Stolen Honey

by Nancy Means Wright

  Ruth looked up. Was Annette ill? A funny, raspy sound was coming out of her throat. Why, the woman was laughing! It was a bitter laugh that rose up out of the saggy pot of her belly. She glanced at the companion, but the latter just sat there, still as a possum. Ruth wanted to pick the old lady up—she couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds—and shake her.

  But she couldn’t, wouldn’t do that. She could only wait until the laugh died away and the woman was quiet again, except for the methodical creaking of the swing.

  “So it’s come to that, has it?” Annette said finally, and something like a groan came up out of her lungs. Ruth saw her glance at her companion, but the latter was staring straight ahead, the cigarette pressed tightly between her thin lips.

  “This is why I’ve really come,” said Ruth, leaning forward in the rocker, needing to be frank. “For Joey, yes, that’s part of it. But for Camille as well. To find out who killed her, and why. That’s why I want to know about the male side of the family—it was a man killed her, they think, the way the fingers had dug into the neck. Knowing all the names might lead us to someone.”

  Annette turned her head toward Ruth as though she could actually see her. The eyes, when the sun went under a cloud, were dark holes. The white braid that lay on her chest was a stunning contrast to the red wool shawl. She smelled musty, like old books and papers. Ruth waited for her to speak.

  “I had four children: Nicole, Jeannine, Cosette, and Andre,” she said finally, “by three different men—I only knew their first names. Jeannine died from scarlet fever, there was nobody to help. That Annette who does hair, she was Andre’s daughter, she comes sometimes to see me, but she talks too much—I have to cut it short. Nicole married at sixteen, but the bastard abused her. Finally . . . well, he left. Nicole came back to live with me, we didn’t have much. I stole some groceries, you know, we had to eat—other stuff we needed. Nicole got the habit, too, that eugenics woman ’round to talk to us, she thought she knew every goddam thing there was to know. She was the one got people sterilized. Her and the men with her.”

  Annette’s voice was growing thin. The companion ran for water, but the old lady waved it away.

  “They put Nicole’s kids in the training school,” she went on, “though they wasn’t backward. Way I got us out was I made a bargain. Sew up my cunt in exchange for a pardon. I took it. I didn’t know they did it to the kids, too—well, one of ’em anyhow, the boy.”

  The old lady leaned back on the swing, gasping, exhausted from the long speech.

  “She’s tired, can’t you see that?” her companion said, looking annoyed; she stubbed out the second cigarette, tossed it over the railing. “She’s not used to talking to people like this. Here,” she told the woman, “drink this. Don’t talk. You need your strength.” She sat back down beside the old lady, put an arm around her shoulders, and Annette leaned into it. It was as though they were lovers—or had been, once, and now were simply close companions.

  Ruth stood up. She’d obviously been dismissed, but there were still questions. “Do you know where Nicole’s son is now? Where he came from? He might hold a key. You see, Camille Wimmet was trying to right a wrong, bring all this prejudice— this program—out in the open.”

  She felt light-headed, standing there on the slanting porch, looking down on this odd couple; she glanced again at the book of poems. It was all so incongruous. The reformatory, the sterilization, the poverty: How could you get a poem out of a life like that? Was there poetry in poverty?

  But the companion was hustling the old woman up out of the swing, back toward the front door.

  As she went down the rickety porch steps, feeling off balance, Ruth heard Annette whine, “Fix me a cup of hot chocolate, will you, Pauline?”

  Ruth wheeled about. Pauline? Why, this woman was Annette’s granddaughter. She was Joey’s mother. “Pauline?” she hollered. “You know those names I’m after. It was your own father and brother. And Joey’s father, who was he?” She stumbled back up the steps. “Pauline—don’t you want to know about Joey? Your son, Pauline!”

  A door slammed. Ruth stood on the top step, feeling shut out, like the day Pete left and she’d watched him drive off in the taxi to meet that woman in town.

  She was still standing there, her feet as though nailed to the wooden step, when the door opened again.

  “How is he?” Pauline said. Her eyes were half shut; she was staring at Ruth’s car, or at a point beyond it.

