Plan Bee (31 page)

Interfering in a police investigation is a chargeable offense.

So is withholding evidence.

Tampering with evidence isn’t good, either.

Which reminded me of the shovel I’d thrown in the back of my truck.

This just goes to show how a completely innocent human being gets in deeper and deeper, and pretty soon they’re buried in lies and deception right up to their necks.

In small-town politics, our elected officials leave plenty of wiggle room to move around. They take some laws as gospel, ignore a whole bunch, and even make a few up as they go along. Johnny Jay is a by-the-book type of guy, though, even if he wrote his own code book.

Anyway, here’s what happened.

Right after Johnny Jay pulled up behind me, he and I started going back and forth with barbs like we always do.

Then he got a call about a burglary in progress behind
Tom Stocke’s antique store. Tom, who had been home watching television, had tackled the masked burglar, planted several right hooks that disabled his opponent Patti (of course, he didn’t know it was Patti yet), and called the cops.

Since I was in the vicinity, Johnny Jay just assumed I was involved. Go figure.

So, here I sat in the interrogation room, pleading my case. Spilling my guts, almost everything I could remember, starting with suspicions of local involvement and finishing with my hope to save Tom’s money from the hands of a criminal known as Bob Petrie who might also have committed murder. I left out a few minor details. Like how many places I’d visited without invitations. And Noel’s possible role in all this. I wanted to talk that over with Stanley first.

Patti was in another interrogation room waiting her turn.

“How about we make a deal,” I said to Johnny Jay. “Patti and I promise we won’t interfere anymore. You drop the charges.”

That produced a laugh from the police chief.

I wasn’t through yet, deciding to take an offensive position. “I should charge you with endangering my life,” I said. “Expecting private citizens like me to do your job for you.”

That was a long shot, but I was desperate.

“Sally Maylor checked out your allegations,” Johnny said. “She gives you more credibility than I do, but that’ll change someday soon. Bob Petrie and his family are at an antique fair something-or-other, two hours from here. They’re all together and vouching for each other.”

My best bet at this point was to make amends, play it low-key, even apologize for what was mostly Patti’s misguided delusions. I opened my mouth, but Johnny beat me to the punch with another outrageous accusation.

“You called in another false emergency,” he said next. “Didn’t you?”

“What false emergency?”

“Sure, let’s pretend. Somebody, like maybe you, reported a hostage situation in the house next to yours. The C.I.T. team was engaged. That’s serious stuff, Fischer.”

So that was why Hunter and the rest of the Critical Incident Team had been dispatched. I wondered who’d made the call. “I did not make that call, but I’m telling you, Patti
was
being held against her will in the basement.”

“So you did make the call.” He wrote something in a notebook.

“No, I didn’t. I don’t even have a phone anymore. I accidentally ran over it with my truck.”

“Uh-huh.”

In the end, I spent all night in jail. The crimes Johnny Jay was trying to pin on me were reporting a hostage situation that didn’t exist (completely circumstantial) and stealing a shovel (maybe provable).

“Stealing a shovel?” I yelled. “That’s beyond stupid.”

“Aggie Petrie said you stole it.”

“The nerve!”

I guess I should’ve been happy that I wasn’t charged with tampering or interfering or withholding like I thought I might, since those were much more serious. Still, someday it would be nice for Johnny to believe me. Just for once.

Sally came by my jail cell at one point and gave me a blanket. “Will you check over at Stanley Peck’s?” I pleaded with her. “Make sure Noel is safe?”

She came back later and said, “Stanley chewed me out for waking them up. Noel’s fine.”

Patti didn’t get off quite as lightly as I did. Tom Stocke decided not to press charges after he heard she’d been attempting to save his life, but she still had a serious concealed-weapons charge to face after a brisk pat down at the station exposed her darker side.

We came out of the police station at dawn, blinking like moles, smelling like buffalos, and with slightly deflated egos. I didn’t have a single thing to say to Patti Dwyre. And I wasn’t going to let her intimidate me or bully me into any more stupid situations. I refused to feel sorry for her even when I saw her black eyes. Tom really knew how to plant his fists.

Sally drove us back home. She made a few attempts at small talk, but I wasn’t in the mood. “Another storm is brewing,” she said. “I can smell it in the air.”

When we got out of the car, Patti said to me, “I think I might be partially responsible for all this.”

I didn’t even know how to respond to that understatement so I marched off.

My honeybees hadn’t even missed me. That’s one of the beauties of my favorite little gatherers. They are independent little things. Unlike Dinky, who has to be cared for every single second. Thank goodness for Grams.

A few foragers landed on me as I stood surveying my beeyard, calming myself, focusing on the important things in my life. Until recently, I saw the world just as the honeybees did, a mosaic of colors—blue, green, violet, orange, yellow. But not red. Bees can see ultraviolet, but red just looks like gray to them. Today, I felt my world was in shades of gray, too.

I needed to be like a bee and get back to basics, to simply sustain. These little girls only cared about flowers and honey. And making sure their hive was safe.

But my own hive didn’t feel so safe. It felt threatened.

Somebody was watching and waiting and I wasn’t at all sure that certain “somebody” wasn’t watching me. For sure, Patti had a scary shadow. What if I was next?

And what about Bob’s alibi? If he really had been at an antiques fair this whole time, where did that leave us? Nowhere, that’s where.

The air around me was thick with moisture. I felt sweat running down the center of my back and guessed the temperature must be over ninety, with something like 100 percent humidity.

After showering, changing, and eating my standard toast and honey butter breakfast downed with plenty of coffee, I went down the street and opened the store. The day began like all the others.

