Mind Your Own Beeswax

by Hannah Reed

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and slouched down out of sight. Then I started second-guessing my first impressions, trying to turn it into something more benign.

  Maybe teenagers had been parking at the end of the block, making out. It wouldn’t be the first time or the last. Then along comes me, and they get scared, thinking maybe I’d recognized them or might approach their car. So they rushed to leave, tearing out of there, a little out-of-control like new drivers sometimes are. The driver oversteered before correcting and gunning away.

  Okay, that had lots of potential.

  The cell phone in my hand rang.

  “Where are you?” Holly shouted into the phone, the background noise not exactly in the background, more like front and center. I could hardly hear her.

  “Around,” I hedged. “Why?”

  “I can’t hear you. Wait, let me move someplace not quite so loud.”

  I waited, hearing the din die away. Then I said, “What do you want?”

  “Max came home to surprise me.” Holly sounded happy.

  Max the Money Machine, Holly’s workaholic husband. Holly’s attitude always adjusted when Max came home, as brief as his visits usually were. Then he’d get back on the road and she’d start moaning and complaining again. “That’s sweet of him,” I said, concentrating on lowering my blood pressure to somewhere under three hundred over one hundred. The car incident had really affected me. “Does that mean you two are back together?”

  “Yup. So I won’t be staying with you tonight. It’s makeup sex time.”

  “I didn’t really need to know that,” I said.

  “See you tomorrow at the store. I might be a little late.” Holly hung up.

  So then, to get this all in perspective: I could understand Holly wanting to spend time with her husband, but it meant that I didn’t have a roommate, and I also didn’t have a bodyguard. Not one. Never again would I take comfort from Patti’s and Holly’s promises. Ever.

  I seemed to be full of nevers and evers and planned on sticking to them from now on, as in forever. Patti was just as bad as my sister. Probably snooping too much to remember about me.

  Next, I called Hunter. “There’s a strange car parked on my block,” I pretended. “Can you run the plates for me?”

  “What color is it?”

  “Dark.”

  “Like black dark?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “What kind of vehicle is it?”

  “A car.”

  “You already said that. What kind?”

  “Uh, a car-car.” So I hadn’t been as observant as a man might have been. Hunter would have been able to tell me what kind of rims the car had. “You don’t need all that extra stuff. Just run the plate number.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Hunter said. “You got close enough to the vehicle to read the license plate number. But you don’t know the make or model and you aren’t even sure of the color.”

  “How should I know what kind of car it is? They all look the same. It’s a standard sedan. Do you want the license number or not?” Then I quickly proceeded to give him the number, not about to give him time to answer with a not.

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said.

  I stayed slumped down in the chair, cloaked in darkness, listening to sounds from Stu’s, which still floated in the air.

  The car thing had done a real number on my nerves. I concentrated on relaxing, breathing deep and slow.

  When my phone vibrated, I almost shrieked. “Yes?” I said, after checking the caller ID and making sure it was Hunter on the other end.

  “The car belongs to Johnny Jay,” he said. “Is anyone inside the car at the moment? Don’t go near it or expose yourself, but if you see anybody, I need to know.”

  “It’s gone now.” I didn’t like Hunter’s tone of voice. He sounded upset. As he should be, since my fears about the former police chief were coming true.

  “Whew.” Hunter let out a big sigh into the phone. “Because Johnny Jay reported it stolen a few minutes ago. He had parked it down the street from Stu’s. When he left the bar, the car was missing. Good thing it’s gone from your block. I wouldn’t want a car burglar hanging around anywhere near you.”

  “Yeah,” I said, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Good thing.”

  “Anyway,” he said, “I passed on the information you gave me to Sally Maylor. She promised to patrol your block.”

  “Where’s Johnny right this minute?” I asked.

  “At the station. Filling out paperwork.”

  We hung up.

  A car turned from Main Street and headed my way, so I slunk down even lower in the chair. It came slow, crawling along and still managed to hit the curb on the corner during the turn.

  I’d know that car and driver anywhere.

  Grams.

  She bumped her Cadillac Fleetwood (See, I can identify at least one kind of car, Hunter Wallace!) to the curb in front of my house. I walked out to greet her. I haven’t been so glad to see anybody for a very long time.

  The passenger window slid down and Mom said, “We have Jackson in the backseat. He’s practically passed out, thanks to you and those drinks you forced on him.”

  Grams leaned across Mom and looked out at me. “We don’t know where he lives, sweetie.”

  “I’ll show you,” I offered, relieved to have family surrounding me. Any family!

  I got in the back next to Jackson. The smell almost blew me out of the car.

  “Jeez,” I said to him, noticing he still had one eye open. “What happened to the coffee?”

  “What coffee?”

  “He refused to drink any,” Mom said.

  “Turn right at Main,” I told Grams, before leaning back in my seat and thinking.

  Had Johnny just set up this whole thing? Orchestrated an attempt on my life after calling in his car stolen, planning to run me down? Or was he telling the truth?

  I thought of all the years we’d been butting heads. Did he really hate me enough to kill me?

