by Peg Cochran
Monica couldn’t imagine what Stevens was getting at. “Frankly, I couldn’t say. This is my first spring here on the farm, so I’ve never seen the bee fertilization process before.”
“I . . . I know Rick carries his equipment with him in the truck,” Nora said timidly.
Stevens nodded again. “That’s what I thought. But you know what? When we searched Lori’s car all we found were her purse, some fast food wrappers, a brown paper bag with a sandwich and a banana in it and an umbrella with two broken spokes.” She tossed back another sip of her coffee. “No beekeeping equipment. No hat, veil, gloves or anything like that.”
“Meaning?” Monica said.
“Meaning either she came to the farm unprepared or someone stole her equipment.”
“Why would they do that?” Monica looked at Nora, who shrugged.
“I don’t know for sure, but maybe so they could wear it themselves.”
“Why would they do that?”
“So they wouldn’t be stung when they let the bees out and then got them riled up enough to swarm.”
Monica thought Stevens was going a bit too far. “Why would someone do that?”
“Maybe they wanted Lori dead for some reason.”
“Could they count on the bee stings being fatal?” Monica asked. “After all, it seems pretty unlikely that Lori would be allergic to bee venom and then go out of her way getting a job that required working with bees.”
Stevens held up a hand. “I agree with you. That was my first thought, too. Who would choose to work with bees knowing they were allergic?” She shook her head. “I assumed it was some kind of accident, and I was wasting my time here.”
“But it was an accident, don’t you think?” Nora said.
Nora suddenly looked unwell to Monica. Her face had lost its usual high color, and her hands were trembling.
Stevens tipped back her coffee cup, frowned and looked into it. “Looks like I should have asked for a large.”
“I can put some on if you’d like,” Nora said.
Stevens shook her head. “No, thanks.” She gave the empty cup to Monica, who had her hand outstretched. “As I said, my first thought when I arrived on the scene was that it had all been an unfortunate accident. But we got the preliminary autopsy report this morning. The ME found a needle mark on her thigh. The area is slightly raised and appears red and irritated.”
“I don’t understand.” Nora ran her hands through her short, dark hair, leaving it standing on end. “Maybe she’d been to the doctor and got a flu shot.”
“June isn’t exactly flu season,” Stevens said.
“Maybe it was a tetanus booster. Or an antibiotic.”
Stevens shook her head. “I’m afraid not. The medical examiner made a number of interesting discoveries during the autopsy. Discoveries that led him to believe Ms. Wenk was injected with ricin.”
“Ricin?” Nora said.
Stevens nodded. “It’s a poison that is extracted from castor beans and is highly toxic.”
“But then why release the bees?” Nora turned to look at Monica.
“It could be the killer thought the bee stings would mask the mark left by the hypodermic needle.”
“So it wasn’t an accident,” Monica said.
Stevens shook her head. “No. It was murder.”
Chapter 6
Monica and Nora were silent for a long moment after Stevens left. Finally, Monica gave herself a shake and got to work. She went through their stock of kitchen items—the cranberry-themed aprons hanging from hooks, and the placemats, napkins and tablecloths displayed on shelves.
“I think we might need to order some more aprons,” Monica said, counting the number on the hooks.
“They’re very popular,” Nora agreed. “I usually sell at least one a day.”
Her voice sounded a bit strained to Monica, but she supposed that was normal considering they’d just been interviewed by a police detective.
Monica straightened some of the pictures on the wall—Nora had suggested they hang photographs of the cranberry harvest, and Monica had thought it a wonderful idea—while Nora fussed over the table of samples of cranberry jelly, salsa and jam.
Suddenly there was a crash and the sound of glass breaking. Monica turned around to see Nora staring at a broken jar of cranberry jam, her mouth in a round O and her hands on either side of her face like the figure in the painting by Edvard Munch.
“I’ll get the broom,” Monica said. She went to the storage closet and grabbed the broom and dustpan.
Nora was picking up the larger chunks of glass and tossing them in a wastebasket she’d dragged over to the table. A shard of glass pricked her thumb, and a bubble of blood formed on her finger. Nora stared at it for a second and then began to cry.
Monica leaned the broom against the counter and went to put her arm around Nora. She could feel Nora’s shoulders shaking.
“It’s okay. Accidents happen, as they say. Plus we have plenty more jam.” She swept a hand toward the jars stacked on the shelves. “And this is easily cleaned up.”
Nora sniffed loudly and fished a tissue out of her pocket. “It’s not that.”
“Oh.” Monica was momentarily at a loss for words. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Nora gulped and nodded her head.
Monica waited, patiently, while Nora pulled herself together.
“Yesterday, I assumed Lori’s death was an accident,” Nora said finally. “And I assumed the police did, too.” She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with the tissue. “But now Detective Stevens is talking possible . . . murder.” Nora gave a loud sob.
“I can understand how that’s upsetting,” Monica said. “Did you know Lori well?”
Nora shook her head. “No, not really. It’s not that. . . .” She twisted the damp tissue into a corkscrew. “I do feel sorry for the girl, of course—for her life to end that way . . . even though it made me mad the way she was coming on to my husband.”
