by Hannah Reed
Did that make me feel better? Not really. The possibility of a permanent stain on my credibility record wasn’t pretty. “There goes crazy Story,” they’d say. “Making up stuff just like she used to.”
“No blood,” Patti announced. “I looked. Nothing dark resembling blood in the grass.”
“Let’s hear what Ben has to say,” Hunter said. His canine partner perked up his ears.
I’d gleaned from my association with Hunter and Ben that a tracking dog uses all its senses. I’ve watched them train together, so I know a thing or two. Ben’s eyes are at least as sharp as any human’s and his ears are way better. If Ben’s ears are erect and forward when he’s on a case, that means he heard something. If one ear is forward and one back, he’s heard things from more than one direction, which then alerts Hunter that he has more than one possible threat to deal with.
And because police work involves stealth, Ben has been trained not to bark or yelp or growl like a lot of dogs do when they sense danger or are afraid. He remains quiet unless Hunter gives him the okay to bark.
“Go ahead,” Hunter said quietly, and the big dog sitting next to him rose and went to work, starting next to the crabapple tree where I’d found the prone body.
A little while later, Hunter called him back. “Nothing,” he said. “There are too many other scents. It doesn’t help that the chief and ambulance attendants walked all over around here.”
Holly glanced at me. “Are you absolutely sure you saw a body on the ground?” she asked again.
“Of course she is!” Patti answered for me. “I believe her.”
“What’s the next step?” I asked Hunter.
He shook his head and since I was feeling extra sensitive at the moment, I took that as a sign that he didn’t have the same faith in me that Patti did. “Without evidence of a body, a struggle, or a weapon,” he said, “we wait and see what happens next.”
“Let’s drive around some more,” Patti suggested.
“Do I have to?” I said. “I’m exhausted.”
“You promised, you know. The night’s young. Want to come with us, Holly?”
“Sure,” Holly said. “Where are we going?”
I glanced at Hunter. He gave me a wide grin and told Holly exactly where we were going without even being informed. “You’re going looking for trouble,” he said.
Patti pulled down the visor of her ball cap, getting into sleuthing mode.
“Where are you going to start?” Hunter asked, amusement playing across his face.
“Stu’s Bar and Grill, where else?” I answered, looking down the street and seeing that the bar was still packed. “Want to come along?”
“No men,” Patti said. “This is a female mission all the way. Sorry, Hunter.”
Hunter laughed. “But I could be useful. I have weapons.”
“But you have to pay attention to a lot more rules than we have to,” Patti said. “Besides, we have our own means and methods.”
“What does that mean?” he asked her.
“Never mind,” I said, shushing her.
“Call me if you need me,” Hunter said to me in a low voice, giving me a few hot and sexy thoughts regarding his offer.
I smiled and kept them to myself.
Eight
After Hunter and Ben took off, Holly, Patti, and I made a beeline for the bar. A fact or two about beelines, which, believe it or not, really do exist:
• A foraging honeybee leaves the hive first thing in the morning as soon as the air temperature is just right.
• She (the boys don’t work at all) does little circles to warm up, just like we do before exercising.
• While she’s warming up, she’s also getting her bearings.
• Once her muscles are nice and loose, she flies up in the air, gaining altitude like any good pilot.
• Then she takes off, fast and straight, on a direct flight.
• Other foraging bees will follow her path.
• After flitting from flower to flower, loading up with pollen and nectar, she and her fellow workers make a beeline home.
Which is what I should have done.
Made a beeline home.
Straight as an arrow—straight as the crow flies, Grams likes to say—to my warm, cozy home.
Because I’d temporarily forgotten about my close encounter with our police chief.
But not only did Stu’s nosy customers remember the exchange with crystal clarity, they were deeper into their pitchers of Wisconsin microbrewskis and had a few good jokes at my expense.
“Story danced like nobody was watching,” one wiseacre said. “Court date pending.”
“Was she naked?” another one wanted to know.
“’Course she was.”
That’s how stupid rumors get started in this town—drunks in bars, making stuff up. By the next morning all that nonsense could be on the streets and nobody would remember who started it.
They weren’t done yet, either. Stanley Peck was sitting with a bunch of old guys and joined in. “Johnny Jay caught her drinking battery acid and he charged her. Get it? Battery. Charged.”
“Good one,” I said, laughing along since I knew everybody at his table, and most of them were just out to have fun.
But there’s always one bad apple in the bunch. Or in this case, two rotten ones.
“Story Fischer has a real problem with authority,” I heard from a corner. Lori Spandle and her sister DeeDee Becker sat behind beer glasses and some sort of hip-spreading cheesy appetizer that I hoped was working its fat magic on them both at this very moment. DeeDee still wore the Honey Queen crown on top of her head. “And she has an attention issue,” Lori said good and loud. “That’s why she makes up all those stupid lies. Now she’s trying to ruin our festival by making all kinds of noise to get attention! A body in the cemetery? How lame is that?”
