Mind Your Own Beeswax 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

  The Wild Clover May Newsletter

  Common Bee-friendly Flowers

  About the Author

  PRAISE FOR Buzz Off

  “If you’re wondering how beekeeping and mysteries go together, then pick up Hannah Reed’s Buzz Off and see what all the excitement is about. Reed has come up with a great setting, rich characters, and such a genuine protagonist in Story Fischer that you’ll be sorry the book is over when you turn the last page. Start reading and you won’t want to put it down. Trust me, you’ll be saying ‘buzz off’ to anybody who dares interrupt!”

  —Julie Hyzy, award-winning author of Grace Under Pressure

  “Action, adventure, a touch of romance, and a cast of delightful characters fill Hannah Reed’s debut novel. Buzz Off is one honey of a tale.”

  —Lorna Barrett, New York Times bestselling author of the Booktown Mysteries

  “The death of a beekeeper makes for an absolute honey of a read in this engaging and well-written mystery. Story Fischer is a sharp and resilient amateur sleuth, and Hannah Reed sweeps us into her world with skillful and loving detail.”

  —Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries

  “A sparkling debut . . . Delicious.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Will appeal to readers who like Joanne Fluke and other cozy writers for recipes, the small-town setting, and a sense of community.”

  —Library Journal

  “A rollicking good time. The colorful family members and townspeople provide plenty of relationship drama and entertainment. The mystery is well plotted and this series promises to keep readers buzzing.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “Everyone is simply going to go buzz-erk over the marvelously quirky cast of characters in this fabulously funny new series . . . Hannah Reed has a deliciously spicy, adorable sense of humor that had me howling with unabashed glee. You couldn’t get as many colorful characters if you poured them from a box of Froot Loops. Buzz Off has just the right blend of mystery, romance, and humor that will charm anyone’s socks off. If this fantastic whodunnit doesn’t buzz to the top of your list, I’m simply gonna have to sic Grams on you . . . and she doesn’t mess around. Quill says: If you are in need of a quirky, light, incredibly humorous cozy, look no more. Hannah Reed has whopped’n chopped and stirred up a formula for a mystery that will line up an audience who will beg for more!”

  —Feathered Quill Book Reviews

  “In her debut book, Buzz Off, author Hannah Reed combines an intriguing whodunnit with a lively, action-filled story to create one sweet cozy mystery! . . . Buzz Off is a charming beginning of what promises to be a fun series! . . . A yummy treat for fans of cozy mysteries.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Highly entertaining.”

  —Associated Content

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Hannah Reed

  BUZZ OFF

  MIND YOUR OWN BEESWAX

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

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  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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.

  MIND YOUR OWN BEESWAX

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

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2011

  Copyright © 2011 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 : 978-1-101-51451-1

  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

  Special thanks to:

  • Friend and writer Anne Godden-Segard, who can always bring me out of writer’s block with witty comments and clever concepts of her own.

  • Shannon Jamieson Vazquez—I couldn’t do it without her guidance.

  • Martha Gatchel and Heidi Cox for their fabulous recipe contributions.

  One

  I missed the clues leading up to my honeybees’ finely orchestrated plan to abandon me. They took off right before noon on a sunny May day, rising as one large buzzing ball with the queen in the center, where she would be protected by the entire honeybee community—workers, housekeepers, nurses, guards, and drones. Drones, that is, if all those females had even bothered taking any of the boys along.

  In honeybee colonies, girls rule.r />
  I took off in hot pursuit. Or as hot as I could wearing a pair of metallic-purple flip-flops. Not the greatest footwear for a chase, but the bees hadn’t bothered to give me any advance warning.

  The black circular mass of bees headed for the Oconomowoc River, then veered to the right before reaching its bank. Lucky for me, since I wouldn’t have been able to follow if they’d crossed over to the other side of our small town of Moraine’s spring rain–swollen river. Next they headed down a deer trail, taking the path of least resistance with me flopping along behind, trying to keep up. But it was useless. I couldn’t help noticing that I was losing ground quickly, the distance between me and them widening by leaps and bounds. Or rather by trips and stumbles on my part.

