The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco (12 page)

“Call me Amy-Faye. What kind of event are you planning?”

It took her half a beat. “Oh no, I’m not looking for a party planner. Although if I were, I’d definitely hire you. Everything went like clockwork with this reception.” Her flattery made me wary even before she added, “I want to talk to you about Ivy Donner. You were her best friend, right?”

“She and I were friends from high school,” I said, not sure I merited the title “best friend.” I remembered I had no clue who this woman was. “Who are you?”

“Oh, sorry.” She offered her hand. “Flavia Dunbarton with the
Grand Junction Gabbler.
I’m a reporter.”

“Ah.” I didn’t try to hide my confusion. “Why is a Grand Junction reporter interested in Ivy Donner?” I asked.

“She came to me, a week ago, said she had— Look, can we sit down somewhere and talk? Somewhere that’s not here.”

She tipped her head toward Ham, and I got the impression she didn’t want him intruding.

“Uh, sure. Here.” I handed her a box with leftover plates and napkins. Picking up a similar box containing the serving dishes, I said, “Help me carry these out to the van. Then we can find someplace to talk.”

With the boxes loaded into the back of the van, I suggested we grab a beverage at the Divine Herb. Flavia followed me in her car. The lunch rush had passed by the time we arrived and found a table tucked into a corner near the back. We
could glimpse passersby on the sidewalk, but they wouldn’t spot us back here. The Divine Herb was a cozy spot with artwork by local artists on the walls, a pressed-tin ceiling original to the building, and violets planted in tea mugs on every table. The chairs were dark wood with floral cushions tied to them. Flavia took her time over the tea menu, and I ordered tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, suddenly realizing I was starving. I hadn’t eaten one bite at the reception, and I’d skipped breakfast, unable to face food on my way to Ivy’s funeral.

When our order arrived, the aroma of Flavia’s tea, an herbal blend, reminded me so strongly of Ivy that I swallowed hard and couldn’t speak for a moment. Luckily, Flavia took up our conversation where we’d left off at the funeral parlor. She was more self-possessed than your average twentysomething, I thought.

“So,” she said, taking a noisy sip of tea, “Ivy came to the
Gabbler
offices a week before she died and asked to speak to me. She said she’d read an article I did about corruption in the city council and she thought I was the right person to talk to.”

“About?”

“A story. A big story. Something too big for the
Heaven Herald
. She said she had proof—would soon have proof—of a scandal that would ‘lead to indictments of bigwigs from government circles to business leaders.’ Her words, not mine. She said the story involved people in Heaven, but also in Mesa and Grand Junction.”

“So what was the scandal?”

Flavia
pfft
ed air in a frustrated way. “I don’t know. I was actually hoping you might know.”

“You don’t know?” I stared at her blankly.

“Ivy died before she could give me the proof she was talking about. She said she didn’t want to give me any details until she had something to back up her story. We were supposed to meet the afternoon of the day she died.”

An icy finger traced my spine. I was pretty sure I knew what Ivy’s proof was, even if I didn’t have the slightest idea what it meant. The ledger page.

“I already asked her brother about it. He made a pass at me and tried to get me to write an article on his latest business idea—something to do with reptiles—and I think he might have already had a couple of brews, even though it wasn’t ten o’clock in the morning. Anyway, it didn’t take me thirty seconds to figure out that he had no idea what I was talking about. He didn’t strike me as anyone’s idea of a confidant, not even a sister’s, and I’ve since figured out that he and she weren’t all that close, right?”

She smiled and I found myself nodding in confirmation without meaning to. “I should have done more research before I approached him—I’ll know better next time. He offered to help me find Ivy’s ‘proof,’ whatever it was, for a fee.”

“Of course.” An image of Ivy’s ransacked house came into my mind. Had Ham gone through the house, looking for the mysterious proof? That put a new spin on things.

“Have you asked anyone else about this, mentioned that Ivy was onto something big?”

“No. I learned my lesson with her brother.”

“Yet you’re talking to me.” I cocked one brow, waiting for her to explain.

“I’ve been doing a little discreet investigating. It’s what I do.” She smiled the disarming smile. “I found out you and she were good friends, that she was at your house the night before she died and you were with her when she died. I’m hoping she said something to you.” She gave me a questioning look.

“She didn’t,” I said. “Didn’t even hint at anything like what you’re talking about.”

Flavia gave me a skeptical look. “Nothing? I find that hard to believe.”

