” Somehow, some way, it was always somebody else’s fault. I worked hard to suppress that particular gene, but sometimes it raised its ugly head in spite of my efforts.

Holly is scared silly every time she ventures near the Queen Bee Honey hives. I’ve been helping her (okay
helping
might not be the right word, since this isn’t mutually agreed on) overcome her completely unwarranted fear by trying to get her more involved. After all, she owns half of everything. “You have to stop making me go near them,” she announced.

“Let me get this straight. Your therapist said that I should quit asking you to help in the beeyard?”

Holly nodded. “She thinks the exposure and the anxiety it produces is the reason I text-speak.”

“You did that text thing long before I started raising bees.” Which was absolutely true. “You didn’t tell her that part, though, did you?”

Holly squirmed. I pressed on, “And I thought counselors were supposed to help patients get over fears, not run away from them. Did she really say I was passive aggressive?”

“Not exactly in those words, but she would have if I’d
discussed it with her. Since I’ve been in therapy, I’ve been studying personality disorders at the library. You have all the symptoms.” Well, that was a big fat relief. The last thing I needed was my sister and her therapist raking me over hot coals behind my back.

“So
she
didn’t say that.
You
did.”

“If the shoe fits…”

We stared at each other. Then Holly giggled and I knew things were back to okay between us.

“Sorry,” she said. “I get super stressed every time I have a session.”

“It’s working, though. You didn’t break into text-speak. Not once.”

“TX,” Holly said, grinning. Then, “JK.”

“You better be,” I said, easily recognizing
thanks
and
just kidding
.

“Trust me, I’m practically cured,” she said.

“So, you don’t want to help outside today near the observation hive?”

“I’d rather have my toenails ripped out.”

I glanced down at her perfectly pedicured feet. That was a profound declaration, considering the source happened to be a serious primping queen.

“Okay,” I said. “Stay inside the store and help the twins.”

That got a big happy smile from her. “Any luck finding a good home for Dinky?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“You’ll make sure it really is a good home, right? Not just the first person who comes along?”

“Of course.” And I meant it.

“And make sure you have visiting rights so we can still see her.”

“Sure.” Dinky twisted in my lap and worked her way up to my face, where I barely had time to dodge an openmouthed lick.

By the time I walked back outside with Dinky on a
leash, Main Street’s sidewalks were starting to see some decent action. Stanley and Carrie Ann seemed to be handling things just fine at our booth. If past years were any indication, sales would be brisk. I glanced at our eye-catching displays, created with a little help from my friends and coworkers.

We were showcasing delicious honey products from my side business, Queen Bee Honey: processed honey along with raw and creamed varieties, plus honey sticks in a number of flavors—not just pure wildflower honey, but also lemon, cherry, sour apple, orange, caramel, and root beer—a new flavor this year. My honey sticks are biodegradable straws filled with nectar of the gods. I like to carry a few with me for those times my energy crashes. When that happens, I open one of them, suck out every last drop of honey, and I’m back on top of my game.

Lately, too, raw honey has been flying off the shelves since customers have begun to realize all the benefits of unprocessed honey, especially as an antiallergen. Local honey contains sources of pollen, dust, and mold, which sounds disgusting, but a few teaspoons every day boosts immunity against 90 percent of allergies. I’m living proof. It worked for my hay fever.

I saw Stanley’s grandson Noel next to the observation table, watching the enclosed honeybees and sucking on one of the honey sticks from my store. He spotted me approaching and grinned. “These root beer honey sticks are awesome. I could live on them. I almost bought all of them.”

I smiled. Kids of all ages love my honey sticks. “I have more in stock.”

“Did you like the way I rescued you?” he said.

I must have looked totally blank, which I was. “Come again?”

“I set off the last explosion to help you out of that bad situation with your mom.”

