Mind Your Own Beeswax

by Hannah Reed

  I walked away, shutting her voice out.

  But if I’d just not been quite so anxious to get inside, if I’d waved a fond farewell to Patti and chucked the whole plan to go inside my neighbor’s house, if I had known ahead of time that Norm was so paranoid he had installed a do-it-yourself burglar alarm and it wasn’t the loud and noisy kind that scared intruders away, but rather the silent kind that auto-dialed the police department and played a prerecorded message which included the exact address of the break-in . . .

  If only I could have seen all that in Aurora’s crystal ball, I never would have let Patti suck me into her game of intrigue and espionage.

  Or at least, I would have handled things differently.

  Eighteen

  There’s something exciting about being where you aren’t supposed to be. Exhilarating and frightening all at the same time. My heart pounded in my ears. My breathing grew shallow and rapid. Not at all like yoga uji breath.

  I was in a spare bedroom Norm and Hetty had obviously used for storage. Junk was thrown everywhere. A metal-legged table held the following interesting items:

  • A green hurricane oil lantern, the kind used for camping

  • More lanterns made from metal and painted a rainbow of colors, including blue, red, and yellow

  • Some clear globes

  • One amber lantern

  • Another I thought might be a railroad signal lantern

  Judging by the coating of dust, they hadn’t been used recently. Or cleaned, either.

  Next, my eyes swept to the wall where I saw a collage of newspaper clippings, a composition of facts pasted together like a scrapbook from the past. The articles weren’t old or yellowed or brittle. They hadn’t been affected by age at all because they’d been carefully preserved with lamination. And each article was framed with bits of red construction paper.

  Someone had handwritten the name of each newspaper, all from The Reporter, and the date of each article in red pen beneath each news report. Dainty, feminine-looking handwriting. Hunter hadn’t mentioned that. Or maybe he hadn’t noticed. After all, he’d been looking for clues to Hetty’s death, not for mysteries out of the past.

  Something about the combination of black-ink typed pages on white poster board with bloodred trim gave me a sudden chill.

  I quickly scanned the headlines. All the articles were short, sensational accounts of strange goings-on inside The Lost Mile as experienced, reported, and documented by local residents whose names I recognized.

  I really wanted to read every one of the articles, but I didn’t have time to stand there and do that. What if Norm came home?

  I went back to the window to ask Patti to stay alert and warn me if anybody showed up unexpectedly. My partner in this scheme seemed to be missing from action.

  “Patti!” I whispered as loudly as I dared, craning my neck as far out the window as I could without falling out face-first. “Where are you?”

  No answer. Where had she gone? First she scared me to death when she crept up behind me, then she talked me into going through the window, then she ditched me? If she was hoping for a partnership, she was going about it all wrong.

  That’s when I noticed two things.

  First, my fingers on the windowsill weren’t sheathed in print-proof material like Patti’s had been, so if anyone was busted for breaking into Norm’s house, that person would be me, not Patti. Even though she had been the one responsible for removing the window and starting this whole thing, I wouldn’t rat her out if things went south.

  Which they seemed to be doing.

  Because the second thing I noticed was the sound of tires crunching on gravel, right next to the house. Jeez! Still poking my head out the window, I saw the front bumper of a vehicle come into view. It stopped short of being visible from the interior of the house, so I couldn’t tell who was driving, but I really didn’t need to. The Moraine Police Department insignia near the bumper told me enough.

  Its engine died. Any minute now I would be in very big trouble.

  No way was I going to make a perfectly clean getaway. Mud all over the floor, footprints, a window screen left off. If Patti had an ounce of compassion in her meddling body, she’d show herself at the front of the house and distract the cop while I ran for cover.

  I heard a car door click shut. Quietly. Like the driver hoped to sneak up on somebody.

  I hopped up on the open window and twisted so my feet went first, trying to slither out as gracefully as a garter snake. Clutching the windowsill, I dropped, losing my balance and hitting the ground butt first. Hunter might be right about my two left feet, but fear of apprehension gave me added incentive to get upright and stay that way.

  I would really haul.

  Which is what I decided I had to do.

  Especially after hearing that all-too-familiar authoritative voice shouting out to me to halt. Who said “Halt!” except a certain bully cop? The same one suspected of being a killer? None other than Johnny Jay!

  And no way was I going to stop in my tracks and let him work me over verbally or physically with no witnesses, thank you very much, Patti Dwyre, for abandoning me in my moment of need.

  I was pretty sure Johnny Jay wouldn’t recognize me if I kept my hood up, my back to him, didn’t say anything, and moved fast. Right now my big advantage was that he didn’t know who he was dealing with.

  I took off, half expecting Johnny Jay to start firing rounds. I dodged around trees, making sharp, abrupt turns just in case. But he didn’t fire. In fact, he didn’t pursue me, which should have warned me that something was not quite right.

  But at the time, my brain was a whole lot slower than my body.

  I ran as fast as I could down to the south end of The Lost Mile, pounding into the clearing, turning onto the deer trail, remembering at the last minute to scoop up my basket of mushrooms. Then I banged across the bridge not caring if I woke the dead. By the time I made it to my backyard, my safe haven, I was winded, gulping for air, and feeling seriously lightheaded. I set the basket on my patio table and bent over, gasping.

