Keeper of the Bees

by Meg Kassel

  “You confirm it’s your hat, Essie?” Detective Berk asks.

  “Well, yeah,” I reply. “I lost it in the woods that day.”

  Aunt Bel draws in an audible breath. She clasps a hand around mine and squeezes hard. The steam puffing from her head turns thick and dark and takes on the odor of charcoal.

  “There’s a connection here, Ms. Roane,” says Detective Berk to my aunt. “A connection between this crime and Essie that goes beyond her finding the body.”

  Aunt Bel’s voice goes low and dangerous. “Do I need to call a lawyer?”

  Detective Berk doesn’t blink. “Only if you feel that’s necessary.”

  My aunt pins her with a hard stare. “Is my lamb a suspect?”

  “A few officers are looking into that witness’s claim of hearing Essie and a man speaking in the woods the morning Miss Leeds’s toes were found in the park. They think Essie is a possibility, considering.”

  “Of course. Considering.” Aunt Bel narrows her eyes. The air clouds with smoky steam.

  Detective Berk leans forward. “Look, I’m aware that Essie would have tremendous difficulty carrying a body this far. It’s absurd to think she could manage such a thing, physically. Not without an accomplice. Plus, she’s either with you and your mother, or a caretaker. And…” A small smile cracks her severe expression. “I don’t believe it’s in Essie’s nature to harm anyone. But we must consider every possibility. My colleagues certainly will.”

  Aunt Bel’s hand slaps on the desk. “My sweet lamb may see and hear things we can’t, but she’s never harmed anyone, not even when she’s had reason to.” She means my father. I had good reason to harm him, I suppose. Aunt Bel’s hand eases its death grip on mine.

  “Whether we like it or not, Essie is somehow involved in this crime.” Detective Berk gathers up the photographs and tucks them back in the folder. “We don’t know how yet.”

  “Am I being framed?” I ask. “Like on TV shows?”

  “I don’t know,” Detective Berk replies. “That was your hat between Meredith Leeds’s hands. And Miss Leeds was your tutor. And then there’s the family connection. The toes were removed just like our Wickerton ancestor, something that’s a well-known fact around here.”

  “You can’t seriously—” Aunt Bel starts.

  “We have to consider it,” Detective Berk cuts in. “We’d like it if you ladies stayed local for a while, until this is all sorted out.”

  “Good heavens.” Aunt Bel pats her collarbone. She looks me over, as if trying to imagine me hauling a body through the woods, then shakes her great, smoking head. “You can’t be serious. The hat could have gotten in Miss Leeds’s hands any number of ways. The killer obviously put it there.”

  “Yes,” Detective Berk says, looking up. “But why?”

  Why indeed? I ponder this, thinking through possibilities as best as the white pills allow. The white pills make thinking so hard. “Are we in danger?” I ask. “Is the killer going to come after me?”

  Detective Berk pauses. The dark mark pulses on her arm. It’s grown larger since the last time I saw her. Half her forearm is black and charred looking. “That is a possibility we are aware of.”

  Aunt Bel mutters something like a curse under her breath. “So we’re suspects and potential victims. Which is it, Anne Marie?”

  The detective’s brows pull into a warning frown. “If I knew, we’d be having a different conversation.”

  I feel like my head is floating three feet above my body. But I can hear the pounding of my heart and feel the sweat on my hands and understand that the police are thinking that maybe I killed this woman.

  Because of the Wickerton curse.

  Because who else do they have? I’m the one they picked up last year, yelling at Craig Murphy’s dog to give back the First Avenue trees, which had been cut down that morning. I’m the one they had to restrain, because poor Mr. Murphy was afraid I was going to attack his seven-year-old Saint Bernard, Willie. I would never have done that, but that dog laughs at me to this day about the incident. I don’t like him. So, I shouldn’t be surprised if the investigators think maybe I’m disturbed enough to murder someone. Doesn’t make it less terrifying, because I’m certain I did not murder anyone.

  “We’ll be assigning extra patrol officers to your street. I recommend keeping the doors locked and not going out alone. Stay vigilant. Be aware of anyone following you or showing unusual attention. Don’t hesitate to call me with any new information, no matter how minor it seems.” She gets up, signaling the end of this meeting. “And like I said, stick around town, please.”