  “Johnny Jay isn’t through, either,” I muttered to myself.

  “He apologized to you,” Mom said, overhearing. “What more do you want from the poor man?”

  “Handcuffs and a nice orange prison outfit?” I said, looking out the back window and noticing one dark vehicle after another.

  And that’s when I decided to spend the night at my grandmother’s house with Grams and Mom.

  Twenty-eight

  While Grams made blueberry pancakes on a griddle, Mom grilled me over hot coals.

  • Jackson Davis was such a nice man, or had been until I forced my bad habit of drinking too much on him.

  • When was I going to straighten up and fly right?

  • Why was I denying I had some problems? That’s the biggest step, you know, admitting you have a problem.

  • Maybe if I didn’t surround myself with other alcoholics, I could get my act together.

  • Carrie Ann, for example. That girl might be family, but she was bad news.

  • Hunter for another. He might be sober for the time being, but that was bound to end. He’d revert back.

  • We used to be such a respectable family. What happened?

  • Now the whole town knows our affairs.

  • It’s a crying shame, is what it is.

  “Helen,” Grams finally said to Mom, “you have to concentrate on being happy. You find negative in just about everything. What happened to that smiley-faced little girl I raised?”

  I dug into a stack of maple syrup-doused pancakes, the syrup straight from Gram’s red maples, which she tapped every February. Mom? Smiley faced? When was that?

  “This isn’t a happy world,” Mom responded.

  “It’s whatever you want it to be,” Grams said, keeping her tone friendly and sweet as always.

  “Oh, for cripes’ sake,” Mom said, and at first I thought she was crabbing about Grams’s comment, but she was looking at something out
the window when she said it. “Speak of the devil and he’s on the porch with that dog.”

  I followed her gaze and saw Hunter and Ben at the door. Since Hunter was on Mom’s s-list, I headed outside with a cup of coffee in one hand, wiping sticky syrup from my lips with the other.

  “Did you ever consider calling me back and letting me know where you were staying?” Hunter said by way of a greeting, looking about as happy as Mom was at the moment. He launched in before I could reply. “I stopped at your house late last night to check on you and guess what? You weren’t there. And you weren’t at the store. And you didn’t answer your cell phone. And after Jay’s stolen car showed up in front of your house, what do you think went through my head?”

  “You were worried about me?” I liked that a lot. The only other person I made worry was Mom, and she didn’t worry about me. She worried because of me. Big difference.

  “After that, I couldn’t sleep,” Hunter said.

  He did look a little rough around the edges. Red eyes, shadow of unshavenness starting on his chin (which I thought looked sexy), ruffled hair like the wind had gotten a hold of it. Only it wasn’t windy.

  Ben didn’t look like he’d stayed up late stressing over me. I gave him a pat on the head.

  “My cell battery died,” I explained. “I totally forgot about it. And the last thing I expected was a visit from you that late. If you were so worried, you could have checked here.”

  “Your truck was still parked at the store. How did you get here?”

  “Grams picked me up.”

  “I almost did come over but figured I’d upset your family if you weren’t with them, or your mother would shoot me for showing up so late. And why is she giving me the evil eye through the window? She never did like me.”

  “She doesn’t like anybody.”

  I pulled Hunter out of Mom’s view and we walked out to his SUV. I knelt to exchange proper greetings with my four-legged friend—an ear rub for Ben, a face wash for me. Then I thought of Dinky and admitted to myself that I missed her. Sort of.

  I stood up. “Hunter, you have to let me know what you’re thinking about this case. I feel like I’m right in the middle of a thick forest without a compass or sunlight to guide me.”

  He was still crabby. “Should I keep you informed just like you keep me informed?”

  “Right. Yes.” Well, I could be better at that, I suppose. No question. Like what happened last night with the car. Why wasn’t I telling him all the scary details? Sometimes, when I waited too long to share something, the timing got all messed up, and suddenly it felt too late. This was one of those times.

  “Please, tell me,” I begged, hearing a whine in my voice. “Last night at the wake, Jackson Davis said he thought someone other than Lauren Kerrigan was driving the car the night Wayne Jay was killed.”

  Hunter looked surprised, then thoughtful. “Why would he say something like that? Even if he believed it, he wouldn’t spread stuff like that around town. Jackson’s a total professional.”

  “He’d been drinking.”

  Hunter stared at me like he was working over the details of my discussion with Jackson. Sometimes I forget his line of work includes analyzing situations and figuring out motives. Hunter was good, because he said, “Let me guess. You attached yourself to the medical examiner, made sure he was well watered, then pumped him for all kinds of information.”

  “That is so far from the truth,” I lied.

  “And how much alcohol did the guy consume before he shared that particular tidbit?”

  “A little.”

  “Are you sure it was only a little? His car is still parked at the bar.”

  “Grams took him home.”

  “Case closed.”

  I didn’t let up. “You’re questioning Gunnar and Carrie Ann. Do you think one of them killed Lauren and Hetty? You can’t believe that!” I wanted to press on to convince him of Johnny Jay’s guilt, but we’d been down that path before without accomplishing anything.

