Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (16 page)

“You don’t seem very concerned,” Nick said.

The sheriff’s mood changed in an instant. He turned to Nick with a cold stare. “I’m concerned,” he said. “I’m concerned that you’d let her go out there in the first place. I’m concerned that you put her in harm’s way.”

“Stop it!” Kathryn said. “Nobody let me do anything. I wanted to go. And no matter why this happened, it’s not going to change my mind about anything.”

No one spoke for a full minute. The sheriff was the first to break the silence.

“I got to thinking things over last night, and I reconsidered. I think we should cooperate on this. I still think it’s a waste of time, but if you’re going to go to the trouble—and the expense,” he glanced at Nick, “then I’d like to know what you come up with. That way if you do turn up anything, I can take the ball and run with it.”

“Thank you.” Kathryn squeezed his arm. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“Yes,” Nick said, “I’m sure a great deal of thought went into this. But it has to work both ways, Sheriff.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ll be happy to share with you anything I find. But in return I’d like access to some things you’ve got.”

“Like what?”

“Like the photos of the death scene. I assume you took some? And a look at any test results. And most importantly”—he leaned forward—“I want permission to interview the major players.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“The hunters, the coroner, the sister of the deceased …”

“I already took care of that,” the sheriff said. “I can brief you.”

“No. I want to interview them. I want a clear field to talk to whomever I want, in any way I want. And in return,” he said with a smile, “I’ll be happy to brief you.”

The sheriff turned to Kathryn with a look of silent complaint.

“Peter,” she said, “we just want to talk to them. You’ve probably already asked all the same questions. Dr. Polchak just wants to make sure there was nothing they missed.”

“You mean nothing I missed,” he scowled. “Okay, Doc. You’re free to ask around—but on one condition.” He nodded toward Kathryn. “She goes with you. I want somebody there who knows these people, somebody who knows how far is too far.”

Nick looked at Kathryn. “I doubt she would have it any other way.”

Another honeybee whizzed by close. The sheriff ducked his head again and swatted at the dark streak.

Nick shook his head. “I would definitely not do that.”

Suddenly the sheriff spit out a curse, slapping the side of his neck and batting at the air around him.

“I warned you not to do that,” Nick said. “Quick, let me see it.”

“I’m fine,” he said angrily, brushing him aside.

“Oh Peter, let him look,” Kathryn said. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“Leave me alone,” the sheriff growled, rubbing at his eyes.

Nick watched him.

“Please, Peter,” Kathryn said again.

“Oh, for the love of … There.” He turned his head to one side.

“Too late now,” Nick shrugged.

“Too late for what?”

“When the stinger pulls out of the bee, it’s still surrounded by part of the abdominal muscle wall. The muscle acts like a pump,” he said, making a squeezing gesture with his fist. “It continues to pump venom into the wound—unless you pull it out within the first five seconds.”

“Big deal,” the sheriff sneered. “It’s just a bee sting.”

“Not to you it’s not.”

Kathryn looked at Peter, then at Nick. “What do you mean?”

“Tell her,” Nick said. “Tell her what you’re feeling. Your eyes itch and your breathing is labored. Your pulse is racing, your skin is pale, and you’ve already got a welt the size of a quarter at the injection site. You’re experiencing a considerable anaphylactic shock.”

Kathryn felt Peter’s forehead and face with the back of her hand.

“When is the last time you were stung by a bee?” Nick asked.

“Beats me. Not since I was a kid, I guess.”

“Then you’re developing a sensitivity to Hymenoptera venom.”

“Is that serious?” Kathryn asked.

“It’s serious to about four people out of a thousand. They drop dead from a single sting. You’re a lucky guy, Sheriff. You found out about your allergy before the Big One hit. If I were you I’d stop by a drugstore and pick up an epinephrine syringe—and I’d carry it with me at all times.”

“I’m not walking around with a needle like some … drug addict,” he said, glancing sheepishly at Kathryn.

“It’s your life. But a little friendly advice. Be careful in the summer, especially on bright, sunny days. I’d stick to the uniform—bees don’t like dark colors. And the next time your friendly neighborhood entomologist tells you to step out of a beeline,” he said bluntly, “try listening. Ignorance can get you killed—and you’ve got a bad case.”

“Thanks for the friendly advice.”

“Now a piece of advice from me,” Kathryn scolded. “Go lie down for a while, Peter. You look terrible.”

“I got work to do.”

“Don’t make me pull out your gun and shoot you in the leg.”

He cracked a smile. “Okay. But only for you.” He kissed her on the forehead, then turned to Nick one last time. “So we’re going to cooperate. You get what I get, and the other way around.”

Nick smiled. “Just think of us as one big family. I know I do.”

The door to the Buck Stop Bar and Grill burst open and Peter St. Clair headed straight for the table of the three hunters. The sheriff grabbed Ronny by both lapels, dragged him from his chair, and jammed him up against the wall; the TV hanging overhead dipped and wobbled, and the screen went black. Ronny stood three inches taller than the sheriff and outweighed him by twenty pounds, but there was no mistaking the alpha male here.

The straight-faced man behind the bar set down a glass and reached below the counter.

“Leave it, Eddie,” Pete called over his shoulder. “This is official business.” The sheriff locked eyes with his paralyzed prey. “What’s this I hear about someone taking a shot at Kathryn?”

“Not at Kathryn,” Ronny fumbled. “Never at her. At that Bug Man guy, the one with all the nets and bottles and stuff.”