  “He’s fine, fine and healthy. My hired man has been a caring foster father, he wants to legally adopt him. But we’d like your permission. And the father’s. What’s his name, Pauline? You know, I know you do.”

  Pauline stood frowning into space another moment, as though she might tell. Then she crossed her arms, thrust out her lower lip, and swiveled about.

  “Tell me the names, Pauline. Call me! I’ll leave my number on the swing.” She drew pen and paper out of her pocketbook. “Call me or I’ll come back. With a policeman this time.”

  Pauline pushed through the door. It banged behind her. And latched.

  * * * *

  Donna had been sleeping in the leaves. She’d wandered off the path and now she couldn’t find her way back. Once she thought she heard voices on the wind and she hallooed, but no one answered. She’d heard a helicopter overhead and waved, but the ’copter flew on. The trees were thick here, tall pointed pines so close together they made a canopy against the sun. The path she’d been on for what seemed hours would only lead back to the cabin. She didn’t want that, oh, no!

  They’d be looking for her, though, she was sure of that. Someone would find her. A friendly human, she hoped, and not a fisher cat. Not Tilden, no, not Tilden. .. .

  “I could kill you,” he’d said, “with this,” and he’d held up his little finger. Looking up at him where she was bound to the only chair, she’d felt it was true. He’d tried to kill her once, hadn’t he? He’d left the cabin, locking it behind, taking the key, announcing that he was going for food and she’d better make up her mind to listen to him, to “understand” why he’d done all those things: stolen the skeleton girl, run her off the road, gotten those killer bees. Oh, the bees were just a backup, he said—”in case.” It was for his father’s sake, he’d said, pleading with her— didn’t she know what it was to want to please a father? It was the bones, he claimed, that were keeping her parents from selling their land. He’d removed that obstacle, that’s all. She had to try and understand.

  Why couldn’t he understand why the bones couldn’t be moved, why the land was sacred? she asked. But she was told to shut up. He was on something, it was obvious. She’d been afraid to cross him.

  It took the better part of an hour to rub and rub the rope that held her hands against the splintered wood of the table, but the rope was old; eventually it gave; the lock that held the door was weak, and she pushed through. She stumbled up the path behind the cabin, in the opposite direction from her house to avoid Tilden, veered onto a less traveled path, thinking she could circle back toward her home. But the path disintegrated into brush; the day was overcast, there was no sun to orient her. She could only sit still—and wait.

  When she heard the dogs barking, she thought it was wolves, and she hitched up onto the lower branch of a white pine and crouched there. But the barking was followed by voices, the high-pitched babble of children. The blood leaped in her veins. She jumped to the ground again and hollered, “Halloo, halloo, there! Here, I’m over here!”

  And then she was surrounded by a dozen Girl Scouts in green uniforms, their sneakers caked with mud and mottled with grass stains. “Donna?” one of the girls said, and when she nodded, unable to speak, the girl burst into tears, and Donna with her. Now everyone was hugging everyone else. A stout woman panted up behind, grinning broadly. She blew a whistle that split Donna’s ears and shouted directions into a walkie-talkie. Then Emily Willmarth raced up to fling herself into Donna’s arms.

  “You’re cold,” Emily
cried, and yanked off her jacket. It turned upside down in the melee and the contents tumbled out: pens, paper clips, shredded Kleenex, earrings, sticks of gum, and something that seemed to surprise her—Emily dug down deep into the hemline, below where the pocket had ripped, and held up a disk. “Oh!”

  She jammed everything back in the unripped pocket and wrapped Donna in the jacket, which was too big for the girl and smelled of barn. But it was all right, all right. A group of men and boys ran up, breaking a path with their boots and machetes, and suddenly Donna was in her father’s arms—the two of them laughing and crying all at once.

  * * * *

  Gwen was having coffee with Olen Ashley; he was explaining that it was a felony under state law to knowingly disinter human remains. He was determined to “nail the bastard. I mean, look what he did to Donna! Thank God she’s all right, Gwen,” and Gwen added a silent amen. It had been a poignant homecoming. She’d hurried Donna into a hot bath and afterward followed her around the house, unable to let the girl out of her sight until Donna cried, “Enough, Mom. At least let me pee in peace.”

