Buzz Off (34 page)

From conversations Manny had with other beekeepers, he didn’t plan to go into full-scale royal jelly production, but the scientist in him couldn’t help but include basic observations.

It would take several days to go through the journal the way I should, so after a while I closed it, called Ben back to his seat in the truck, and almost sideswiped Johnny Jay as I pulled out on the road.

He swerved, lost control, and ended up in the ditch across the road, sideways. It was a rather deep ditch with several inches of standing water.

Nothing good could possibly come out of this encounter.

When I didn’t evaporate into thin air, I knew I was on my own.

“Hey, Johnny Jay,” I said through the open window when he got out and stepped down into the water before noticing it. The police chief didn’t look happy about the situation or about seeing me. “Sorry about that,” I added as he sloshed toward me.

“Missy Fischer, even though our fine country fields don’t have their own special stop signs, it’s implied that those who don’t stay on the roadways will yield to those who do. I’m writing you up for reckless driving.”

“Whatever gives you a thrill,” I replied, noting his smug, righteous air as he leaned on my truck, an authoritative attitude that always brought out the sass in me. “But I didn’t see you. Perhaps you were speeding.”

“Isn’t that Hunter’s dog?” he asked.

I nodded. “He’s trained to attack.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Just telling it like it is.”

“I’ll need your driver’s license. Then you can sit tight while I run your plates, see if you’re wanted for anything. Let’s see—reckless driving
and
threatening a police officer.”

“I’m really sorry about prom,” I said, stooping to an all-time low by apologizing to Johnny Jay. And twice in a row—first for the ditch, then for the dance. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Johnny Jay stared at me through the window, speechless. Then he said, “What are you talking about?”

“Prom. When you asked me to go, and I said no.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I thought that’s why you’re so mean to me, and why you aren’t even going to listen to me when I try to tell you that Manny Chapman was murdered.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than make up situations in your head?”

“I’m not making this up.”

“Come with me.” He opened my door. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

“What kind of chat?”

“Just get out.”

Suddenly I realized that I was alone with a big bully. Holly wasn’t here to act as my bodyguard.

My reaction was probably silly. Johnny Jay had done some pretty rotten things, but he’d never been accused of physical abuse. At least not since high school, when he had been implicated in several black-eye incidents, which had been his word against theirs and never solidly proven. Although I distinctly remembered a scene with me back in third grade when he’d rubbed my face in the snow. I’d gotten even with him later when I blasted him with mud balloons.

I didn’t move. Ben was doing his thing, watching and thinking something only he knew about. Suddenly it felt good to have this big scary dog beside me, on my side. What secret words would trigger an active, go-get-him response? Later tonight when I had my hot date with Hunter, I’d have to try to get the magic words out of him just in case I ever needed them.

And why was I so afraid of Johnny Jay? He and I were supposed to be on the same side, too.

“I’m not getting out of my truck,” I said, deciding I wouldn’t go, no matter what. “But I’ll follow you to the station, where I’ll be happy to have that little chat with you. So do your business, write me up, read me my rights, whatever you need to do to make yourself feel like you’re the boss. Then we’ll go down to the station. Now close my door and MOVE back.”

There was a long pause while we stared at each other.

Then Johnny Jay closed the door. “Okay,” he said. “I’m letting you off with a warning this time.”

“What?”

“But only if you swear you’ll shut up and mind your own business. I know you’re upset about the robbery at the store, and that earring showing up, and I’m perfectly aware that someone is toying with you, trying to scare you or worse. But what happened had nothing to do with Manny Chapman and everything to do with your ex-husband and his dead girlfriend. Christ, the guy’s prints are all over the kayak. It’s a given, he’s going to be doing time. So do we have a deal? You let me do police work, and you mind your store?

“What’s the alternative?”

“A court hearing and a fine you can’t afford to pay.”

“This is blackmail.”

“I call it self-preservation. You’re driving me crazy.”

“Don’t you want to hear what I have first? We could compare notes.”

“Hand over your driver’s license.”

“I’ll take the deal,” I lied.

Just as I’d hoped, Grace wasn’t home. In the past, whenever Manny and I got together on Saturdays to harvest honey, Grace would leave in the afternoon to visit her brother and sister-in-law and do a little shopping. It was one of her routines, and so I was counting on her being away.

Ben stayed in the truck. He licked his lips, pressed his nose against the pane of glass, and followed me with his eyes.

I was starting to kinda, sorta like the big hairy guy.

But I also wasn’t too happy about continuing my investigation without a human backing me up. Johnny Jay was impossible to deal with, Holly was in Milwaukee for a romantic weekend with Money Machine Max, Hunter was in advanced C.I.T. training, and even Carrie Ann was busy at the market. Plus, I didn’t want to expose my cousin to any more danger, since she’d already had one episode with violence at the store. That left my mother to ask along (no thanks) or Grams, who was so sweet I could count on her to offer the bad guy a brownie.

