by Hannah Reed
He took my hand and I gave his a gentle squeeze. He squeezed back. “Good luck,” I said, before hustling down the logging road to catch up with the others, relieved to be away from the crime scene.
I had a list of questions as long as The Lost Mile and I tossed them around in my brain as the group of us walked toward the north entrance. It was the opposite direction from my house, but no way was I walking the other way alone. I would catch a ride home from somebody.
My thoughts were these:
• I’d heard two shots earlier. Were they the same ones that killed Hetty?
• Had Hetty been shot twice? Or had the shooter missed the first time? Or had Hetty shot at someone herself?
• If Lauren shot Hetty with Rita’s gun, why did she do it? Had Lauren gone into The Lost Mile to kill herself? What if Hetty had been trying to stop Lauren and the gun had gone off accidentally?
• And finally, would Ben be able to track down Lauren?
By morning at least one of my questions was answered. Ben had completed his mission—he’d found Lauren Kerrigan.
Dead.
Ten
Sunday morning’s dawn brought sunshine, but with a lingering springtime nip to the air. Bright and early, Stanley Peck knocked on my door, right as I was pondering the most effective way to launch my sister out of bed. She’d locked the door to the spare bedroom and told me in both text-speech and normal-person-dialogue to take a flying leap off a high bridge.
“I’m telling Mom to take you back,” I shouted through the door before letting Stanley in.
“I heard about your bees swarming,” Stanley said. “And I’m here to help you get them back.” I sort of could tell that, because Stanley was in full head-to-toe bee gear: a zippered full white suit, wide-mesh netted veil, boots, and elbow-length canvas gloves.
He wasn’t taking any chances.
“I love you to death,” I said, zipping up my hoodie and slamming loudly out the back door for Holly’s benefit. Then we located an aluminum ladder, a small hedge clipper, and the right sized cardboard box for the job at hand.
Stanley walked beside me carrying the ladder. His limp was more pronounced this morning, reminding me not only of his self-inflicted shooting accident but also of yesterday’s shots. I really wanted Hetty’s death to be an unfortunate accident.
“Not much farther,” I said to encourage Stanley when he paused to rest his leg.
“Your bees are going to get active soon,” he said, something I was well aware of. Once the day warmed up, they would be on their way.
Last night’s fog had dissipated and the Oconomowoc River flowed along fast and strong, still swollen from all the spring rain we’d had. Not a cloud in the sky. If not for recent events, this moment would be perfect.
While we walked, I thought of Hunter and Ben. Hunter hadn’t called like he said he would, but it was still barely dawn and they might have worked late into the night. Right now, Hunter was probably catching up on his sleep, preparing to go a few more rounds with Johnny Jay. He’d better bring along more county cops to support his efforts, because Johnny Jay had a bull’s brain and the same mentality. But Hunter had grown up with Johnny, too. He’d figure out something.
“Are you still feeding your bees?” Stanley asked. He was new to beekeeping (even newer than I was), having only started last year when he dated a woman who had a few hobby hives of her own. That’s how the obsession began for most of us. We met someone who kept bees and suddenly we were hooked.
Stanley had a million questions every time I saw him.
Honeybees survive on the honey they store up before winter arrives, but by spring their supplies are dwindling, especially during a cold and rainy spring like the one we’d had so far. A smart beekeeper helps them out over the winter by not being greedy, and leaving enough honey for them to get through the season on their own. But sometimes we misjudge, so then honeybees need supplemental feedings of a sugar syrup mixture.
“Nope,” I said in reply to Stanley’s feeding question. “I left them enough honey.”
“I didn’t. They ran out. I’ve been feeding them sugar syrup for a while now.”
“Keep feeding them until the days are warmer and they have more pollen sources to draw from.”
“They have dandelions.”
“Still, keep helping them a little longer.”
“A shame about Hetty Cross,” Stanley said, bringing up her name for the first time. It didn’t take long for news to travel through Moraine. A forest fire fueled by gasoline would be slower.
“It really is,” I agreed.
Then I stopped abruptly and looked around. Things had changed.
The tree I was looking for was still the same dead one. I recognized it by the woodpecker holes drilled all over it. And my honeybees were still on the same high branch, waiting for the sun to rise higher and the temperature to get warmer before taking off again.
But other things had changed.
For one, the tree trunk now acted as an anchor for yellow crime tape staking out an area on the other side of the tree, framing the spot where Hetty’s body had been found.
For two, Tim Hartman, one of Johnny Jay’s police officers, sat on a folding chair, standing guard. Or rather, sitting guard. Tim was the oldest cop on the force.
“Hey, Story,” he said. “Who’s that with you in the Halloween costume?”
“It’s Stanley,” I said. “We’re on a bee rescue mission.”
“You’re entering a restricted area. Whoa up.”
“We aren’t going any farther anyway,” I said, setting the empty cardboard box on the ground and patting the tree. “Stanley, you can lean the ladder against this tree right here.”
Tim stood up. “Now, wait a minute. Don’t you see the tape?”
“Sure I do, but it’s on the other side. I’m going up this side of the tree. See my bees?” I motioned upward. Tim followed with his eyes.
