by Hannah Reed
“I know you like your bees,” he continued, “but showering with them? Don’t you think that’s a little over the top?”
I glanced at the beehive entrance. Hopefully, everything would return to normal now. “We’re bonding,” I said.
“I can see that. Would you like a bar of soap? You could wash their wings and I could wash your…” He paused and grinned.
That did it. Before Hunter could finish, I rushed him, catching him off guard and pulling him into the sprinkler shower. He deserved a dunking for his cocky attitude. But I promptly tripped and fell. He tried to stop my fall but ended up on the ground on top of me, the sprinkler blasting on us, and Dinky, thinking it was playtime, dove in and jumped on top of us.
Hunter’s face was inches from mine when he said, “I was thinking of something a little more romantic, you know, something involving a walk along the river, a soft blanket.”
“You don’t think this is romantic?”
“Actually, I do.” Water dripped from his face as he bent the rest of the way and gave me a long, sweet kiss.
Then I remembered my creepy new next-door neighbor on one side and nosy P.P. Patti on the other with all her surveillance equipment, and I no longer felt like Hunter and I were alone in my backyard.
Rats.
I gave him a reluctant shove, rolled away, and stood up. “I’ll go turn off the sprinkler and get towels,” I said.
A few minutes later we were sitting out at my patio table. I’d changed into new clothes and Hunter wore my yellow bathrobe while his clothes were in my dryer.
I truly did try to keep him inside the house while we waited, but he insisted on coffee outside. I was afraid to tell him about Patti’s telescope in case the way she used it was illegal. I didn’t really want to get her in trouble, though I had questions about her voyeuristic tendencies. Like, was it actually lawful for her to watch me through binoculars or a telescope as long as she stayed on her own property? What about Peeping Tom laws? Did Patti’s actions qualify?
So anyway, there we sat, sipping coffee. I’m pretty sure I saw motion in Patti’s upstairs window, like a gleam of sunlight hitting a metal reflector.
“You look cute in my robe,” I mentioned. “A little tight, but that’s what makes it special.”
“Thank you. I’ll have to get one of my own. Yellow’s my color.”
“It really is.” My eyes swept over the too-short sleeves, man-hair poking out of the cuffs. Our eyes locked. “You look good in yellow.”
“Is that a pass?” Hunter asked. “Are you making sexual overtures?”
“Maybe. But not for right now. I have work to do. We’ll have to take a rain check.”
“No more water, please.”
We both laughed and sipped coffee, content as I imagined we would be if Hunter and I had been living together for a long time. I snuck a few peeks at his feet, because he has the sexiest ones around and I’m a big fan of feet. Hunter’s are manly, just the right width, a little hairy like they should be, and tanned a golden brown.
I was jarred out of my fantasy world when Hunter said, “How did last night go? Any bodies crop up?”
“Only live ones. We opted for a process of elimination at the bar.”
“I checked around—police dispatch, hospitals, emergency clinics. No John Does. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Is Johnny Jay still foaming at the mouth?”
“He passed a ‘Girl Who Cries Wolf’ law against you. No more responding if Story Fischer calls in an emergency.”
At first I thought Hunter was still joking around, but his eyes didn’t look so funny. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Wish I was. You’re an immediate non-emergency.”
“He can’t do that! What if I have a real emergency? The nerve of the guy! Wait a minute, what’s a non-emergency?”
“A slow, leisurely response. They probably won’t show up at all.”
“I haven’t abused the system, not once, ever. How often have I called in an emergency?”
Hunter rolled his eyes up in his head, which reminded me that as a matter of fact, I’d used 9-1-1 more often than most residents in our town. But legitimately! It just so happened that I’d gotten myself involved in a few sticky situations. It wasn’t my fault I was a trouble magnet.
It was mostly P.P. Patti’s fault. She tended to get me into hot spots.
Hunter reached over to take my hand. “I don’t know what you saw last night, but whatever happened let’s move past it and get on with some semblance of normalcy. Are you free later?”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, not meaning a single word that was coming out of my mouth. This was too big to move past. “I’m going to forget all about it.”
“Good.”
“Want to watch the parade from the store’s booth? Grams is riding in it as Grand Marshal.”
“I have a few work-related stops that can’t wait. How about meeting me at Stu’s after the parade?”
“Sure. You can buy me lunch.”
“Deal.”
The mention of Stu’s reminded me to tell Hunter the story of running into Mom on her date with Tom Stocke.
“Do you know anything about Tom?” I asked. “He’s pretty closemouthed. If he’s interested in my mother, I need to know his history.”
Hunter chuckled. “Look at you, sticking your nose into their business. It’s about time your mother had some fun.”
Hunter was being kind to my mom, considering he knew what she thought of him. Like I’d mentioned, Hunter had a drinking problem way back but hasn’t touched a drop for years and years. Mom doesn’t trust him to stay sober, and she complains about my involvement with him every chance she gets. But, honestly, would she approve of anybody I liked? Probably not.
I glanced at my ex-husband’s house and the truck sitting in the driveway. “This guy named Ford is renting out Clay’s house for the weekend,” I said. “Kind of a slimebag.”
