Buzz Off Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Wisconsin Resources

  About the Author

  Stung to death . . .

  When we arrived at the Chapman property, an ambulance, three fire trucks, and several police vehicles were parked off to the side of the house. Paramedics and firefighters huddled together, studying the beeyard out in the back field. Both the Waukesha Sheriff’s Department and the Moraine Police Department were represented. I saw Johnny Jay, the Moraine police chief, off by himself, talking on his phone.

  I’d never seen a dead person outside of a coffin, and seeing Manny lying there almost brought me to my knees. If I’d still had a champagne buzz after riding over in Hunter Wallace’s truck, I instantly sobered up when I walked into the apiary and saw Manny Chapman’s body.

  I wanted to be alone someplace, crying my eyes out. I couldn’t stop thinking that if I had been here, none of this would have happened. Logically, however, I knew that I couldn’t fall apart. I was the only living and breathing person available at the moment who knew anything about bees. I had to help.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  BUZZ OFF

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Deb Baker.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44282-1

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest gratitude to:

  • Jacky Sach, who got me this wonderful gig

  • Andy Hemken, beekeeper extraordinaire (note—any mistakes are my own)

  • Adam Baker, for his awesomely vivid map of the town of Moraine

  • Doug Kennedy, K-9 police dog trainer, who shared canine stories and training methods

  • Lisa Lickel, my first reader

  • Heidi Cox, Mary Goll, and Jessica Stapp, who won places in the newsletter for their delicious recipes

  • Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, for taking a rough sketch and bringing it to life

  One

  If I hadn’t been drinking champagne at noon on Friday, I would have been over at the honey house with Manny Chapman, my beekeeping mentor and owner of Queen Bee Honey, and possibly, just possibly, I might have saved him from what must have been a very painful death. Instead, oblivious to his pending demise and feeling slightly tipsy, I popped open bottle number three and filled more flutes.

  I’m the only grocer in the unincorporated town of Moraine, Wisconsin, which has a population base climbing steadily toward eight hundred residents. I work hard to fill the needs of the community. Today, business was brisker than usual at my shop, The Wild Clover, mainly because of the free champagne and the one-day sale on everything in the store, including special bullet items such as:

  • Wisconsin prize-winning cheeses

  • Cranberries from the northern part of the state, dried and fresh

  • Whole grains, including Wisconsin wild rice, which is really aquatic grass seeds

  • Wines from Door County wineries

  • Thirty-five varieties of organic vegetables

  • Apples from the Country Delight Farm just up the road

  • And of course honey products: comb honey, bottled honey, bulk honey, honey candy, beeswax, and bee pollen

  There’s nothing like the lure of freebies and discounts to bring out the best in people. Everyone in my little hometown made a point of stopping by my store to tip a glass and wish me well, whether they meant it or not.

  Well, maybe not everyone stopped by. My ex-husband, Clay Lane, didn’t show up, even though he lived only two blocks away and must have seen the banner tacked to the awning, announcing my freedom party.

  “You should call him up, Story,” Carrie Ann Retzlaff, my cousin and very part-time employee, said in her husky chain-smoker’s voice. My cousin had close-cropped yellow-as-straw hair and a toothpick-thin body, since she ingested more nicotine and alcohol than nutrients. “Invite the ex to join us,” she suggested.

  I scowled playfully to let her know that was a bad idea. Celebrating a divorce is a lot like celebrating a successful heart transplant. They both hurt like hell, and your qual
ity of life would be much better if the issues leading up to the situation had never happened in the first place. But at least I can say I’m still in the game, still alive and kicking. It’s all about attitude.

  “Cheers to all of you from me, Story Fischer,” I called out, placing special emphasis on my last name and noting by the clock above the register that I’d been a free woman for almost twenty-four breezy, wind-at-my-back hours. Fischer. My maiden name. The one I’d reclaimed yesterday afternoon. It sounded so right! Why had I ever given it up?

