Beeline to Trouble Page 4

  “It doesn’t work if you tell me you’re pretending,” Patti said in a huff.

  “Nobody’s ever sticking needles in me,” Milly said, wincing at the thought.

  “It’s not permanent,” Patti said, and I could see the relief circling around the room. None of us wanted to have to look at that thing on a daily basis.

  “Then why are you making such a big deal about fainting and all?” Carrie Ann said for all of us.

  “The fumes,” Patti said.

  “Must have been one whopper-sized bubble gum,” Stanley said, referring to those little tattoos we used to find inside gum wrappers.

  “It’s henna,” Patti told us. “And you all can forget it. Forget I even showed it to you.”

  “We couldn’t help seeing it,” Milly said. “You didn’t have to show us. It’s right in our faces.” Then she turned to me. “I was thinking an arugula and tomato salad for tonight, maybe some popovers with honey butter . . .”

  “Let’s go in the back,” I interrupted, glad that Milly had started thinking about our dinner project, but hoping I was in time to do damage control, “and talk about it there.”

  But I was too late.

  “What’s going on?” Patti said, pouting. “You’re planning a party, and you didn’t invite me?” She gave me a hard look. “And I thought I was your best friend.”

  Patti’s false assumption about our relationship was getting old. Sure we were friends, but at a distance . . . more like distant friends. Too bad she lived right next door, making the distance between us shorter than I was comfortable with.

  I sighed when Milly moved away, leaving me to deal with Patti alone. “Holly and Max are the ones entertaining,” I said, angling my way toward the front door. “Milly and I joined forces to prepare dinner for their guests.”

  “But you were going to invite me, right?”

  “It’s a business meeting,” I lied again, breaking out into the sunshine. “With out-of-town guests.”

  “So am I invited or not?”

  “Not.” Sometimes the only way to handle Patti is to take a firm stand.

  Her face crumpled. “You know how hard I’m working to keep my stories fresh. I’d like to see you find interesting news in a place like this. Lately, I’ve been covering kids’ birthday parties. How pathetic is that?”

  “Believe me, this dinner isn’t news.”

  “With my ability to add spin, I could make it a headliner.”

  That wasn’t far from the truth. Patti definitely has a knack for bringing out the very worst in people. She also tended to create problems for anybody in close proximity to her. Which is usually me.

  “You can’t come,” I said. “And that’s final.”

  Patti, with a pout on her face, said, “Have you seen my water bottle? Is it in your office? I can’t remember where I left it.”

  I glanced at the empty holster on her belt.

  The latest addition to her arsenal was a personalized water bottle in a holster.

  She’d ordered it online, with custom inscription that read “Stalkers Have Rights, Too” on one side and “I’m Watching You” on the other.

  Who in their right mind supports stalking?

  “You’d be surprised how dehydrated I can get when I’m following a story and a source,” she’d said when the water bottle had first arrived. “This puppy goes in like this, and”—she’d strapped the holster around her waist, tucked in her new bottle, and put her arms in the air as if she had a gun aimed at her—“hands-free water!”

  “Cool,” I’d said at the time, one of those complimentary sort of fibs that I’m always struggling with, same as with the positive feedback I’d given her about the dragon tattoo.

  “I haven’t seen it,” I told her now, thinking to myself that it could stay lost for all I cared.

  Then I noticed the time. Max and his guests would be at my house very soon, wanting a tour of the beeyard.

  “I have to run,” I said.

  “Where are you going?” Patti called out behind me. I pretended not to hear her.

  A mistake, I know, because all she did was follow me, and popped up later where she shouldn’t have popped up.

  Five

  Max called my cell phone to tell me they were running late, but that was after I’d already left the store for home. So I had extra time to go a few rounds with Lori Spandle, our local real estate agent and my archenemy. She was standing in the driveway of the house next to mine. Not Patti’s driveway, but the one on the other side, where my ex-husband Clay used to live after we separated.

