Mind Your Own Beeswax

by Hannah Reed

  “Patti’s out in the aisles,” my sister said, “interviewing customers about Lantern Man. She’s convinced that Lantern Man came across Lauren and Hetty in The Lost Mile and killed them. Did you know she has a mini-video camera in her fanny pack? And she’s been going through old newspapers to get up to speed on his appearances.”

  “Wow! I’m impressed. Four whole sentences and you didn’t revert to text-speech even once. I’m proud of you.”

  “WE (Whatever),” Holly said.

  Seventeen

  Tuesday morning arrived before I was ready for it. A violent spring storm moved in during the night, zinging spears of lightning at the ground right outside my bedroom window, keeping me awake with crashes of thunder. Rain beat steadily on the roof, then banged louder as drops of rain turned to balls of hail. Looking out the window, I finally saw gray wisps of light announcing an overcast morning. White balls of ice covered the grass.

  The Oconomowoc River, swollen and flowing rapidly, rose to the top of its banks. My backyard hadn’t flooded for a long time, but this rainstorm would take it to the brink or beyond. My honeybees would spend the morning safely inside their well-constructed hives. Good thing the beehives stood on cement blocks elevated well above the ground or I’d be out there frantically moving them to higher ground. At least I got some things right.

  Dinky, I found out right away, was terrified of storms and thought this one was strictly for her benefit. She burrowed down under the bedcovers, trembled all night, and didn’t peer out until the thunder subsided. She also apparently hated rain and refused to go outside, giving me the task of cleaning up after her again. Her only redeeming quality at this point was that her very tiny bladder couldn’t produce enormous quantities of fluid for me to mop up. I really appreciated my wood floors.

  Norm Cross didn’t answer his phone when I called to demand that he take her back. Just as well he didn’t have an answering machine either, since my mood wasn’t up to its usual tolerance level and I might’ve verbalized some of my dark thoughts about his mangy mutt.

  After feeding Dinky, I ate a honey bun, drank multiple cups of coffee, watched the rain, and pondered rogue cops and whether Johnny Jay might have murdered Lauren Kerrigan and Hetty Cross:

  • Johnny Jay hated Lauren Kerrigan for killing his father.

  • A scenario (with a few gaping holes): Somehow he found out Lauren was back and got her to agree to meet him in the woods.

  • She’s afraid so she takes a weapon along.

  • They struggle. But Lauren’s weak from the cancer and treatments. Johnny Jay takes the gun away from her and shoots her.

  • Hetty, out for an evening walk, minding her own business, sees him shoot Lauren, so he shoots her, too.

  End of story.

  Now to prove it.

  I’d seen enough cop shows on television to understand exactly how hard that was going to be, mostly because Johnny Jay held all the power cards. My word wouldn’t count for squat against a law-enforcement official’s.

  So I had to prove his guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  With a new mission in mind, to bring down a longtime nemesis, I showered and dressed for the day in jeans and a warm yellow hoodie, opened my sister’s bedroom door, deposited Dinky in her bed without waking her, grabbed an umbrella, and made my way to the store.

  By the time I’d walked those two blocks, unlocked the store door, and slipped in, I was drenched in spite of the umbrella, which turned out to be useless in the gusting wind and sheets of sleet.

  While I tried to dry my hair with paper towels, Carrie Ann called to say she’d be late, which wasn’t a big deal since the storm had all my regular customers hunkered down, waiting it out. The tourist business would be nonexistent today, too.

  Stu Trembly stopped by for his morning newspaper and confirmed that local gossip at his bar supported the Johnny Jay killer theory over Norm Cross, but no one had any concrete evidence to nail our police chief. Also Stu was busy getting ready for Chopper Murphy’s wake tonight.

  Milly Hopticourt came in with a rhubarb meringue torte she’d whipped up in preparation for the next newsletter, and we declared it a winning recipe.

  “I need some morel mushrooms,” Milly said, wiping meringue from her lips. “I have an idea for a recipe. Somebody spotted them a few days ago and with this rain they ought to be growing big and plump.”

  “I’ll hunt some down,” I said, thinking of my favorite secret spot for harvesting morels.

  A while later, the rain still hadn’t subsided. Puddles grew in the street outside while my store’s awning sagged and overflowed.

  I tried calling Norm again. No luck.

  Lori Spandle showed up with a warning. “I have a potential buyer looking at the house today,” she said. “Try to stay out of the way and don’t blow it.”

  “What time are you showing the house?”

  “Noon.”

  “Good luck.” Which I meant from the bottom of my heart. If my ex-husband’s house finally sold, I’d have that nasty woman off my back. Although it had been quiet and peaceful at home without a neighbor on that side. I wondered what kind of person would live there next. Anyone was better than my ex-husband.

  T. J. Schmidt came in, shaking an umbrella and showing his perfect teeth. “You haven’t returned Ali’s call to reschedule,” he said.

  When pigs fly, I thought. “Been busy at the store,” I said out loud. “I’ll take care of it soon. Any new ideas coming from your patients?” I asked, remembering the last conversation I’d had with T. J. while I sat in his dental chair under extreme duress. He’d said patients really like to talk in his chair.

