Mind Your Own Beeswax (10 page)

Hetty Cross had been one of my neighbors, loosely speaking. When I lived in Milwaukee, my neighbors lived right next to me, so close I could look through their windows and tell what they were watching on TV. We didn’t even have to know each other’s names—and most of the time we didn’t—to be considered neighbors.

P. P. Patti and I were obviously neighbors since she lived right next to me. She could pry into my private life, probably knowing exactly what I did inside my home thanks to her telescopic lenses. Even in the city, Patti would be considered abnormal.

Here in Moraine, neighbors weren’t defined by meters, feet, or yards. Hetty Cross and her husband Norm lived at least half a mile away from me. But because of the river, lost land, fields, and government-owned trails standing between us, no other houses or residents existed there.

So in the scheme of things, we were neighbors.

Not that Hetty had a single neighborly bone in her body. She wasn’t known for her friendliness, which was her prerogative. No one held it against her. That was the beauty of a place like this. If you wanted solitude, you could have as much as you could stand.

Apparently, Hetty had ended up with a lot more desolate alone time than she’d bargained for. The Witch was dead. The same one who had yanked me across her property line by my ear when I was a kid.

Good thing I had a strong stomach, because even with that going for me, my insides were doing flip-flops for a variety of reasons. One, I wasn’t particularly used to death (other than honeybees, because they had short lives and so many predators). Two, I knew this dead person personally. Three, she was lying right there almost in front of me and as hard as I tried not to look, my eyes had a mind of their own and took in every bit of the scene.

And then there was number four, which had been confirmed a little later when the powers-that-be (aka Johnny Jay and Hunter) requested the presence of Gus and Terry Kerrigan. A certain weapon was lying on the ground on the other side of Hetty’s lifeless body and needed to be identified. Gus and Terry reluctantly did so.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Johnny Jay asked them.

“It’s a short-barreled Sig Sauer,” Gus said. “And it looks just like the one Rita owns.”

“That’s all we can tell you,” Terry said, letting the chip on his shoulder show in every single move he made.

“That’ll do it,” Johnny Jay said, pleased with how the case seemed to be progressing along.

So unless things changed later, it appeared that Hetty had been shot and killed with the handgun from Rita Kerrigan’s nightstand drawer.

Letting my vivid imagination run rampant, that meant Holly, Patty, and I could have been in this exact spot earlier in the evening right with the killer. He—or she, as the case might be—could have been hiding behind a tree watching and waiting for us to move away. And Hetty could have been lying right next to me while I sat on the ground leaning against the trunk where my bees landed for the night.

I felt chills. Hunter noticed, removed his black leather jacket, and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Not that kind of cold,” I muttered.

“I know, but it’s the best I can do.”

Lauren Kerrigan was still missing just like before, but suddenly her rating on the importance scale rose dramatically, earning her the full attention of a much wider group of concerned individuals.

Suddenly, Johnny Jay really, really cared about where she was. It didn’t take him long to put out an all-points bulletin. After that he skirted the tree with my bees, giving it a wide berth like everyone else was doing, and turned his full attention my way.

“Missy Fischer,” Johnny Jay said, still calling me by my schoolgirl name, knowing it bugged me. “You’re telling me that you and your sister just happened to be in this exact location mere hours before you just happened to find this body.”

I stared at the emergency crew, at the stretcher, at the body bag on it, wishing I hadn’t had to divulge that particular bit of information. But a team was dusting for fingerprints. What if they pulled my fingerprints from the tree, if that was even possible? My fingerprints and my sister’s had to be all over the place.

Better to get the truth out in the open right from the start rather than give Johnny Jay more ammunition later on. In spite of Mom’s gloomy assessments, I really
was
learning from past mistakes.

“Ask my sister or Patti Dwyre, Johnny Jay,” I said, realizing way too late that my prints weren’t on file and I might have possibly slipped under his radar. “They will confirm what I told you.”

“Of course, they will,” Johnny sneered. “And I’m Police Chief Jay to you. Don’t call me Johnny again.”

Okay
, I thought, mentally coming up with some choice new names that suited him better.

Hunter stood off to the side, talking to a group of county deputies, leaving me alone in the clutches of the police chief. The town residents were divided as to why Johnny hated me so much. One side believed it was because I had turned him down years ago when he had asked me to prom, when I chose to go with Hunter instead. Jeez. Wouldn’t anybody? I thought that explanation was lame, because who held a grudge like that over years and years?

The other side of the fence insisted it was because of the time Johnny was tormenting a younger kid and I’d hauled off and decked the bully with my backpack, which happened to be loaded down with heavy books. Johnny went face first in the snow right in front of everybody. He lost some fearful respect that day and spent a long time earning it back.

Whatever the reason, the negative feelings he had for me were mutual. I didn’t hesitate to reciprocate, although I often wished the man hadn’t grown up to be in a position of authority over me.

I was in his sights, that was for sure. “And you’re telling me you didn’t see Lauren Kerrigan shoot and kill Hetty Cross in cold blood?” he said for what seemed like the hundredth time. But this time Terry Kerrigan and some of the others were in earshot. Terry didn’t look happy. Neither did Robert. They scowled at the police chief.

Johnny went on, still badgering me. “You say you heard shots. You were right here where it happened. You saw something or you did something, or you know something, and I’ll take you in and throw you in a cell if you don’t start talking.
Now!
”

“What’s going on?” Hunter said, finally strolling over, but still taking his sweet time.