  Technically, Clay still owns it, since by the time he gave up on the concept of “us” and left town, the housing bubble had burst. His house has lingered on the market ever since.

  “What are you up to?” I asked Lori, hoping she had a decent buyer on the line.

  Lori has a face like a pumpkin (round and orangish), and a personality like an invasive weed, i.e. obnoxious. She’s been known to play around on her husband, our town chairman, a fact I learned when she slept with mine. We’ve been butting heads since grade school, and she’s less than thrilled that I know about her cheating ways. You would think she’d treat me with more respect considering what I know. I tell you, this town is barely big enough for both of us.

  “Since I can’t sell this place because of you and those damn bees,” she said. “I’m going to have to rent it out.”

  “Again?”

  Last time she’d done that there had been hell to pay. But that’s a whole other story.

  “This time I checked references,” she said, snooty as ever.

  Lori seemed way too pleased with herself. She was plotting something against me, that was for sure.

  A casual observer, who doesn’t know all the residents of this town as well as I do, might think I have an extreme case of people paranoia. But I know exactly what everybody in Moraine is capable of, and running the store has given me even more insight—some of it downright scary. One thing I’ve realized is this: Every single one of us has razor-sharp retractable claws. We go about our lives with them mostly sheathed. But it’s only a matter of time before something happens to set one of us off, and we’re ready to scratch somebody else’s eyes out.

  If Lori was grinning at me, she had just filed her nails into deadly daggers.

  Before I could find out what she was up to, a car pulled up. I watched a tire scrape against the curb, bounce up onto it for a moment, then bang back down.

  Grams.

  My sweet grandmother was behind the wheel of her Cadillac Fleetwood. Even though she’s becoming a minor menace to society, Grams still has a valid driver’s license and isn’t giving it up no matter what anybody says.

  Besides, everybody in Moraine recognizes her car and gets out of her way when we see her coming.

  “For cripes’ sake,” my mother said, getting out of the backseat. “See, Tom,” she addressed her significant other, who was opening the passenger seat door with Grams’s dog Dinky in his arms, “I told you. She shouldn’t be allowed to drive anymore.”

  Oh, geez, Mom could be chairwoman of a new organization, Daughters Against Aging Relatives. Next she’d be passing a petition around town. Not that anyone would sign it. The residents of Moraine love my grandmother.

  I’ve told Mom a zillion times to stop riding with Grams if she can’t handle it, but my mother thinks she’s somehow protecting Grams by being next to her. I have visions of Grams driving right for a big oak tree to get Mom to shut up, but that won’t really happen. Grams is an angel when it comes to tolerating her lippy daughter.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Grams called to me, coming around the front of her car, looking as fresh as the mock orange blossom tucked in her gray bun.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” I said, a little confused by their appearance. Usually, I’d be at the store at this time of day, not home. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s none of your concern,” Lori said to me with a lot of snap in her tone.


  “Still as peppy as ever, I see,” Grams said to her. “But that’s my granddaughter you’re speaking to in that condescending tone of voice.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Lori said.

  Nobody messes with my grandmother. Not if they know what’s good for them.

  “Let’s get a family picture,” Grams said. “Helen and Tom, get right behind Story, and Tom, let Story hold Dinky. That’s right. Helen, get in there.”

  Mom gave a big, loud, impatient sigh, but she did what she was told.

  Dinky sure was happy to see me. I’d been her foster mom for a while, before I pawned her off on Grams. Dinky has her share of issues—peeing on people’s feet and chewing up undergarments—but she’s in obedience training with Hunter, so we’ll see. If anybody can train her, it’ll be Hunter.

  “Well?” Lori said impatiently as soon as Grams was through with the photo shoot.

  Shouldn’t that woman be moving off by now, not hanging around us? And that comment she’d made, about it not being any of my business. What was that all about?

  “What’s going on?” I asked again while Grams took another picture, this time of Lori scowling.