  T. J. grinned, flashing his great teeth. “Nothing new.” Then he went down aisle two with a shopping basket over his arm.

  By the time Carrie Ann arrived at the store, with Holly and Dinky right behind her, the storm had moved off to the east, leaving the soft patter of light rain behind.

  Carrie Ann snatched Dinky and cooed over her.

  “I have to leave for a little while,” I said.

  “Why?” Holly wanted to know.

  “I have to go hunt morels for a newsletter recipe.”

  Holly gave me a you-get-all-the-good-jobs look, one of those mouth-gaping, eye-rolling, this-is-so-not-fair expressions. “And, just so you know, I’m not watching your dog.”

  “Do you want to do it instead?” I asked her. “Go out and hunt morels?”

  Like my sister was suddenly Miss Outdoorsy.

  “Once it stops raining and the sun comes out,” she said. “Yes. You can stay and shuffle stock around. Do all the grunt work.”

  “The twins do the heavy lifting,” I shot back. “Counting money doesn’t qualify as grunt work. Neither does scheduling.”

  “Scheduling is hard work, harder than you think.”

  “There are only five of us working here! How hard can it be?”

  Carrie Ann moved between us and said, “Forecast calls for rain right into the weekend. So whoever goes is going to get wet.”

  Holly looked out the window.

  “Then I might as well go now,” I said. “Besides, Holly, you don’t even know where to start looking and I do.”

  I scooted out the door before Holly could volley another round.

  I trotted through the rain to my house, changed into foul-weather gear, dug out my woven wood basket, and struck out into the woods with the hood of the jacket pulled up over my head.

  My sister’s attitude had me grinding my teeth. My mother’s did, too. What they didn’t realize was that I bore all the responsibility if things didn’t go right with the business.

  Holly never used an alarm clock. She got out of bed whenever she felt like it. She came in late, didn’t assume responsibility when one of us was sick, and gave me grief every time I asked for help with Queen Bee Honey. Total lack of cooperation!

  And where did my mother get off rearranging my store’s shelves? The nerve.

  I made an important men
tal note to find out when the twins’ school year ended so I could hire them full-time for the summer when the tourist traffic was the heaviest. They, at least, were normal, hardworking, dependable employees and, unlike my family members, actually took direction from the owner of the store.

  It took quite a bit of stomping through the brush by the river before I calmed myself down and started enjoying the scenery. Being out in nature had that effect on me. Rain or shine, the fresh air and all the wildlife and flora gave me energy and new perspective.

  And hunting for morel mushrooms was my favorite spring sport.

  Facts about morel mushrooms:

  • May is morel month in Wisconsin.

  • They only grow wild. No one has discovered how to cultivate them.

  • Morels like to sprout near dead American elms and in old apple orchards. If the May apples are up, so are the morels.

  • They are almost invisible, blending into the forest floor as efficiently as chameleons.

  • Once discovered, they are easily identified as edible morels by their spongelike heads.

  • They are absolutely delicious.

  • A morel-picking spot must be kept secret, even from best friends and sisters; otherwise they will try to get to them first, and there goes the relationship.

  I felt like Little Red Riding Hood skipping through the woods with my basket. Only I wasn’t skipping because the rain made the terrain slippery and also because of my klutz disorder. Walking without tripping was my highest priority. And this time I’d remembered to wear hiking boots rather than flip-flops, which gave me a huge advantage.

  Anyway, I made it to the small clearing, within shouting distance of The Lost Mile, where several elms had died last year, making them primo spots for morels this year. I found a long fallen branch and used it to flick leaves around, peering underneath them, while the rain fell gently and steadily. Thankfully, I was toasty warm and dry in my waterproof jacket.

  There! Several. And some of them were as big as my fist. Once I spotted the first camouflaged one, my eyes adjusted to their size and shape and others popped into focus.

  I hunted and picked until I was sure I’d covered every square inch of the clearing.

  Then I hid the basket under a dense bush and made my way into The Lost Mile, along the overgrown logging trail, weaving around puddles and muddy spots until I stood beneath the tree where my bees had swarmed above a dead woman.

  I wondered where Hunter had ultimately found Lauren’s body.

  Evidence of the murders was gone—the crime tape, the dark stains on the ground, the gun. All gone. The forest had been restored to its natural order. One thing that impacts me every time I go into the wild is how temporary we are and how permanent the natural world is.

  Norm Cross’s house and the edge of his property that abutted the tangled web of county and town land should be close by, although I couldn’t be exactly sure of the boundaries. Trees, bushes, and undergrowth all melded into one continuous woodland scene, unconcerned over man-made lines of ownership.

  I spotted a tiny worn path that turned into a well-traveled deer trail. It headed in the general direction of the Crosses’ house and probably had been used by them to access the logging road.

  So I followed it until it veered off away from the house. But by then I could see the neglected prefab through the trees. I made my way toward it through thick brush, where I managed to run headlong into a wild rose bush. Thorns embedded in cheek flesh really hurt. Much worse than a honeybee sting.

  Rule of thumb—watch where you’re going!

