Beeline to Trouble

by Hannah Reed

  “Nope, apparently the roots were pureed and added to the juice in the refrigerator.”

  I must have given some kind of clue to the emotion swirling around inside me, because Hunter said, “What’s wrong? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’ve had better days.”

  “So whoever supplied that juice is the one I need to find.”

  I gulped.

  Hunter gazed at me, his expression patient. “Anything you’d care to add at this point?” he asked.

  I’ve known Hunter Wallace long enough to read him. Not that he’s exactly an open book. More like a classic with a hidden theme that you have to dig deep to discover. But I knew that look, the one he was giving me.

  Hunter already had my name stamped on the juice.

  I didn’t have much of a choice. “Fine,” I admitted. “The carrot juice came from The Wild Clover. I’ve already taken the rest of that shipment off the shelf.” I pointed to a box in the corner with my hand-scribbled warning label. “Take the whole box and test every single one. I won’t be surprised if the whole batch is contaminated.” I brightened a little. “That would be good, right? That would mean no one we know is responsible.”

  “I’ll have it checked out.”

  My man was in interrogation mode. “So why’d you bring carrot juice over to the Paines’ in the first place anyway?”

  See, this was the part I didn’t want to tell him. I was used to being in the middle of controversy, having an uncanny knack of showing up in the worst possible place at the worst possible time, but I hated that my sister was the one in Hunter’s scope. “Holly asked me to,” I said reluctantly, but quickly added, “but Nova asked for it in the first place. Holly was only accommodating her guest.”

  “That doesn’t look good for her. You know that, right?”

  “Holly doesn’t know a thing about plants,” I reasoned. “Unless it’s a dozen roses. And she isn’t devious. She wouldn’t have plotted something out in advance like that.” Which was true. My sister never planned ahead for anything. This whole carrot-flavored toxic plant mixed with carrot juice was way beyond her range of abilities.

  “I tend to agree with you,” Hunter said. “But that’s only my personal opinion and doesn’t count.”

  At least he’d made that admission.

  “What else aren’t you telling me?” Hunter asked next.

  I thought about that question. Honestly, I couldn’t think of another secret . . . oh, wait, time to come completely clean. Besides, anything to get him off my sister’s trail. “Patti was wading in the river when Nova died.” There! Let him go after crazy Patti Dwyre instead.

  Hunter leaned back and studied me. My eyes wanted to dart away, but I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “Let’s hear it,” he said.

  I told him the story—leaving out the part about snooping in her house. I have to hang on to what little pride I have left. About Patti’s past marriage, and how Nova was wife number two, and how Patti said she went into the river to try to save her. Finally, I repeated the lame reason she gave for writing the damaging article, which was to divert attention away from herself. I finished with, “Patti’s trouble.”

  “That’s what I keep telling you,” Hunter agreed.

  “So I suppose you’re going to say you told me so.”

  “I told you so.” Hunter stood up. “You’ll have to tell Sally what you know about Patti’s past, since she never said a word about her connection when we took her in.”

  “Can’t you tell Sally?”

  “It better come for you. Want me to come along?”

  “No, I’ll finish up here then stop down at the station.”

  Right after Hunter and Ben left with the box of carrot juice jars, Patti called my cell phone.

  “I’m taking a little vacation,” she said, “until this blows over.”

  “It’s not going to blow over until you tell the cops the truth. I just told Hunter.”

  “They aren’t my biggest worry at the moment. I did some serious thinking about Harry. He might actually come looking for me, and I don’t want to be found by him. The man turns ugly on a dime.”

  She hung up before I could reply.

  A little while later, Holly pounded into the back room. “Where is that evil witch?” my sister shouted, too upset to care that the door was still open and our customers couldn’t help but overhear her at that pitch and volume.

  Patti couldn’t have picked a better time for a little R&R. If she thought her mobster ex-husband was scary, she hadn’t gone up against my sister.

