Buzz Off (19 page)

With further coaxing, we got to work, gingerly loading the hives into the truck, being as careful as we could not to jar them.

The bees weren’t too happy. They fanned inside the hive boxes, causing a wild vibration and scaring Holly into a few dashes toward the house before we completed the task.

After tying everything down and shutting the truck doors softly, we were on our way.

Suddenly I felt the stress draining from my body. The farther we got from my house, the better I felt. Enough bad things had happened in the last few days without the added worry of Lori Spandle killing my last two hives of honeybees. The back of my neck and my shoulders ached from carrying around that fear. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. My bees would be safe, no more stressing over them.

I checked my rearview mirror to make sure we weren’t followed. We weren’t.

“Where are we going?” Holly wanted to know.

“You’ll see,” I answered.

I cut the truck lights a quarter mile from the house, right after Holly figured out where we were going. I eased along with the windows rolled down, smelling earth and green growth. Crickets sang and bullfrogs croaked. The ground leading into the field was rough, causing the truck to bounce. I slowed down to a crawl for the hives’ sake.

I headed to the far side of the cornfield, where the early-morning sun would warm the hives. The boxes were just as heavy as they’d been when we loaded them up, but getting them down was definitely easier. I picked the most level spot I could find, we finished placing the hives, then we both got back into the truck and I moved it a distance away.

“Stay in the truck,” I said to my sister. “They are going to be angry once I open up the hives.”

“Great. Just great,” Holly said, hunkering down.

The wire mesh across the entrances came away easily.

I ran like crazy when I saw bees crawling out of the hives. Their collective hum was loud and angry, just as I’d predicted.

Honeybees navigate by the UV patterns of the sun, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fly at night. They will fly toward light. So when I opened the truck door and realized I had forgotten to disable the interior light, they flew right in after me.

Not to mention that I’d left my window down.

I slammed the door shut. The guard bees stayed with me. Holly screamed as though her life was ending. The bees unanimously decided that we were the bad guys. They went to town on my hands. One stung me right through the gloves that were guaranteed to be sting-proof. At least the veil protected my head and eyes. Who knew what kind of attack they were mounting on my sister; I was too busy to look.

Holly and I jumped out of the truck and ran in different directions, leaving the doors wide open.

Then we met up and sat in a ditch for a long time. Holly, in spite of all her screaming, hadn’t been stung at all. Not once. I had six or seven throbbing areas. Before returning to the truck, Holly took the opportunity to get what was bothering her off her chest.

“Don’t ever, ever ask me for a favor again,” she said. “You owe me big-time for this one.”

“I know,” I said. We crept back to find the truck empty of bees.

“I have to check on them one more time,” I said.

“Please, let’s get out of here,” Holly begged. I could hear panic rising in her voice.

“Relax,” I said. “I have it down pat this time. I just want to make sure they’re settled down and that I haven’t forgotten anything important, like removing all the wire mesh.”

“Trust me, you removed all of it.”

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight without double-checking.”

“Take me home first. Please.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

I adjusted the truck’s interior lights so they wouldn’t come on this time, made sure all the windows were closed, shushed Holly’s whimpers, and stumbled through the dark, listening. Sure enough, the honeybees were still riled up.

And they already had a visitor.

Did I mention that skunks like to position their bodies near beehive entrances and lap up as many guard bees as they can? Why the stings don’t deter them is anybody’s guess. Manny had had an ongoing war with skunks, and he’d taught me what he knew, a lesson that was about to be wasted on the current situation. I might have heard the skunk’s warning stomp if the bees hadn’t been making so much noise. And I might have seen the skunk raise its tail if the moon had been shining, instead of the pitch-black darkness I stumbled through.

I’d never been skunked before. Trust me, it’s the nastiest thing imaginable. At least the musk didn’t hit me in my eyes, thanks to the bee veil I still wore. But the fumes came close enough that I felt the burn. And my stomach churned. I didn’t feel too good.

On top of that, Holly must have smelled me staggering back toward the truck, or her night vision was better than mine, because she locked me out. I peeled off as many of my clothes as possible—the veil, gloves, and overalls—and threw them into the back of the truck. Everything reeked of skunk musk. And I mean everything. Including my jeans and top, which should have been protected by the overalls.

“Let me in.” I banged on the window on her side. “I don’t smell now that I took off the overalls.”

What a lie, but I was desperate.

In answer, Holly scooted over into the driver’s seat, started the truck, and drove away.

I gaped at my disappearing taillights.

As much as I didn’t want to do it, I stumbled over to Grams’s house and rang the doorbell. After I rang several times, a light came on and Grams opened the door in her nightclothes.

“Oh, my,” she said, closing the door to a tiny crack. “You’ve been skunked.”

“What should I do?”
Don’t cry,
I warned myself. Remember, big girls don’t cry.

“I’ll be right back.” The kitchen light went on. Through the window, I could see her preparing a wash with hydrogen peroxide and soap and some other things. Mom walked into the kitchen. Their mouths moved. Mom glared at the window. I ducked back where she couldn’t see me.

When Grams opened the door, I could hear Mom. “Story, this is completely inappropriate. The next time you do something this foolish, don’t come to me.”

I hadn’t come to her, just to keep the record straight. I’d come to Grams, who shoved her concoction through the door. “Soap up with this,” she said. “Make sure you get it all over. Then use the hose to rinse off.”

“I have to do it outside?”