  It took some effort to pry myself loose and I saw tiny dots of blood on my fingers when I patted my cheek. No big deal, although it felt like my face had been gashed open. I lifted my face to the sky to clean the wounds with rainwater, but as soon as I did, the rain completely stopped. Just my luck.

  I kept going, motivated mainly by Hunter’s description of Norm’s Lantern Man poster board. I really wanted to see it. Although I didn’t have a master plan regarding how to accomplish that feat.

  If Norm Cross answered the door, I’d talk about Dinky, give him an update, ask him if he was ready to take her back. Then I’d make some kind of excuse to get inside and hope an opportunity arose to get a look at his wall hanging and maybe ask him questions about it.

  As an afterthought, I should have brought Dinky along. But I was improvising as I went. This part of my outing wasn’t preplanned.

  He didn’t answer his door. I figured I’d for sure get a chance to see the poster board now because most people in our neck of the woods didn’t bother locking their doors. Why should Norm be any different?

  When I turned the doorknob though, it didn’t open. Against all the rules of small-town living, his door was locked. I peered in through a dirty window.

  “One is open in back, if you want to get in.” A voice came out of the wet background, scaring me into a high-pitched squeal. Jeez!

  I clutched my chest and attempted to breath. “Patti! What are you doing here?”

  “I scared you,” she said smugly. “You didn’t even know I was here.”

  “Where did you come from? You’re right, I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “You’re going to make a poor investigative partner unless you start paying attention to your surroundings.”

  Partner? Not likely.

  “I went in through the back window,” P. P. Patti said.

  That’s when I stepped back and noticed she was dressed a lot like me. Rain gear. Outdoorsy jeans. Boots. Dripping water. Except Patti also wore a pair of long yellow latex gloves. “Want to see what I found inside the house?”

  “You broke in? Isn’t that illegal?” I figured Patti’s method had to be much more unlawful than my foiled attempt to breeze in the front door.

  “I didn’t break in. I crawled in.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Do you want to see or not?”

  “What if Norm comes home?”

  Patti shrugged. “If you’re going to be a whiner, forget it.”

  Look who was calling me a whiner. That woman could win a poor-me contest in a third-world country hands down.

  She proceeded to prove it. “This reporter stuff is rough. I have to carry tons of heavy equipment around like my binoculars and recording unit and pads of paper. And people slam doors in my face the minute I start asking questions. I even got a cut knee from a nail jutting out from the window. See?”

  She hiked up her jeans and showed me. After she rolled down her pant leg, she said, “What happened to your face? You look like you were attacked by something with claws.”

  “Is it still bleeding?”

  Patti moved in close. “It’s kind of dried in ridges. What happened?”

  “Rose thorns. What were you doing here in the first place?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I have Norm’s dog,” I said. “He didn’t answer my phone calls. I’m checking on him.”

  Her eyes narrowed, like she had entered my brain and found a whole different story. “We should be official partners.”

  “Partners in crime?”

  “In solving two murders.”

  I’d already decided to stick my nose into the case. Ever since Johnny Jay’s name came up as a suspect, I knew I’d have to add fuel to the fire at his feet and help burn him up. But not with Patti helping me! “That’s why we pay taxes,” I said, arguing against any kind of partnership. “So cops can do that for us.”

  “Cops,” she said with disdain. “Johnny Jay is a major suspect, if you believe what’s going around town.”

  “Hunter’s on the case, too.”

  “Johnny will make it hard for him. He’ll tie Hunter’s hands up so tight, he’ll have rope burns into old age.”

  That sure was true. I gave Patti a bit more respect for having some guts and for challenging the legal system. Others in town might be speculating on Johnny Jay’s role in the deaths and talking tough, but whe
n it came to action, most of them would stay home with their blinds drawn rather than take a public stand.

  “The police chief is winning the popularity contest.”

  “That’s no reason to ignore the other suspects. That is, unless we can really eliminate them with solid proof.” Patti had this weird way of staring without blinking. She was doing it now. “We’ll compare notes later. Do you want to see what I found, or don’t you?”

  “Okay, let’s go in,” I said. “Just for a quick peek.”

  “You first,” Patti said, walking around to the back where one of the windows was wide open. A window screen leaned up against the side of the house. Patti had raised the window and removed the screen to get inside Norm Cross’s house. What nerve the woman had!

  I had to wonder if she’d used the same technique on my house. Spyglass Patti with her binoculars and telescope and her snoopy nose for trouble. Bold. Brassy. And, I hated to admit it, but she’d probably make a really good reporter.

  I heaved myself up on the window ledge with a little bit of a butt push from Patti and wiggled in, dropping to the floor hands first. The first thing I noticed was all the water I’d collected out in the rain and how much of it came inside with me. The second thing I noticed were my muddy footprints mingling with Patti’s. We’d have to clean up before we left.

  Rising up, I had to give Patti even more credit. She’d heaved me through a window right into the room with the poster board. She knew her stuff.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I asked when I noticed she hadn’t made any moves to join me.

  “My leg hurts. Not the one that got ripped on a nail, the other one. I whacked it on the window sill coming out and it’s swelling up and I’m going to have one monster of a bruise and—”