Plan Bee

by Hannah Reed

  “I had to incapacitate him,” she said. “So we could make a clean getaway.”

  “He’s never going to answer questions from us ever again. Not after what we did to him. And I bet he’s going to press charges.”

  “That guy is such a wimp,” Patti said, “considering he’s supposed to be a criminal. He’s a pathetic example of his profession. Did you see how he opened up? I really rattled his cage. He’s not going to press charges against us unless he wants a rape charge to add to his rap sheet.”

  I was still bitter about the outcome. “If you’d given me equal time, I would have answers, too.”

  “We know he’s involved in stealing my telescope,” Patti said.

  “He tried to blame most of it on somebody else. He could be lying.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “He sure started talking fast. Shouldn’t he have resisted for a while?”

  Patti grinned, and it wasn’t pretty. “You don’t need to know everything,” she said. “It’s better that way.”

  Okay, then.

  Back in my office, away from the queen of torture, I keyed in the e-mail address that Bob had given us and sent a blank e-mail to see what would happen.

  It bounced right back with a message informing me that the e-mail account didn’t exist.

  Figures. Did that mean it had never existed? Or that it wasn’t available any longer?

  Had Bob lied?

  Or was Patti’s opponent really good at covering his tracks.

  Either way we were back to square one.

  Thirty-one

  According to the local news reports, we were in for a few days of bad weather, even a possible tornado, which always brings customers stampeding in for staples. The most popular household items at times like these are milk, eggs, bread, and beer. But the number one choice for the more intelligent among us is toilet paper. There aren’t many substitutes for that particular item. Mom, in the spirit of things, had stacked the toilet paper up front so no one would forget to buy it.

  I could almost sense and smell the storm approaching from the northwest. Still, when I heard the first burst of thunder, I thought Stanley’s grandson was up to his chemical tricks. Until I went outside and saw the sky. Ugly clouds were forming on the horizon. For those lucky enough to live in twister-proof territory, a tornado is an enormous, destructive funnel cloud whirling from the ground right up to the clouds. Wisconsin is on the outer fringe of Tornado Alley, but we get more than our fair share of that kind of weather.

  There’s a big difference between a tornado watch and a tornado warning. A watch suggests conditions are ripe for a twister to form. A warning means one has been spotted and you better run for cover. Hide in a basement or in an interior room. If you don’t have shelter, dive into a ditch and start praying. Because one of those funnels can pick up a house and move the whole thing just like in The Wizard of Oz.

  In the past, we couldn’t believe anything our weather forecasters told us. If they said one thing, we could count on the exact opposite. But lately, they were getting better at predicting what was coming, even approximately when it would hit.

  Another thing I’ve noticed about approaching storms—whether snow, hail, rain, or thunderstorms—is the upswing in camaraderie among Moraine’s residents. Having to batten down the hatches lends a certain excitement to the air. There is no subject better than impending bad weather to spark conversations in the checkout line and aisles to bring us closer together as a community.

  I’d been watching the sky from the entrance when suddenly, the town’s siren went off announcing a high alert.

  “Into the basement,” I ordered my customers and staff.

  Carrie Ann burst out of the back room and scampered for the stairs.

  Stanley Peck ran in as customers continued to file down into what used to be the church’s gathering place. “Noel’s missing,” he said, sounding on the verge of panic. “I have to find him.”

  “Get downstairs, Stanley,” I said, noticing how dark the sky had become in the open door behind him. Black and scary. “Hurry. I’m sure he’s hiding out somewhere. There’s no time.” Stanley hesitated, so I punted, invoking Holly’s name even though she wasn’t in the building. “My sister and I will use whatever wrestling techniques required to get you down there. Don’t put us in that position.”

  Reluctantly, Stanley stomped down with the rest of the customers to wait out the storm.

  Next, I called down to Mom. “What about Grams?”

  “I warned her. She’s in her cellar,” came the reply.

  Holly burst into The Wild Clover with Dinky in her arms.