  Olen leaned closer, planting his elbows on the kitchen table. “It could be more than a felony, Gwen, it could be murder. You heard about those fingerprints we found.”

  “But why would he do that?” she asked, thinking of Camille Wimmet, and maybe Shep Noble, too, although she’d no idea what connection Tilden Ball would have with that fraternity boy. Tilden had tried to get into a frat, been blackballed. After that he’d loudly proclaimed his disgust for fraternities.

  She didn’t get her answer because just then the telephone rang. It was Ruth Willmarth, on her barn phone, she’d been shoveling manure. “I’m glad you can’t smell me. Robbie let in Vic’s chickens by mistake, and Sharon didn’t have time to clean up ’cause the baby needed her. So now there’s cow and chicken shit on the floor.”

  Ruth was calling about Donna: “We’re all so thankful she’s safe.” She told Gwen about her visit to Annette Godineaux. “But I didn’t learn much beyond what we already knew—about the sterilization, I mean.”

  “The stolen honey,” said Gwen, thinking of the sterilized women, and then the robber bees she’d found recently on the Earthrowl orchard. “Or maybe I should say, bitter honey.”

  “That’s an oxymoron.”

  “Isn’t everything these days? Love and war? Lies and truth? That’s the reality of our lives. We’re made of opposites.”

  “But I still don’t know the male lines,” said Ruth, going on with her train of thought, “although they might be on the disk Emily found. Imagine, the idiot. Camille’s disk in her pocket the whole time. And Colm and I went on this wild goose chase.”

  “At least you had an outing together.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, yes, we did.”

  Gwen smiled to herself. They’d been there overnight. Well, good for Ruth, she thought, and changed the subject. “That Pauline sounds like a sly one. And I’d like to have met old Annette. Over a hundred years old! A real matriarch. A poet, you say?”

  Now Ruth was making a loud noise with mop and bucket. There was a small crash, like she’d dropped the phone, and then silence. Gwen glanced over at Olen, who was looking at her, questioning. “Ruth Willmarth,” she mouthed.

  “What’s this,” he asked, “about a hundred-year-old Annette?”

  “Oh, some woman from New Hampshire—Andover, I believe.” She didn’t want to have to explain. Camille Wimmet’s death was a case for the police, Olen would insist, not for a civilian like Ruth Willmarth. “Ruth was just visiting,” Gwen fibbed, and Olen nodded and swallowed his coffee.

  Ruth’s voice came back on the line. “Sorry. Zelda sabotaged me with her tail. Now there’s a heck of a mess. And I spilled my coffee into the other stuff.”

  Gwen smiled. “You’d better go back to work. By the way, has Emily told you about Tilden Ball?”

  “Yes, yes! She gave me the news. That’s another reason I called. To tell you how glad I am you’ve resolved all that malice—the fire, the hate notes. What a relief it must be for you! And what a miserable character that boy is. I hope he’s in custody.”

  “Oh, yes. Olen took him in. He’s trying to hold him on a charge of felony. And, worse, they found his fingerprints in Camille’s apartment.”

  “How does he explain that?”

  “I don’t know. Olen hasn’t said.” She glanced at Olen, but he was getting up from his chair, going over to look at the wall calendar. “I should be sorry for Tilden, he’s a mixed-up kid, really, sick. But my God, he kidnapped Donna! She could have died in that forest.”

  “It must have been terrifying for her, Gwen—and for you.”

  “Olen’s getting us through this, thank heavens. He’s a brick. He’s here.” Gwen smiled at Olen, where he was pouring a second cup of coffee now, looking abstracted. “He’s been a madman as usual, taking Tilden in, then coming back to help us bury the bones. We had a ceremony an hour ago, just before Russell left. I’ve rewarded Olen with coffee cake.”

  “Lucky man. Oh, and Gwen, you have the disk? Emily said it was still in the coat she’d made Donna wear.”