  I jumped up and closed the door. “Relax,” I said, ignoring my own advice.

  Holly proceeded to rattle off a string of text acronyms. I caught some of them, mostly the ones that had an F in them. After that, she popped back into regular speech again. “Where is Patti?”

  “Gone,” I told her. “She can’t do any more damage.”

  “There isn’t any more to do!” she exclaimed. “And now the police are saying that Nova was poisoned! With carrot juice from my refrigerator. Max is totally ticked off. He’s calling his attorney, and we’re suing that stupid paper and Patti Dwyre.”

  I heard voices and commotion in the main part of the store. “Stay back here until you calm down,” I told her. “I have to go see what’s happening out front.”

  Holly slumped into my chair. I left her there.

  The store was hopping busy. And my banished mother had materialized behind the cash register.

  I tried not to march on my way over.

  “We have to stick together,” she said to me before I could open my mouth. “It’s time for damage control after that slanderous article hit the paper. You and I should have a nice chat soon about the other things that are on your mind, okay? But right now we have to unite.” She didn’t wait for my response, just went on checking out the next customer as though nothing was amiss between us.

  I saw Mom had put out a tip jar next to the register.

  “Patti Dwyre had a mental breakdown,” she brightly informed each customer. “We’re taking donations to help with her recovery costs.” There were several bills poking out of the top of the jar. “Did you see that crazy article? Patti clearly wasn’t herself when she wrote it.” Several customers added more dollar bills and change to the jar in just the few minutes I was there.

  I ducked outside to arrange my scattered thoughts and plan my next move regarding Mom. Most of the females in my life share the same traits:

  Assertive . . . no . . . change that to aggressive

  Overly confident in their own abilities

  Competitive

  Controlling

  I could go on, but I was distracted by the one female I knew who was the exact opposite of most of the other women in my world: Grams, who was sitting outside on the bench with Dinky. Grams is patient, loving and not afraid to show it, accepting of others just the way they are, and totally easygoing. I hope I’ve inherited at least a few of my grandmother’s good genes.

  “Your mother is sorry,” my grandmother said.

  “Then why doesn’t she just say so?” I plopped down beside her. Dinky crawled into my lap and up to my chin and we played dodge the stinky tongue.

  “Your mother has apologized in her own way. By coming here today, she’s showing her love for you and her commitment to our family.”

  “A simple ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so mean’ would have done it.”

  “She can’t, sweetie. Helen just doesn’t have it in her to verbalize an apology.”

  I conceded that Grams was probably right about Mom, and we sat together for a long time, chatting up neighbors and customers as they came past, Grams spreading the story Mom had concocted about Patti’s breakdown. I figured that mental part really wasn’t too far from the truth.

  After a while Holly came out and nestled next to Grams. My sister and I gave each other a look over our grandmother’s head that said we were in this together and we would stay strong. My sister was back f
rom the brink.

  Then Holly actually went back in to help Mom at the register, Grams wandered away, snapping pictures, and I settled back into my office to catch up on paperwork. Except my mind kept straying.

  Known facts (according to my wandering mind):

  Nova Campbell had been intentionally poisoned with water hemlock.

  I had delivered the catalyst (carrot juice) that turned out to be part of the murder weapon.

  Holly was the one who had asked me to bring the carrot juice.

  She knew Nova was making a play for her husband.

  Holly was the perfect suspect—motive, opportunity, means.

  Only my sister wouldn’t know a toxic weed from a prize flower. She couldn’t tell the difference between a black cat and a skunk. She thought nature was something you viewed through paned windows, or at least from behind screens and shutters so that creepy critters couldn’t attack you. And if she had ventured into the great outdoors with the sole purpose of procuring a poisonous plant, something as innocuous as a squirrel would’ve sent her screaming. I knew that for a fact.

