Keeper of the Bees

by Meg Kassel

  “I sure hope you’re imagining this,” she said, looping her handbag over a shoulder.

  I wished I was, too, but I’m 90 percent sure I’m not. Maybe 85 percent sure.

  My tears start as soon as we enter the wooded part of the path. They extrude from my eyes like fist-sized water balloons, then burst and splatter water all over my clothes. I have to hold my sodden shirt out in front of me so it won’t plaster to the front of my body. Otherwise, everybody would be staring at my wet T-shirt. The few people we pass are the last of the 5K racers. They straggle through, panting, but a couple do double takes at me, which makes me cry even harder.

  We’re close to the spot where the dead girl is, and my shaking and crying and shirt tugging apparently makes Aunt Bel stop and face me. She leans close. I can smell her nicotine breath, the aerosol hair spray she uses to keep her bouffant pouffed a solid six inches off the top of her head. “Essie. Stop doing that with your shirt.”

  “B-but there’s water all over it.”

  “Look at me.” She unrolls my clenched fingers, clasps them tight between her own. “There’s no water on your shirt. You’re just crying, is all. Your shirt is dry.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of seeing her there again. Or of not seeing her there.” The memory of it lies as fresh and vivid as the corpse herself. I remember the bright, metallic smell as unfamiliar but one that twisted my insides with primal fear. I remember all the colors. Sky blue of her dress next to the harsh white of her skin. The smears of red blood accenting everything from her hair to those innocent bushes she lay on. The stumps of her toes almost didn’t look real. I thought at first that they weren’t, but even my visions have never been so gory. Frightening sometimes, yes, but never gruesome.

  Aunt Bel tugs my head down and rests her forehead against mine. “Whatever we find, we’ll deal with it. Understand?”

  I let out a ragged breath. “Yes.”

  She leans back. Fine lines dig around her eyes. “Now stop crying. And leave your shirt alone.”

  “Okay.” It takes all my effort, but I manage to walk the rest of the way with a wet shirt plastered to my skin. No one stares at my chest. Because the shirt is dry, I fiercely lecture myself. I’m finding it hard to hold on to that certainty right now.

  I stop at the place where I spotted that patch of color in the woods. Aunt Bel glances at the tamped-down brush where a rough path leads into the thicket. “Here?”

  My tongue feels like a rock in my mouth, so I nod.

  She goes in first, and I follow, keeping my gaze on the back of her head. It’s still in the air—that odd, metal scent from before. She comes to a stop, just where I knew she would, and lets out a sharp curse.

  “Open your eyes, Essie,” Aunt Bel says.

  I hadn’t realized I’d closed them. I open them.

  The body is gone.

  “But—” I start, but she raises a hand.

  “You said you saw a body here?” she asks sharply. “A whole body?”

  “Yes.” My voice is thin, but it’s not relief I’m feeling. A deeper dread slides under my skin.

  The bushes and shrubs that had partly suspended the woman above the ground are crushed and blood smeared.

  My aunt points. “See that down there on the ground?”

  There’s something on the ground, visible between the broken branches. It’s a plastic baggie. The kind for sandwiches. There’s something in it.

  I lean forward and squint. “Are those...”

  “Toes.” My aunt rears back, hand flattened to her chest. “Sweet Lord in heaven, there’s toes in that bag.”

  “It wasn’t like this,” I say. “All of her was here, except the toes.”

  Aunt Bel turns abruptly and herds me through the brush, back to the running path. Back on the pavement, her hands clamp around my upper arms. Her face is a mask of cold and hot and profound worry. “Essie, you look in my eyes and tell me the truth, now. Back at the house, did you tell me everything? Every single thing?”

  My aunt’s piercing gaze is almost as frightening as finding the dead woman. The water balloons threaten to come popping from my eyes again, but I force them back.

  A half hour ago, I stood in these woods with Dresden, listening to him tell me to relax, that I was safe. I remember the feel of his buzzing, humming chest under my cheek and the shaky, uncertain way he held me. I draw in a deep breath and stretch my scattered mind to grab hold of the small, slippery parts that fit together. “I told you everything,” I say firmly. “She was here. Face down. In a blue dress.”