I should probably point out that most of Moraine’s residents really like me. And I like them. But it’s impossible to live in a small town, especially one you’ve grown up in, without having a few enemies. Lori Spandle and Johnny Jay are downright blatant in their dislike for me. And the feeling is mutual. Of course, there are some other people I barely tolerate and who barely tolerate me, but for the most part, we have some really special people in our community.
I’m long past the stage, though, where I try to please everybody and want everyone to like me. It just isn’t going to happen. But I had to wonder why Lori was baiting me, trying to start something in front of everybody.
“Ignore Lori,” Holly said to the roomful of people, coming to my aid like a sister should. “She’s had too much to drink. Again.”
“Why, you…” Lori started.
Stu, over behind the bar, cranked up the bar’s piped music and that was the end of the public face-off between Lori and me. I was pretty sure I’d lost.
God, that woman irritates me! I marched over for a private showdown. “Since when do you have the authority to rent out Clay’s house?” I demanded.
“Since he gave it to me.” Lori grinned. “Why, don’t you like Ford?”
“Did you check his references?”
“He checked out.”
“Of which mental health facility?” I wanted to know.
DeeDee didn’t say a word, hardly making any eye contact at all. She sipped her beer and kept her head down, as well she should after stealing the Honey Queen title. First she raids my store’s shelves, then she runs off with the crown that should have been mine.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
Holly and Patti came rushing over before I could get any farther. They each grabbed one of my arms and carted me away to a table in the opposite corner.
“What we have to concentrate on,” Patti said firmly, digging a notepad out of one of her pockets, “is the missing person. I’m going to write down the names of every man in this bar. That’s a starting point. At least then we can eliminate those guys from our search.”
Since Pa
tti was a relatively recent newcomer to Moraine, moving here just before I came back almost three years ago, she didn’t know as many people as Holly and I did, so we helped her out with names.
“What if the missing person is from out of town?” Holly asked.
“It’s possible,” Patti said, still making notes. “But I’m an investigative reporter and that means I cover all the bases, starting with what I know. And right now what I know is that a whole lot of people in this bar aren’t dead or unconscious.”
“Lori Spandle’s unconscious,” I offered, doing a little wishful thinking.
“She’s the walking dead,” Holly agreed.
“Lori doesn’t count,” Patti said.
Stu called out for our orders and we all asked for beer and brats (short for bratwursts, Wisconsin’s special soul food). I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now. Our three foaming beers arrived along with our brats, loaded up with onions, sauerkraut, and mustard, and nestled in brat buns, not to be confused with hot dog buns, which are a completely different thing and not at all qualified as an acceptable substitute. We dug in.
“Don’t let Lori engage you anymore,” Holly said, while we ate. “I’ve been reading up, and people like that want you to get mad. You played right into her hands.”
“Since when did you become Doctor Freud?” I asked.
“Mock me all you want,” my sister said. “But the human mind is interesting stuff. I like learning about it.”
Just then, Mom walked in the door. I almost choked on my brat, because she wasn’t the type to hang out at Stu’s. Yet here she was, on a Saturday night, out on the town. She was wearing a blue dress, a necklace so awesome I’d wear it, and a warm expression on her face, like she was actually enjoying a slice of her life. What was wrong with this picture?
Not only that, but I saw Tom Stocke, the antique-store owner, walk in right behind her. And he was cleaned up like he was on a date, wearing a blue button-down shirt, khakis, and (the dead giveaway) a tie. Mom spotted a small table open near the front window, and Tom stayed right behind her.
“Why’s he following Mom around?” I asked.
“Boy, are you dense,” Patti said. “They’re on a date.”
“HS! (Holy Sh**!)” Holly said.
My sister broke into text-speak for the very first time all day, but she had a legitimate reason to do so. Our mother had never been out on a date with anyone other than our father. I mean never. Mom and Dad had met in high school and stuck together like two pieces of Velcro until he died five years ago. Since then, she hadn’t even looked at a man.
Or so I’d thought.
“Look at them, sitting close together,” I pointed out.
“This isn’t their first date,” Patti said. “I can tell by their body language. Better put Tom’s name on our list.”
“Unbelievable,” Holly said, staring at Mom.
“You two go say hi,” Patti said. “I’ll stay here and double-check my list.”
“Okay. I’m going over,” Holly agreed.
“Me, too.” I trailed behind, letting her pave the way in case Mom didn’t appreciate being interrupted. What was going on? As her daughter, I should know these things. After getting past the initial shock, a little part of me wasn’t comfortable seeing my mother with a man other than my father.
By the time it was too late to retreat, I remembered that Mom knew about me making that emergency call to report a body in the cemetery. I bet she thought it was some prank I came up with.
But as it turned out, she was on her best behavior, par for the course in the world of dating. Everybody’s at their very best in the early stages of romance, behaving better in those first few weeks than they ever will again. Men and women both do it. That’s why there are books and articles devoted to how to act on dates. “Be yourself” is definitely not one of the rules, because nobody would be foolish enough to follow that one, not if they wanted things to progress in the right direction.
At least Hunter and I have known each other long enough to let it all hang out. Mostly.
“Hi, girls,” Mom said, flashing a brilliant smile, one I didn’t recall ever seeing before. “Say hi to Tom.”
