Plan Bee Page 4

“You don’t have infrared?”

  “Don’t I wish.” Patti looked wistful, then she perked up. “Should we check out the house? Do a little investigating?”

  Part of me wanted to race right over there, but the other part of me put on the brakes. “Maybe later,” I said, not willing to deal with my ex yet. “I have work to do.”

  And with that, I made a sweep through the inside of the store to be sure everything was running smoothly. Then I joined Stanley and Carrie Ann at our booth and observation table. For a few hours I didn’t want to think about anything troubling, so this was the perfect place to perch, next to the familiar routine of honeybees and the wonderful by-products of all their hard work.

  Stanley Peck might have a lot to learn about beekeeping, but he really had a gift for entertaining a crowd of spectators.

  “I have a big batch of mead ready to bottle,” he told them, referring to the honey wine most of us beekeepers like to make. Mead is the oldest alcoholic beverage known to humans. Ancient cultures planned weddings around full moons and served lots of mead, which is where honeymoon came from.

  That little trivia popped into my head, reminding me of our own full moon and Patti’s pessimistic (but textbook) view of its effects on human behavior.

  “You should have brought some of your mead to the festival,” someone said to Stanley. “We’d buy it.”

  “Yeah,” someone else said. “Go get a case or two.”

  Stanley shot me a questioning look. I shook my head to remind him that that was a really bad idea. We’d discussed his mead earlier. Before putting some products up for sale, they have to get a seal of approval by passing government inspection. Mead was one of them.

  And Stanley, a bachelor since his wife died (and you sure could tell by his habits), made mead in his bathtub. No way was it ever going to pass. Not that he really planned on trying. An outspoken group of locals, of which Stanley happens to be the ringleader, avoid government interference like bird flu.

  But, come on? The bathtub? Who’d want to drink anything that came out of Stanley’s tub?

  The rest of the morning flew by. I didn’t see much of the people who had given me grief earlier. Occasionally I’d glance over at Aggie’s booth, where surprisingly she appeared to be steadily selling her junk and making a nice profit. Aggie, I noticed, made serious eye contact with people as they wandered past, stunning them with something similar to hypnosis and drawing them in like snagged fish dangling on hooks.

  How did she do that?

  I tried to copy her but only got strange looks for my efforts. Besides, we were doing well without it, so I put away the hypnotic stare and went back to being my normal self.

  Aggie’s son, Bob, wandered over and joined the beehive enthusiasts. He’s a big guy and a hothead, I’ve heard. We didn’t see much of the Petries around Moraine; they live in a small community called Colgate, like the toothpaste, about twenty minutes away. Most reports of Bob’s wrongdoing come through snippets in the local paper or unconfirmed tongue-wagging in the store. Bob’s wife, Alicia, is okay. Last year she came to a class I gave on making honey lip balm, and I got to know her a little.

  All the vendors were doing well, judging by the crowds and all the shopping bags I spotted.

  My hometown is located in southeastern Wisconsin, nestled between ridges and valleys that occurred naturally during the ice age, and it’s right on one of Wisconsin’s most scenic drives. So we draw a lot of tourists who come our way sightseeing, fishing, camping, all the outdoor activities that make a place special. Water lovers can even put their canoes and kayaks in the Oconomowoc River at a launch near my house.

  Good old Moraine was coming through for us again. Maybe this wasn’t exactly a Harmony Festival for me, but it was living up to its name for our visitors and sellers.

  I spent at least two blissful hours having fun, meeting new people, and chatting up friends from other communities who turned out for the festival. But eventually, after meeting and greeting, the ex-husband situation was back in my mind and I couldn’t shake it off.

  Throughout the lunchtime hours I couldn’t find any time to get away, but mid-afternoon, after my staff took turns getting something to eat, I dropped Dinky in the back room for a much-needed nap and walked over to my house.

  My family home now belongs to me. I’d been raised here, so it really is home. After my father had a fatal heart attack, Mom relinquished it willingly when I expressed interest. Mom likes to have a lot of say in other peoples’ business, so she moved in with my grandmother where she has the control she craves. And since Grams is a carefree soul, she doesn’t seem to mind at all. A win-win situation for all of us.