  The swarm flew toward a rustic wooden bridge that spanned the river, compliments of the state of Wisconsin’s commitment to increasing and improving its hiking trails.

  My escapees didn’t take the bridge, but kept going due north.

  Another sharp turn, like they knew exactly where they were going—which they most likely did thanks to bee scouts who would have been out searching for new digs while I was puttering among the hives, thinking everything was just swell, totally oblivious to this particular group’s impending departure.

  Honeybees swarm when they outgrow their communal homes, the same way we do when we start our families and realize at some point that we need more space. I was supposed to be able to read the signs of a colony getting ready to swarm, but I’m new at this game and learning everything the hard way. Which according to my mother was my standard mode of operation anyway.

  I did know this much for sure:

  • They would have left part of the colony behind, mostly the weaker ones.

  • The renegade queen would have stopped laying eggs and would have slimmed down so she could make the flight.

  • From the size of this swarm, I guessed that several thousand of them had absconded with whatever food sources they could carry in those handy little built-in pouches of theirs.

  • Most of the boys would still be lounging around the old hive, since they were basically good for only one thing, and they tended to be more of a burden than they were worth.

  • A newly hatched queen would be in the “wings” ready to take over for those left behind.

  • She would be a virgin, but not for long. Then she would begin repopulating what was left of her colony.

  My name is Story Fischer, christened Melissa at birth and called Missy until friends and family gave me my more colorful moniker based loosely on my ability to fabricate convincing tales. For the record, I never told outright blatant lies. They were more like enhanced embellishments. But I had walked a fine line between fact and fiction.

  I like to think I’ve outgrown that trait.

  At thirty-four years old, I’m trying more for dignified and classy, since I’m a recent divorcée with a ticking clock. But who’s paying attention to age and time? I say to myself often, sometimes sarcastically, other times with more of a moan.

  Thank God I was alone at the moment, because I lost my grasp on that dignified and classy thing. It was impossible to watch the rough ground I was running along and keep an eye on the honeybees in the air at the same time. I tripped over an obstacle, which turned out to be a fallen branch, and took a header, landing flat out, face-first, before raising up in what a yoga student would call the cobra pose. The swarm of bees crossed the Oconomowoc River. Then they vanished from sight.

  Jeez!

  From what I gathered after studying volumes of informational resources I collected and referenced often, my bees would find a place to hang out in foliage until worker bees prepared the perfect spot, most likely in the hollow of a tree. Before that happened, I had to find and corral them back to the beeyard, but this time into a larger, roomier home. They belonged in my backyard where I raised honeybees and bottled honey products with my own custom label, “Queen Bee Honey.”

  This swarm of honeybees didn’t know it, but their chances of surviving in the wild without my help ranged from zero to none. Something bad would get them for sure—mites, diseases, predators, starvation, hosts of dangers awaited them if they didn’t come to their senses. As usual, I had to do their major survival thinking for them. In return, they supplied all kinds of honey products and a decent profit. What a great partnership. Usually, anyway. When they behaved themselves.

  I didn’t have any more time to invest in my jailbreaking bees, though, because I was due back at my store, The Wild Clover. I had taken only a few minutes to walk the two blocks to my house to grab lunch when the traitorous flight occurred. Just my luck, the bees would have to cause trouble on Saturday, my busiest day. The Wild Clover happened to be the only grocery store in Moraine, Wisconsin, and a successful one at that. It specializes in local products and produce as well as more common staples that bring in regular customers. One-stop shopping was my ongoing goal.

  My store’s shelves were well stocked with Wisconsin-made brats and sausages, fresh-picked rhubarb, watercress, fiddlehead ferns, maple syrup, my honey products, coffees, wines, cheeses, and Danish kringles—Wisconsin’s exclusive, wonderful pastries composed of flaky dough rolled out thin, filled with fruit and nuts, baked, and frosted. Delicious.