“Maybe your ex is having you watched,” Hunter suggested.
“Hiring somebody to spy on me?” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not Clay’s style.” Or was it? The idea certainly had possibilities. The creep I’d been dumb enough to marry had stuck around for a while after the divorce (like lingering skunk smell), claiming he hoped to reconcile, but all the time sleazing around with any female who looked his way. Like that would get me back. Finally, he’d given up and left town.
Had he sent Ford to spy on me, to see if I was living alone, still available and vulnerable?
“Want me to run the license plates?” Hunter asked.
I gave him a big grin. “You’d do that for me?”
“You know I would.”
I sighed. “Thanks, but that’s okay. He’ll be gone soon. No big deal.”
“Well, if he’s scouting for Clay, let’s give him something to report back. Come here.”
And so I did. And we did. Nothing too racy, but enough to get the message across that I wasn’t available, now or ever.
Ten
Since today was Sunday, the festival opened later than it had yesterday, to accommodate both churchgoing families and Saturday-night partiers sleeping in. Moraine’s business owners recognized the fact that nobody was going to be moving too quickly today. The Harmony Festival wouldn’t officially begin until eleven, with the parade at noon, and the rest of the afternoon to wander, people-watch, eat, drink, and shop.
That left plenty of time for me to get organized and ready for another busy day. I headed over to The Wild Clover to open up, and found Milly Hopticourt waiting when I arrived with Dinky on her leash. Milly had a kid’s wheeled cart brimming with wildflower bouquets—some fresh flowers, others dried, which she sold every day right inside the store’s entryway. She also published our monthly newsletter, filling it with recipes she created from scratch, along with gardening tips and bee-friendly suggestions I’d asked her to include.
“How about doing a smoothie in this issue?” my favorite recipe t
ester suggested while we arranged the bouquets. “Door County peaches are plump and juicy right now. What if I whipped up a peach smoothie with a hint of ginger?”
“I like it,” I said. Milly never seemed to run out of ideas to create special recipes with whatever was in season at the time. “What else?”
“Well, corn on the cob is ripe in the fields. How about grilled corn with some kind of honey butter?”
“I can almost taste it.”
“And something sweet to finish it off. I’ll put on my thinking cap.”
While Milly sat down behind the counter to sketch out the next newsletter, I busied myself with honey supplies to restock the outside booth. This was the last of my honey until later this month when I started harvesting, processing, and bottling this year’s batch. Honey from our area of Wisconsin consists of a blend—wildflower, alfalfa, and clover nectar. We don’t have large monofloral fields like they do up north with their cranberry bogs. Cranberry honey is wonderful stuff, but it isn’t in my future unless I move north, something that isn’t going to happen.
Today, I’d sell raw and processed honey in bear-shaped jars and regular jars and creamed honey, which is whipped so it spreads like butter. I’d created five different flavors:
• wildflower
• cherry
• cinnamon
• apple
• raspberry
Plus, I had beeswax candles in a variety of fragrances, and cranberry lip gloss (my first effort to make a gloss, and it actually turned out!). I also replenished the flavored honey sticks.
Patti came in wearing her press pass and a knowing leer. “Hunter looks good in yellow,” she said, referring to my bathrobe.
“Quit spying on me, Patti.”
“Just keeping tabs on my best friend, making sure you’re in good hands. Which apparently you are.” That comment, along with her smirk, implied that she’d been watching the whole thing, but I let it go. Not that I had much of a choice.
Patti leaned in confidentially. “Aggie Petrie is setting up outside. Same spot as yesterday. Her husband isn’t with her, though. She said he’s home sick.”
“So?”
“So, we have our first missing person.”
I thought about that for a minute. Aggie was one nasty woman. And her booth was on the sidewalk right in front of the spot where I’d had my mysterious encounter. What if she’d killed Eugene and stashed him in the cemetery, then when I wasn’t looking hauled him off to bury him in her backyard? Who would be the wiser?
Patti and I looked at each other.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Do you know where they live?”
I shook my head. “Not really, no. Colgate area, that’s all I know.”
“Let’s work on finding out.” And with that, Patti disappeared out the door.
Grams came into the store right after that looking sweet and chipper.
“I heard about your trouble last night,” she said, “with a body giving you the slip like that.”
“Johnny Jay couldn’t have been madder.”
“That boy always had a temper. Too bad he never learned to control it. Who do you think that body belonged to? Didn’t you get a good look?”
So I told Grams about how the black plastic hid the body’s identity and how I’d been afraid to unmask it.
“I had no idea it would disappear,” I said. Of course, if I’d known, I would have handled it differently. I still wouldn’t have looked, but I would have stuck to it like glue instead of leaving it alone.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Grams said reassuringly. “But you’re as close as they come. I’m going to get some pictures of that beehive you’ve got outside. It’s a real winner.” Her pocket camera dangled from her wrist.
I had a question for her. “Do you know where Aggie Petrie lives?”
“She’s right outside the store. Why don’t you ask her?”
