Plan Bee (9 page)

“Okay,” I said.

“Huh?” my clueless sister said.

“Let me guess,” Patti said to Holly. “Not so good in the sciences, right?”

Holly just looked more confused.

“Here’s our premise.” Patti glanced at her notes. She’s determined to be a stereotypical journalist. They love pads of paper, particularly spiral ones that they can flip. Patti flipped hers. “People don’t usually lie still on the ground under black plastic unless they’re dead. Conclusion then is, therefore, the person is dead.”

I’d pretty much figured out that one a long time ago, but didn’t say that.

“We’re looking for a body, a dead one,” Holly agreed. “And a killer, since most dead people don’t cover themselves in plastic, right?”

“So everybody in this bar is a suspect,” Patti said. “This is a big job. I hope you two are going to continue to assist me in breaking in to journalism. This could be important to my career.”

“Help you?” I said. “This isn’t only about you. It’s about my believability.” Okay, that sounded just as selfish as Patti’s comment. So I corrected myself. “But mostly it’s about somebody else. About finding out what happened and exactly who it happened to.”

My sister gave me a long, studied look. “And you’re positive of what you saw?” she asked me for what felt like the zillionth time.

“Absolutely,” I said again. “I’m heading home. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

I left Holly and Patti at the bar and walked the short distance home.

Dinky greeted me at the door, where she’d been lying on a soft blanket I’d placed there just for her. Only it wasn’t looking so soft and fluffy anymore. She had barfed on the blanket, regurgitating a clot of who-knows-what that wasn’t meant to pass through her digestive system—grass, stringy digestive goo, lumpy this and that. Ewww.

I knew this moment was part of my future the minute she gobbled up whatever was on the ground in the cemetery. Sure enough, I’d been right again. I hate it when I’m right, especially when it has to do with Dinky.

I swiped it up with a wad of paper towel, dumped it into the garbage, and put the blanket in the laundry bin.

Yuck, that dog was trouble.

Marauding hive robbers.

That’s what I found early the next morning at one of the beehives in my backyard apiary. Dinky was on the sidelines watching, after having done her business on the kitchen floor right before I opened the door to take her out. Not the best start to the day, and now this.

One characteristic humans share with honeybees is a penchant for war, with the winner taking all the spoils. Sad, but true. And just like us when we are threatened, each hive posts guard bees at the entrance, ready to defend the colony. Their job is to identify invaders.

Robber bees will fly around a hive looking for opportunities to steal honey by getting past the guards and in through the entryway. An experienced beekeeper pays close attention.

If bees are going into the hive with honey, that’s as it should be.

But in this case, bees were leaving with honey. Not
good. Not good at all. The entrance to the hive was frantic with activity.

I grabbed protective gloves and quickly ripped up some grass, digging my fingers in deep to get a grip on some dirt, too. Then I stuffed the wad around the hive entrance to make the opening smaller and hopefully easier for my bees to guard. Since they were fighting for their lives, embroiled in combat, some of my bees mistook me for the other side, so I sustained a few war wounds despite the gloves.

Ouch, they hurt.

But I felt I deserved it. This was all my fault; in the beeyard I’m supposed to protect my wards from harm. I was supposed to be paying attention, on guard all the time. But right now I didn’t have time to wallow in guilt. I had to help the bees fight back.

I grabbed a sprinkler, jammed it on top of the hive, ran to the faucet, and turned it on. Bees really hate getting wet, so a downpour of water that simulated rain was guaranteed to deter another looter attack. The rotating sprinkler gave me time to get a spray bottle filled with a mix of liquid bee smoker and water. I sprayed the heck out of the entrance.

Then I surveyed the damage. Not too bad. My bees were groggy from the bee smoke I’d sprayed. The only wet ones were those closest to the entrance and they would dry off just fine. I must have caught the invasion in time. As for my condition, not only did I have stingers stuck in me, I was also dripping wet.

Just then Hunter showed up in my driveway on his Harley.

Figures. Timing has never been kind to me.

“Am I interrupting something?” he said, swinging off the bike and strolling over, staying dry on the fringe of the sprinkler’s range while I stayed in its spray, making absolutely sure that my mission had been accomplished. At least I’d scraped the stingers out of my hand.

“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.

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.