by Chris Cooper
“Hand me that knife on the table over there,” she said.
As far as Oliver could tell, it was just an ordinary bread knife, long with a serrated edge. He handed it to her and watched with intrigue as she gingerly cut the wax caps off of the comb, carefully running the knife down the frame. The wax sloughed off into the container below, and a few drops of golden syrup dripped off the end of the knife. She did the same for the other side before walking over to a tall metal drum in the corner of the room.
“A little help?” she asked.
Oliver followed her over to the machine and lifted the Plexiglas lid so she could slide the frame into one of the drum slots.
“So this is what you use to get all of the honey out?” he asked.
“Yep, it’s like a giant centrifuge. We put the frames in here, spin it around, then open the tap at the bottom and filter the honey into a bucket.”
She fit an entire box of frames into the extractor, and the centrifuge spun to life. The device reminded Oliver of a carnival ride and started to hop a bit as it picked up speed. He stepped on the bottom of the metal frame to steady it. After a few moments, Anna kicked an empty bucket underneath the spout and laid a strainer on top to filter out all the debris.
“Pull the tap,” she said.
Oliver lifted the small plastic valve that kept the honey inside the drum. As he did, a thick waterfall of syrup poured into the strainer and bucket below.
“I’ve never seen this much honey at one time,” he said. “How much do you get from each of these frames?”
“Two or three pounds,” she replied.
He walked to the screen door and looked out at the hives in the yard. “You have eight hives with four boxes apiece, so that’s a thousand pounds of honey? That’s crazy!”
“Not quite—probably half of that, though. The lower boxes are where the queen lays all of her eggs. We don’t harvest from those, plus we need to leave enough honey for the bees to eat.”
“You harvest that much every year?”
“Not the first, but most of the years after that. We did have a bit of a scare with hive beetles last year, though.”
“Hive beetles?”
“Yeah, they’re little beetles that sneak up into the hives and lay eggs. They can ruin the stores of honey if you’re not careful and can even kill entire hives. We had a little infestation, but we caught them early and made some modifications to the hives to keep them out, at least for the most part.”
As he watched Izzy out in the yard, his brain couldn’t help but make the connection between the bustling hives and the town. Even the smallest intruder or uninvited outsider could cause devastation to the hive if not controlled. To the town, Izzy was a hive beetle, threatening to destroy the delicate honeycomb that was the town’s carefully curated aesthetic.
The harvest continued for the better part of the day, and Oliver and Anna took a break while Izzy finished up preparing the hives for winter.
No matter how hard he tried, Oliver couldn’t get the house in the woods out of his head. How could I have imagined it? He told Izzy the story, and she confirmed no one lived on the other side of the briar patch. Oliver wanted to see for himself, and he tried to convince Anna to take a stroll with him down to the edge of the forest.
“I’m telling you now, there’s nothing down there. No one lives in the woods,” Anna said, trying to keep pace with him as he speed walked down the hill.
“I know, but I definitely saw something. It wasn’t the wind blowing through the trees or my imagination. It was a building. It’s there—I know it,” he said.
They walked the tree line to the briar patch. Even though the police had hacked away at the vines to free Lilly from their tangles, the patch now looked as though it had never been touched. The blooms had faded, and he found no signs of the bright-red flowers that had speckled the patch the other night.
“So, where is this building, then?” she asked.
Oliver pointed across the brambles, edging toward the patch. He squinted, hoping to bring the building into focus once again, but he saw only trees and foliage in the distance.
She followed the path of his finger. “Nothing’s there.”
“I saw the house right over there.” He was growing irritated and pressed up against the briars, which snagged his clothing and scraped against his arm. He pulled back, and one of the thorns left a deep scratch in his skin.
“That’s odd,” he said, rubbing the scratch.
“What is?” Anna asked.
“The other night, I fell right into the patch, but I didn’t get a single scratch. The branches cushioned my fall. Now, they’ve drawn blood.” As he pulled away, he noticed several small blooms on the branches that had scraped him. They appeared to be opening up before his eyes.
“I think I’m losing my mind. Do you see those?” he asked, pointing at the blooms. “Those flowers weren’t there a minute ago.”
Anna shrugged.
They walked along the tree line in the direction of Lilly’s house, which sat next to the woods a mile or so down the field. When they arrived at the tiny cottage, the door was still cordoned off with police tape.
“Apparently, the inside was torn apart, just like Francis’s place,” he said.
“You think whoever destroyed the house dumped her in the patch?” Anna asked.
“That or she ran for her life and got tangled up—doesn’t explain the jaw, though.”
“That’s terrifying,” she said, rubbing her arms for warmth.
Oliver stared at the entryway to the cottage. The door was constructed of several vertical planks of sturdy wood, with two crossbeams to hold it together. He stepped forward and examined a crack that ran down one of the center boards.
