by Hannah Reed
“Hi, Story, long time no talk,” said Eric. “It’s such a shame about Manny Chapman.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone. It’s like a bad dream,” I agreed. “Listen, Eric, I’m actually calling about Manny. I heard that someone from the association named Gerald Smith took all his hives, and I’m trying to find the guy. Can you get me his contact information?”
“Don’t know that name, but we have a lot of inactive members. Let me check and get back to you in about ten minutes.”
While I waited, I wandered upstairs into the choir loft. Most of the seniors were wearing shirts with playing cards on the front of them.
Grams gave me a wink. She had her trademark daisy in her hair and a fistful of queens, a very good place to be.
Sheepshead is an intense game. The players don’t chitchat much while they’re wheeling and dealing, so I was spared all the questions that might have come up about Clay’s arrest or his girlfriend’s murder. I made a mental note to disappear by the time the games broke up to avoid a lot of awkward questions.
Five minutes later, I went back down to the storage room and paged through the phone book. Smiths. Lots of Smiths. No Geralds. Several G. Smiths, though.
I drummed my fingers on the desk, wondering what I would say to Gerald Smith to talk him into returning the bees. That might be a trick in itself, getting them back. I’d have to come up with a spiel to convince him.
Holly came in, closing the door tightly behind her, and informed me that the police chief was in the building. Great.
“He’s asking for you,” she said.
The phone rang and I held up a finger to indicate that I needed a second to take the call.
“Eric, here,” the president of the county bee association said. “You must have that name wrong.”
“Gerald Smith,” I said, pronouncing the name slowly, but I knew the truth before I spelled it out.
Eric said exactly what I thought he would. “No one in the association by that name.”
“Anything close? Maybe I did get it wrong.”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
I hung up.
“What should I do with Johnny Jay?” Holly asked. “I gave you an out by telling him I didn’t know whether you were here or not. Want me to cover for you? I’ll tell him you’re on a CB.”
“CB?” I didn’t know that one.
“Coffee break,” Holly translated.
“I can hear you two talking about me right through the door,” the police chief called out, coming in without an invitation. “In case you don’t know, it’s against the law to obstruct justice.” He glared at Holly.
“Johnny Jay,” I said brightly, “I was just going to call you.”
“It’s Police Chief Jay to you. How many times do I have to tell you that? A little respect wouldn’t kill you.”
Johnny Jay looked angry.
“Holly, you need to stay as a witness,” I said, implying that I thought the police chief capable of using his position in a negative manner. Which was true, especially when he was mad.
I stood up, not wanting to give Johnny more of an advantage than he already had. We stood almost eye to eye when I stretched out tall.
“So you heard a scream, did you? Either you withheld important information,” he said, puffy-faced with temper, “or you’re lying to cover up. A bald-faced lie to a law-enforcement official could buy you time in jail, Missy Fischer.”
“I didn’t lie. And you’re threatening me. Did you hear that, Holly?”
Holly was out of my sight range, but I’m sure she nodded. The police chief and I were locked in a stare-down. He didn’t know it, but I always won stare-downs.
He poked a finger at my face.
I didn’t blink as I said, “Don’t touch me.” I refrained from any emotional display since bullies enjoy getting reactions. The best course of action was to stay calm but firm. “Or I’ll file a complaint. Police brutality.”
Johnny Jay removed his finger and glanced at Holly, breaking the stare-down before we got far into it. “I need a moment alone with your sister.”
“No way. I’m staying,” Holly said. She leaned against a storage shelf and folded her arms. She knew the bully rules as well as I did. Keep close to a friend.
In school, Johnny Jay used to go after the weak kids, the ones who wouldn’t stand up to him and didn’t tell. Or the kids who had the shortest fuses. With them, he’d swoop in and attack, then stand back all innocent when the other kid lost his cool. Most of the time his victim was the one who got in trouble.
I hadn’t belonged to either of those groups. Not the weak ones or the short fuses.
“You two could have used a little discipline growing up,” he said.
Johnny Jay was a serial bully. He had to have someone to pick on at all times. I was his current target for some unknown reason. But saying we didn’t have any discipline as kids was a big joke. Mom wasn’t exactly a lenient parent, and Dad had worked all the time and never really tried to cross over her strict line of authority to help me out.
“No sense lying anymore. It’ll only make matters worse for you.” The police chief was on a roll. “You heard a scream all right, didn’t you? Only you weren’t in your bed, dreaming, were you? Come on, admit it. You and Clay Lane were in it together. She was in the way, but why? Why did you have to kill her?”
Holly let out a little gasp. I slipped her a look. She covered her mouth.
Then I said something really stupid. I said, “You’ve known me my whole life. Do you actually think I could hit another person over the head and hold them under water while they drowned?”
Johnny Jay’s eyes narrowed and I realized my mistake. I shouldn’t know how Faye had died. Hunter had said it was confidential police information.
“Did Hunter Wallace tell you that?”