I desperately needed a best friend, one who was available when I needed her, one who didn’t judge or criticize or think anything negative about me. A happy, positive, go-getting female, who wasn’t afraid of my honeybees or taking risks. Was I expecting too much?

Pushing aside my worry about going it alone, I walked into the center of what used to be Manny’s beeyard. Empty now, without the buzzing of activity I remembered so fondly.

I was back where it had all begun.

The image of Manny’s body lying there with honey and bees all over him was almost as vivid as the real thing had been. I missed him so much, all his wisdom and passion and patience with my beekeeping inexperience.

Now that I thought about it, Manny was the closest thing to a best friend that I’d had in years. If I wasn’t on a mission of justice at the moment, I might have sat down and cried over my huge loss. Instead, I headed for the honey house with key in hand, thinking about how Gerald Smith or whoever he was had Manny’s strong, productive hives, which should rightfully belong to me. The best bees in the state, maybe even in the country.

The only other honeybees around as special as Gerald Smith’s were my own. I had two perfect hives with great bees and queens, thanks to Manny’s selective breeding techniques.

The implications suddenly became crystal clear, even to someone as dense as I had been recently.

Manny had been killed right in his own beeyard because somebody wanted his bees, and his journal. His home had been searched before he was murdered, and he’d seen the writing on the wall, maybe he’d even been physically threatened. So he hid the journal where he knew I’d find it eventually. Just in case the worst happened. And it did.

The killer had almost everything he or she wanted—strong colonies, special queens, maximum production of honey and royal jelly. Everything planned out precisely to steal what Manny had devoted his life’s work to. Except that as far as the killer knew, the journal was still officially missing. Manny’s research notes would keep the colonies’ genetics sound. The killer needed them to ensure future success with the hives. Manny’s killer must be frantic by now, wanting that journal enough to start taking more risks. That’s why my market had been robbed in broad daylight; whoever it was had been searching for the journal.

Had the same person also come back and left the earring? But why do that? What did Faye have to do with any of this? Was it possible there
were
two killers?

It was time to admit the truth of the situation: I was in real danger.

Would anybody believe my story? Probably not.

The honey house had an abandoned feel to it when I inserted my key into the padlock and opened it up. I stood in the doorway looking inside, but not really seeing it.

Grace Chapman wasn’t the murderer. Grace was a bitter, hurting woman, and I hadn’t made her transition from wife to widow any easier. She’d had to deal with innuendos and lies at the same time she had to learn to live without her husband.

Gerald Smith had suspect written all over that fake, generic name. And Kenny Langley had something to do with this, too, trying to buy Manny’s home. But why had he withdrawn his offer?

There was only one way to find out what was going on.

I’d have to ask Kenny.

Kenny’s Bees had been in the Langley family for multiple generations, and every one of the eldest male heirs was named Kenny. This particular Kenny was the fourth son to take over the business, and according to rumor, he was grooming his own son Kenny to take over for him. Their honey farm, in rural Washington County, was located on twenty acres of rolling fields. An ideal location to raise bees.

I pulled into a gravel driveway and parked next to a white corrugated building with a sign hanging from a metal awning that read “Honey for Sale.” An “Open” sign hung on the inside of the door. As with some other small businesses in the area, Kenny hadn’t bothered posting the hours he was open. Some people just didn’t want the additional commitment of getting to work at a specific time. That always amazed me. I couldn’t imagine opening The Wild Clover whenever I felt like showing up. What bad business sense was that?

Yet Kenny had a thriving honey business.

Ben waited in the truck again. He gave me a disappointed stare. I could tell he wasn’t happy with my decision to leave him behind again by the way his pointed ears sagged ever so slightly.

Kenny was a tall, large man in his late fifties, with soft, flabby features. In my opinion, he needed a daily run or he’d go the same way the other Kennys in the family went—out quick with major heart attacks, dropping right on the spot, and never getting the chance to find out what life might be like in their sixties.

Too much bacon grease will do that to a person.

Now was a good time to reaffirm where the lines had been drawn with Kenny and our honey distribution. It was a good excuse to start a conversation and lead it where I wanted it to go.

“Well, if it isn’t the girl,” Kenny said in greeting from a stool behind a counter, instantly rubbing me the wrong way and setting us on a rocky path right from the start.

“That’s Ms. Fischer to you,” I said.”

“Sorry to hear about what’s-his-name.”

“His name was Manny.”

“I guess your honey business is down the toilet. What a shame.” Kenny didn’t look sad, not one bit.

“I’m taking over Queen Bee Honey,” I said, hoping it wasn’t a lie. I still had my sights on the honey house and the possibility of raising enough colonies to continue producing our premium products.

Kenny laughed like he thought I was unbelievably funny. “Anything I can do to help,” he said, “just ask.”

“I do have a favor I need from you. I’d very much appreciate it if you would continue to honor the agreement you had with Manny about sales territories.”

“Why? He’s not around anymore.”

“It’s still a viable business, and you shook hands on it. I was there, remember?”