“Whatever was after Francis nearly broke her door in two. This one’s just as bad,” he said.
He noticed a small scratch at the bottom of the door and knelt down to get a better look. A crude S shape was carved into the wood in red ink.
“Come here and look at this,” he said, beckoning Anna over to the door. “Have you seen anything like this before?”
She knelt down next to him and examined the carving.
“No, what do you think it is?” she asked.
“It’s a symbol of some kind. Doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be there, though. Look at the splinters. It’s like someone carved it in with a knife,” Oliver said. “But there’s some kind of ink too.” He stepped back from the doorway. “Do you think…?”
“Think what?”
“The person who attacked Lilly carved it? It’s crazy, but I wonder if this could have been carved into the other door as well,” he said.
“There’s only one way to find out,” she replied. “And we won’t even need to bother Harry to do it.”
If the pattern had been carved into Francis’s door, the police could have easily overlooked it because of the bright-red paint.
Anna and Oliver reached Francis’s home half an hour later after crossing the field and making their way back into town and through the alley next to the bakery. But something was different about the house—the bright-red door had been replaced.
Without hesitation, Oliver marched up the walkway and knocked on the door.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Don’t bother him.”
But it was too late. Harry answered the door, a bit more composed this time and fully dressed.
“Oliver. What brings you here?” he asked.
“We were wondering if you still have the red door,” he said.
Anna rubbed her forehead in embarrassment.
“Um, well, I was going to get rid of it but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t mean to intrude, but is there any chance we could take a look?” he asked. “Just wanted to check something.”
Harry seemed puzzled. “Uh, sure, I guess,” he said. “Come on in.” He opened the door wider and gestured inside.
As they turned the
corner into the dining room, the bright-red door waited for them. Harry had converted it into a kitchen table and filled the gaps where the door had cracked with a shiny resin.
“What do you think?” he asked. “I’m not much of a craftsman, but I think it turned out all right.”
“It’s beautiful,” Anna said, choking up a bit.
The piece served as an elegant memorial to Harry’s late wife.
“I know it’s just a door, but she loved the damn thing for some reason. I had to save it. Now it feels like I still get to eat every meal with her,” he said.
Oliver walked around to the other side of the table. He traced his finger along another crudely carved S pattern on the bottom right side.
“The scratches are here too,” he said. “Harry, did you see this?”
Harry walked toward him and looked down at the table. He scratched at the carving with his fingernail. “Oh, that. Figured it was just a scratch.”
“This is the same pattern that was carved into Lilly Brighton’s door,” Oliver said.
Harry immediately pulled his hand back, as if the door had bitten him. “What?”
“We found this on Lilly’s door—the same exact pattern. We’ve got to tell the police. The red ink blends right in with the color of the door, so I missed it the first time around.”
Harry’s face turned ashen, and he stared off into space for several moments before regaining composure. “I think it’s best if you leave now,” he said.
“Wait—why?” Oliver asked.
“Francis is gone. None of this will bring her back. I’ve already talked to the police and told them everything I know.”
“But this is new. Eric never mentioned this. People are being murdered, and whoever’s doing it might very well do it again,” he said, pleading for Harry’s cooperation.
“Tell the police if you want, but I don’t want any part of it. Now, please leave,” Harry pointed toward the door.
“Harry, we’re sorry,” Anna chimed in. “We’ll go.” She shot a stern glance at Oliver.
He reluctantly agreed, and Harry led the two to the front door.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, once safely out of earshot.
“What do you mean? We found a pattern that could help the police figure all this out,” he said.
“I know. But you can’t just barge into someone’s house who’s just lost his wife and dredge all this stuff back up. We’ll tell Eric. That’s fine, but show a little compassion, for God’s sake.” Her face was turning a shade of red that reminded Oliver of Francis’s door. She wasn’t quite yelling, but her voice was only a few decibels away.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry, but this could help the police prevent another murder. Maybe the symbol means something, and they could tie it to the killer.”
The police had indeed missed the carved symbols in the original investigation. Aside from dusting the door handles for prints, they’d had no reason to inspect the door that closely. But the discovery didn’t move the case forward. Despite a thorough search, they were unable to determine the meaning of the symbol or where it might have come from. Even Martin, who had been so helpful with the coin, didn’t recognize the obscure etching. The find appeared to lead to nothing more than a dead end.
Chapter Fifteen
Oliver lay on his back in the sunroom. The bright sunlight warmed his body and helped him to momentarily forget how dark his world had become. He twisted the coin in his hand, allowing the sunlight to flash across its metal surface. Pan lay next to him and appeared to be wondering whether or not the object in Oliver’s hand was edible. Izzy was out tending to the bees, so Oliver was keeping an eye on the mischievous pup since he clearly had no other place to be for the foreseeable future.
Exiled.