What would happen to Hunter’s law-enforcement career if I told the truth? “No,” I said, unable to betray his confidence even if I suffered for it.
“Come on, let’s go,” the police chief said.
“Go where?”
And that’s how I found myself, once again, in the interrogation room.
Seventeen
Johnny Jay left me alone for what seemed like hours in the exact same room I’d been in last time, while I “stewed in my own juices.” That was one of my mother’s phrases. I had to get out of here in time for the seven o’clock meeting tonight or there would be no one to defend my bees against Lori Spandle. She’d work everyone into a frenzy and mob my house again, this time after dark when she’d be more effective.
Five o’clock came and went. Still no police chief. I tried to use my cell phone to call Holly, but there was no signal in the room. I hadn’t gotten any mandatory one phone call, either. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? The only good thing so far was that Johnny Jay hadn’t read me my rights.
I had to count on Holly to do damage control with our mother. If only Johnny Jay hadn’t made such a big deal of putting me in the back of his squad car like a caged animal. And right in front of all the sheepshead players, the old-timers, Grams and all her friends.
I continued to wait for something to happen while staring at the eagle picture on the wall and thought about Clay sitting in a cell in the Waukesha jail and whether or not I was about to join him. What a mess! And since I was innocent of any crime but sinking in quicksand in spite of that, what did that say about Clay’s situation? What if he was innocent, too?
At one point, I thought I heard Hunter’s voice out in the hall, but I couldn’t be sure.
From time to time, I smiled at the two-way mirror in case someone was on the other side, to let whoever it was see that I was calm and cool and innocent.
Sure.
Finally, Johnny Jay strolled in.
“I have to leave now,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and businesslike. “I have a meeting tonight that I can’t miss. Why don’t we get together for a talk around”—I checked the time—“nine or ten tonight.
Although, tomorrow morning would be better for me. Does that work for you?”
That got him laughing. “The only way you have a remote chance of getting out of here at all,” he said, “is if you start telling the truth.”
So I did. With only a few modifications.
• Yes, I’d heard something that sounded like an argument and then a scream (truth).
• But I hadn’t realized it was anything other than a dream until right before I asked Hunter to relay the information to the police chief (modified slightly).
• Everybody in town knew how Faye had been killed. The store was a hotbed of intrigue (last sentence totally true).
• I couldn’t remember exactly who told me (major modification).
• And yes, I was perfectly willing to take a lie detector test if the police chief felt it was necessary (yikes).
• If I’d had any idea how important what I’d heard was, I would have rushed right in to inform Police Chief Jay (major modification).
I even addressed Johnny Jay by his professional name for the first time ever. Call me desperate.
“Hunter Wallace has been in here for hours trying to get you released,” the police chief finally said. “And I know he told you how Faye Tilley died, so you can stop protecting him.”
Johnny Jay tipped back in his chair and thought things over. “I’m a reasonable man,” he said. I choked back a retort. “But I wasn’t born in a barn. People outsmart lie detectors, although I doubt that you could. At some point we might have the chance to test you. In the meantime, you’re living free on borrowed time because if Clay Lane sent that e-mail, I’m going to get a confession, and if he didn’t, I’m going to find the person who did and we’re going to have an honest to goodness witness. Trust me on that.”
Yay! I wasn’t going to jail!
Johnny Jay continued, “Who knows? Maybe your ex-husband really was trying to frame you.”
“That’s what I believe, Police Chief Jay,” I agreed, politely.
“Then again, you could be his accomplice and he turned on you.”
The clock hands kept moving. The Town Council meeting would begin in ten minutes.
I shook my head. “If I was planning a murder,” I said, “the dead person would be Clay.”
“So you’re capable of murder. Is that what you want to tell me? On the record?”
Johnny Jay dinked around, playing semantics games until I wanted to deck him. Finally, he let me go. I half expected to find Hunter waiting for me outside, but he wasn’t there. Just when I was about to give up on getting to the meeting, Grams pulled up next to me, slid the passenger’s window down, and offered me a ride.
“How’s Mom taking . . . this?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know, sweetie. I’d come into the meeting and help you out, but it’s getting late for me to be driving around. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and it’s almost my bedtime.
“That’s okay. I can handle it.”
We cruised along on the incredibly slow and jerky ride. My only hope of making it in time to state my case was if the meeting started late, which it almost always did.
This time was no exception.
Eighteen
After shouting a big, heartfelt thank-you to my grandmother, I bolted through the library doors as the last of the board members were taking their official positions. Now that I was present, the meeting couldn’t get under way quick enough for me. I had a stream of adrenaline built up and was in fast forward after all the waiting and worrying.
“I have something to say,” I blurted.
“You always do,” Tom Peterson, one of the town supervisors, said. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the service tray and made his way up to take a seat with the other town supervisors. “You have to follow procedure just like everybody else.”