“This is nothing to you, Wallace,” Johnny said to him.

“Afraid it is. This is county land,” Hunter replied, while I admired his coolness under pressure. The man was easy, relaxed, and confident. “Gives me jurisdiction.”

“Like hell it does,” Johnny shot back. “This is town land.”

The two testosterone heavies were probably as confused as everybody else over The Lost Mile’s jurisdiction and who owned which parts of it. Did the town own this stretch? Or the county? Or one of the landowners? Before the mess would be officially sorted out, if it ever could, these two were in what was referred to as a particular type of manly contest to see whose stream was longer.

At least Johnny Jay’s attention wasn’t focused on me anymore.

I considered slinking away.

Ben stood off to the side, leashed to a tree. I walked over and kneeled down beside him. Petting his sleek coat earned me a gentle kiss. “We should get away,” I said to him. “While the getting’s good.”

A skirmish broke out. At first I thought Johnny Jay and Hunter were duking it out over territory, but it turned out Terry Kerrigan was making another attempt to get at our police chief. “You dumb-ass pig,” he said, directing the slur at Johnny while others struggled to hold him back. Terry was always good at giving lots of advance notice when his hackles were up. I suspected he was more noise than anything else. Someday the others weren’t going to jump in to stop him and we’d all get to see how tough he really was.

“You bumbling idiot!” he shouted again. “You better stop accusing Lauren until you know the facts. This is slander.” Terry spit on the ground. “You have no business bad-mouthing her.”

“Get him out of here,” Johnny Jay said to the other Kerrigans, “or I’ll take him in.” A group of relatives hauled Terry off. “And take her with you, too,” Johnny said, pointing at me. “She’s just in the way.”

Finally! I’d been released from the scene, although Johnny’s poor attitude made me consider staying just to see how much more I could annoy him.

“I’ll call you later,” Hunter said, following me a short distance so we could have some privacy. “Lauren has been here, no question about that. Ben had her scent earlier. We’re going to keep following her trail.”

He took my hand and I gave his a gentle squeeze. He squeezed back. “Good luck,” I said, before hustling down the logging road to catch up with the others, relieved to be away from the crime scene.

I had a list of questions as long as The Lost Mile and I tossed them around in my brain as the group of us walked toward the north entrance. It was the opposite direction from my house, but no way was I walking the other way alone. I would catch a ride home from somebody.

My thoughts were these:

By morning at least one of my questions was answered. Ben had completed his mission—he’d found Lauren Kerrigan.

Dead.

Sunday morning’s dawn brought sunshine, but with a lingering springtime nip to the air. Bright and early, Stanley Peck knocked on my door, right as I was pondering the most effective way to launch my sister out of bed. She’d locked the door to the spare bedroom and told me in both text-speech and normal-person-dialogue to take a flying leap off a high bridge.

“I’m telling Mom to take you back,” I shouted through the door before letting Stanley in.

“I heard about your bees swarming,” Stanley said. “And I’m here to help you get them back.” I sort of could tell that, because Stanley was in full head-to-toe bee gear: a zippered full white suit, wide-mesh netted veil, boots, and elbow-length canvas gloves.

He wasn’t taking any chances.

“I love you to death,” I said, zipping up my hoodie and slamming loudly out the back door for Holly’s benefit. Then we located an aluminum ladder, a small hedge clipper, and the right sized cardboard box for the job at hand.

Stanley walked beside me carrying the ladder. His limp was more pronounced this morning, reminding me not only of his self-inflicted shooting accident but also of yesterday’s shots. I really wanted Hetty’s death to be an unfortunate accident.

“Not much farther,” I said to encourage Stanley when he paused to rest his leg.

“Your bees are going to get active soon,” he said, something I was well aware of. Once the day warmed up, they would be on their way.

Last night’s fog had dissipated and the Oconomowoc River flowed along fast and strong, still swollen from all the spring rain we’d had. Not a cloud in the sky. If not for recent events, this moment would be perfect.

While we walked, I thought of Hunter and Ben. Hunter hadn’t called like he said he would, but it was still barely dawn and they might have worked late into the night. Right now, Hunter was probably catching up on his sleep, preparing to go a few more rounds with Johnny Jay. He’d better bring along more county cops to support his efforts, because Johnny Jay had a bull’s brain and the same mentality. But Hunter had grown up with Johnny, too. He’d figure out something.

“Are you still feeding your bees?” Stanley asked. He was new to beekeeping (even newer than I was), having only started last year when he dated a woman who had a few hobby hives of her own. That’s how the obsession began for most of us. We met someone who kept bees and suddenly we were hooked.

Stanley had a million questions every time I saw him.

Honeybees survive on the honey they store up before winter arrives, but by spring their supplies are dwindling, especially during a cold and rainy spring like the one we’d had so far. A smart beekeeper helps them out over the winter by not being greedy, and leaving enough honey for them to get through the season on their own. But sometimes we misjudge, so then honeybees need supplemental feedings of a sugar syrup mixture.

“Nope,” I said in reply to Stanley’s feeding question. “I left them enough honey.”

“I didn’t. They ran out. I’ve been feeding them sugar syrup for a while now.”

“Keep feeding them until the days are warmer and they have more pollen sources to draw from.”

“They have dandelions.”