Beeline to Trouble

by Hannah Reed

  By the silence on the other end, he had known.

  “We need to talk more,” I told him. A little communication from him would have been helpful.

  “Let it go, Story.”

  “One of the flavorists did it, or both. Max said the team didn’t get along and neither of them seems too broken up by Nova’s death.”

  “I don’t have every single detail,” Hunter said, “But the chief seems to think they’re innocent. And he’s a suspicious guy, as you know. He wouldn’t let them off just because. He has a reason.”

  I whined a little. “All along I’ve been convinced that Camilla Bailey killed Nova Campbell.”

  “That’s because you want your killers to be unlikeable people, and sometimes they just aren’t.”

  That certainly had a ring of truth to it. Bad people should act bad, right? “What are you saying? That killers can have hearts of gold?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Look at sociopaths for example. On the surface they can be friendly and interesting. You have to delve down much deeper to find the dark side.”

  “That’s not always true,” I argued. “Lori Spandle’s personality is just as slimy as her heart. On the other hand, you happen to be just as good as you look.”

  “Thank you, sweet thing. But do me a favor and take a break from your sister and her houseguests and all the drama, okay?”

  “I will,” I lied.

  After hanging up, I considered what Hunter had told me. My main suspect in the Nova Campbell murder had been a flavorist with what I thought was a taste for poison. I’d let myself run wild with assumptions based solely on our unpleasant meeting in a wildflower patch, and as much as I didn’t want to admit it, Gil probably hadn’t killed Nova, and Camilla Bailey might actually be innocent. Geez, I hate when that happens. Especially to such a nasty woman.

  I got into my truck, threw the bag in the passenger’s seat, and drove off to Holly’s house. On the way up the driveway, I stopped as Holly’s jag eased up alongside me going the opposite way. Camilla was with her. “We’re going to the antique store. Are you looking for me?”

  Good! This was my opportunity to get myself some gloves. “Just socializing,” I said. “Don’t stop on my account. Have fun.” And with that, we went our own ways.

  Gil Green was standing on the edge of the garden talking to Chance. Milly and Effie were seated on Holly’s patio, acting like the buddies they had become, leaning in, sharing something between them, laughing. I had the bag of Gil’s goodies with me.

  “Not likely,” Gil was saying as I approached. “Well. Hello, Story.”

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s not likely?”

  “A loxosceles recluse,” Gil said.

  “Brown recluse spiders in the garden,” Chance explained in English. “This guy doesn’t believe me.”

  “They’re called recluses for a reason,” I said, having to agree with Gil Green.

  “What are you up to?” Effie asked me when I wandered over.

  “Returning a few things,” I told her. “I saw Holly leaving. She said to put them away.”

  I hustled inside with my brown paper bag, took the steps two at a time, then realized I didn’t have a clue which guest room was which. I opened a door. Gil’s on the first try, judging by the men’s shoes and other manly personal effects. I dumped out the toys in the nightstand drawer, and quickly glanced around for gloves. Not a one.

  Next I went across the hall and scored again—Camilla’s room. I recognized the baggy dress tossed on her unmade bed and the safari hat she’d been wearing when we tangled over wildflowers. I did a cursory search for gloves, not finding any left out in obvious places, then I hurried downstairs, clutching the empty bag.

  “I’m putting together a work crew,” I lied to the women, noticing it became easier every time. “And we need to borrow some gloves to clean up Main Street.”

  Which was sort of true. I guess.

  “Can I get them for you?” Effie asked.

  “Naw, I know where they are.” With that, I headed to the outbuilding, helped myself to every single glove I could find, and stashed them in the bag.

  Then I went back to Effie and asked if she had any other pairs of gardening gloves. While she was gone to the carriage house for a pair of gloves she’d left inside, I asked Milly, “Were you out driving with Effie yesterday? I thought I saw the two of you near the library.”

  “Wasn’t me. I worked on the newsletter all day.”

  Okay, then.

  I put Effie and her mysterious passenger out of my mind for the time being. I had bigger fish to catch.

  Thirty-one

  Enough was enough.

  Nothing was getting done. Or some things were, but not the right things, like, oh, I don’t know, maybe like ruling out my main suspects instead of busting them for murder. If those two flavorists weren’t behind Nova’s murder, then who was? Patti was MIA since the sex toy fiasco. Her behavior had moved her back onto my suspect list and she’d be on Johnny Jay’s, too, once I told him Patti was the owner of that water bottle.

  I wasn’t going to cover for her anymore. But there was something I had to do first.

  The Waukesha Sheriff’s Department came into view. I grabbed the bag of gloves and entered the building. According to Jackson’s assistant, he was hard at work. The autopsy door was closed. I took a deep breath, knocked on the door to give him a heads-up, and went in.

  Wimpy little Story had left the building. The new, improved version was in action.

  The ME glanced up from his work, did a double take, and set down some kind of tool that I didn’t want to even know about.

  “I need to ask a favor,” I said, looking up at the ceiling, which seemed the safest place. “But I can’t talk in here.”