Her doubt annoyed me, and I voiced a thought I’d been toying with. “You didn’t happen to search Ivy’s house, did you, looking for whatever she was going to show you?”

A guilty look flashed across Flavia’s face.

“You did!”

“I did not.” For the first time, she sounded as young as she looked. “But—”

“But what?” I didn’t believe her denial.

“I was there. At Ivy’s house. The day after she died. I didn’t hear about her death until the morning after she died, and I drove right over to Heaven. The police hadn’t yet decided it was suicide, and I thought—” She broke off.

“You thought someone had killed her because of whatever she was talking about, the story she was giving you.”

Flavia nodded. “I thought it was possible. If it’s really as big as she suggested . . . Anyway, I parked a bit down the block from her house, with some thought, I admit, to having a look around. But the place was Grand Central Station—I didn’t get a chance.”

“Grand Central Station? You mean you saw people at Ivy’s house? Who?”

“Cops.”

I waved that aside. Of course cops were in Ivy’s house the day after she died, probably collecting the remains of her tea or looking for a suicide note or something. “Anyone else?”

“A couple of men and a woman.”

“Together?”

“No, all separate. One of the men came first, then the woman, then the other man.”

“Any idea who they were?”

“No.” A mischievous smile curled Flavia’s lips. “But I’ve got photos. Want to see?” She pulled a small camera from her purse.

I scootched my chair around until we were side by side and I could view the photos with her. The first one showed a man from the back, his hand upraised to knock. Even from the back I had no difficulty in recognizing Clay Shumer.

“Clay Shumer. Ivy’s boss.” I identified him for Flavia. I couldn’t see any reason not to—she could get his name by showing the photo to almost anyone in town. “Did he go inside?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure he had a key. Were they . . . you know?”

The way she licked her lips was slightly off-putting and I only shrugged. Ivy’s love life was no concern of hers. After a second, she clicked to the next photo. Aha, this was interesting. I studied the photo of Fee Shumer turning away from Ivy’s door. She wore a nice blue dress and pumps; she looked like she was on her way to church or a lunch party. I guessed that pretty much answered the question of whether or not Mrs. Shumer knew about her husband’s relationship with Ivy.

Flavia looked a question at me.

“Fiona Shumer,” I said reluctantly.

Flavia made a note. “I wonder why she was there.”

“No idea.” I literally had no idea why Fee Shumer would be at Ivy’s house the day after she died. She must have heard about Ivy’s death, so she wasn’t there to confront her about sleeping with Clay, or invite her to a baby shower (if she was really pregnant, as Brooke suspected), or hit her up to contribute to some charitable cause. “Did she go inside?”

“She walked around to the back and was gone about ten or twelve minutes. I don’t know if she got in or not.”

We puzzled over Fee’s presence and motive in silence for a moment, and then Flavia clicked past a couple of photos of cops—I caught a glimpse of Chief Uggams and the Boy Scout–aged cop and Hart and a couple of uniformed cops I didn’t recognize—and stopped on the photo of someone I did recognize. I put a hand involuntarily to my mouth.

Flavia caught my reaction and her eyes gleamed with interest. She reminded me of a squirrel—no, a mink or a pine marten, weaving its way sinuously toward a fat gobbet of suet. “Who is it?”

She had to ask me again before I could make myself answer.

“He’s a lawyer. His name’s Doug Elvaston.” Why in the world was my Doug—okay, Madison’s Doug—lurking about Ivy’s home the day after her death? I bit my lip. It was possible, I supposed, that he didn’t know she had died . . . in which case, why was he going to see her? I remembered I’d been a bit surprised to see him at the funeral service. Was there something between them I wasn’t aware of? With dismay, I realized they might even have dated after Doug and I broke up. Ivy had always been a bit cagey about her romances; still, it didn’t seem possible that they could have dated for long in Heaven without someone mentioning it to me. Heaven’s gossips had certainly found a way to let me know about every female over twelve and under eighty-seven seen in Doug’s company. I remembered some of the conversations, the sly eyes watching for my reaction: “Guess who I ran into at the Salty Burro, Amy-Faye? Doug Elvaston. With a very attractive redhead. Probably a colleague, right? Although they didn’t look like they were discussing torts or contracts, if you know what I mean.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Flavia interrupted my thoughts, which had veered way offtrack. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t go in the house, at least, not then. He knocked a
couple of times, tried to peer in a window, and then left. He’s hot.”