  I’d repainted the pretty Victorian house bright yellow with white trim and planted bee-friendly flowers and bushes all around it. Someday I hoped it would have another family living in it. My own. Although with my “man luck,” which until recently has been zilch, children and a faithful husband might turn out to be a pipe dream.

  Of course, I do have Hunter, a really appealing prospect. The guy is hot and well worth pursuing. But I suspect a serious commitment issue. Carrie Ann claims he never married before because he was waiting for me to get my act together. That might be true. Or not.

  Whatever the case, our relationship is moving as slow as the proverbial molasses, and at thirty-four and counting, I can’t help feeling like my days are numbered. Everything has a shelf life, and mine will expire eventually, like a loaf of moldy bread. Lately, it’s all I can do not to look at Hunter like he’s a piece of prime steak I want to wrap up and take home.

  Desperation does not look good on me. How come that little ticking clock is so darn loud and intrusive and hard to ignore?

  As I crossed the street, I wondered if Patti’s self-pitying attitude was contagious, because I was starting to feel sorry for myself big time. Especially if jerk-face was really back next door. I couldn’t stand the possibility.

  The truck parked in his driveway didn’t look familiar. And Clay’s modus operandi didn’t include driving a truck, anyway. He liked to own chick magnets like red sports cars with convertible tops. So this was encouraging.

  I knocked on the door. As it opened, I saw a red and yellow Hawaiian shirtsleeve. This was so un-Clay I wanted to break out in song.

  I looked up at the rest. Fiftyish, scruffy, beer belly, bulbous nose, and missing a tooth, which became obvious as soon as he smiled. Definitely not my ex-husband, who prided himself on keeping trim and fit for all his extracurricular activities.

  “Is Clay here?” I asked just to be on the safe side.

  “Clay who?”

  Those two words were music to my ears. What a relief! My ex wasn’t back. I’d been worried for nothing.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I thought you were somebody else. I live next door.”

  He looked up from my chest and over at my house. “Is that right?” he said, with kind of a leering look back at me. “I’m Ford. Why don’t you come in and stay awhile, keep me company. Just how friendly a neighbor are you, Tootsie?”

  I had a pretty good idea what that question was supposed to mean. Nobody had ever called me “Tootsie” before, and I decided I didn’t like his attitude.

  “You didn’t buy this house, did you?” The for-sale sign was still out by the curb, but I felt those heart-attack symptoms coming back, imagining this guy living next door for an extended period of time. I wasn’t a snob, but Ford had trouble stamped all over his Neanderthal forehead.

  “I rented it,” he said. “A nice real estate lady had an ad in the Milwaukee newspaper to lease it on a month-by-month basis, but I talked her into short-term.”

  I felt all the blood drain out of my head. Lori Spandle and my ex-husband had rented the house to this character? “But it isn’t even furnished. What are you doing? Sleeping on the floor?”

  “I brought my camping gear. And it’s just for the weekend. By then we’ll be done.”

  I should have asked what he meant by that. Loo
king back, much later, I wish I had, especially the “we” part. But at the time, I was so grateful that he wasn’t going to be my permanent neighbor that I just wished him a good stay then backed away and trotted off.

  The rest of the afternoon’s activities went as smooth as silk, as American as apple pie, as rosy as an heirloom tomato. Mom stayed out of my hair, too busy to bug the bees. Or else Grant had actually taken my threat against DeeDee seriously enough to tell her to leave the beehive exactly where it was. In that case, Mom would be mad and I’d hear about it eventually. But for now, life proceeded without a glitch.

  At five o’clock the vendors began to shut down their booths and organize for tomorrow, which should be another big day. Sunday would feature the noon parade with Grams as Grand Marshal and DeeDee as Honey Queen. I could just imagine that little thief, sitting on the backseat of a convertible waving her sticky fingers at the crowd as she lapped up the moment.

  I refocused before that particular topic carried me back into a funk. I firmly believe we can control our minds and attitudes, and that we get what we create. My mom’s negativity is a case in point. I banned her from my mind, right along with all other pessimistic thoughts. Gone.