  Story was my nickname, bestowed by childhood friends because I used to be quite the storyteller—in a friendly, silly sort of way, of course. I liked Story much better than my given name, Melissa, which my family shortened to Missy before I could even lift my bald baby head. As I grew up, Missy didn’t exactly shout out strength and intelligence. Besides, the other kids came up with a bunch of variations for Missy that were truly mean and hurtful. Plus, Story has a bit of intrigue to it.

  Story Fischer, that’s me.

  At the moment, I really missed my most loyal part-timers, twins Brent and Trent Craig, local college students in their sophomore years, working reduced hours at the store around gaps in their class schedules. That left me pretty much alone most days until they eventually reappeared like glorious gifts from heaven.

  For this special event, I’d been forced to ask Carrie Ann, smoke-scented perfume and all, to work for me while I hosted the party. “Don’t think anything of it,” she said when I thanked her for the third time. She reached under the counter, then tipped back and drained an entire flute of champagne with one chug. “This is like hanging at Stu’s Bar and Grill, only better because I get paid.”

  I plucked the empty glass out of her hand, ignored her startled expression, and said, “No drinking on the job, please.”

  “Why not? You’re drinking,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but that’s why I asked you to handle the cash register.”

  “Crapola.” My cousin shook her head at the injustice of it all.

  I had a hunch that if I didn’t watch the till, Carrie Ann would be giving away the store. How many glasses of champagne had she already had?

  The Wild Clover was crammed from aisle to aisle as far as my quickly glazing-over eyes could see. The store’s special sales and free-flowing champagne weren’t just about my divorce. September was National Honey Month and this was our kick-off event. I lifted my head high and gazed at one of the stained-glass windows above me. The panes twinkled with sunlight, beaming rainbow-colored rays that gave the interior a certain magical light.

  Two years ago, in more promising times, Clay and I had bought the Lutheran church for a song when the congregation outgrew the building and put it up for sale. The opportunity came about a year after we’d gotten married. What better way to begin our new lives together than to leave the city life in Milwaukee, move to my hometown of Moraine, buy the house I grew up in from my mother, and convert an early-twentieth-century church into a grocery store?

  Our marriage had been doomed from the very beginning, but The Wild Clover was a success. Once we owned the building, I had removed the pews and the raised altar and converted the space into shelves, coolers, and freezers, but leaving all those fabulous stained-glass windows, three on each side, two in the back, and one above the massive double doors in front. From that beginning the store was born.

  In addition to our house, we’d also purchased the house next door, which Clay had turned into a custom jewelry shop. Wire jewelry to be specific. Handcrafted, unique pieces guaranteed to attract a flock of females. The Wild Clover had been a beginning. The jewelry shop was the end.

  I came back to the present and had to blink several times before the store came back into focus, with all its artfully displayed produce and products and its fresh smells. A group of kids were crowded into the corner, picking out saltwater taffy and other treats from old-fashioned barrels. Several customers were planted right next to the champagne table and looked as if they were there for the duration of the party, or at least until the champagne ran out.

  “I need a bagger,” Carrie Ann called to me, and I quickly stepped over to help.

  “Try the honey candy,” I pointed out to those in line, indicating a honey jar filled with hard candy. “They have soft centers. Try one. They’re free.”

  Honey! Sweet nectar from heaven. Most people don’t know that honey comes in different flavors, depending on the bees’ plant sources. Most honey is a blend, but if honeybees have an opportunity to forage in fields with only one type of available nectar, their honey reflects that.

  In Wisconsin we have (listed from lightest to darkest):

  • Alfalfa

  • Clover

  • Sunflower

  • Cranberry Blossom

  • Wildflower

  • Buckwheat

  • Blueberry Blossom

  “Help yourselves,” I encouraged my customers again, taking a piece of honey candy myself, unwrapping it, and popping it in my mouth.