Town hall meetings are not well-attended events. Every two years we make a big deal of elections for the volunteer, yet highly coveted, positions of town supervisor. Campaign signs line our lawns, the local newspaper covers all sides, then we vote and hang out at Stu’s Bar and Grill waiting for the results. The old-timers almost always win, but that doesn’t stop newcomers from trying. Once in a while, one of the old guard will keel over dead from extreme old age, making room for a younger member, almost always related to the deceased. We still haven’t elected any women yet, but that had to change one of these days soon.
Then, after the residents of Moraine make such a big fuss about the election, we disappear back to our own lives and expect our officials to handle things for us the right way. Sometimes that’s a big mistake.
At the moment, Grant Spandle, Lori’s henpecked husband and poor excuse for a town chairman, sat in the middle of a table at the front of the room. Two town supervisors sat on either side of him with little nameplates in front of each of them in case we forgot who they were.
The town board consisted of:
• Grant Spandle—chairman of the board and local land developer.
• Tom Peterson—supervisor and long-time dairy farmer.
• Bud Craig—supervisor, Waukesha firefighter, and father of my part-time helpers, the twins Brent and Trent.
• Stanley Peck—supervisor and retired farmer.
• Bruce Cook—third-grade teacher, and our newest supervisor, after the unexpected death of his father, our previous supervisor.
Others present were:
• Aurora Tyler—owner of Moraine Gardens, across from my house.
• Emily Nolan—library director.
• Karin Nolan—librarian and Emily’s daughter.
• Larry Koon—frozen custard maker and owner of Koon’s Custard Shop.
• Milly Hopticourt—recipe tester and gifted flower arranger.
• P. P. Patti Dwyre—my neighbor and main town gossip.
• Several others I knew by sight, but not by name. They had paperwork with them, so I guessed they were on the agenda.
Note: My nemesis, Lori Spandle, was MIA. And after all that threatening!
Impatient as I was, I listened to the minutes from the last meeting and the other blah, blah, blah regarding old business. The summaries probably didn’t take as long as they seemed to me. New business was next, but I was last on the agenda, after some issues regarding bike paths and conditional use permits, I couldn’t wait another second, so I pushed off from my position against the back wall and stomped up, hoping I looked confident and firm. No one tried to stop me. Usually the meetings follow an orderly agenda, but this one promised to become a free-for-all.
“You’re out of turn,” Grant said to me.
“For those of you waiting for your turn, do any of you object to me going first?” I glanced around the room. Nobody objected.
“Then say your piece,” Grant said, giving up.
I plowed ahead. “As everyone in this room knows, Manny Chapman died recently—stung to death—and since then, a certain individual has been on a campaign to wipe out all our local honeybees. I’m here to explain why that’s absolutely ridiculous, not to mention against the town’s best interest.”
I began with bullet points.
“Number one,” I said to the handful of concerned citizens and board members, “Manny was stung by yellow jackets, which are wasps, not bees. Number two, since Manny’s honeybees didn’t kill him, why would anyone want to destroy them? Number three, the honey business has benefited our community, and every single one of you has enjoyed having access to local honey products. Number four, why can’t anyone seem to understand that honeybees and yellow jackets aren’t the same thing? If you want, I can explain the difference between bees and yellow jackets right now.”
The board members glanced at each other to see if any of them cared to hear me out.
“We’d all enjoy hearing a biology lesson,” Grant decided for them, “but that won’t be necessary. We have us a teacher right up at this table if we need anybody to explain the birds and bees.”
That brought some c
huckles.
“The main point is, I don’t want anyone messing around with my bees,” I said. “Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” Stanley said. “Nobody’s going to bother you.”
“I’m not worried about me, Stanley. It’s my bees.”
I still had a bunch of bullet points, like the importance of pollination and how weak crops could create financial hardship for all the local producers.
Before I got back to my pro-bee argument, Grant piped up, “Let’s vote on this thing and get it over with. If your bees are a threat to our community, they have to be dealt with.” He glanced toward the back door. “Wonder where Lori is? She should be here to make her case. We need to wait for her.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” Bruce Cook said. “She knew about the meeting and she chose to miss it. Besides, most of us know how we’re going to vote.”
Nods around the room indicated Bruce was right about minds already being made up. Other than Milly and maybe Bruce, since his class had visited without incident, I wasn’t sure who else was in my court. I could be in serious trouble if enough votes came in for annihilation.
I would have tried to sneak my sister, Holly, in, but everybody knew she wasn’t a resident of Moraine and didn’t qualify. Same with Hunter, who lived outside the town’s limits. Too bad Carrie Ann hadn’t shown up to give me her support.
Just when everybody was getting ready to cast their votes, the siren went off at the fire department south of town. That wail meant we had an emergency situation and all available volunteers better get down there pronto.
At that point, the meeting fell apart, since we lost two of our elected officials, Tom and Bud. Bud was a paid firefighter in the city of Waukesha, but he also volunteered in Moraine. I have to give them credit; Tom and Bud took their emergency response positions seriously, and they disappeared like the last clap of thunder in an electric storm, leaving the room so quiet I could hear Grant Spandle recap his pen.