  “Take this animal,” she said, pushing Dinky at me. “I can’t stand her another second.”

  Dinky hated storms more than anything in the world. She could hear thunder before any of us humans. She was so tuned-in, she could be a celebrity weather dog. As soon as she started shaking, that was our cue to pay attention.

  Holly and I went down the basement steps.

  I did a mental count of family and friends. Everyone was clustered around my craft table, the one I used for teaching classes related to honeybees and their by-products. Patti wasn’t with us, but she was resourceful and had lived in Moraine long enough to know the signs of a serious storm. Stanley sat at the far end of the table, looking worried.

  Dinky clawed her way under my arm. I wrapped her in a fleece I’d left on the back of a chair and that seemed to calm her.

  I wandered over to Stanley and said, “Any kid as smart as Noel, who can create chemical reactions like he can, will know how to survive a tornado. In fact, he’ll probably harness its energy.”

  Stanley gave me a weak but appreciative smile. “If anybody could, it would be him.”

  “He’s taken shelter. I’m sure of it.”

  “But where has he been all day?”

  “We’ll find him as soon as the storm lets up.”

  By now, we could hear full gale forces outside. A clap of thunder and the lights flickered and went out. I heard the backup generators kick on.

  Hunter called my cell. “Where are you?”

  “In the basement of the store. The power went out, but we’re safe. Where are you?”

  “Safe, too. Don’t worry about me. I’ll call you when it’s okay to come out.”

  “Is Ben with you?” My favorite K-9 better not be at Hunter’s house in his outdoor kennel.

  “He’s here. I’ll get back to you.”

  The sounds from above us were deafening. Dinky burrowed deeper into the jacket. I wished I had a great big cuddle blanket to hide under. I could see the outlines of the others in the basement, but just barely.

  Mom said, “I told Tom I’d stop by his house and pick up a few things for him. A change of clothes, something to read…” Her voice broke.

  “When we get out of here,” I said, “we’ll go over together.”

  “I’d hoped Tom would be back tonight.”

  “At least he has the money to make bail.”

  “Bail!” Mom said. “This isn’t going to go that far. You make it sound like he’s going to actually be charged with a crime.”

  “Of course he won’t,” Holly said, meeting my eyes over the top of our mother’s head.

  Thirty minutes later, Hunter called to say the coast was clear, that the storm hadn’t produced any funnels after all. Stanley tore off in search of Noel. Other than a few toppled Adirondack chairs in front of the store, The Wild Clover hadn’t suffered at all. All good news so far.

  The electricity hadn’t come back on, so I called to report it, thankful for the generators that would make sure the coolers stayed cold. There wasn’t anything else to do at this point but close up and check periodically to see if the power was back on.

  “Stanley Peck can’t find his grandson,” I called Hunter back and said. “We’re going to look for him. I hope he’s okay.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me and Holly and Mom.”

&nb
sp; “You’re with your mother?” Did I hear incredulity in his voice? And why did my protective reflexes kick in?

  “She’s a changed person,” I said, a bit defensively. “Nothing like the old Mom. You should re-meet her.”

  “I have to see this. How about now? Ben and I will help search, if that’s okay.”

  “Great. Meet us at Tom Stocke’s apartment.”

  “Why there? What’s going—”

  I interrupted. “I’ll explain later,” I said.

  Thirty-two

  By the time we left the store, dusk had settled over Moraine. Dark clouds were swirling above and the air smelled thick and musky. Without a full moon to guide the way and with all the lights out on Main Street, we wouldn’t have been able to see a thing if I hadn’t brought two flashlights from the store to shine the way. We stepped carefully around tree branches that the wind had blown to the sidewalk.

  Holly, Mom, and I walked around to the back of Tom Stocke’s antique store. Mom let us inside his apartment with a key she plucked out of a flowerpot. I wondered how long she’d known where to find the key, and if her relationship with Tom was moving a bit fast for my comfort level. Then I shook it off. My comfort level shouldn’t matter.