  “I’m ashamed of you, Anne Marie. You have no other leads, so you’re targeting my poor girl. Hasn’t she suffered enough?” Aunt Bel’s words come out sounding tremulous, like she’s holding back tears. But I’ve never seen Aunt Bel cry, not even when she should.

  “Actually, a past of neglect and abuse can manifest in violent behavior later on, so says the psychiatrist we consult with.”

  Gee, I wonder which psychiatrist that is? Dr. Roberts is the only one with a practice in Concordia. Choices are limited.

  “That’s bull crap and you know it.” Aunt Bel surges to her feet. “Come, Essie. We’re leaving. Unless you plan to make an arrest?”

  Detective Berk sighs. “No. Of course you can go.”

  I get up. My legs are wobbly, and my mouth is packed full of sand. When I open it to say goodbye to Detective Berk, a whole load of it falls out and plops on the floor. I cough and wipe my mouth and apologize for making a mess on the floor.

  Aunt Bel puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me from the police station. She leaves a smoldering trail of cooked hair behind her. I don’t know how I’m going to stand being closed up with it smoking like that. “Aunt Bel,” I say. “I can’t breathe in the car with your hair doing that.”

  A moment of incomprehension passes over her face before she opens the car door with a tired smile. “We’ll crack the windows, okay?”

  “Okay.” I lean back on the headrest and gaze out on Main Street. The strange man with the strange eyes and that big floppy hat stands smack in the middle of the intersection, seemingly unconcerned with the cars whizzing inches from him, whipping up his coat with their wind. He is still and staring at me. Cars drive past him, but not around him. I don’t think he’s real.

  I dig out a peppercorn from my pocket and pop it in my mouth before Aunt Bel comes around to her side of the car. I crunch, wince at the explosion of pepper in my mouth.

  Aunt Bel’s hair instantly stops letting off smoke, but the man is still there. Maybe I need something stronger than peppercorns. Aunt Bel puts the car in drive, and we move toward the intersection.

  The man gets closer and closer as we approach. Close up, he’s not as much scary as he is sad looking. Or maybe he’s not trying to be scary this time, like he was when I saw him through the window of the sandwich shop. He looks tired and sad and…lonely.

  I know all about lonely.

  I put down my window to get a better view of his face. There’s definitely something off about it. The wind makes the sound of the ocean. Rain spatters on the windshield, sprinkles on my nose and cheeks. As we pass the man, I get a good look at him. Finally, I can see what’s wrong with his eyes—they’re sewn shut. His mouth, too—small, even stitches close up eyelids and lips. For a moment, we’re face to face, a few scant feet apart. He raises a hand, although greeting or warning—it’s not clear. I lean out the window, but we’ve passed him. I lean out farther and look back at the forlorn man standing in the middle of the intersection.

  Aunt Bel grabs a fistful of my shirt and yanks me back inside. “Get your head in this car,” she barks. “I won’t have a decapitation on my watch.”

  I pick peppercorns from my teeth and give her a sideways glance. “Are you mad at me, Aunt Bel?”

  She looks surprised. “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “Because…” I slouch low in my seat. “Because I’m hard to live
with. Because everyone’s going to think I’m a murderer now.”

  “Everyone is not going to think you’re a murderer.”

  “They will,” I say. “If the police start asking a lot of questions about me, people will know I’m a–a…suspect.” The word tastes bitter.

  “They can think what they like, as they always do,” my aunt replies mildly. “They’ll be proven wrong when the real killer is found.”

  “If the real killer is found.” I twirl my finger in my hair, making a nest of the dry, blond strands. “Maybe he’ll kill me, too.”

  Aunt Bel sucks in a hard breath. “Don’t you talk that way, Estelle Wickerton Roane.” The bones of her hands stand out as she grips the steering wheel. “I won’t hear it.”