  In short, if Holly had really wanted to poison Nova, her MO was more likely to have been dissolving a load of sleeping pills into a wineglass and then offering it to her. But poison really wasn’t Holly’s style—rather than such a desperate option, my sister would have taken her opponent to the mat, both verbally and physically. Then she would have sent her packing.

  Holly wasn’t a sneaky little wimp.

  But our murderer was.

  So, who was he or she?

  If I discounted my family members (which was a given) and Patti Dwyre (who was crazy, but I didn’t really think she was a killer), I was left with only two very viable suspects: Gil Green and Camilla Bailey. Could they be any more obvious? Two flavorists. Talk about people who knew how to mix and match and come up with a deadly floral dose.

  Nova’s death must have had something to do with that project they were all working on, that thing about turning vegetables into some kind of candy. And judging by my own first (and second) impressions, Nova Campbell couldn’t have been a pleasant coworker. So the only real question was, which one of the two had done the deed?

  I called Hunter. “Have Max’s guests left town yet?” I asked, hoping I could grill them before takeoff.

  “They aren’t going anywhere. Not with one of their coworkers murdered. They’ve been ordered to stay put.”

  So, the police weren’t putting all their eggs in the Holly basket, either. “Perfect!” I said. “I mean . . . uh . . .”

  “You’re so transparent,” Hunter said, amusement in his tone for a change. “You want to protect your family. I understand that. But you really need to stay away from the case, Story.”

  “Don’t make me lie to you about not getting involved. You know I already am.”

  After all, this was my family we were talking about. My sister, her husband, me, all of us. Hunter is a great investigator and I’m sure his team is, too, and I have all the faith in the world in Sally Maylor. But still, I couldn’t just sit back and watch.

  “You’re impossible,” Hunter said.

  “So are you.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re locked up.”

  “Promise?” I replied, putting some suggestiveness in my tone.

  We disconnected.

  I went out to the front of the store, where Milly Hopticourt arrived with her wagon full of flower bouquets. By now, late in the afternoon when people were thinking about evening meals, we were extra busy. And for once, we were fully staffed—the twins, Carrie Ann, Mom, Stanley, me, and even Holly, although she rarely counted as a full staff person.

  “I stopped off at your house,” Milly said to Holly, “to drop off a few things for your guests that I whipped up.”

  “Thank you, Milly,” my sister said with a ton of gratitude.

  “You’re the best,” I told Milly, having pretty much forgotten about feeding guests rather than interrogating them.

  “That Effie is so sweet,” Milly said. “What’s happened is such a shame. It’s upset the entire household. Imagine! Poisoned!”

  “Speaking of poison, tell me more about water hemlock,” I said, while we worked together to arrange the bouquets.

  “It’s a member of the carrot family,” Milly said. That made sense, since Hunter had already told me it smelled like carrots.

  “The roots are the most toxic part of the plant,” she went on to a growing audience as customers overheard the topic and joined us. Even Stanley Peck sidled over to listen. “Cicuta, or water hemlock, is also called cowbane, because if it’s allowed to grow in pastures, cattle will chew it, and that’s the end of them.”

  “If water hemlock is deadly enough to kill something the size of a cow,” Stanley said, “imagine what happens to a human!”

  We all thought about that for a few seconds.

  “Does it grow around here?” Holly wanted to know. I could actually read her mind. If it did, she wasn’t venturing out into the wild ever again. She sure was a big baby when it came to the natural world.

  Milly nodded, confirming another factoid already in my knowledge base, thanks to Hunter. “Yes it does. In fact, I can show you where some is growing right now.”

  “We need to eradicate it,” someone in the group said. “Let’s go now!”

  Just then, Lori Spandle showed up, heard that last comment, and assumed we were talking about my bees. “About time everybody wised up,” she said. “Story Fischer’s bees are aggressive. And you all read the Reporter. They might be responsible for killing that poor woman.”

  “Stuff it, Lori,” Stanley said. “That’s hogwash and you know it.”