“If you like that type,” I said, feigning disinterest. “So is that everyone you saw?”

Flavia tucked the camera back in her purse. “Yeah. There might have been more—like I said, Grand Central Station—but I had to leave. Ortho appointment.” She grinned broadly to display her almost invisible braces. “They come off before Christmas, thank God.”

“Are you going to share these photos with the police?”

“The police?” Flavia’s expression suggested I’d asked her if she was going to tattoo the likeness of Kim Kardashian on her backside. “Why would I do that?”

“Someone broke into Ivy’s place and trashed it. The police think it was kids, but maybe it wasn’t.” I nodded in the direction of the camera. “Maybe someone was looking for something other than drugs or electronics.” Like the ledger page.

“In general, I don’t believe in sharing with the police,” Flavia said, slurping the last swallow of her tea and collecting her bag. “They’re too likely to confiscate stuff or try to keep me from publishing. However, if they have something to offer in return . . .” She looked thoughtful. “If you think of anything else, let me know, okay? I’ll be around for a while—I’m not one to let go of a story once I sink my teeth into it. Thanks for your time. And I really will call you if I need an event organizer.” Adjusting her hat, she flashed a smile and left.

Sure she would. I absently tasted my soup, which
had grown cold during our conversation, and thought about the unexpected encounter, working through the implications of the photos. Clay, Fee, and Doug rolled about in my head like marbles, clinking against one another and then caroming away. I found myself sketching on the paper napkin and looked down to see I’d drawn a Ham Donner–ish figure (pudgy and with short hair, which was as close a likeness as I could manage) pouring booze into a punch bowl with a coffin in the background. In small capitals, I printed, “Funerals that really pack a punch.”
Blech.
I balled up the napkin and chomped a big bite out of my sandwich.

By the time I had finished my grilled cheese, I was no closer to figuring it out. As I stood and left money to cover the bill, I considered telling the police myself about the trio of visitors to Ivy’s house. It felt a bit low—like I’d be siccing the police on Flavia by doing that, because they’d surely call her and ask for the photos. Not that I owed Flavia anything, but still. Another idea popped into my head: I could talk to each of them, casual-like, and see if I couldn’t figure out why they’d gone to Ivy’s.
Yeah, right.
Like I could march up to Fee Shumer and say, “What were you doing at Ivy Donner’s house the morning after she died?”

I needed another idea. A workable idea.

S
unday dawned clear and sunny, although a cold front had blown in overnight and it was a good twenty degrees colder than it had been Friday. All to the good, I thought as I readied myself for the Boy Scout picnic. At least I didn’t have to worry about any of the boys—or their parents—collapsing with heatstroke. Wearing jeans and a striped rugby shirt, and with my hair ponytailed, I got to the park shortly after nine to start setting up. The packs or clans or whatever would arrive at eleven; I had planned for eighty Scouts plus leaders and parents. Between now and then, I needed to decorate the picnic pavilion, set up stations for the games they’d be playing, greet the caterer and make sure he had the right amount of brisket, pulled pork, and other barbecue items, and coordinate with the troop leaders to make sure we were all still on the same page.

Event organizing is a funny job. You’d think anyone can put a party together, and for the most part that’s true, if all you want is two-liter bottles
of soda and box wine served in plastic cups, a deli tray or cake from the grocery store, and a handful of friends standing around chatting. If you’re having an
event
, though, a party or meeting or wedding that runs on a schedule, where the activities of a variety of professionals (caterers, bakers, rental companies, musicians, speakers, etc.) have to sync up, where there are lots of moving parts and big bucks involved, well, then, you’re smart to have an event organizer like
moi
. I describe myself to prospective clients as a cross between the general contractor they’d hire to make sure their house gets built right and a cruise director, with a touch of therapist thrown in.

The day started off on the right foot because the picnic pavilion was posted with the
RESERVED
sign I’d requested when I booked it with Heaven’s parks and rec office, and the grass on the field had been recently mowed, also as I’d requested. Some sort of white box sat at the far end of the field, and I wondered if the grounds crew had forgotten something. No matter. The park had three main recreation areas, including a playground with jungle gyms, an area with a couple of softball fields, and this pavilion with the football field–sized grassy area for all sorts of running games. All three areas shared a central parking lot, and paved walkways led from the lot to the various picnic pavilions. A mix of conifers and aspens bordered the field on three sides, and I breathed deeply of the piney smell as I pulled my dolly laden with boxed decorations up the slight incline.