  I drop my gaze and say nothing more. I honestly don’t know why that upsets her. Being my guardian can’t be fun. Unless you enjoy witnessing mental breakdowns and saying stop digging at your arm for the fiftieth time, because there are no ants in your veins. There’s nothing to be gained from caring for someone like me. Or two, in Aunt Bel’s case, as Grandma Edie doesn’t realize how difficult she is sometimes. I’m also aware of all the things I want and will never have. Career. Love. Home. Children, someday. Independence.

  We pass house after house. Cars in driveways, play sets on the front lawn. Sprinklers watering brown lawns. They don’t know what they have. Even the worst off of them have what I would give anything for.

  15

  Essie

  the laughing moon

  I curl into a ball under my blanket. It’s past eleven o’clock at night, but I’m awake, but after basically sleepwalking for the past week, it’s a relief to be awake. After telling Aunt Bel what I did to Dr. Roberts’s carpet a few days ago because of how the new medication made me feel, she talked to some of the doctors she works with at the hospital. They told her they think my dose is too high and to say so to Dr. Roberts—who is annoyingly well respected at the county hospital. Instead, my aunt started cutting up the white pills. I only take a quarter each time and I feel a lot better now. We aren’t telling Dr. Roberts. The last time I saw him, his hands had turned into claws.

  There’s a hum outside my open window, a pulsing hum that sounds a lot like—

  I turn on my bedside lamp and leap from my bed. I throw open the curtains and there, in the dim light, I see the bees. It’s an undulating swarm on the other side of the screen. There must be thousands of the tiny dark specks clustered into a buzzing cloud. It must be him.

  Two weeks ago, this sight would have frightened a shriek out of me and a cry for Aunt Bel to get the spray can of Raid. But tonight, the swarm of bees makes me weak with relief, with happiness and, if I’m going to be honest, something a little bit more than both of those things that I won’t even begin to ponder. Admitting to myself that I’ve been waiting for him for over a week is more than a little pathetic.

  With practiced moves, I pop out the screen latches and remove the aluminum frame from the window. I place it against the wall and wait for him to come inside. For years now, I’ve enjoyed sitting in the window frame. It makes me feel free, in what little way I can. I know Aunt Bel would disapprove, but balancing there is a bit of control over myself that no one knows about but me. And now, Dresden.

  The swarm remains outside. I bite my lip and circle my hand forward. “Please, come in,” I say with a giggle, well aware that only a crazy person would invite a swarm of bees into her bedroom. But these aren’t really bees, of course. They’re a boy named Dresden, and inviting a boy into her room is something girls have done forever, so maybe I’m not so different, after all.

  I hold my breath as the bees pour in like a small tornado. It’s shocking to see—they could surround and sting me to death in moments—but they cluster into a column of yellow and black, flying so fast I can’t make out individual bees, just the collective swarm. I’ve seen him do this before, and it’s hard, keeping my smile in check. I back up to give him some room, bumping the backs of my legs against the bed. The bees gel together like they’re stuck on flypaper. Wings and bodies and legs coalesce into human skin and hair and clothing. The buzzing quiets to the dullest of hums, and Dresden stands in front of me, head lowered. Black hair falls in his face. For a moment, I think he’s going to turn back into bees and fly right out the way he came, but then he lets out a great sigh and lifts his head.

  He’s here, in my room, looking at me like the sight of me is relief and wonder and sadness. A confusing mix of emotions settles in the furrow between his brows. I know the brows belonged to someone else, once, but it’s Dresden who moves them, now. Dresden who looks at me with a longing that I suspect is mirrored in my own face. I wish I could see inside his head. I wish I could slip in there and know what he thinks of me, of himself. My smile goes big—too big. I tone it down. “Hello. I’m glad you came.”

  He shifts so his face is more in shadow. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?” What’s wrong with me? I sound annoyingly cheerful, like I’m trying to sell him Girl Scout Cookies.

  “Concerned.” His gaze sprinkles over me in quick assessment. “The times I saw you over this week, you seemed not to be yourself. You looked unwell. And I heard the body of the woman was found.”