  Aunt Bel’s eyes soften, then her hands gentle. “Okay, baby. When the police get here, you tell them exactly what you told me. You didn’t move anything, did you? Touch anything?”

  “No.” The only thing I touched was Dresden. Look at me. Right here, he’d said. And I did, but I can’t tell my aunt about that.

  “Thank God for that.” She digs into her purse and pulls out her phone. Her hands shake as she calls 9-1-1.

  An hour later, I’m with Aunt Bel in the police station. We’re sitting on the guest side of a metal desk across from an unhappy-looking detective who I know from past encounters. And because she’s a cousin, second or third or once removed. Something like that. I wouldn’t know that if she hadn’t told me on an earlier occasion, when she was picking me up from walking down the interstate in my aunt’s bathrobe—don’t ask.

  I’m related to a lot of people in Concordia, where the Wickertons have resided since colonial times, but I couldn’t tell you who they are. We don’t do family gatherings or holiday parties or anything like that. About half are affected by the Wickerton curse, to one degree or another, and the rest are busy watching after the affected half. It’s not a crew anyone wants brought all together. As a result, my sprawling family is a scattered bunch. The only place the Wickerton descendants congregate is in the Holy Trinity cemetery, where a sizable section of land is secured for our graves. Each generation produces fewer offspring than the one previous, on account of the Wickerton curse striking younger and younger.

  A can of Coke sweats on the desk before me. I’m thirsty, but I don’t drink it. There’s a little stand-up name plaque with the name: Detective Annemarie Berk. I stare at it, offended on her behalf that they smashed her name together like that. It’s Anne Marie, two words. She must have been promoted recently, because the last time I saw her, she wore a blue police uniform instead of this gray, ill-fitting suit, and she looked a good deal happier.

  The heavy pile of papers teetering on the edge of her desk likely isn’t helping her mood. Nor is my presence opposite her desk. I have no gripe with Detective Berk. As Officer Berk, she’s returned a good number of our relatives to their respective residences after episodes, including Grandma Edie. Including myself, a few times. I don’t remember a whole lot from those encounters, but when she was the one bringing me home, I never returned home with bruises on my arms.

  Detective Berk’s sleeves are rolled up to the elbows. On her left forearm is a mark the shape and size of a large hand. It’s black and curls around her arm like a charred burn. She’s an impressively large woman—tall and broad boned. Strong. She looks like a superhero in off-duty clothes. I want to ask her what happened to her arm, but I don’t know if that would be rude.

  “So Essie, you’re telling me you were walking, alone, in the park this morning. You found a body—minus the toes—went immediately home, got your aunt. When the two of you arrived back at the scene, the body was gone but the toes were there.”

  “Yes,” I say. “In a baggie.”

  “Right.” She marks something down on a pad. “Why didn’t you contact the police immediately? Why did you go home first?”

  I glance over at Aunt Bel. Chin high, hands clasped over her enormous handbag, my aunt looks so solid, so formidable, she feels like a giant. She pats my knee and nods, slanting a look at the detective. “It’s okay, my lamb. Detective Berk is a friend.”
>
  The definitive emphasis on friend draws a sigh from Detective Berk and a shuddery breath from me.

  “I was afraid you’d all think I did it,” I mumble.

  “Why would you assume that?” asks Detective Berk.

  What a silly question. I give her half an eye roll. “Because of my condition, obviously.”

  “Nothing obvious about this.” Berk glances at her notes. “You have no history of violence, Essie. I’m not assuming you did this, based on what I know of you, but it’s important you not hold back any information. I need to know everything you saw and did, so we can find who did do this.”

  Everything. Yeah, not a chance. “I told you everything.” Except for Dresden.

  Berk folds her hands, places them on the desk. She sighs again. “Here’s the thing, Essie. An officer interviewed some runners who passed the scene during the time frame you said you were with the body. He has a witness who claims she heard people talking in the woods. A female and a male voice.”