  Tom looked like he was living a simple life for a man who’d won the lottery. Just the basics, no frills. He’d even incorporated antiques from his store into his small living quarters. I noticed a few white sales stickers dangling from furniture.

  “I’ll put a bag together for him,” Mom said, flashlighting her way into his bedroom. “You girls wait right there in the kitchen.”

  “She seems to know where everything is,” I said to Holly, a bit accusingly.

  Holly sat down at Tom’s table. A tin antique-looking box filled with fresh-cut daisies was in the center. It had Mom written all over it. In fact, were the flowers from Grams’s garden?

  “I think I’ll look around a little,” I said.

  “Mom said to wait.”

  “I can’t sit still.”

  With the light from the flashlight to guide me, it took only a few minutes to cover his kitchen and living area. Saying the place was small was a huge understatement.

  “Where does this door go?” I said coming back into the kitchen and muttering to myself as I opened it.

  The basement.

  I flicked my light on the steps ahead of me and tiptoed down so Mom wouldn’t hear. The stair’s wooden floorboards didn’t cooperate. They creaked under me. I heard a psssttt sound coming from my sister, her response to me for not listening to our mother. I chose to ignore it.

  How could I resist an opportunity like this? When else would I have a legit reason to be inside a murder suspect’s digs? If I was going to help Tom with his self-defense plea, I needed all the information I could get.

  “What are you doing?” my sister hissed after following me down. “You left me all alone in the dark.”

  “Shush!” I whispered back.

  I swung the flashlight beam up and down and across, my eyes sweeping over the unfinished basement; concrete floor, cement-block walls, everything neatly stored on shelves, labeled boxes, a workstation, nails and screws in mason jars, a washer and dryer, all the standard stuff homeowners keep in their basements.

  Walking toward the opposite wall, I spotted another entrance to the basement from the outside. The slanted outer door, steep crumbling steps, and wooden shelves and cupboards along the wall told me that area had been used as a root cellar. Fruits and vegetables had been stored there at one time.

  Based on Grams’s cellar design, which was much like this one, I knew the outer door could be padlocked from the outside and probably was.

  To my right, a door led to a utility room and I assumed that was where the furnace and water heater were. The door was closed and padlocked.

  Mom’s voice came from the top of the stairs, sounding thunderous. “Are you two girls down there?”

  Holly and I stared at each other. The basement stair squeaked and before we could answer, Mom joined us. “What are you doing down here?” she demanded as soon as she reached the bottom step.

  “Snooping,” Holly said, which I couldn’t believe she’d just admitted. What was my sister thinking?

  “We were not,” I lied. Mom frowned, so I did a quick reversal. “Okay, maybe a little.”

  Holly, who could read Mom better than I could and knew what to say at times like these, said, “We’re curious about Tom. After all, he seems to be very important to you.”

  “And we want to get to know him better,” I said, scoring my point, too.

  “Isn’t that sweet of you,” Mom said, her tone softening, again sounding just like Grams, only a little more delusional.

  Right then, we heard Hunter’s voice above us. “Story, where are you?”

  “Down in the basement,” I called, seeing a flashlight beam appear at the top of the stairs.

  Hunter came down. “Do you have permission to be here?” the cop in him couldn’t help asking.

  Mom told him why we were inside, finishing with a slam dunk. “I even cleared it with the police chief.” She beamed. “And how are you, Hunter?”

  Mom has never, ever approved of Hunter Wallace. Not when we were hot and heavy in high school. Not even after Hunter stopped drinking and became a good cop. Not even now, when she knew we were seeing each other again. She always had a cold, disapproving way of looking at him that perfectly matched her icy tone of voice.

  Except now.

  “How’s your family?” she asked. “I hope everyone is well.”

  Hunter didn’t miss a beat, although he had to be as stunned as I was. “Everybody’s doing great. Thanks for asking.”

  “Our family likes to get together on Sundays at my mother’s house,” she went on. “You know where that is. Would you like to join us for dinner sometime?”