  “Yes. She was. I knew her, you know. She tutored me in science.” It makes my gut clench and my heart race, remembering the scene, and now knowing it was Miss Leeds…

  I have dreams about it some nights—wild nightmares about knives cutting off my toes and a sewn-shut mouth laughing at me. No worse than my usual dreams, but these are rooted in real things. “I can’t imagine why anyone would hurt her. Miss Leeds was nice. Detective Berk doesn’t tell us much about the investigation…” I bite my lip and look away. Oh, I can’t tell him the police suspect me. It’s embarrassing. Like I’m the automatic default suspect. I don’t want him to see me that way and honestly, I’d like to forget for a little while. When I’m with him, I just want to enjoy my quiet mind. “The police think it’s connected to my family, somehow.”

  “You must be extra aware, Essie,” he says in a growly voice. “This person is very dangerous. I am keeping an eye out for you, but you must be careful and on your guard.”

  “I am.” I refuse to roll my eyes, even though I’ve been getting the “be aware and on your guard” lecture every day, several times a day, from Aunt Bel. “My aunt met with a security system company yesterday. She’s having cameras put up outside the house.” I wince, shake my head. “Not that we can afford it.”

  “She values your lives more than money. Wise woman.” He pauses. “I saw you at your doctor’s. You were ill there. Are you better?”

  I hitch one shoulder and give him a flirty grin. “Are you spying on me, Dresden?” I wave a hand when he flushes. “I’m fine, now. Dr. Roberts loaded me up on a medication that upset my stomach and turned me into a zombie. I’m taking a much lower dose now, but don’t tell him that.”

  “You need a new doctor.”

  “I know.” I sigh. “I turn eighteen in a few months. I plan to petition for a little more freedom, then.”

  He wants to say something else but bites his lip on it. I don’t press, neither does he. People don’t like to be pressed.

  The worst type of silence constricts the air between us. It’s heavy, unsure. The room feels tiny and boxlike.

  “I was hoping you’d come,” I say quietly. “All week, I was waiting.”

  “It was…difficult to stay away from you.” He turns back to the window, hands shoved deep in a pair of jean pockets. “I had to see you.” His voice is tinted with wonder. “I couldn’t fight it.”

  I reach out and pull one of his hands from a pocket and bring it between us. His hand is capable and strong, made interesting by a few ancient scars along the back and knuckles. He has the hands of a fisherman from a life he barely remembers. I lay my hand on his, feeling the bones, muscles beneath. I curl my fingers around his hand and gently squeeze. He releases a small gasp. W
armth spreads through me, both expected and a surprise. “I missed you.”

  Dresden stills. His gaze lowers to where my hand holds his. This point of contact between us takes a life of its own. It’s an exploration, but neither of us knows where it will lead. Slowly, he turns his hand over until our palms touch. He’s slow about it, giving me ample time to pull away. My fingers slide between his. His slip between mine.

  A current zings into existence. My mouth goes completely dry. I don’t know what to do with my other hand. It wants to touch, find out more about him, about myself, about this, but I’m balancing on an edge with Dresden.

  The clarity of thought I gain when I’m with him comes with the knowledge that there will be no happily ever after for us. I hadn’t before considered what might be at stake for him in regards to our friendship—if it could still be called that—but maybe I should.

  “You want me…to stay?” he asks in halting breaths.

  “You need to ask?”

  He closes his eyes. Long lashes sweep over flushed cheeks. “It doesn’t make sense that you’d want to be around me.”

  “Why?” I’m genuinely curious. “Because of the bees? Or your face? Or because at one time, you almost stung me?”

  “All of those things,” he replies in a growl. “And more.”

  “I didn’t let you.” I take a tiny step closer to him. “In the park that day.”

  His brow puckers. “You knew that was my bee?”

  I tilt my head, working to understand why he seems so stricken over this. “Yes. But I heard someone say my name. Wasn’t it you? When I looked up, I saw the bee and whacked it.” I squeeze his hand, drawing a sharp breath from him. “You would have felt terrible about it later, if you’d done it. I couldn’t have that.”

  He looks like he’s having difficulty swallowing. “It took everything I had to send that bee. I thought I had no choice.” His other hand comes up slowly. Fingertips brush along my jaw, leaving tingling trails in their wake, before falling away. “I swear to you, Essie. I will never sting you. For as long as I am here, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. Whatever spoke your name and made you stop that bee, I’m grateful to it.”