Wayne got up from his chair and edged toward the door; the massive deputy filled the doorway, blocking his way. “We didn’t fire at anyone, Pete,” Wayne said. “We just aimed at a little suitcase. Thought it would—you know—send a message.”

“What message?”

“You know—to leave it alone. To go away and stop making trouble.”

Pete dropped his head and let out a rumbling growl. “You idiots! Is that the message you think you sent? That’s like standing
in front of a candy jar with your hands in your pockets! Your little message told them somebody has something to hide—now they’re twice as determined to see it through.”

“But … you said somebody ought to have a talk with that Bug Man.”

“That wasn’t the Bug Man! That was just his assistant, some little guy who goes around catching butterflies for him.”

Two truckers rose from their table at the back of the bar. They glanced up at the broken TV and let out a curse as they passed and headed for the door.

The sheriff released Ronny and stepped away. “Which one of you fired that shot?”

No one answered.

Pete looked at Ronny again. “You’re the one with the Leupold scope.” He stood across the table, eyeing each one of them. “Okay.” The sheriff nodded slowly. “But no more of this. You could have hit Kathryn.”

“C’mon, Pete. From that distance?”

“You could have hit Kathryn. What do you think I would do if that happened?”

No one had the slightest doubt.

The first trucker arrived at the doorway, where the deputy still stood transfixed.

“Move,” the man growled.

The deputy just smiled.

“Hey, Sheriff,” the second trucker called back. “Tell this idiot boy of yours to get his big carcass out of the doorway.”

The sheriff turned and looked at him. “Move him yourself.”

The man hesitated. “You mean it?”

The sheriff slid off his star, held it up, then dropped it into his shirt pocket. “Be my guest.”

The first trucker shoved Beanie hard with both hands, barely budging his immense form.

“I said move,” the man grumbled, backhanding the deputy hard with his right hand. Beanie absorbed the blow and turned back to face the man with an expression not of anger but of hurt and confusion.

The trucker took a second swing at Beanie, then a third.

Beanie slowly raised both arms and tucked his head, as if ducking from an unexpected summer shower.

The trucker’s hands closed into fists and he began to rain down a hail of blows. He stepped in and landed a left and a right to the torso, with no apparent effect at all. He swung a roundhouse left that glanced off the top of the deputy’s head, then an uppercut that just touched the tip of his barely exposed chin. He finally stepped back and paused, panting, and when Beanie lifted his head like an ill-fated bird at a turkey shoot, the man shot a solid right cross to Beanie’s left eye, tearing open the skin and sending blood trickling down his cheek.

“Sheriff!” the bartender said. “Help your boy there.”

“The boy can take care of himself,” Pete replied.

The man’s blows were becoming wilder and weaker and much less frequent. Beanie somehow absorbed each blow, peeking out from under his arms and staring patiently at the sheriff.

The first man finally stepped back in exhaustion, and his partner, sensing his opportunity, stepped up. Beanie remained immobile, blood dripping from his cheek to the wooden floor below.

“Benjamin,” the sheriff said quietly, and then made one large nod.

The deputy stepped forward and reached for the first trucker with his enormous hands. The man swung a wild right at Beanie’s midsection, much slower than before. Beanie took the blow and swallowed the man’s wrist with his right hand; with his left hand he seized his forearm just below the elbow and drew him closer. The man struggled uselessly to pull away, as if ensnared by some great white tar baby. Suddenly Beanie’s viselike hands tightened and twisted. There was a crack like the report of a rifle, and then a scream.

Beanie released his hands, and the man stumbled back against his partner, his right forearm dangling at a ninety-degree angle.

The trucker lay sprawled on the barroom floor, clutching his shattered arm across his chest. Beanie stood over him, smiling at the sheriff, no longer aware of the man’s existence.

The sheriff glanced at the deputy’s bleeding face. “Gonna need a couple of stitches. We better head back to the office and have Agnes take a look at it.”

On the way to the door the sheriff poked his toe at the man’s dangling hand. The trucker screamed in agony and jerked away.

“Better get that fixed too,” he said.

The sheriff turned back to the three hunters one last time. “Think about this, you morons: Now the finger’s pointed at you more than ever. What are you going to do now?”

The door slammed shut. The men stared at one another in silence.

“He’s right,” Denny whispered. “What are we going to do now?”

What is this stuff?” Nick sneered, licking at the little pink spoon. “It tastes like butyl rubber. That’s it—it tastes like surgical tubing.”

“That’s chocolate mousse royale,” the man behind the ice cream counter said with a roll of his eyes. His thick southern accent made the word royale sound especially ludicrous.

“What about that green stuff? What’s that?”

“Mint chocolate chip,” the man said tiredly.

“Okay, give me a sample of that.”

The stout little man behind the counter was Hiram Wilkins, known to all but the oldest residents of Rayford as Will, the proprietor of Wilkins’s Drug Emporium and the elected coroner of Holcum County. Mr. Wilkins was dressed in his shopkeeper’s white shirt and black tie, which he never seemed to change regardless of season or occasion. He had a habit of repeatedly running one finger between his neck and collar and tugging, as if to release the buildup of pressure from his expanding midsection below. He wore a well-stained apron that he donned whenever he
stepped behind the ice cream counter, a position he now occupied with diminishing patience.

“Well?” Mr. Wilkins demanded.

“I can’t place it,” Nick said thoughtfully. “Wait—I’ve got it. Scope. It tastes like mouthwash.”