  I saw Manny Chapman’s wife, Grace, walk in the front door, which reminded me that I’d promised to help Manny clean up his equipment later today, now that honey-harvesting and -processing season was over.

  I’d been intrigued by honeybees as long as I could remember, so last spring when Manny Chapman taught a beginning course in beekeeping, I’d signed right up. Before long, my fascination had become a passion. When the class ended, I hung around to keep absorbing knowledge.

  All of last year I helped Manny in his beeyard, extracting and bottling honey, learning every single thing I could from him about beekeeping. This spring, Manny gave me two strong hives of my own as payment for helping him out.

  In fact, we worked so well as a team, he’d started talking about a partnership down the line, expanding the honey business with more aggressive marketing and higher honey yields. At last count, Manny had eighty-one hives, each one producing approximately one hundred and fifty pounds of honey, depending on the year. If he wanted to expand his business, he needed help. And I was right there, ready to go.

  On a regular Friday afternoon, before the twins went back to college, I used to spend several hours in Manny’s honey house, that sweet-smelling, homey building behind his home where he taught me how to extract wildflower honey and bottle it for sale.

  Today wasn’t a regular Friday, though.

  “No, thank you,” Grace said with a righteous air when I offered her a flute of bubbly. Grace Chapman was two years older than me, making her thirty-six. She was as plain as a donut without glaze. Her marriage to Manny eight years earlier had been the culmination of a May/September romance. He had at least twenty years on her, but you’d never know it. Manny had a love of nature and a joy for living, while Grace seemed to view life as a chore. “I don’t drink,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch in disapproval. “Especially during the workday.”

  I placed the filled flute on the table with one eye on Carrie Ann, who had edged closer. “When you get home,” I said to Grace, “tell Manny I’m still coming out later.”

  Grace humphed and went down aisle two toward the cheese case.

  “Isn’t Manny coming to our party?” Carrie Ann asked, when I turned back to offer a flute to the next customer.

  “You know Manny,” I answered. “When it comes to his bees, he’s obsessive. Although, he did say he’d stop by earlier if he could. Guess he got caught up in whatever bee project he’s working on today.”

  Just then, Emily Nolan came in, carrying posters.

  Emily, the library director, was Moraine’s second-generation information specialist, meaning her mother had been the director of our library until her retirement. Then Emily, having prepared for this important career move her entire life, took over the position, and slid her own daughter into the wings to wait her turn. Our small library was stuffed with books from floor to ceiling, and although we, the residents, found it cozy and comfortable, the plain truth was that the town’s needs w
ere outgrowing the existing building. Something would have to be done soon.

  In my humble opinion, libraries, once considered dusty dinosaurs destined for extinction, were reinventing themselves and emerging as important community centers like they were when I was a kid. I was pro-library all the way.

  “Don’t forget about the library event tomorrow afternoon,” Emily reminded me. “A bluegrass band jam in the back. We’ve set up extra picnic tables.”

  “How could anybody forget?” I said. “We have posters plastered everywhere.”

  Carrie Ann snickered before she repeated, “Plastered,” under her breath with a glance my way.

  I was only getting started on the champagne, but that one word spoken the way she said it reminded me to slow down. I didn’t refill my empty flute.

  “I’ll find a spot for at least one more poster,” Emily said.

  As soon as the library director wandered off, my sister made an entrance.

  What can I say about my sister Holly? For starters, she’s beautiful. Add to that, filthy rich at thirty-one after marrying a trust-fund baby the same month she graduated from college, which had been the whole point of higher education, according to her. She’d gone in for a good old-fashioned M.R.S. degree. Max “The Money Machine” Paine had come along her junior year, and it was love at first sight. They now own a Milwaukee condo, a Naples winter home, and a mansion on Pine Lake. They decided not to have children, which means they can keep accumulating as much stuff as they want.

  Which is not to say that my sister doesn’t have a generous side—Holly also loaned me enough cash to save the store from certain death during the property split between Clay and me.