“Bees? If I’d known bees were up there I wouldn’t be sitting so close.” Tim quickly folded up his chair and backed up with it under his arm.
“They’re harmless. But it’s really important that I go up and get them.”
Tim looked doubtful. “I don’t know about that.”
“If I don’t get them now, they’ll leave and I won’t be able to follow them. I promise. I’ll stay on this side, get up and down before you can blink both eyes, and be gone, out of your hair for good.”
Which was really an insensitive comment once I thought about it, because Tim didn’t have much hair for anything to get caught in. But he didn’t seem to take it the wrong way.
“Nobody needs to know,” Stanley said, throwing a little espionage into his voice. I wondered if Stanley was carrying a weapon this morning. Illegal, of course, but that’s Stanley. One of these days, he’d answer to the law, but not because of me. As long as Stanley and I stayed on the same side, he could carry grenades for all I cared.
“I don’t see any harm in it, I guess,” Tim said, reluctantly. “We’ve pretty much picked over this area. In fact, I was wondering if the police chief forgot I was still over here.”
“All right then.” I dropped my faux rhinestone studded flip-flops at the foot of the ladder and put on a pair of leather gloves. With the hedge clippers tucked in the belt I had worn for this special occasion, I grabbed the cardboard box and started climbing. Once I got to the tree’s big vee, I ran out of rungs and had to leave the ladder behind. I kept climbing up another twelve feet or so, clutching smaller branches to help with my ascent.
I’d climbed trees as a kid, going to the very top of the highest and swaying back and forth. But this time, in my thirties and not as graceful as I used to be, which wasn’t saying all that much, the height seemed . . . well . . . way too high. And looking down made me feel light-headed, which wasn’t the best scenario considering where I was. The box was hampering my movement. I felt wimpy and simpy like Pity-Party Patti, so I quickly pulled myself together with a silent pep talk and k
ept going.
A little higher and I stopped, eye level with my swarm of bees. They crawled all over each other, more active than I expected given the chill in the air. They eyed me back as I carefully readjusted myself, trying hard not to look down.
Stanley was right behind me, not quite as high, but close enough to hold the box in his gloved hands while I snipped away at the branch where the swarm clung. Good thing it wasn’t much of a branch or I would have had to do some sawing and they might not have stuck around for that.
With one gloved hand I snipped, with the other I grabbed the branch, holding it firmly above the swarm. Once the cut was clean through, I bent down and gently placed the branch, swarm and all, inside the cardboard box Stanley held out. At least half the bees flew up in the air, but the other half remained clumped together to protect the queen.
“Don’t I need to trap them inside this box?” Stanley said, fumbling with the box’s flaps while the air darkened with buzzing insects.
“No, leave it open. They’ll stay right with you and the ones that flew off will come back.”
“You have bees all over you,” Stanley announced. He had a lot of bees on himself, too, only Stanley was protected and I wasn’t. Something in my personality made me do foolish, impulsive things, like not wear full protection when performing dangerous high-wire stunts like this one.
But I like to think my bees are used to me and trust me. Which is why they crawled around only on my hoodie and arms, checking things out. Not a single one stung me. As it turned out, looking at the masses of bees covering us, it was a good thing Holly had locked her door against me and Stanley had taken her place. He could handle this. My sister would have had an old-fashioned conniption fit and we would never have gotten the bees safely into a box.
“Don’t worry about them,” I said to Stanley, noticing that he wasn’t.
From the ground, I heard, “Good Lord. Heaven help us. Are you two okay? Gad!”
“It’s okay, Tim,” I called out. “If you’re uncomfortable just stay back. But they aren’t going to sting us. They don’t have a hive to protect. Right now they are perfectly tame. Docile cute little things, aren’t they?”
“I’m out of here,” Tim said, dropping his folded chair to the ground and hurrying off.
Stanley and I began our descent, finding out quickly that climbing down the tree was harder than going up, especially with the baggage we carried. And Stanley’s wide-brimmed veil kept catching on branches.
“I’ve got them safe and sound,” he said, finally reaching the ladder and making it the rest of the way, clutching the box filled with honeybees.
I leaned against the trunk, still pretty high up in the tree. My eyes wandered to the taped area where Hetty’s body had been. Now that most of the bees were below me, either inside the box or following Stanley as if he were the Pied Piper, I could hear more than buzzing. Voices. Coming from the west.
Well, why not? Sunday morning was a great time for a long walk along the Oconomowoc River where hikers liked to follow the national scenic area called the Ice Age Trail. Since Moraine’s segment of the Ice Age Trail happened to sit right under a migratory flyway, spring was the perfect time to bird watch along it.
Except I thought I recognized one of the voices as our police chief’s. I had to get out of here fast.
“What are you waiting for?” Stanley said from below. “Let’s go.”
I’m not sure what happened next, but when I went to put my feet on the top of the ladder, it must have shifted because I remember feeling like it had moved underneath me. I tried to grab for something. Anything. Then I felt myself pitching forward.
When I hit the ground, I actually managed to land crouched, with my feet flat on the ground like a female ninja. Then my legs crumpled and I went over sideways.