  That’s how we ended up in his office, which was the size of a postage stamp. And I thought mine was pathetic. I placed the bag on his desk and took a seat next to him, fighting claustrophobia, which I didn’t even know I had, that’s how tiny his office was.

  “What can I do for our Story?” Jackson asked.

  I glanced at the bag. “I want you to test the gloves inside here for traces of poison,” I said.

  Our medical examiner is at the very center of any murder investigation, and Jackson is no dummy. “Let me guess. You want me to test for . . . oh . . . I don’t know . . . um, water hemlock?”

  “That’s right.”

  He took the bag and peered inside. “Where did you get these?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  Jackson leaned back in his chair and studied me. We locked eyes. His said that he really liked me and wanted to help me out. Mine said, so do it.

  “All right,” he said. “But if I find what you’re looking for, then you have to tell me where the gloves came from and turn the evidence over to the proper authorities.”

  “I’ll consider your request,” I said, not meaning it, since revealing the source would implicate my sister even more.

  Jackson shook his head. “It isn’t a request. It’s a requirement. Otherwise, no deal.”

  “All right already.”

  “You agree to my terms?”

  “I said yes.”

  We shook on our new deal. Even as we did, I was wracking my brain for an escape clause.

  My cell phone rang as I headed back to the store. Carrie Ann was on the other end. “You have a visitor. He says he’s going to wait as long as it takes. I think you better get here fast.”

  “If it’s Johnny Jay, I’m never coming back.”

  “Guess again.” My cousin’s voice lowered, which meant the mystery man was in close proximity. “And bring one of those posters for the newsletter.”

  What? Did everybody in my life have to talk in secret code? Then I got it. Posters of Patti’s ex-husband mobster. A gasp escaped before I said, “Harry Bruno’s there?”

  “Right.”

  “Be right there.”

  One part of my brain was asking a ton of quest
ions. How had he found me? And what did he want? Did he think I blew up his car? Was he hunting us down one by one? The other part answered back, Just go find out. It’s broad daylight and you have customers to protect you.

  Back at The Wild Clover, my visitor was lounging near the honey display, picking up one item at a time, studying it, putting it down, then picking up another. Since Harry was the town’s orange alert and his mug had been prominently featured in my posters, he was also surrounded by customers acting as watchdogs.

  And they couldn’t have been more obvious. Harry had to know he was under major surveillance. He recognized me right away, and said, “We need to talk.”

  Nothing good ever comes after that line.

  “I didn’t blow up your car,” I said.

  “I know. That’s not why I’m here.”

  To say I was intrigued wasn’t a strong enough emotion for what I was feeling. Where to talk, though?

  The back room was out. Too private. No way was I going to be alone with this guy.

  My colorful Adirondack chairs in front of the store? Too public? I had visions of a mob mobile pulling up and opening fire. Not to mention that the orange alert team might take him out.

  “I’ll meet you at Stu’s Bar and Grill in ten minutes,” I told him.

  Harry nodded, swung his head around, glaring at his tails, and left the store.

  Once he was gone, one of the customers said, “Don’t go.”

  “Go,” somebody else said. “And report back.”

  “Call the chief,” I heard down aisle two, then followup comments flew through the store.

  “But he hasn’t committed a crime.”

  “He will.”

  “Where’s Patti? We should warn her.”

  “We should warn him.”

  “What if she blows up Stu’s?”

  “What if a rival gang riddles the place? We need to warn Stu.”

  I piped up. “Let’s not get carried away. Nothing bad is going to happen. The man just wants to talk to me. We’re meeting in a public place with lots of witnesses.”

  “We’ll follow you.”

  “Nothing but trouble,” was the last comment I heard before swinging out the back door. I wasn’t exactly sure who it referred to.

  It wasn’t especially reassuring that Harry Bruno knew who I was and where I worked and probably even that Patti was staying with me. But maybe that was his motive for meeting with me—to let me know he meant business and he wasn’t going to let a beekeeper with a little store get in his way.

  Just to be on the safe side, I took the back way to Stu’s instead of marching down Main Street like a moving target.

  Thirty-two

  “I want my bar and grill to remain in one piece,” Stu whispered to me from behind the bar. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. Stu isn’t easily rattled, and he didn’t look rattled now. More amused than anything.

  Being a bar owner, I bet he’s seen it all. Brawls, busts, secret assignations, the works. Stu has a cool head on his shoulders, a necessary requirement in his line of work. He’s scrappy, too, when he needs to be, which isn’t often. And clearly nothing important was getting past him, because he did a jerking motion with his head, in the same direction where Harry sat waiting for me. The buzz had beaten me to the bar. No surprise there.

  The lunch crowd had dwindled since it was well past noon, but there were still a few customers finishing up, lounging over their desserts and coffees. If I hadn’t already known where Harry was sitting, their suspicious, sliding eyeballs would have clued me in.

  For the first time, I pondered the wisdom of circulating those posters. Harry might be a tough guy who should reap what he’d sown, but I didn’t want to be responsible for his future health. I could name several of our residents, including Patti, who tended to carry things further than necessary.

  I expected our infamous mobster to be cradling a highball glass or tipping a martini, but Harry had a coke in front of him. And he rose to pull out my chair, just like a true gentleman, shattering a few of my stereotypical musings.