“I noticed that. But I didn’t think you had anything to worry about.”
Nora gave a long, drawn-out sob.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Monica said. “What is it? You might feel better if you talk about it.”
Nora stared at her shoes. “Lori was a troublemaker. You saw her. She was all over Rick. Of course he told me all about it. After all, he didn’t have anything to hide. But when he didn’t respond to Lori’s advances, she decided to make him pay.”
“How?” Monica said. “How could she do that?”
Nora gave a bitter laugh. “It’s ironic when you think about it. She was threatening to sue him for sexual harassment. Imagine! Rick said he never so much as looked at her sideways. How could someone do something like that?” She looked at Monica.
Monica sighed. “I don’t know. It’s despicable.”
“So of course I’m afraid.” Nora gave a hiccough. “I’m afraid that the police will think Rick had something to do with it.”
“But he can’t have let the bees out,” Monica said, patting Nora on the shoulder. “He said he was here, at the store, visiting you.”
Nora looked startled for a moment. “Oh, of course.” She gave a strained smile. “How could I have forgotten that?” she said after a long pause.
Monica made sure Nora was going to be okay, then said good-bye and headed out the door. She could have gone through the processing room and then back to their new kitchen, but the allure of a beautiful summer day was hard to resist. She’d at least get a couple of gulps of fresh air before going back inside.
Monica was reaching for the door handle when she noticed Jeff in the field that bordered the nearest bog. She wanted to remind him that payment on the bank loan was due shortly. The thought quickened Monica’s heartbeat, but she reminded herself that they’d been managing okay so far. The c
ontract with Fresh Gourmet for the cranberry salsa was really helping, and Monica was exploring the idea of seeing if they would have any interest in carrying her cranberry streusel bread as well.
As she got closer to the field, she noticed Jeff wasn’t alone. Rick was with him, and they had what appeared to be a tarp spread under the tree where the bees had swarmed.
Monica approached cautiously. After what had happened to Lori, she had no intention of antagonizing the bees. Jeff saw her coming and waved her over.
“What are you doing?” Monica asked, stopping well short of the tree. The cluster of bees still hung from the low-hanging branch, buzzing ominously.
“Rick is going to collect the bees,” Jeff explained.
“Why not let them go free?” Monica asked.
“Honey bees are rapidly disappearing,” Rick said. “Something like one hundred or more major crops are pollinated by bees—apples, cucumbers, pumpkins and many others.”
“I had no idea,” Monica said.
“Me, either,” Jeff replied. “My focus has been on cranberries.”
“Sadly, more than forty percent of American bee colonies collapsed last year.” Rick swatted at a fly that had flown too close to his face. “It’s mainly because of pesticide use, but also because of the loss of wildflower habitats, disease and climate change. Losing wildflower habitats has had an effect on monarch butterflies as well.”
Monica frowned and turned to Rick. His face looked as if it had aged overnight. “How on earth are you going to capture the bees though?” She pointed at the mass dangling from the tree branch.
“First I’ll put on my protective gear, of course.” Rick gave a small smile. “I have a box in the truck.” He jerked his head in the direction of the white vehicle with Rick’s Bees written in dark green on the side that was pulled up onto the grass. “I’ll put the box under the tree branch and shake the cluster of bees into it.”
Monica couldn’t help it—she shivered. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Rick smiled. “Not if I’m wearing all my gear—including the hat and gloves, of course.” His expression grew somber, and he looked at Jeff. “I still can’t understand why Lori went near the bees without being properly protected.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever know,” Monica said.
“It’s too late to ask Lori,” Rick said, toeing a clump of weeds. He laughed but there was nothing lighthearted about the sound—it had a raw edge to it.
Monica tapped Jeff on the arm. “I’m off to do some more baking. Don’t forget to send that check to the bank.”
“I won’t, but thanks for reminding me.”
Monica would have liked to watch the bee retrieval operation, but she still had work to do. She said good-bye and headed back to the farm kitchen. She was measuring out flour for cranberry scones when the door opened and Arline walked in.
“Good morning.” Monica glanced over at Arline.
Like Rick, Arline looked as if she hadn’t slept all night—there were inky smudges under her eyes and her face was an unhealthy white.
Monica went over to her. “Are you okay? You don’t look well. Would you rather go home?”
“I’ll be okay,” Arline said in a listless voice.
“But something is wrong.”
“It’s Lori,” Arline said in such a low tone that Monica could barely hear her. “It’s terrible what happened. I almost can’t believe it. When I woke up this morning I thought I’d dreamt it.”
Monica nodded her head in agreement. “I know. I felt the same way. I’m sorry. Did you know each other well?”
“Not well, no, although we lived in the same house. Her mother owns it and Lori lives . . . lived with her. I rent a room there. It’s close to college and to both my jobs.”
“I imagine you and Lori got to know each other though—living in the same house.”