Stu came in for his morning paper and didn’t say a word about my night in jail. Had I slid through that one without any of the locals finding out? Was I saved from having to endure furtive glances and knowing smirks and secret whispers?

Milly brought in samples of her newsletter recipes for critique. This was my favorite part of composing the monthly newsletter. Milly’s nutty rhubarb muffins were to die for—moist and delicious. And she’d used hickory nuts, though she said that walnuts were an acceptable substitute.

“A real winner,” I decided. “Too bad none of the other
staff members are here to experience the next newsletter recipe.”

“I made plenty. I’ll leave some in the back. Then I’m heading home before the weather turns ugly. Wait until you try these.”

Milly opened a plastic container. We peered in.

“Blueberry scones!” I said.

“With honey glaze,” Milly added.

I downed a whole one at record speed and licked my fingers clean. I almost felt human again after a long, painful night away from my own bed with no sleep.

A little later, Carrie Ann called to say that she’d be in late, and that she couldn’t find Holly to ask her to work for her. She didn’t mention exactly how late before disconnecting. Holly, I suspected, was under the covers with her husband, sleeping off a romantic evening. She hadn’t bothered asking off from work or finding anyone to replace her, though. Standard operating procedure.

Mom came in. By her sweet disposition, it was a sure bet she didn’t know about Patti’s escapade at Tom’s yet. Or about me having been in jail. “According to Emily, your scarf hasn’t surfaced yet,” she said. “She feels really bad about it. It’ll show up eventually.”

I highly doubted that.

“Tornado weather,” she said. “Be on the lookout. Tom and I are driving into Milwaukee for the afternoon. We’re going to the zoo. If the weather doesn’t hold, we’ll end up at the art museum.” With that, Mom bounced out.

Stanley came in. “How’s Noel?” I asked.

“Why is everybody so concerned about my grandson?” he said. “Sally Maylor woke us up last night just checking on him.”

“We like to look out for our young people,” I said.

“His head is lost in space with all that chemical stuff, but his body is just fine. He left early again.”

Mid-morning, Hunter called, but I was busy with customers
and couldn’t talk. When I had a spare minute, I called him back.

“You don’t have to say a word,” Hunter said. “I know everything.”

“Is that so,” I said, wondering what he knew and what he didn’t. My heart sped up just hearing his voice.

“Johnny Jay asked me to listen to the recording.”

“Recording?” Why did I have such a sense of dread? Please don’t tell me Johnny Jay had recorded last night’s interrogation and delivered it to my boyfriend. “I never gave him permission to record anything. Isn’t that privileged information?”

Hunter, good guy that he is, didn’t mention that his position made him eligible for all that privileged stuff, but still… “He offered the recording as an explanation for the team’s wasted effort last night,” Hunter said. “I know you denied making the call to him about a hostage situation, but did you?”

Not good, not good at all. “I thought if anybody believed me, it would be you.”

“I had to ask.” Hunter didn’t sound happy with me. “We need to talk.”

I had a perfect excuse for dodging him. “I’m alone at the store. I can’t leave.”

“Promise me you’ll stay right where you are,” he said. “And stay out of trouble.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling like a child about to be scolded. I hated that feeling. Hunter and I had a lot of respect for each other and usually didn’t waste our precious time together nagging or criticizing, so what was the deal with his attitude?

I put it out of my mind.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, making me wonder how Grams was doing with Dinky, since the little dog was terrified of storms. I’d hoped to keep that particular problem from my grandmother until she was in too deep to back out. What would happen now?

A little while later, Eugene Petrie came into the store for the second time ever. I considered hiding under the counter, but he’d already spotted me.

“I thought you were out of town,” I said, plastering on a big friendly smile.

I didn’t get one in return. “I’m sure you did,” he said. “I’m here for two reasons.”

I gulped. How had he picked a time to show up when nobody was in the store? Had he been outside, watching? “Okay,” I said, dropping the smile.

“First, I’m warning you. Stay away from my family.”

“That’s easy,” I said, refusing to whimper until later, after he left. “I’ll do that.”

His face was about two inches from mine. It wasn’t pretty. Long nose hairs hanging out of his nostrils, pores like volcano craters, broken blood vessels, breath that could stop a whole hive of bees in midflight.

“Two,” he said. “I want my shovel back.”

“I gave it to Johnny Jay,” I lied, just like I’d lied to the police chief and told him I’d returned it to the Petries’ backyard shed. Since Eugene was asking, he hadn’t gone around to the back of the building and found it in my truck. Otherwise he would have taken it and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Although, I had no idea why I wasn’t giving the thing back.

Eugene wasn’t pleased with my answer. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but it stops now. Or else.” That was a direct threat, no doubt about it.

How dare Eugene! Coming into my store and threatening me. “You know where I found your shovel?” I said, narrowing my eyes, too.

“My shed,” he snarled.

“No. In the house next to mine. The same place Ford’s body was found.”

Eugene smirked. “You’re trying to set me up, aren’t you? You and Patti Dwyre.”

I could have said,
No, I’m not trying to get you, I’m after your son,
but that wouldn’t be too smart.

“Unless you’re going to shop,” I said to him, “I suggest you leave.”

I’d misjudged Eugene Petrie. All this time, thinking he was a better person than the nasty woman he was married to, but he wasn’t one bit nicer.

Eugene swung his head around as if he were looking for something, like he maybe had another reason for being inside my store. His eyes landed on my honey display. “I need honey sticks,” he snarled.

“Any special kind?” I asked, thinking the faster I got the jerk out of my store, the better.

“Root beer,” he answered.

I almost keeled over.