  “Donna has the disk, yes. I can run it over later this afternoon. I’m going in the opposite direction this morning. I told a farmer in Cabot I’d come—he has a swarm inside the walls of his house. I don’t know if I can help with that, but I’m going. Oh, the man told me something interesting. Did you know that Alexander the Great was carried to his burial place in Egypt in a casket filled with honey? It preserved him, too.”

  “No kidding? Well, you’d better go. Anyway, I don’t have a computer here to download—is that the word? But Emily can bring me a printout from her computer. I want to see if those male names are on it. I mean, I know it sounds like Tilden’s our man, but until we know, I’ll keep looking.”

  “Good. A week ago I wouldn’t have believed that Tilden could kill. But now ... I don’t know.” She glanced at Olen, who was staring into his coffee, looking cross. “Oh, and Ruth? You can always come over and use our computer.”

  There was another crash, and Ruth was laughing again. “It’s Dolly, she just kicked the bucket.”

  “Literally, I hope. A tin bucket?”

  “Oh, yes, you can hear her complaining. Listen.” Gwen could hear the bellowing. It sounded like a mournful foghorn.

  “What’s this about a disk?” Olen asked when Gwen hung up, laughing.

  “Oh, dear, I should have told you.” She’d put her foot in it now. Of course the police should have the disk. But Ruth wanted it, too; she’d done just as much as the police had, hadn’t she, trying to find the killer? The police, according to Olen, were still cross-examining college people, electricians, other workmen who’d gone into Camille’s office or apartment for one reason or another. And they were building a case against Tilden Ball.

  Olen was waiting for an explanation. He slapped down his coffee cup. He seemed upset with her—for holding back information, she supposed.

  She explained about the disk, what it probably contained. Olen stood, arms akimbo, looked down at her sternly. “We’ll have to have it, Gwen. I’ll have to take it to the station. It’s evidence. You can’t give it to whatsername—Willmarth. I mean, she’s just a civilian.” The red was slowly creeping up his neck, coloring his ears.

  “But I told Ruth. She’s been working on this, too, helping Colm Hanna—he’s one of your men.”

  “But she’s not, I said. It’s not her business. Now let me have that disk, Gwen. I promise I’ll make a copy. I’ll give it to Hanna, if that’ll make you feel better.”

  Donna had put the disk into a box with her school files. Gwen had hardly thought about it after that, with all the confusion of the burial celebration, Russell’s departure, Olen’s visit. Olen had been so jovial then, was even cordial to Russell afterward. And Russell had removed his ABENAKI NATION license plate—his way of saying thank you to Olen for helping to locate Donna.

  Now Olen had returned to his g
ruff cop’s persona. The law was the law.

  Reluctantly she handed it over, and Olen seemed suddenly jubilant, clapped it to his chest. He laughed aloud. “Good girl,” he said. “You’re a good girl, Gwen. This could make all the difference.”

  To find the killer, he meant, of course. She’d have to explain to Ruth. It was an error of circumstance. “But you will give Colm Hanna a copy?”

  “Did I say I would, Gwen?”

  “You did.”

  “And I will.” Impulsively, he embraced her. His unshaven whiskers—unusual for him—grated her cheek. “All the difference,” he said again, and plunged out the door.

  Gwen returned the file box to the computer table, idly looked through. These were mostly Donna’s files, along with a few of her own for her beekeeping books. The disk for Donna’s paper was in here, filled with quotes from Elizabeth’s journal. “The Captive Who Wouldn’t Come Home,” she’d entitled the paper; the disk simply read, CAPTIVE. Another professor was reading it now, Donna had said. Though it wouldn’t be the same, the girl felt. It was Camille who’d helped her with it; encouraged. Gwen felt all over again the poignancy, the horror of the killing. Someone taking the life of a bright young woman with a whole career in front of her. “Bastard!” she cried aloud. “Animal!”

  When she replaced the disk, she saw that behind the CAPTIVE disk was another labeled ANNETTE—COPY. The title was stuck on with a yellow Post-It. For a moment she wondered if she’d given Olen the right one. He’d be furious with her if she hadn’t. But no, this was Donna’s handwriting, not Camille’s. Donna had had the disk copied.