By the time Al arrived to help at ten, I’d
completed the decorating, including making centerpieces of balloons; discussed where to put the inflatable slide with Bowie Hines, who owned Take a Bounce, the inflatables company from Palisade; and patted the ponies who would be giving rides to the youngest kids. Their owner, whom I’d worked with numerous times, set up on the far end of the field to minimize odor and flies near the eating area. Al’s arrival coincided with the caterer’s and everything was chaos for half an hour, the good kind of chaos that meant stuff that was supposed to be happening was happening. I didn’t even want to think about the bad kind of chaos.

By the time the first boys started arriving, everything was under control. The mouth-watering smell of pulled pork was heavy on the air, and the day had warmed up enough that mothers were smearing or spraying sunblock on their reluctant Scouts. Parents chatted in small groups while the Scout leaders organized and ran games out on the field. The bulk of my job was done. The Big Cheese Scout Leader, the one who’d hired me, had already told me he was pleased with all the arrangements. I could expect more business from the Boy Scouts, I thought happily. Hands on hips, I observed to Al, “Looks like it’s going smoothly.”

“Knock wood.” He rapped his knuckles against one of the columns holding up the pavilion roof.

He was surprisingly superstitious for someone so young. “Were you ever a Scout?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I was never into uniforms, not even as a kid. A couple years back, before I started college, back when I wasn’t doing much
with my life, my dad suggested I join the military. They’ve got great educational benefits, and it might’ve been fun to get stationed in California or Florida, near Disney or a beach, but I couldn’t do the uniforms. Or the guns,” he added as an afterthought. “Or the rule following, or the respect for authority, or—”

“I guess now’s not the best time to mention the uniforms I just bought for us to wear when we’re on-site for events? Black slacks for you and a black skirt for me, with a pale pink shirt with Eventful! embroidered over the pocket—”

“You’d better be kidding, boss,” he said.

I grinned and he whooshed out a relieved breath. “Had you going,” I said.

Al nodded and then made a visor of his hand and peered toward the makeshift corral, where three ponies plodded in a slow circle. “That pony seems to be going a little fast.”

Indeed it did. A fourth pony, fat and white, was trotting across the field, tossing its head up and around, with a small girl clinging to its brushy mane, wailing.
Oh no.
Al and I started jogging toward the pony, now being chased by its owner and a handful of enthusiastic Scouts. I was hoping to intercept it before it barreled into the rows of Scouts lined up for three-legged races and egg tosses. As I got closer to the runaway steed, I heard screams. Looking up, I saw eight or ten kids windmilling their arms and running from the corral area. They were yelling something and it took me a moment to understand what they were saying.

“Bees,” they cried. “Bees!”

The pony neared and I lunged for the loose lead rein trailing from his bridle. I snagged it, planted my feet, and pulled. Thanking my lucky stars that the pony was fat and already winded, I brought him to a halt and swung the little girl out of the saddle. The pony stood docilely, smelling like horse sweat, and lowered his head to munch the grass.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“The pony scareded me.” She clung to me, blinking wet lashes. “And the bee stinged me.” She pointed to an angry welt on her arm. The sight of it made her tear up again. “Mooommmy!”

This was definitely the bad kind of chaos. Al skidded to a stop beside me and I handed him the little girl.

“Find her mom. Get the first-aid kit from the van.” I always carried a first-aid kit to events, and it was stocked with EpiPens in case of allergy emergencies. I’d once had a guy keel over with anaphylactic shock after eating shrimp dip. This little girl seemed fine, but I didn’t know the state of the other kids trying to outrun the bees. “And tell everyone there are bees. Maybe they should get in their cars.”

As Al ran back to the pavilion, I intercepted the group of kids running toward me, most of them still swatting at the air. Several bees buzzed around the last boy in the group and I flapped at them. They flew off toward the white box sitting not far from the corral. I had a sinking suspicion that I knew what the box was. On the thought, a sharp burning pain erupted on my neck. I clapped
a hand to it and accidentally smushed the bee that had stung me. Dang, it hurt.

“I think they’re gone, now,” I told the boys through gritted teeth. “Did anyone get stung?”

Six of the seven raised their hands. “Three times,” a boy with glasses said proudly.

“It’s a good thing you’re tough,” I said, scanning them all and seeing no signs of distressed breathing or all-over redness or welts. I herded them back toward their parents and the pavilion, saying, “Isn’t there a Scout badge for camping and stuff, or first aid? Did you learn what to do for bee stings?”