“Gosh, thanks so much,” I said, slow to catch on that
he’d intentionally distracted my mother so I could escape her clutches. I always
did
like the kid, whose particular nut hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Noel is the spitting image of his grandfather when it comes to firepower. Stanley loves weapons, and the rumor is he’s got a buried stash of them just in case our federal government decides to outlaw certain makes and models. He’s also been known to carry, but that’s inside information. It’s a miracle our police chief hasn’t busted him yet.

“Really, thanks,” I said to Noel with heartfelt gratitude.

“Anytime,” he muttered, and I could tell by his eyes that he was back inside his skull, mixing and matching potions. He slipped a notebook out of his back pocket and began scribbling away as he walked off.

I looked around. Everything looked to be going as planned. Helen Fischer (aka Mom) might have a brisk, tactless, no-nonsense approach to life, but she sure knew how to organize an event. This one promised to be the best yet.

My job during the two-day festival, as assigned by my mother, was to make sure nothing “upset the applecart.” I was pretty sure that was meant to be another personal zinger, but I intended to follow through by making sure the cart stayed upright. None of us wanted trouble or bad press.

Besides, how hard could it be? After all, this was Harmony Fest. The whole point of it was fostering goodwill.

Aurora Tyler’s flower booth was right next to my store. It was crammed with bouquets from her business, Moraine Gardens. Besides the bouquets, some of which were bunches of colorful dried flowers, she had potted native plants like swamp milkweed, catmint, and coneflowers. A few honeybees had discovered them and were working the pollen. A cheery sight.

Although not everyone agrees with me.

Moraine’s residents are divided on the benefits of honeybees, even after all the efforts I’ve made to educate the locals. Preconceived ideas die hard. I really hoped our
beehive display helped dispel lingering doubts. We need more people on our side, supporting our efforts to save the honeybee’s diminishing population.

Dinky growled from down below. Following her glare, I spotted Grant Spandle marching my way. In addition to being my archenemy, Lori’s husband, and the town board chairperson, he’s also a land developer. Which should have been a huge conflict of interest regarding a position on the board, but small-town politics are unbelievably lax, mostly from lack of any education in the fine art of legality.

Lori has played around on Grant at least once, a solid indisputable fact, since I had caught her red-handed cheating with my ex-husband before the sleazebag left town.

“Your mother is extremely upset,” Grant stopped to tell me. “And I’m sure our liability insurance doesn’t cover bee attacks if we knowingly and irresponsibly put our residents in harm’s way.”

“Harm’s way? Oh come on. Do you see bees attacking anybody?”

“Let me rephrase that, then:
potential
bee attacks
—potentially
in harm’s way.”

“No way would that happen,” I said, while Dinky continued to quietly growl. She knew the difference between steak and roadkill, and she sensed exactly where Grant fit into the food pyramid.

“Only one sting,” Grant said, holding his index finger up in case I didn’t know what
one
was. “Just one allergic reaction, and we’d have all kinds of trouble. The consequences could be devastating for the town’s finances.”

“Look over there.” I pointed to Aurora’s potted flowers where honeybees buzzed from petal to petal. “Honeybees. They aren’t inside an observation hive. They’re free to fly wherever. We can’t control nature’s creatures; they have free will. Besides, these aren’t yellow jackets. In another month, wasps will be all over the place, landing on our food and stinging plenty of us. But honeybees, as I’ve said
over and over, don’t attack unless they’re defending their hive from intruders.”

How many times have I had to remind people? Hundreds? Thousands?

“Nevertheless, they have to go,” Grant said, crossing his arms and putting as much authority into his voice as he could muster.

I hate when my bees are messed with, so I took him to the mat with the only weapon I had at my disposal. “Then I say DeeDee has to go, too.”

DeeDee Becker is his wife’s (much) younger sister, and Grant, in an unbelievable show of blatant nepotism, had crowned DeeDee the First Annual Honey Queen of the Harmony Festival. But DeeDee has been caught shoplifting in my store repeatedly, and eventually I’d have to permanently ban her from The Wild Clover. I couldn’t bring myself to press charges against her though, even if she was Lori’s sister. But no way did she deserve that title, the klepto.