  My head goes dead blank. Ice. Stone. Nothing. “That wasn’t me,” I say flatly, hoping it passes for honest. “There was no one but me.”

  “There were a lot of people in the park today,” Aunt Bel puts in. “Could have been anyone. Voices carry.”

  “They do.” Detective Berk holds my gaze a moment too long. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  The one thing I’m sure of is I’m a crappy liar. I was already nervous, but now my heart is pounding so hard it’s making the desk rattle. The Coke is about to fall on the floor. I snatch it off the desk and hold it tightly between my hands. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to calm my hammering heartbeat. Quiet down! Everyone’s going to know I’m leaving something out. They’re going to think I killed that woman and I’ll go to jail forever. That would surely be worse than Stanton House.

  “Essie, are you okay?” Detective Berk asks.

  Some rank black goo is leaking from the name plaque, from the misspelled name, “Annemarie.” It stinks like a sewer, and the glop is making a puddle on the floor near my feet. I jab a finger toward the offending plaque. “Why did they screw up your name?”

  “What?” She blinks. “Oh, it was a misprint.”

  “They should fix it.” I tuck my feet up on the chair. “That’s not how you spell it.”

  Detective Berk’s expression gentles. “I think that’s enough for today.”

  “I agree.” Aunt Bel stands up.

  “Seriously, who do I have to talk to to get your name fixed on that thing?” I pinch my nostrils closed. “It smells like a backed-up toilet.”

  I can feel her staring at me. Great. I’m freaking her out. I tear my gaze from the oozing mess and stare at my lap.

  “I’ll take care of it, Essie,” Detective Berk says with that smile, the one people give me when they’re trying to placate me. They think I don’t know what that look means. That I don’t get how although their mouths say nice, reassuring things, the rest of their face is saying: “I wish you would leave.” And Dresden thinks his face is hard to look at. I’d prefer his slideshow of features to the sideways glances of polite distress I get from most people. I don’t even blame them for it. I’m afraid of myself often enough.

  Before we go home, Detective Berk makes me describe the dead woman in as much detail as I can. I do my best, describing things like height and weight and even the texture of her hair. The result is a generic description that reads nothing like my memory, but without seeing her face, the woman is like a department store mannequin. Featureless and anonymous.

  Aunt Bel takes me to a sandwich shop for lunch. We sit across from each other, quietly munching subs and slurping sodas too big to finish. My aunt wipes her fingers on a napkin and eyes me. “Are you okay?” Her voice is quiet, but practical. She’s not afraid I’m going to have an episode—she just wants a status report. I love that about her.

  “I think so.” I pick a tomato from my sub and put it on my plate. “I’m really tired.”

  She nods. “We’ll get you home and to bed. I want you to try to put this from your mind.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not likely to happen.”

  “I know, I know.” Her hands twitch toward her handbag containing her cigarettes. “I knew I should have made you stay home this morning. It won’t happen again, you know. You’re not going anywhere alone until this psychopath is found.”

  There is no arguing with this tone, but there is always a way to squeeze out of my aunt’s edicts. “Okay.”

  In a practiced move, she slicks Moroccan Red lipstick over her lips. The result is a thin, scarlet line across her face. She raps her lipstick on the tabletop and shakes her head. “News of two murders is going to travel. We’re going to have reporters from St. Louis coming out here, sniffing around. We’re going to be on the goddamn nightly news again.”

  I take another bite of sub. “I won’t talk to any reporters.”

  “You’re damn right, you won’t.”

  About a decade ago, Concordia had been on the news for a piece about the mental illness that made the town an unfortunate statistic. The Wickerton curse had been widely studied, to no real effect, but some TV producer had thought it would make an interesting segment on prime time and sent a crew out to question everyone who had anything to say about us.