  I got to my feet, wearing only one of the flip-flops, found the other, shuffled into it, and assessed the damage to my body and spirit. None really, if you didn’t count being outsmarted by flying insects.

  “You have dirt on the side of your face,” my cousin and part-time helper Carrie Ann Retzlaff said when I walked in the door of The Wild Clover. “And stuff in your hair, like branches. That was some long lunch. What happened? You look like you’ve been rolling around in the hay.”

  She plucked a twig from my hair and gave me a smirky, knowing grin. Carrie Ann was referring to the recent handholding I’d been doing with Hunter Wallace. He’d been my boyfriend in high school, then not my boyfriend for lots of years. Now? Well, maybe again. As usual, I was in a major state of relationship confusion, a condition I’d displayed most of my dating/married/divorced life.

  My cousin grinned. “Come on, share. What kept you so long and who sent you back looking like this?”

  “Nothing happened,” I said. “At least nothing worth talking about and certainly not anything hot and sexy.” I hurried to the back storage room, which also served as my office and break room. There, I put myself back together before returning to the checkout counter to take over for Carrie Ann.

  My cousin was thin as a honey stick, with spiky yellow hair and an equally thorny drinking problem that came and went at random intervals. Currently, it was gone. I could tell by her work attendance. She was actually showing up on time and doing her job without botching most of it. When dealing with an alcoholic employee who happens to also be a family member—and at times more a charity case than anything else—small steps that everybody else takes for granted are monster accomplishments.

  Because of Carrie Ann’s drinking, she’d lost her husband, Gunnar, and her two children. But recently Gunnar had noticed her progress and her continued improvement, and he was letting her see the kids every other Sunday as long as she was sober and supervised. We were all keeping our fingers crossed that this time she would make it the whole nine yards for one last, game-winning touchdown.

  By we I meant pretty much everybody in town, since our community was too small not to notice things like my cousin’s ongoing battle with booze. But my immediate family was especially watchful. That included my sister, Holly, who owned half of The Wild Clover thanks to a financial bailout during my divorce, my grandmother—aka Grams—and me. My mother, who couldn’t charm a starving dog with a meaty bone, doesn’t believe people can change for the better. Worse, yes. Better, no way. Her philosophy shows in the wrinkles in her forehead and the sour expression on her face. The lines around Mom’s mouth are permanently turned down. Holly says that only happened after our father had a massive heart attack five years ago and died b
efore the paramedics arrived. I say they’ve always been there.

  My sister tends to border on delusionally optimistic.

  “Holly called in.” Carrie Ann thought to tell me this after I’d already looked down several aisles without finding my sister. “She’ll be late again.”

  Figures. Working shifts with Holly was always dicey. But I still had the twins, Brent and Trent, who took as many hours at the store as their college classes allowed. I could see Trent stocking a new shipment of Wisconsin artisan cheeses at the far end of aisle three and Brent was helping a customer select a Door County wine.

  I used my cell phone to call Holly. No answer.

  “I was hoping you could stay,” I said to Carrie Ann, thinking of the honeybees I’d lost and how I had to reclaim them before their collective brain signaled a move to parts unknown. They tended to operate like robots taking commands from some cloaked mother ship we mere humans couldn’t see.

  “Sorry,” my cousin said, slinging a purse over her shoulder, a sure sign she was leaving no matter what I said or how hard I begged. “I have a meeting.”

  Which is what she said every time she wanted to get out of additional work or responsibility. That woman had more AA meetings than breaks during her short shifts at The Wild Clover, and that was saying a lot.

  “Okay,” I said, resigned, since anything that kept my cousin focused on sobriety had to come first. “See you tomorrow. Or is tomorrow one of your Sundays with the kids?” I hadn’t checked the schedule, which I should stay more on top of. Holly took care of that bothersome chore, but since all real responsibility fell to me I needed to have my fingers on the store’s pulse more than anybody else.