The word hung over him like a personal rain cloud. Almost a week had passed since Anna burst through the bakery doors in a redheaded rage. Her father had overheard a conversation among Madeline and a few of the Elders concerning their options for forcing Oliver’s exit from Christchurch. “Exile” was the term Anna used. Apparently, several in the town didn’t care Oliver had been cleared by the police. He was guilty in their minds.
Fortunately, exiles had gone out of style with witchcraft trials. Still—the idea that some in the town wanted him to leave so badly they’d propose forcibly removing him made him question why he continued to stay. Several days had passed since Izzy had kindly given him the week off to mope around the house. The neighborhood watch took frequent strolls by Izzy’s place, so Oliver resumed his hermitage. Things were a mess, and his presence was only making the relationship between Izzy and the Elders worse, despite her constant reassurance to the contrary. But something in him told him to stay—told him he could help find the person who was leaving bodies scattered around Christchurch.
The back door creaked, and Izzy came in with her beekeeper mask in hand. When she saw Oliver sprawled on the floor, she set her mask down on the coffee table and lay next to him.
“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” she asked.
“Nothing, just warming up in the sun a bit,” he replied.
“You’ve barely moved all week. I’d say you should be sufficiently warm by now, don’t you think?”
“It hasn’t been a week,” he replied. “Okay, well maybe a business week,” he corrected himself. “What’s the point in going outside if everyone out there wants you gone?”
“Welcome to my world, bud, but it’s not everyone. I’ve lived in this town for most of my life, and there are plenty of people here who still want nothing to do with me.” Izzy paused. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t do things for them—I do things for me. Even though some in this town would prefer it if I lived somewhere else—the side of a remote mountain, perhaps—there are still some great people here. It’s a beautiful place to live, and I’d never be able to find another place with this much land and these gorgeous views. So, I stay for me. Sometimes, you just have to do things others aren’t going to agree with if those are the things that make you happy.”
“I can feel them all staring at me, hating me from a distance. I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but I feel so guilty.”
“Oliver, why did you walk away from your job?” She turned her head to face him.
“I had no choice. I couldn’t afford to waste away doing something that I hated. I couldn’t afford to sit behind a desk for the rest of my life,” he replied.
“If that’s the case, can you afford to waste away on the sunroom floor? You’d be better off back in the city than here on the ground.” She pecked him on the side of his head then stood up and went into the kitchen to start dinner.
He lay on the floor for several more minutes before tucking the coin into his pocket, hopping up, and walking to the kitchen to grab his coat. Izzy stood over a large pot of beans she’d been soaking since morning. He said nothing but walked over and wrapped his arms around her.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m going to go out for a bit.”
“I’ll leave you some leftovers if you’re not back for dinner. Have fun,” she said, patting his back.
“Oh, and I’m going to borrow the bike,” he added.
Izzy’s bike matched the color of her car, at least its color before they’d painted it for the festival. Several years had passed since he had last ridden a bike, and the ape-hanger handlebars didn’t make riding any easier, so he wobbled a bit on the gravel before gaining his balance.
His face parted the chilly night air as he flew past the vibrant trees, whose leaves matched the color of the sunset. Fall was in full swing, and soon the town would be filled with pumpkins and trick-or-treaters. The owner of the marketplace was pulling in barrels and crates of produce for the evening as Oliver whizzed by, receiving a nasty glare from a group of neighborhood watchers who stood next to the founder’s statue.
Anna lived on the other side of town, a ways back behind the bakery, in a small cottage overloo
king the lake. Oliver had helped her take a few boxes of honey home a few days before, and the place was hard to miss. The window trim was painted bright orange, and the entire building seemed to be sculpted out of curved wooden shingles. Handmade stained glass filled one of the front windows.
Oliver hopped off the bike and knocked on the door. Anna greeted him, wearing an apron and covered in flour.
“You know the bakery’s closed, right?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just been holed up in the house for a few days and thought I’d get some fresh air. Thought maybe you could use some too.”
“Absolutely! Come on in.” She ushered him in through the arched doorway.
The tiny cottage was just as eclectic on the inside as on the outside. The light through the stained glass cast a brilliant aura over the living room, and the kitchen’s large picture window, located just above the sink, provided a spectacular view of the lake.
The kitchen was filled with stacks of bakeware containers scattered across the counters. A leaning tower of bread teetered in one of the corners.
“I know, the baking’s a bit out of control,” she said.
“You think?”
“Baking’s always been a stress reliever for me.”
“You must be in the middle of a mental breakdown, then,” he said, observing the carbohydrate landscape.
“Feel free to take whatever you’d like. I’ve been meaning to bring some over to the house, and we’re going to take the rest up to the farmer’s market this weekend.” Anna untied her apron, folded it, and set it on top of one of the cookie boxes since no other clear surfaces were left.