  I never saw it, but from what I heard, the piece wasn’t exactly flattering to my family. The ratings, however, were excellent. I had even made it on the final cut, although I don’t remember being filmed running around my school’s playground. I was only just beginning to show signs of the condition. The following year was my last in public school. But regardless, that segment, depicting my family so badly, did damage in a community that already only tolerated us. As a result, there isn’t a person of Wickerton descent—sane or not—who doesn’t harbor tremendous hostility toward all news outlets, everywhere. Forever. What can I say? Half of us may see bubbles when we laugh, but we have our pride.

  One thing keeping me focused and grounded is the prospect of seeing Dresden again. He’ll know more about what’s going on here. He may even have found out who killed that woman. But if I’m honest with myself, and I generally am, my desire to see him has nothing to do with the murder. I just like being around him. It wasn’t just talk when I told him that his presence calms my mind. It’s like all my twisted wires smooth out for a little while and I can just be. Of course, I’m aware that being around him can’t cure me, and he’s made it clear he’s not going to be here long. But I like the way he looks at me, like I’m not a person to be feared or disturbed by or pitied. At least, if he does pity me, he hides it well.

  I chew the last few bites of my sub and gaze outside the window. Aunt Bel checks Facebook on her phone. Downtown Concordia bustles on, unaware that a woman was murdered just a few miles away. I watch a guy in a suit turn to look at a pretty woman walking six tiny dogs. The dogs walk in two perfect straight lines beside her. I can’t tell if the man is impressed by her or the dogs. Or both.

  A figure farther down the sidewalk catches my eye. It’s the tall man in the wide-brimmed hat that got Dresden all bugged out at the parade. People veer around the man, giving him a wide berth, but don’t appear to see him. The man is silent and still. He is observing me. Something is wrong with his eyes, but he is too far away for me to make him out clearly. My heart thumps heavily, bumping against my ribs. My skin shivers with unease.

  I don’t want to be the object of that man’s attention. I look away and take a deep pull of orange soda from my straw. There is something dark and lost and rancid about him that makes me feel filthy for just having his eyes on me. He may not be real. There’s something wavering and insubstantial about his figure. As if he’s working very hard to stand there. As if being seen is difficult for him.

  When I look back, the man is gone, if he was there at all. Strange things are happening in Concordia these days, blurring the distinction between what is real and what are visions.

  10

  Dresden


  the power of a girl

  I am no longer the only beekeeper in town.

  Another has recently arrived. I can sense him, smell him. Any other time, I wouldn’t care. Beekeepers aren’t territorial. Newcomers to an area can sting whoever they want.

  But not this time.

  The new beekeeper is in the parking lot behind the movie theater. I followed him here, and he knows it, which is why he’s waiting for me to come out and say what’s on my mind. What I’m doing is not conventional, and I have no idea what reaction I’ll get. I step around the corner and immediately recognize the man leaning against a van, arms folded.

  “Henrik.” I say his name with neither relief or dread, because he sparks neither in me. I remember him from our imprisonment, long ago as human young men. Most of us had black hair and olive skin, but Henrik stood out with his light blond hair. He’d been a trader from the northern realms and his eyes, the color of a clear sky, had caught the attention of our captor.

  I’ve crossed paths with Henrik enough times to know he isn’t sadistic. He is also not kind, not that any of us are. Those who had been kind and good and loving as humans were the first ones to suffer mental breakdowns after the change. Henrik, if I recall correctly—which I may not—had kept to himself in our lavish prison, not mourning the loss of the life he’d been stolen from. Here, today, I don’t need kindness. I just need cooperation.

  He inclines his head. “Dresden.”

  “There is a Strawman in this town.” I speak in the old tongue, which beekeepers reserve for the rare times we speak to each other.

  Henrik takes this news with a sharp nod.

  “Also, there is a girl under my protection. She is not to be stung.” I sound like a self-inflated ass, braying in the wind. I have no right or wherewithal to protect anyone. I’m a shark warning another shark off a rotting whale carcass—not that I see Essie like that, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not seeing at least one of us as we truly are. But it’s out there now, and Henrik is staring at me like wings have sprouted from my back.