  Hunter opened the door of his SUV. “What are your plans for the day?” he wanted to know, changing the subject without answering any of my questions. Men! And this one was one of the most frustrating on the planet. At least for right now.

  I gave up. “I’m working at the store until Ali and the twins come in. Then checking on my bees, the ones out in farm fields.”

  “Can Ben hang out with you today?”

  I smiled. “That would be perfect.”

  “You’re a stubborn woman, Story Fischer.” Hunter shook his head at me like I was a hopeless case.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He got in his SUV and closed the door. I leaned in the open window, watching him put the key in the ignition. But he didn’t start it up. He turned back to me and said, “If I asked you to stay out here with your mother and grandmother, would you?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Then go someplace with your sister.”

  “I can’t. Her husband is back home.” Why was Hunter pushing so hard?

  “After what happened last night . . .”

  What was he getting at? I’d only told him the car had been parked near my house. Why should he be so worried? I was still waiting for the perfect opening to tell him the rest. “I have things to do, a store to run.”

  “So, your answer is no. See? Stubborn.” He paused, then said, “I know about last night, and a lot more happened than you said. When were you going to tell me the truth?”

  Too late. “At first I thought it was kids,” I said, realizing my defense was lame. “Parking and making out, and no big deal.”

  “So exactly when were you going to tell me?”

  “Soon. How did you find out, anyway?” I’m not sure why Hunter hadn’t solved Moraine’s recent murders, since he seemed to know everything that went on in town. At least everything that pertained to me. “Nobody saw it happen. No one came running over to help me.”

  “Larry Koon was down on the corner of Main. He couldn’t remember if he locked up his custard shop, so he was on the way to check the doors. He saw the car aim directly at you and veer off at the last second.”

  “Only because I got behind a pole. Did Larry get a look at the driver?”

  “No, the car had tinted windows. We found it this morning, abandoned on a side road.”

  “You were so sure Johnny Jay wouldn’t bother me,” I reminded him. “Now look. I was almost killed by him.”

  Hunter shook his head. “He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “You should re-watch Patti’s video if you’ve forgotten how crazy he is.”

  “Not crazy enough to take that kind of risk,” Hunter insisted. “At first I thought he might have been behind the wheel. But he wouldn’t have had time to call in the report, hang around waiting for you, then attempt to run you down and dispose of the car.”

  “Somebody took that risk.”

  “And I’m going to find out who it was. My top priority is your safety.”

  I planted a kiss on his cheek. “Another crime to solve,” I said lightly, even though I didn’t feel light. “I believe in you.”

  That didn’t even earn me a smile or a return kiss. “Stay close in touch,” he said, “answer your phone when I call. And make sure it stays charged.”

  After Hunter left, I asked Grams to drive Ben and me home. In the light of day and with Ben at my side, I shed all my earlier anxiety. I showered, changed, and headed for the store with Ben on a leash next to me.

  Joel Riggins, junior reporter for Moraine’s weekly newspaper, waited by the door, ear buds in, sunglasses on, and holey jeans hanging loose. The Distorter distributed papers not only to Moraine but also to the surrounding communities and liked to hire young, overzealous college kids to work the main streets. Joel fit the bill in the overeager department.

  I immediately switched directions, doing a one-eighty, with Ben and his fast reflexes right there with me. But Joel spotted me.

  “
Ms. Fischer!”

  I turned back reluctantly.

  Ben’s ears stood at attention and I suspected he not only could understand us, but could sense potential conflict.

  Joel sized up Ben and took a step back.

  “Let me go past,” I said.

  “Please. Just a few questions for the next edition.”

  “No comment.” Ben and I slid by him and fumbled with the locked door.

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  I paused with my hand still on the key. That question caught me off guard. Me? Afraid to speak with the media because of . . . what? Consequences? The kid was good, playing to my ego like that.

  “You think I’m afraid of Johnny Jay?”

  He shrugged. Glanced at Ben. “Maybe.”

  Joel followed me in.

  By some miracle, long-lost Carrie Ann showed up right behind him, looking fresh and pert, like nothing had ever happened to freak her out. Just wait, woman. I’d get an opportunity soon enough and when I did, she was going to tell me everything she knew, right down to her bra size.

  But for now, Carrie Ann helped me open up the store. I ignored Joel, hoping he’d go away. He didn’t. Finally I gave him the attention he wanted.

  “Why are you still here?” I said. “I’m not talking to you.”

  “All you have to do is confirm or deny.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Patti Dwyre and I are working on an article about the police chief. She gave me a lot of material, but we need corroboration. A quote from you would be awesome.”

  Then I remembered what Patti had said about Joel helping her get a job at the paper. I groaned. Leave it to Patti.

  “You’re going off to college?” I asked.

  Joel grinned. “I can’t wait.”

  I took him into the back room. By the look on his face, he thought I was going to cooperate fully. “Tell me what you’ve got so far,” I said.

  So here’s what he had, according to Patti’s point of view:

  • Johnny Jay had a history of bullying going back to adolescence (nothing new there).