  “I’m looking at the house,” Tom said, glancing sharply at my mom.

  “To buy?” I asked.

  “To rent. My place isn’t very big.”

  That was certainly an understatement. Tom owned the antique store in town and lived in a tiny apartment in back of it. Small, yes, but fine for only one person . . . it wasn’t half bad, unless . . .

  I shot a look at my mother. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “These two lovebirds,” Grams announced, taking Dinky out of my arms, “are shacking up!”

  At first I panicked, thinking she was talking about Hunter and me. Then I noticed that she was beaming at the other two lovebirds.

  Okay, I didn’t see that coming. My mom? And her boyfriend? Get out!

  “But . . . but . . . ,” I stammered. “You hardly know each other.” I was barely used to the idea of my mother dating for the first time since my dad’s death. Now she was moving in with the guy? And next door to me? This was too much, too fast.

  “Sweetie pie,” Grams said to me. “Don’t be a prude.”

  I’m sure my mouth was wide open in total surprise. I took a good look back at my house, the one I’d grown up in with my mother and my father. How could Mom even think about living next door to it with another man?

  “There must be other houses for rent,” I said to Mom.

  Lori butted in, “There aren’t. This is the only one.”

  That was such a lie! I could see it in her evil little eyes.

  “It’s only for a little while,” Mom said to me. “Until we find something more permanent, when we decide to make the next step.”

  “You have to sign the lease for a year,” Lori told her.

  “Six months is the most we’ll consider,” Tom said.

  “Fine!” came the reply.

  I turned to Grams. “Then you’ll be alone, all alone.” To Mom, “You can’t abandon Grams.”

  Grams said, “I like living alone. Besides, Helen and I knew it was a temporary solution after your father died. We never thought it would last as long as it did. Your mother needs to spread her wings.”

  Like Mom was a teenager going out in the world for the first time!

  “She should start slowly, with a place of her own first,” I said, talking over Mom’s head.

  Tom, smart man that he was, kept out of it. He didn’t say a word. Tom Stocke isn’t a handsome man, not by a long shot, but he’s a kind, considerate, easygoing guy, just what my mom needs to offset her sometimes anxious personality.

  “You’re living with Hunter,” Mom pointed out. “Talk about calling the kettle black.”

  “She is?” Grams brightened even more, if that’s possible. “That Hunter is a sex bomb.”

  “Mother!” my mom said to Grams. Tom was trying to hide his amusement but I saw it twitching at the corners of his mouth.

  “Who told you we were living together?” I asked Mom. It sure hadn’t taken long for news to travel out to the farm.

  “Just about everybody, including that busybody neighbor of yours.”

  Patti has the biggest mouth.

  “Are you ready yet?” Lori said to anybody who would listen. “I have a commercial showing in Stone Bank in an hour. Let’s get started.” Then she turned away and gave me an over-the-shoulder smirk.

  With that, they left me standing between the two houses, alone, with my mouth hanging open in disbelief.

  Not only did I have to absorb the disturbing fact that my mother was going to live with a man who was clearly not my father, worse, she was going to do it next door to me?

  This day was beyond sucky.

  It was an absolute killer.

  Six

  “Fascinating,” Gil Green, the only male on Max’s three-person flavorist team, said.

  Gil had an excess of flab, blobbing up and over his belt and swelling all the way up to his jowls. But he made up for his fat with skinny, toothpick legs, making him look like a pregnant stork.

  Max’s employees were an odd-duck group, although not a single one of them had a pocket ruler as I’d expected.

  Aside from his mismatched body, Gil had perfectly white, straight teeth that must have cost him a small fortune. And he had unsuccessfully tried to cover up his wedding ring tan with bottled bronze, which had turned it the color of rust. I didn’t even want to think about what that move implied.

  He also was a master gardener, he informed me when he feasted his eyes on all the flowers I’d planted for my honeybees. To show off his education, he insisted on naming every single one of them in Latin and French. Think “pompous ass.”