  Where was uncouth and crass? Not here, at least not now.

  Glancing toward the entrance, I noticed some of my customers sidling in, and had a warm, fuzzy moment of gratitude for them. They were watching my back.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I asked him.

  “I could tell you I have connections and leave it at that,” he said with a friendly enough smile. “But the truth is, I recognized you from an ad you placed in the local paper for your grocery store.”

  Well, that was possible. My smiling face usually accompanied any of The Wild Clover’s advertisements.

  Harry and I talked small stuff while we ordered. He went with a Caesar salad. I couldn’t resist ordering a burger, telling myself I needed the extra protein and everybody needs a certain amount of fat in their diets. Right?

  Maybe our table topics were a Chicago mob–style rule, not discussing business on an empty stomach, so I followed his lead. Our subjects stayed neutral. We covered local weather and questions and tidbits about Moraine. I felt like a tour guide.

  Then we chowed down on what I hoped was his dime. After that, we both ordered coffee, and it was time for business.

  “Where is she?” Harry wanted to know.

  I sidestepped his question. “You need to go home,” I said, still feeling my newfound oats. “She isn’t interested in seeing you.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said. “Like that Caesar I just ate. It’s not what it seems, either. Did you know it wasn’t named after Julius Caesar like everybody thinks? Turns out it was invented by Caesar Cardini, an Italian immigrant like my grandfather. And all along us assuming it was good-old Julius.”

  Okay, I didn’t know that fact about Caesar salads. But where was this going exactly? “So are you saying you’re like Julius Caesar? Or you’re like the salad?”

  Harry must have read my confusion, because he dispensed with the analogies. “I’ll admit I was bitter when Patti ran out on me, and maybe I said some things to make certain individuals assume I wanted revenge, but it’s the exact opposite. See, like the salad, it isn’t what you think. I’m here to win her back. To start new and fresh.”

  “You think she killed your second wife, don’t you? That’s really why you came here. To punish her.”

  Harry threw his head back and laughed. “Nova was second rate, that’s for sure. I hated the woman. If Patti got rid of her, she did me a favor. I should thank her.”

  Sure, Harry was soft-spoken and polite, but I sensed an undercurrent of violence and ruthlessness. I had his number, and I wasn’t buying his line.

  “Your car blew up,” I said. “If I were you, I’d be really P.O.’d.”

  “What’s a car to me? Nothing I can’t replace. But my woman is priceless. Patti’s always been a hothead.”

  “From what I understand, she’s not your woman anymore, and hasn’t been for a long time.”

  “I only need a chance to convince her.” Harry put extra emphasis on the word convince, which I didn’t like one bit. And then he said exactly what I expected from a no-good creep. Harry said, “I’ve changed.”

  My doubt must have showed through.

  “What, you don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion.” I did an inner snort, but kept my expression neutral. Sleezeball, I thought.

  “Tell her I love her,” he said, getting up and throwing a bunch of bills on the table. Then he looked around, said, “And call off the clowns, will you?” and walked out.

  At that moment, I intensely disliked Patti Dwyre. For involving me in her crime-family business. For living next door. For every single episode of Patti weirdness she’d ever exposed me to.

  My protectors, those buds who Harry had just referred to as “clowns,” were on their feet. “Find out what he’s driving!” I yelled to them, hoping at least one would follow Harry. I couldn’t do it. He’d spot me—or m
ake me, as Patti would say.

  From Stu’s window with the best view, I called the cop shop and asked for Johnny Jay. And was connected to Sally Maylor instead. “Good deal,” I said. “I should have asked for you in the first place. I have information regarding a piece of evidence from the Nova Campbell murder.”

  “What do you have?” Sally said.

  “The murder vessel belongs to Patti Dwyre.”

  “Vessel?”

  “Or conduit or whatever. You know, the water bottle that was found on Nova’s nightstand, the one with poisoned carrot juice.”

  “Ah.”

  “When the chief gave me a ride, I thought I recognized it at the time, but wasn’t sure enough to tell him. It just dawned on me. It’s definitely Patti’s.”

  Now, to a casual observer, my tattling might make me seem unlikeable, not exactly friendship material, but I had several reasons for pointing Johnny in Patti’s direction:

  It really did belong to her, and I had a duty as a citizen of the United States.

  Johnny would bring Patti in for questioning, probably keep her behind bars as long as possible, and possibly save her from a violent and deadly mob hit.

  Harry Bruno would get wind that Patti was no longer in my vicinity and leave me alone.

  If Patti were in custody, she couldn’t do any more collateral damage to my life.

  See? Lots of good reasons for squealing on her, most of them for her own good.

  I finished with, “I just had lunch with Harry Bruno. He’s in town.”

  “I’ll pass that on to the chief.”

  Right when I hung up, my sister’s pickup truck drove past the window.

  Harry Bruno was behind the wheel.

  Thirty-three

  I ran outside and watched the taillights disappear down Main Street, wondering what to do next.

  Where should I go from here? Two isolated events—murder and mob—were fusing into some kind of twisted logic, if only I could figure it out.