Grams had a point, if my intentions had been a little different. But I couldn’t exactly tell Aggie that I wanted her address so we could check to see if she’d offed her husband. So I punted. “I’m sending her a thank-you gift for her contribution to the festival. It’s a surprise.”
“Oh aren’t you the sweet one,” Grams gushed. “But you shouldn’t tell fibs to your grandmother.”
“How did you catch on so fast?”
“That’s the meanest woman I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t give her a present other than a swift kick in the pants, which is exactly what she deserves. Besides, I know that you and the other business owners tried to keep her from competing with our locals. You wouldn’t encourage her.”
“You’re one smart cookie.” Actually, I was surprised that Grams said anything negative about Aggie. Usually she has only good things to say about everybody whether they’re nice people or not. She’s extremely tolerant. “So, do you know where she lives?” I asked again.
“You bet I do.”
By now my cousin Carrie Ann had arrived. Stanley finished setting up the observation beehive and Holly was due to help out today along with the twins, the same as yesterday. After I wrote down the Petries’ address I went outside, called Patti on my cell, and gave her the information.
“Go check it out,” I said to her from my end of the phone.
“You have to come along,” Patti said from right behind me, scaring me into almost dropping my cell on the sidewalk.
“Patti, you have to stop sneaking up on me. I can’t take much more!”
“Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me.” She beamed. “That’s the best compliment you could give me. Okay, let’s go.”
“I have work to do. The festival, remember? But here’s the address.”
“You have a full staff working. And Aggie’s house is only twenty minutes away. How long can it take to make sure Eugene’s alive and kicking? You’ll be back in an hour, maybe less. Meet me at your truck.”
I glanced down the street and saw Mom making her way along past the vendors. I decided that I really didn’t want to be around when she arrived at our booth. Two seconds later we blew out of the back parking lot for a quick spin down the road.
The tiny burg of Colgate was on the shore of a clear, small lake that had been named Lake Five. Growing up in a fishing family, we caught a few trout on the Oconomowoc River, which runs behind my house. But if we wanted variety, we rented a boat on Lake Five. I’d caught my share of crappies, large-mouthed bass, and bluegills in that neck of the woods.
The Petries lived in a nondescript brick ranch house surrounded by mixed hardwood trees, only a stone’s throw from the lake. At one time land here had been cheap, which must’ve been back when Aggie and Eugene bought in. Now no one could touch those lakefront properties unless they had big bucks. Some of the locals even had to sell out due to escalating property taxes. Which made me realize that Aggie’s junk business must be doing pretty decent for them to still live there. Or maybe Eugene had something going that I didn’t know about.
Patti knocked on the door while I waited in the truck. My job was to act as backup, according to Patti. Whatever that meant. I saw her knock again, wait, turn back to me, shrug. Then she made hand motions to indicate I should join her.
“He’s not answering,” she said, which was perfectly obvious to me.
“Let’s look around back.” I got out of the truck and headed around to the backyard where the lake shimmered under the morning sun. I saw a dock, a tiny fishing boat tied to it, a small shed off to the side of the yard, and a good-sized garden.
Patti knocked on the back door with the same results.
“Maybe Eugene went to church,” I suggested.
“Maybe she buried him in the garden,” Patti said, after she walked over and studied the garden plot. “Look there.” She pointed. “Fresh digging.”
Now that she pointed it out, I could tell that someone had turned the soil along one edge. The dirt there was darker, wetter, and clumpier.
“A shallow
grave,” Patti said in a stage whisper.
“A row of vegetables recently harvested,” I suggested.
Patti crouched down. “Too wide,” she said.
“Fine, let’s call Hunter.”
Which was the wrong thing to say.
Patti gave me a scowl. She thought I relied on Hunter too much, invoking his name whenever things went wrong, which might have a teeny tiny bit of truth to it. Call me a coward, but I like to stay out of Johnny Jay’s riflescope. Besides, in my last few escapades with Patti, I’d been the one taken in for questioning and threatened with charges. Not her. Even though she’s the one who deserved it.
“Well,” I said, “we can’t call Johnny Jay. He wouldn’t show up after last night’s episode. In fact, he has some kind of standing order for dispatch to ignore me. Hunter’s our only choice.” Which wasn’t exactly true. Our other choice was that we could forget this whole thing. I’d only been humoring Patti anyway. I didn’t expect to actually find Eugene’s body six-feet under.
“We’ll take care of this without the help of any man,” Patti said, slurring the word man like it was the latest dirty word. She went to the shed, opened its unlocked door, disappeared inside, and reappeared with a shovel.
She dug into the garden soil, but hadn’t taken more than a few shovelfuls before her cell phone rang. She stopped. “Here,” she said, handing me the shovel so she could answer her phone. “Hang on to this a minute.”
While she moved off, talking low on the phone while I tried to listen in, I slid my hand across the handle of the shovel and felt a rough spot.
Jeez! A splinter. Right over the stinger wound from this morning. That really hurt. I pulled the sliver out, my hand throbbing with pain.
I turned over the wooden handle and noticed that the wood had a gouged spot, like an animal had chewed on it. That’s one of the reasons why most of us keep our shed doors closed up tight at night, to keep out gnawing creatures.