“Oh, sure. On Wednesdays we all liked to watch Jeopardy! together. Lori was a whiz at some of the categories.” She scratched at what looked like a raised and reddened mosquito bite on her left arm. “And sometimes Lori would make a pot of chili or roast a chicken, and we’d all eat dinner together.” She frowned. “But it’s not like we went out together or anything. You know, shopping or to a bar. We did go on a couple of double dates, but she spent more time talking to her date than to me.”
“Still, I can see this has been terribly upsetting to you. How is Lori’s mother coping?”
Arline frowned. “She’s a little—you know.” She twirled a finger around her ear. “She’s got that old-timer’s disease. Some days she knows what’s going on, and other days . . .” She shrugged. “Not so much. It’s a blessing really. She hasn’t taken it in that Lori’s gone.”
Arline reached for an apron from the hook by the door and tied it around her waist.
“Was everything okay yesterday?” Monica asked.
“Oh everything was fine,” Arline said, smoothing down the front of her apron. “What are you making?”
“Scones,” Monica said.
“Do you want me to start on the sugar glaze then?”
“Yes, that would be great.” Monica dumped the last cup of flour into the bowl of the mixer. “It would be a huge help. Together, we’ll have these done in no time.”
Arline grabbed a bowl from the open shelf that ran down one wall of the kitchen. She measured out confectioner’s sugar, then added milk and some vanilla extract.
Monica finished the dough for the scones. She scattered a handful of flour across the counter and on her rolling pin and dumped out the dough. She pressed it into a rough circle, and then rolled it out until it was the thickness she wanted. With a sharp knife, she cut wedges and placed them side by side on a cookie sheet, their edges barely touching each other—that would keep the sides of the scones from getting too crusty.
Monica swept the remaining flour off the counter and wiped it down. She liked to keep her workspace neat, and always tidied up as she went along—she couldn’t focus otherwise.
When the timer on the oven dinged, she removed the first batch of scones. Arline brought over the glaze and dribbled some over each of them, leaving their tops glossy with sugar.
Monica thought about Rick and wondered how he was making out capturing that enormous swarm of bees. It certainly wasn’t a job she would ever want. But Rick apparently knew what he was doing and probably took the appropriate precautions. That got her thinking about the accident the day before—although according to Stevens it wasn’t an accident at all.
“What bothers me about Lori and the bees,” Monica said, leaning against the counter and looking over to where Arline was opening a new bag of flour, “is who let the bees out if Lori didn’t?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Arline said. “But Lori was coming out of the kitchen right when I got here. Her boss came running over and said something about the hives. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but it sounded like he wanted her help with something.”
“Rick?”
“Is he the guy with the dark brown hair?” Arline asked.
Monica nodded.
“Yes, it was Rick then.”
Monica opened her mouth to say something but then closed it again. Why had Rick needed Lori’s help? Had he been responsible for Lori walking out into a swarm of bees?
Chapter 7
After lunch, Monica changed, washed her face and brushed her hair, and headed into town for her monthly book club meeting at Book ’Em. She’d debated going—she knew the talk would turn to the incident at Sassamanash Farm. She didn’t want to call it murder—not even in her own mind. It was a juicy story and the inhabitants of Cranberry Cove loved nothing more than a good dose of gossip to pass the time. No doubt the story had made the rounds by now.
Monica hoped that by attending book club, she could give those present the true story and possibly qua
sh some of the rumors that were sure to be spreading around town already.
This month they had agreed to read Brat Farrar by Josephine Tey. Monica had enjoyed the book and was looking forward to a lively discussion.
She was a bit late, and the members of the book club were already seated in the slightly worn chairs Greg had pulled from all corners of his untidy store. Everyone looked up eagerly when they saw Monica come in.
Monica saw Hennie VanVelsen sitting in Greg’s mustard-colored corduroy armchair that had the springs bottoming out. She looked around but Gerda VanVelsen wasn’t there. She couldn’t recall ever having seen one twin without the other being nearby. She hoped Gerda wasn’t really sick this time.
Everyone had plates balanced on their laps with cookies, cake and other goodies Greg had set out at the back of the store on an old gateleg table. Monica helped herself to some coffee and two Dutch windmill cookies.
She slipped into a seat next to Phyllis Bouma, who worked part-time as a librarian. Everyone turned and looked at Monica expectantly.
They were all quiet, waiting patiently, until Phyllis gave an exasperated sigh and said to Monica, “Aren’t you going to fill us in on what happened out at Sassamanash Farm yesterday? Donald DeGroot was all agog when he came into the library to pick up the book he’d reserved on Abraham Lincoln. He said he passed a police car and an ambulance heading down the road to the farm. We were all praying nothing had happened to you or your brother.” She looked around the small group. “And since you’re here, I’m guessing the ambulance must have been for someone else.”
Monica glanced around Book ’Em with its crowded shelves and piles of books on every surface, buying time and trying to decide what to say. How much did everyone know already?
“There was an unfortunate accident,” Monica said finally, “while releasing the bees that are used to fertilize the cranberry flowers.”
That wasn’t strictly true, Monica thought. No one knew why the bees had been released, but she thought the story would suffice to satisfy everyone’s curiosity.