  Just when I thought I might be able to move again, Johnny Jay came around the corner of my house, spotted me, and charged like a raging bull. He had his head down, his eyes narrowed, and at the last moment, I realized he wasn’t going to stop. I put up my arms in a defensive motion just as he actually tackled me and we went down. He, having a lot more weight on me, came out on top, knelt on my back, digging his knee in while he wrenched my arms behind me and slapped on handcuffs.

  I came up with a mouthful of gunk and proceeded to spit out wet dandelions, blades of grass, and bits of mud.

  At this point I couldn’t help noticing we had several witnesses.

  Lori Spandle stood in the driveway next door, along with two people I didn’t recognize as locals. A man and woman, fortyish, dressed up as though a meeting with this particular real-estate agent was a big event. They stared at us as Johnny Jay brought me to my feet.

  “This person is the next-door neighbor?” the woman said, her voice raising an octave as she enunciated each word. Neighbor, though, came out as a croak.

  Granted, I wasn’t at my very best, but I resented her quick judgment of me. I happened to be a great neighbor: considerate, as long as no one picked on my bees, kind, and tolerant. I had lots of good-neighbor qualities.

  And considering the way Johnny Jay had just treated me, shouldn’t one of these witnesses be coming to my rescue? Couldn’t they tell a bad cop when they saw one? Instead, they gaped at me like I was some kind of criminal element and deserved what I was getting.

  “I got the whole thing on video,” Patti yelled from the other side of the cedars. Turning my head and looking up, I saw her hanging out of the second story of her house, dangling a recorder from its strap with one hand and shaking her fist at Johnny with the other. “Police brutality! I’ve got the footage to prove it this time.”

  “Shut up, Patti Dwyre,” the police chief snarled up at her. “A
s soon as I’m done subduing and restraining this bad-news character, I’ll be over to get you, too.”

  “All I can say is you better have a warrant and plenty of backup.” Patti pulled in the video recorder and slapped binoculars to her face to take in the scene up close and personal.

  “And that’s the other neighbor?” the woman said, staring at Patti. I thought the woman looked slightly paler than before. Lori Spandle, however, had lots of vivid color going on in her cheeks.

  “Let’s get out of here,” the man standing next to Lori said to the woman.

  “But you haven’t seen the house yet,” Lori said to them.

  “We’ve seen enough,” the woman said.

  “But . . .” Lori said.

  The couple turned and hurried off.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Lori said to me, which I took as a real threat judging from the redness of her face, the wild look in her eyes, and the fact that I was handcuffed and couldn’t defend myself. I was pretty sure Johnny wouldn’t protect me.

  “You ruin everything,” she said, stepping closer. “I’m going to get you for this.”

  “Go home, Lori,” Johnny Jay said, maneuvering me past her, putting his body between us like he was saving me all for himself. I saw his parked police vehicle. “And do me a favor, pretend you didn’t see anything here today.”

  “I want protection,” I said.

  “Lori isn’t going to carry out her threat,” the police chief said. “Although I wouldn’t blame her.” I didn’t correct him, but what I really needed was protection from him.

  “I’m calling the newspaper,” Patti called out. “This is a travesty and The Reporter should know.”

  Patti was letting adrenaline cloud her mind because our newspaper, affectionately and appropriately nicknamed The Distorter, never carried up-to-date news, since it came out only once a week. By then, I would have been in Johnny Jay’s hands way too long for it to do me any good.

  “Call Hunter Wallace,” I shouted to her as Johnny put me in the backseat. I wondered what to say to my main man to cover up my latest mess. I considered blaming the whole thing on Patti. Or denying any involvement. Or if I really wanted the right kind of relationship with him, I suppose I could come clean.

  Just this once—okay maybe for the second or third time—I really, really needed his help.

  Johnny pulled away and made a U-turn. For a second or two I was afraid he might do something to me, like take me to a secluded area and work me over. But Patti knew he had me, and she would spread the word. I became more optimistic regarding my future when the police chief turned toward the police station.

  “You didn’t read me my rights,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m handcuffed or inside your squad car. Is this how you treat all the citizens you’re supposed to be protecting?”

  All Johnny said was, “Shut up, Missy Fischer.”

  My sister showed up at the police station before Johnny Jay had a chance to unload me from the backseat. I imagined her Jag had been smoking hot with speed to get her down to the cop shop that fast. Holly’s instantaneous arrival, how blazing fast she came to my rescue, was a good indication that our close network of family and friends was fully operational.

  Of course, that also meant my mother had the same information. One more nail in the mom-daughter coffin.

  “What did you arrest her for this time?” my sister said, relieved to see me in one piece.

  “Breaking and entering.” Johnny pulled me out of the back seat. “And burglary.”

  “What did you steal?” Holly asked me.

  “I didn’t steal anything. He’s making things up. I want a lawyer.”

  “I’m on it,” Holly said. “Johnny Jay, you’ve overstepped your bounds this time.”

  “All you Fischer women are pains in the you-know-what,” he said.