  Hunter’s eyes met mine. He grinned. Probably because my mouth was hanging wide open in utter astonishment. I didn’t have much of a poker face, which is why I stay out of the store’s sheepshead card games. But really. My mother had just invited my boyfriend to dinner. I had to be dreaming. Any minute I’d wake up.

  “Sure,” Hunter answered her, still smooth. “Thanks for the offer.”

  I found my voice. “Holly and I thought we’d look around,” I said to him, partly for Mom’s benefit. “We wanted to make sure everything was locked up tight. The last thing Tom needs while he’s away is a break-in, somebody stealing his antiques.” I tested the root cellar door. It was locked.

  “He’ll be back tomorrow,” Mom said with total confidence. “Nothing to worry about.”

  In case Hunter was about to burst her imaginary bubble with the plain truth, I jumped in with a fast subject change. “What’s behind this locked door, Mom?”

  “A furnace,” she said vaguely.

  “Why does it need a padlock?”

  “Tom’s safe is also inside. He told me all about it. He said he cemented it to the concrete floor inside the utility room and locked it up tight.”

  “That’s a lot of effort on Tom’s part,” Holly said, taking the words right out of my mouth. “What’s in the safe? Gold bullion?”

  “That’s Tom’s business,” Mom said. “Not ours.”

  I stared at the locked door. Who goes to those lengths unless they are guarding something valuable? Like gold. Or the Mona Lisa. Or a queen’s jewels. Or stacks of cold cash.

  “Mom,” I ventured. “Tom must have a banker, somebody who looks after his money. Where does he bank?”

  Hunter glanced sharply at me, following my thought pattern.

  Mom started bristling at the banker question. “What’s with you? For cripes’ sake, he isn’t after my money, if that’s what you think. Not that I have much to go after, but Tom doesn’t need financial help. He still has all of his lottery money stashed away. His antique business is healthy, and he has no debt. There, are you happy?”

  “We’re just looking out for you,” Holly said.r />
  “I don’t need any looking out for. I’m perfectly fine.” Mom glanced down at the bag dangling from her hand. “I have to get these things to Tom.”

  With that, we climbed the steps, relocked the outer door, and put the key back in the pot.

  Out on Main Street, Hunter and I watched Mom and Holly walk down the street toward the store, the night darkness swallowing them up.

  “I see what you mean about your mother,” Hunter said in awe. “Talk about a complete personality change.”

  “Isn’t it incredible?” I agreed. “Holly says it’s because of Mom’s feelings for Tom Stocke, that all she needed was some romance in her life.”

  I really wished she’d found true love with somebody other than a murder suspect, though. For example, Stanley Peck would be a perfect choice. He’s an available widower and doesn’t have a murdered brother. And he isn’t in jail. But I could wish on every star in the sky, if they were visible, and it wouldn’t change a thing.

  Then Hunter said, “Story, you aren’t going to stick your nose even further into the Ford Stocke murder, are you?”

  I gave him an eye-roll, hoping he could see it in the dark. “Of course not. I’m just helping my mother with a few things.” I didn’t mention that those “things” involved hoping to prove Tom had acted in self-defense. Instead, I brought up Bob Petrie. Not that I could tell Hunter the whole story. Dating a cop has its own set of problems. Hanging around Patti has even more. I couldn’t tell Hunter that Patti kicked Bob in the crotch, kidnapped him, threatened him, then kicked him again. I had to keep quiet because, like it or not, I had become her accomplice. I sort of circumvented that part.

  “Bob Petrie was driving the truck that delivered Patti’s telescope,” I said. “He’s been acting suspicious. He might have been involved in the attack on Patti.”

  “Patti’s a piece of work. Stay away from her.”

  “But it happened on my block. Bob’s been in trouble in the past and some of the things he told us made me very suspicious. Check Bob out for me?” I asked. Patti had worked the CCAP site, but Hunter had better resources. “Run a background check.”