Tom, Holly, and I murmured at each other, and I could tell we all felt a bit awkward. Mom acted like she was holding court, suddenly the queen of small talk, chatting about the festival and not once mentioning my altercation with Johnny Jay. A few minutes later, while Mom and my sister were huddled in a discussion about Holly’s amazing progress in returning to human-speak, I spotted a rust-colored stain on Tom’s shirtsleeve.
He saw me notice and looked down. “Where did that come from?” he said, after studying the stain, sounding as surprised as I was. “I must have cut myself and didn’t even notice.”
Mom tuned in and dunked a napkin in a glass of ice water, saying, “We better get to that right away or it’ll never come out. Here, let me.” She went to town rubbing. “It would be easier if you took your shirt off.”
“Now, Helen,” Tom teased. “What would people think?”
Mom blushed. Holly and I took that as a cue to leave and vamoosed.
“I can’t help thinking,” Patti said after we ordered another round of beer, “that we need to establish a premise and conclusion.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Huh?” my clueless sister said.
“Let me guess,” Patti said to Holly. “Not so good in the sciences, right?”
Holly just looked more confused.
“Here’s our premise.” Patti glanced at her notes. She’s determined to be a stereotypical journalist. They love pads of paper, particularly spiral ones that they can flip. Patti flipped hers. “People don’t usually lie still on the ground under black plastic unless they’re dead. Conclusion then is, therefore, the person is dead.”
I’d pretty much figured out that one a long time ago, but didn’t say that.
“We’re looking for a body, a dead one,” Holly agreed. “And a killer, since most dead people don’t cover themselves in plastic, right?”
“So everybody in this bar is a suspect,” Patti said. “This is a big job. I hope you two are going to continue to assist me in breaking in to journalism. This could be important to my career.”
“Help you?” I said. “This isn’t only about you. It’s about my believability.” Okay, that sounded just as selfish as Patti’s comment. So I corrected myself. “But mostly it’s about somebody else. About finding out what happened and exactly who it happened to.”
My sister gave me a long, studied look. “And you’re positive of what you saw?” she asked me for what felt like the zillionth time.
“Absolutely,” I said again. “I’m heading home. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
I left Holly and Patti at the bar and walked the short distance home.
Dinky greeted me at the door, where she’d been lying on a soft blanket I’d placed there just for her. Only it wasn’t looking so soft and fluffy anymore. She had barfed on the blanket, regurgitating a clot of who-knows-what that wasn’t meant to pass through her digestive system—grass, stringy digestive goo, lumpy this and that. Ewww.
I knew this moment was part of my future the minute she gobbled up whatever was on the ground in the cemetery. Sure enough, I’d been right again. I hate it when I’m right, especially when it has to do with Dinky.
I swiped it up with a wad of paper towel, dumped it into the garbage, and put the blanket in the laundry bin.
Yuck, that dog was trouble.
Nine
Marauding hive robbers.
That’s what I found early the next morning at one of the beehives in my backyard apiary. Dinky was on the sidelines watching, after having done her business on the kitchen floor right before I opened the door to take her out. Not the best start to the day, and now this.
One characteristic humans share with honeybees is a penchant for war, with the winner taking all the spoils. Sad, but true. And just like us when we are thr
eatened, each hive posts guard bees at the entrance, ready to defend the colony. Their job is to identify invaders.
Robber bees will fly around a hive looking for opportunities to steal honey by getting past the guards and in through the entryway. An experienced beekeeper pays close attention.
If bees are going into the hive with honey, that’s as it should be.
But in this case, bees were leaving with honey. Not good. Not good at all. The entrance to the hive was frantic with activity.
I grabbed protective gloves and quickly ripped up some grass, digging my fingers in deep to get a grip on some dirt, too. Then I stuffed the wad around the hive entrance to make the opening smaller and hopefully easier for my bees to guard. Since they were fighting for their lives, embroiled in combat, some of my bees mistook me for the other side, so I sustained a few war wounds despite the gloves.
Ouch, they hurt.
But I felt I deserved it. This was all my fault; in the beeyard I’m supposed to protect my wards from harm. I was supposed to be paying attention, on guard all the time. But right now I didn’t have time to wallow in guilt. I had to help the bees fight back.
I grabbed a sprinkler, jammed it on top of the hive, ran to the faucet, and turned it on. Bees really hate getting wet, so a downpour of water that simulated rain was guaranteed to deter another looter attack. The rotating sprinkler gave me time to get a spray bottle filled with a mix of liquid bee smoker and water. I sprayed the heck out of the entrance.
Then I surveyed the damage. Not too bad. My bees were groggy from the bee smoke I’d sprayed. The only wet ones were those closest to the entrance and they would dry off just fine. I must have caught the invasion in time. As for my condition, not only did I have stingers stuck in me, I was also dripping wet.
Just then Hunter showed up in my driveway on his Harley.
Figures. Timing has never been kind to me.
“Am I interrupting something?” he said, swinging off the bike and strolling over, staying dry on the fringe of the sprinkler’s range while I stayed in its spray, making absolutely sure that my mission had been accomplished. At least I’d scraped the stingers out of my hand.