  I noticed that Lori had a file folder with her. If those were rental papers for my mother to sign . . . well . . . they better not be. I hadn’t even had time to prepare Hunter yet.

  “Mom,” I said to my mother, who still had control of the cash register. “We’re going with Milly to identify water hemlock.”

  “I’ll stay here and mind the store,” she said.

  “No.” I had to get her away from the paperwork in Lori’s clutches. “The twins can watch the store. Besides, most of our customers are coming along with us, right guys?” A bunch of them nodded.

  “We can handle things here,” Trent agreed.

  “Well, I’m definitely not going,” Holly said. “I’ll help Trent and Brent.”

  “See,” I said to Mom. “Plenty of volunteers to stay. Let’s go.”

  “But we have business to conduct,” Lori said to my mother.

  “It’ll have to wait,” Mom told her. “Story’s right, I need to know what this dangerous stuff looks like. Some of our neighbors raise cows. They will want to know if it’s growing where it shouldn’t.”

  “Then I’m coming along, too.” The real estate agent in Lori wasn’t letting go.

  “Where’s Grams?” Mom said, her neck swiveling in all directions. “She should come along and take pictures of it.”

  “Here I am!” We saw an arm shoot up in the air from the back of the room. My little grandmother had to be delighted—usually Mom exhibited extreme impatience with Grams’s photography, yet now here she was, endorsing it.

  A whole pack of us headed down the street, Milly in the lead.

  Hunter happened to be driving south on Main at the same time we were traveling north. He pulled over, rolled down his window, and called out to me, “You haven’t organized a lynch mob, have you?”

  Without slowing down, Mom said, “Hello, Hunter. We’re about to get a lesson in poisonous hemlock.”

  At that, Hunter parked his truck and jumped out, released Ben from the back, clipped on a leash, and joined us as we marched past Stu’s Bar and Grill. Some of the bar patrons joined us, too.

  Milly led the way down to the left side of the bridge, where we edged along the Oconomowoc riverbank. She had quite an entourage by the time we cut through the brush and followed the river. “None of this along here is it,�
�� she told a few of the more hesitant souls who were reluctant to touch anything remotely green and growing, just in case it happened to be water hemlock.

  Hunter, Ben, and I brought up the rear of the party. Hunter took my hand as we stepped over rocks.

  I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t the same without Patti tagging along. She was usually the first in line when it came to adventure. She would have loved this outing. I told myself I didn’t really miss her. It just wasn’t the same. I was only saying that Patti would have been in the thick of things if she’d been around. In her element.

  Where, I stopped to think, was Patti now?

  I’ve wondered a lot about my neighbor’s secretive past. Turns out, she really did have some skeletons in her closet. But if she had family to stay with, I didn’t know where they lived or who they were. Before she caught me in her house, Patti had never shared a single private piece of information, always redirecting personal questions away from herself.

  Up ahead, Milly continued into a marshy area where cattails grew tall and muck squished between my flip-flopped toes. Milly hadn’t said anything about our having to plow through mud.

  She came to a halt. “There it is. Make absolutely sure you don’t touch it!” she warned us. “Just look.”

  Mom was up front and center, with Lori leeched on to her like the blood sucker she was. We made a path for Grams and her camera, and the group took turns moving forward and viewing the pretty plant that had played the major part in killing Nova Campbell. In its natural setting, it looked harmless, with whispery, lanky, delicate flowers and leaves. No one would ever suspect it of such toxic potential.

  Except maybe a flavorist.

  “Has Sally thoroughly questioned Holly’s houseguests?” I whispered into Hunter’s ear. “And confirmed their whereabouts that morning?”

  “You mean she should?” We made eye contact. His were dancing.

  “Am I interfering again?”

  “Just a little.”

  “Sorry.”

  On the way back, Lori and I accidentally bumped into each other, and she slipped and fell into the river. Her file folder and paperwork sank with her.