  With that, Holly took off. It was then I realized I brought out the absolute worst in our police chief. Oil and water didn’t begin to describe us. Salt rubbed into a wound was more like it. What could I have done to make him this crazy? I mean, other than running when he told me to halt, which when I thought about it might be considered a pretty serious offense by some people.

  I really, really wished I had paid more attention in psychology class or read more on the subject of dealing with nasty people like Johnny Jay, because I wasn’t very good at it. It didn’t take many of his type running around to ruin a person’s day. Like right now.

  Every time someone acted like they didn’t like me, instead of giving that person extra kind attention and working hard to change his or her mind, I made it worse by reciprocating with the same bad attitude. So if I was going to bring out the worst in the police chief, he was going to bring out the worst in me, too.

  It wasn’t like I did it on purpose. It just happened. Was everybody like that? Or just me?

  Johnny Jay wanted respect, something that eluded his grasp, and he hadn’t been able to get any at all from me. Was that it? Was I supposed to act like the other Moraine residents and pretend he was an important guy? I didn’t do pretend well.

  The next few hours crawled by. Johnny kept me in the holding cell right where all the other cops walked back and forth. The cell contained a bare cot and a toilet, which I wasn’t about to use in front of everybody. I wondered how long I could hold out. No wonder they call it a holding cell.

  Then I heard keys clanging on metal and the creaky sound of the door opening.

  “You’re free to go,” Police Officer Sally Maylor said.

  “You’re sweet,” I said, staying right where I was, eyeing up freedom on the other side. “But I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  “I’m not helping you break out,” Sally said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “You’ve been released.”

  “Did Holly get me an attorney?”

  “She didn’t need to.”

  I hustled through the open door as fast as I could, just in case she came to her senses and made a grab for me.

  Hunter and Ben were waiting for me in the entryway. Again.

  Not only that, real news teams (not just Patti) had congregated outside the station.

  I squinted when we walked out of the building, stunned that it was still daylight, and wondering what had happened to bring out the big-gun reporters. These weren’t hicks from the sticks with their news vans and fancy expensive cameras.

  Did we have a real celebrity inside our police station?

  Had something big happened that I didn’t know about?

  “What’s going on?” I whispered to Hunter.

  “Just keep walking,” he whispered back.

  Nineteen

  Milwaukee, only thirty-some miles down the highway, had three local television networks—Channels 4, 6, and 12. And they were all represented outside the Moraine police station.

  Hunter took a protective stance as soon as we came out of the building, drawing me in close, while I glanced around wondering who or what had drawn all the news cameras to our little burg.

  And wasn’t it just the luck of the draw that I happened to get released right in the middle of all this action? Nothing like making a discreet exit after a police booking.

  Before I could suggest to Hunter that we go back inside until this party and its lenses were gone, reporters started sticking microphones in my face and snapping pictures. That’s when I caught on that little old moi was involved somehow in the breaking news story. But no way would a small-time grocery store owner’s arrest draw this much attention from anything other than the local paper.

  All I’d done was run from a big bully. That wasn’t news in my book.

  Either Lori Spandle had engineered this in retaliation for destroying a sale, or this was P. P. Patti’s warped way of helping my cause.

  “Throw something over my head,” I said to Hunter in a panic, thinking about how easily my mother was humiliated by my actions and how this couldn’t be much worse. “Give me your jacket. Quick.”

>   “Just stay close and ignore them,” Hunter suggested.

  “Ms. Fischer. Can we get a statement?”

  “What’s behind these charges?”

  “We only want a moment of your time!”

  “Is it true?”

  Oh, right, like I was going to confess to breaking into Norm Cross’s house and right in front of a bunch of rolling cameras. I scowled and kept going, burying my face against Hunter, wanting to tear his jacket off his body. Lust had nothing to do with it, either.

  Hunter had a good strong grip and wasn’t letting go. He smoothly rearranged me so that he and Ben were closest to the more aggressive reporters, with the canine partner playing defensive line.

  Ben’s imposing presence and the intimidating gaze as he swept over the crowd worked because reporters and cameramen alike took big steps away from the large animal. I gave a silent cheer of gratitude for Ben.

  Hunter opened the passenger side of his SUV, Ben and I jumped in, and as we pulled out I saw the mass of people turn back to the building, losing interest in us.

  “What was all that about?” I said.

  “Is anybody following us?”

  I craned around. “No. Why would they?”

  “Let’s go to my place. I’ll tell you all about it there.”

  Hunter’s home was masculine, comfortable, and so tidy that, at first, I secretly suspected he had another woman on the side. No guy I’d ever known kept such a clean house. Not that I was complaining.

  “What . . . is . . . going . . . on?” I asked, plopping down at Hunter’s kitchen table, emphasizing each word.

  “In a minute.” I had to wait while Hunter started a pot of coffee. Then he came over.

  “What happened to you?” he said, like he hadn’t really looked at me before right that minute. I’d completely forgotten about the rose thorn scratches on my face until he cupped my chin gently in his hand and turned my head from side to side, examining the damage. I was pretty sure he thought Johnny Jay did it. I decided not to inform him otherwise. I needed every advantage I could get.