  Nova Campbell, I noted gleefully, didn’t look as good cleaned up as she had in the jogging suit. This morning she’d had a fresh rosy complexion. Now she looked a little green around her sharklike gills.

  Max, Gil, Nova, and I were out in the apiary or, as I informally call it, the beeyard. Holly was hugging the side of the house to stay clear of the honeybees, and Camilla had headed in the other direction as soon as they’d pulled up without even glancing this way. Max said she needed to get some fresh air.

  She was going to need an oxygen tank when I got done with her.

  As I showed them around, I reveled in the fact that Camilla still didn’t know who she was dealing with. I couldn’t wait to see her face when she connected this tour guide with the concerned citizen she’d treated so poorly. I definitely had the home advantage.

  Mom and entourage had finished up before the flavorists arrived. My mother had refused to discuss the subject of the house with me even though I’d tried. Tom maintained a poker face. Grams was busy taking photographs of just about everything when I attempted to quiz her. But she said she didn’t want to get between us, implying that Mom had warned her off. Lori had a stupid smirk on her face, but that was her standard expression.

  I had to find a moment soon to tell my sister what just had happened with Mom and Tom, how they planned to move in together right next door. But first the tour.

  One of the aspects about beekeeping that fascinates people the most is when I work in my beeyard without protective gear, which I often do if I’m not harvesting honey. My bees know me. They’re used to me puttering around near their hives, even opening them up and peeking in to see what progress they’ve made. Beekeeping gear is cumbersome, too hot in the summer for comfort, and unnecessary unless I’m going in to steal their nectar (which I still needed to do since Holly had interrupted me early this morning).

  Even those thick beekeeper’s gloves are more of a burden than they’re worth to prevent an occasional sting. My thumb gets nailed occasionally, but that’s usually only if I’m careless and stick it on top of a bee while she’s trying to go about her business.

  The trick is to move slowly and stay alert.

  Here are a few fun facts I shared with my audience a
fter locating the queen inside one of the hives and pointing her out to them:

  Worker honeybees live only about four weeks, but the queen can live three or four years.

  During her once-in-her-lifetime lovemaking flight, she might mate with as many as fifteen or more drones.

  This tiny boss lady will then store all the sperm in a special body sac, because for her, once is enough.

  Worker bees feed her while she lays between five hundred and fifteen hundred eggs daily.

  She gets to choose the sex of each bee.

  If she fertilizes the egg, it’s a girl. (She wants lots of girls because they wait on her hand and foot.)

  If she doesn’t fertilize the egg, it’s a boy. (And really, how many of those does she need, since they do nothing but lounge until that one and only mating flight?)

  “That would be the life for me,” Gil said, really enjoying the role of the drones. “All those females working, satisfying my every need.”

  “Well, at the end of the season,” I added for his benefit, “the drones are kicked out to starve or freeze to death.”

  “Forget that,” Gil said, changing his mind fast.

  Just then, Camilla rounded the side of the house. Her bug eyes slid over the group in front of her and landed on me.

  I grinned.

  She didn’t crack a smile, that’s for sure. But I was really pleased to see her mouth pop open in surprise, just like mine had done when Mom and entourage informed me of Mom’s future living arrangements.

  Max tried to introduce us, but I stopped him. “We’ve met,” I said, smug as a bug in a rug—or is it snug?

  “This woman is your sister-in-law?” Camilla said to Max, forgetting her manners—if she even had any—with a bit of finger pointing. “She accosted me earlier.”

  Okay, that was rather extreme. “She was picking endangered native flowers,” I shot back. “And you and I still need to have a little talk,” I added, glaring at her.

  “You’re a menace,” the flower stealer said. “I have witnesses this time, so hands off.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued but didn’t last long because Holly interrupted with a shrill scream. “One’s on my arm!” she yelled.