“Don’t try to pull out the stinger,” a short boy with a welt on his knee said. “That makes it worse. Did you know bees die after they sting you? When they stick the stinger in, it pulls out their guts.” He said it with eight-year-old relish and looked pleased when I said, “Ew.”

The parents had organized by now and quickly checked their offspring. One mother pulled ice cubes from a cooler and applied them to the stings. I gratefully accepted one and held it to the welt on my neck. It helped a little. The hubbub gradually died down, but several of the younger kids were crying, from fear or overstimulation, and some of the parents began packing their offspring into SUVs and minivans. The event was breaking up prematurely, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I headed back toward the corral, hoping Reina, the pony wrangler, might be able to tell me what had happened. However, I was only halfway there
when the Big Cheese Scout Leader hailed me, coming from the direction I was headed.

“She says there was a swarm of bees,” he said, indicating Reina with a jerk of his head. “They stung the pony.” His rubbery lower lip jutted out. “We’re lucky no one was seriously hurt.”

I nodded fervently.

“They came out of that hive.” He jabbed a finger at the white box I’d noticed when I first arrived. “What kind of moron,” he continued, “sets up a beehive in a park where kids play games?”

I shrugged, preparing to admit that I didn’t know what kind of moron that would be and was already planning to call parks and rec, but he forestalled me with a more pointed question: “And what kind of moron doesn’t check the field for hazards when she’s expecting a hundred young boys to be running around
and
has been paid to make sure things go right?”

That would be my kind of moron, I guessed. It wasn’t totally fair to blame me for the bee invasion, but if I’d checked out the white box when it caught my eye, we could have avoided this fiasco. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t imagine why or when someone put—”

“I can’t imagine why someone would hire you to organize dinner for two,” he said and strode off without giving me time to reply.

I guessed that meant I wouldn’t be organizing next year’s Scout picnic. Too bad. With a little heads-up, I could maybe have arranged a killer piranha infestation for everyone’s amusement. Shoot. I’d talk to the Big Cheese in a couple of days, when
he’d cooled off. Right now, he was probably still suffering from the adrenaline rush of realizing dozens of parents might have sued the organization and him personally if any of the boys had reacted badly to the stings. I couldn’t blame him for fearing litigation; people had tried to sue me for the “mental anguish” associated with not having centerpiece flowers the exact shade of blue as their bridesmaids’ sashes, for a freak July snow shower ruining an outdoor commitment ceremony, and for the dry-cleaning bills associated with being spat upon by an annoyed camel (long story). Even in Heaven, too many people were willing to drag their neighbors into court for the most trivial slights and wrongs.

Squaring my shoulders, I continued on to the corral and made sure the ponies and Reina were all right. Learning they were, I helped her load the stolid beasts into her trailer and then cautiously approached the hive. As I got closer, a humming seemed to vibrate the air. I could tell, somehow, that the humming was bees happily going about their bee business, not preparing to go on the warpath. A few bees left the hive, crossing paths with a similar number returning to it. I wished I could peer inside, but I didn’t want to incite the bees again.

A splash of chartreuse some feet in front of the hive caught my eye, and I stooped to retrieve a tennis ball. Odd. I tossed it in the air, figuring one of the Scouts must have brought it. Leaving the bees behind, I returned to the pavilion in time to watch the inflatable slide hiss and sag when Bowie
pulled the plug on it. That was kind of how I felt—like someone had pulled the plug on me. I took Al up on his offer to finish supervising the cleanup and headed home for an ibuprofen, a salve of vinegar and baking soda on my bee sting, and a phone call to parks and rec.

Parking the van in my driveway fifteen minutes later, I descended wearily. I tucked the expandable file holding receipts for the day’s vendors and supplies under my arm and walked to my front door. As I fitted the key into the lock, a yellow paper spiraled to the ground, loosed from the piece of tape used to stick it to my door. I picked it up and almost crumpled it without reading it, figuring it was an ad for a roof inspection or a Realtor begging for a listing. It looked homemade, though, so I scanned it after laying my folder on the kitchen counter.

“
QUIT BUZZING ABOUT IN THINGS
THAT
AREN
’
T
YOUR
BE
ESWAX
,” it read in printed capitals. “
NEXT
TIME
THE
STING
MIGHT
BE
FATAL
.”