“Are you okay?” Stanley said. I could hear the concern in his voice.
I stayed where I was, taking a mental inventory of all my moving parts.
“I think so,” I said, spitting out a mouthful of decomposed leaves.
Then I heard another voice, a familiar one. “You better think again, Missy Fischer, because you aren’t going to be okay when I get done with you.”
Johnny Jay towered over me. I sat up and realized I was now on the wrong side of the crime-scene tape.
“You’re under arrest,” Johnny Jay said to me.
“Oh, come on, Chief,” Stanley said, sounding slightly riled. “It was an accident. She fell.”
“And you get that box of bees out of here before I arrest you, too.”
Johnny wasn’t alone. Some of his officers were backing away while bees hovered over Stanley or crawled around on him. Part of me wanted to see Johnny Jay try to get at Stanley through all those honeybees.
“Go on, Stanley,” I said, rising slowly, shaking off leaves and dirt, and noticing none of the bees had stayed on my clothing for the crash landing. The last thing I wanted was for Stanley to get arrested. Or searched, given his probably concealed weapon. “You know how to introduce them to a hive, right?”
Stanley nodded, so I told him which hive in my beeyard was empty and waiting for the bees to occupy it.
“And get my sister up and over to The Wild Clover to open up. I think Johnny might be serious about arresting me.”
“That’s Police Chief Jay to you,” Johnny said. “Show disrespect one more time and I’ll throw the book at you.”
I didn’t know cops actually said that. But our police chief must watch a lot of crime dramas on television.
Stanley hurried off.
“You contaminated a crime scene,” the police chief said.
“You were finished here anyway,” I fired back.
“I’m about to read you your rights, so shut up.”
“Oh please.”
Johnny Jay used his fat fingers to tick off all my violations. “I’ve got your fingerprints all over the place, you were at the scene of the crime and it isn’t clear exactly what time that was, you came back this morning and contaminated the area again, and for all I know you had something to do with Lauren Kerrigan’s death, too.”
That was the very first I’d heard Lauren wasn’t missing anymore.
“You found her?” I said. “She’s dead?”
Johnny Jay began reading me my rights.
Eleven
While I waited for Johnny to get around to booking me, I listened in to cops talking shop. They didn’t seem to notice me scrunched down in the corner, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Just maybe, Johnny Jay would forget I was there and the right door would open and I’d be gone.
From the bits and pieces of overheard conversations, I pieced together a few facts:
• After I’d gone home, Hunter, with Ben’s help, had found Lauren Kerrigan during the night.
• She had been shot with the same handgun that killed Hetty Cross. Rita’s gun. The one missing from her nightstand and found next to Hetty’s body.
• Both women had been shot in their torsos. I couldn’t help imagining my insides seeping out onto the ground while I breathed my last few tortured breaths. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, even in my imagination.
There were differences between the two women’s last moments, though. Hetty had dropped down on the ground as soon as she was shot and didn’t move from where she fell. But Lauren hadn’t died right away. She’d managed to crawl deeper into the woods, away from the logging road. Lauren must have been in shock (who wouldn’t be?) because she would have had a better chance if she had stayed on the logging road. Unless the person who shot her was still nearby and she was trying to hide.
I still didn’t know if the shots that killed them were the same ones we’d heard, but I’d bet Grams’s farm on it. Since no one had come forward about firing those shots, they had to be the ones that killed Hetty and Lauren.
My skin crawled to think how casual Holly and Patti and I had been when we heard those shots go off, standing around shooting the breeze while two w
omen were dying in the woods less than a mile away.
Johnny Jay finally found time for me before I could plan an escape route, and he put me through the paces—fingerprints, mug shot, treating me like a dirt bag—all attended to by him personally. I had to wonder if that was his standard mode of operation. Did he really do the bookings himself usually? I bet not.
I must be a special case.
“So, Missy Fischer,” he said. “Are you ready to talk? I have a special room reserved just for you. We could have a little chat.”
“I want a lawyer,” I said. “I have nothing to say to you.”
With a gloating look on his face, the police chief took me down a hall and locked me in a jail cell.
“Too bad we can’t set bail until tomorrow morning,” he said. “Let me know when you decide to start talking.”
The last place I wanted to spend Sunday night was in this place. But I’d never tell Johnny Jay a single thing. Not that he’d listen anyway. “Don’t I get a phone call even?” I shouted after him, but he ignored me. “I want my cell phone back!”
A door slammed.
I was alone, feeling like a caged animal.
My only chance was Stanley. He’d do the right thing. Get my sister on the case. Patti might help. Someone would call Hunter. Grams would gather all the old-timers and threaten a riot.
Right?
Hours and hours seemed to go by before I heard human sounds. Sally Maylor, another police officer and a loyal store customer, unlocked my jail cell.
“You’re free,” she said.
In fact, all the charges that Johnny Jay had manufactured were dropped by the time I walked out into the midday sunshine. Compliments, I soon learned, of a hunk of a man with the sexiest body and the brightest smile in the world. Was I ever happy to see him!
“Hetty died on county land,” Hunter explained, driving me back into town to drop me at The Wild Clover. “Johnny didn’t have the authority to arrest you.”