Mom answered by calling out, “You bet you do. What? We’re supposed to let you inside smelling like that?”

“What happened to all the family intervention? Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

Nobody answered.

I went behind the barn and striped down, lathered up, rinsed, and did it again until my skin was raw. Then I realized I didn’t have any other clothes to wear besides the smelly jeans and top. I couldn’t bring myself to put on the skunked clothes. I’d rather run naked through downtown Moraine.

Which might happen if Holly didn’t come back.

Since I come from an overall type of family, I found a dirty pair hanging in the barn and put them on, adjusting the buckles so my private parts stayed private. Then I rummaged around until I found what I needed.

That skunk would be back, if not tonight, then tomorrow. He’d scratch on the hive entrance until the guard bees came out to investigate. He could wipe out both colonies if I didn’t do something fast. I dug out two pieces of plywood and drove nails through them, setting the nails in an inch apart all over the boards. Then I walked back, hauling my masterpieces to the hives and adjusted the boards, nails up, in front of the entrances. If the skunk wanted bees, he’d have to walk over nails.

I heard a motor and turned to see my truck idling a short distance away.

The drive home was quieter that the ride over. In fact, I was pretty sure my sister wasn’t speaking to me.

I went to bed for the night, what was left of it, and decided this day was way up there on my list of worst ones ever.

Tuesday morning the air was thick and heavy, as though a major storm was gathering, although there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The small world of Moraine had the same storm-brewing quietness and anticipation to it that I’ve sensed before on funeral days.

My friend and mentor would be buried today, and I didn’t want to accept it. For me, the worst part of a funeral service was when the casket was closed up. Every time, the finality of it hit home like a blow to my body.

I wondered about Faye, if her body had been released, and whether her family had made arrangements. And whether Clay was really guilty and how it must feel to be behind bars, locked up like an animal.

As I was getting ready to go to the market, Ray Goodwin knocked on my back door. I felt awful from lack of sleep and, I swear, I could still smell skunk. It had permeated my skin and was running rampant through my blood system. The good news was the effects of the bee stings had almost disappeared.

I went outside to greet him rather than let him inside my home.

“I heard talk about a meeting to destroy your bees,” he said, his head cranked in every direction but mine. “I don’t see ’em—did they get them after all?”

“Nobody got my bees, Ray. I moved them, since Lori was determined to get her way.”

“That’s a relief. I hope my bee stings didn’t make things worse for you?”

“The situation couldn’t have gotten any worse, but that’s Lori’s fault, not yours. Don’t worry about it.”

“Bet you’re wondering why I stopped by.”

“A little, yes.”

“Just to see how you’re doing. I know you and Manny Chapman were real close.”

“That’s nice of you. Actually, you’re just the person I need to talk to.” Ray might know something about Manny’s bees that I didn’t. He was on the road, traveling the county most of the time, and people talked at his stops. “Have a seat.” I gestured to the patio table and chairs.

Ray took a seat without sniffing the air or backing his chair away from me, so I hoped that the skunk odor was a figment of my imagination. “I said I was sorry for what I did with Kenny’s Bees,” he said. “You aren’t going to bust my chops over it again, are you?”

“No, no, I’m not still mad about finding out you were selling honey for Kenny’s Bees as long as you quit.” I didn’t mention that Queen Bee Honey might not even exist in the future.

“I haven’t been over there since our conversation.”

“Good. I need to talk to you about Manny’s bees. They’re missing, and I’m trying to locate them.”

“Did you ask Grace where they went?” Ray readjusted his ball cap.

“She said somebody named Gerald Smith picked them up.”

“Well, there you are.”

“I can’t find him in the directory, and the association never heard of him.”

“Maybe he’s from someplace else.”

“Grace said specifically he was from Manny’s bee association. Have you heard anything on your route?”

Ray looked out over my backyard toward the river, thinking. “I’d heard that Manny had extra-strong colonies and that he wasn’t plagued with colony collapse like a lot of the beekeepers.”

“That’s right,” I said. “He was working on selective breeding, but it was his big secret. That’s all I know. His research was all ‘top secret.’”I used finger quotes to show how top secret it really was. According to Manny, if he came up with a cure for a bee disease or condition, he’d let everyone else know. Other than that, his honey secrets were his private business.

Talking about Manny’s experiments reminded me of his bee journal. I’d have to see if Grace had come across it and ask her again if I could have it.

“Too bad he didn’t tell you more about what he was working on,” Ray said. “There’s money in strong hives.”

“I had my hands full just learning Beekeeping 101 without understanding the financial side of beekeeping.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t any of Ray’s business. Manny’s honey business was a lot of work, but he knew how to turn a profit. “I better get going,” I said. “I’m opening up the store this morning.”

“I have gallons of fresh apple cider from Country Delight Farm,” Ray said. “Want me to drop some off at the market?”

“Sure. By the way, any more trouble with bee stings?”

“No,” he said. “I’m a quick learner.”

I locked up, walked down to The Wild Clover, and went through the routine of opening the store while Ray added gallons of apple cider to my inventory. The phone rang. It was Carrie Ann.

“I can’t make it in today,” she said, sounding like her old, hungover self. “I’m sick.”

How disappointing!
I had been rooting for her. At least she’d called in. The old Carrie Ann never even bothered.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Thanks for the offer. But I just need to sleep it off, I mean, you know, sleep is good for you when you’re sick.”