  I raised my eyes to the sky, taking in lazy cotton-ball clouds, lit orange from the setting sun. A flock of Canadian geese flew overhead in their familiar V-formation. Here in Wisconsin in August the days are getting shorter. That’s a clue for the monarch butterflies, bats, and migratory birds to fill up their tanks for the trip south.

  Trent and Brent Craig, the twin brothers who’d been working for me since they were sophomores in high school, offered to close up. They were both thoughtful college students now, and helped out as much as they could. School wouldn’t start for several weeks, so I had them both on the schedule for the entire weekend. It didn’t take me long to accept their offer.

  The rest of us dispersed. Some of our local diehards headed for Stu’s Bar and Grill to imbibe. Others went home.

  Carrie Ann shot off to Stu’s. Maybe not the best or smartest place to hang out considering her drinking problem, but she’d been behaving herself lately, even the times she spends at the bar, thanks to several watchful eyes. The first set belongs to Hunter, who’s been her sponsor through all her ups and downs. Then there’s her ex-husband, Gunnar. He often reminds her of certain responsibilities, like their two children who live with him and need a sober mom. And, of course, all her friends keep tabs on her, too.

  Holly walked home with Dinky and me, since she’d parked her pricey Jag at my house to avoid crowding and the possibility of damage to its perfect paint job.

  “What’s going on over at Clay’s?” she said, noticing the truck parked in the driveway next door. Lights were on inside the house, and through the window I could see several cans of beer on a metal camping table in the kitchen.

  I told her how Lori had rented Clay’s house to Ford for the weekend.

  “He doesn’t sound like our typical tourist,” Holly muttered as she got into her car. “Is he somebody’s relative?”

  I shrugged. “He didn’t mention anything like that.”

  “That was a smart move on Lori’s part, earning some income for Clay.”

  “Ugh. Wait till you meet this guy. He’s a real winner. Want me to introduce you right now?”

  “No thanks.”

  And with that, my sister blew off in her Jag, leaving me alone and without the time or energy to kayak on the river like I usually enjoyed doing after work. Instead, I headed back toward town with Dinky, and ended up on the street outside my store, where the sidewalk action had wound down for the evening. I let Dinky lead the way.

  That was my first big mistake.

  Five

  In my opinion, dusk is a creepy time of day.

  That brief but hauntingly eerie bit of time right between light and dark, when my eyes play tricks on me and inanimate shadows stretch out long and take on life of their own.

  It’s the end of one thing, the beginning of another.

  And with a full moon rising.

  I remembered Patti and her theories about the madness of tonight’s lunar event.

  If the moon affected my actions, made me do bizarre things, would I recognize the change in myself?

  Those were the random thoughts bouncing around in my mind as I stood outside of my store. That’s when Dinky started tugging on her leash. Granted, she was a little pipsqueak, so her efforts to pull me around hardly counted. But Dinky, stubborn as she could be, kept at it, racing the full length of the leash to the very end, tipping up on her back legs, and yapping, then doing it all over again.

  Talk about shrill. And annoying.

  “What is it?” I said to her. “What’s wrong with you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Not that I expected her to.

  I wasn’t in a big rush to get anywhere. Patti would find me when she was ready to howl at the moon, so I let Dinky take the lead. Anything to shut her up. Dinky promptly headed in the direction of the cemetery.

  Some of the headstones had inscriptions dating back as far as the early 1900s. None of the grave markings inside this graveyard were uniform and neat like more modern cemeteries. Stones leaned this way and that way.

  I’d walked past, or near, or through the cemetery almost every day. I’d been there plenty of times before, several times recently with Dinky. But with night falling, the moon rising, and Patti’s prediction that we all would basically turn into uncontrollable werewolves, every little hair on my arms was standing at attention.

  Dinky, still in the lead, stopped at one headstone after another, and at every single one she sniffed around as though she were hunting for something. After a few more pauses, she found something on the ground and started chewing.

  “Oh no you don’t.” I quickly bent down and tried to wrestle whatever it was out of her mouth. But she wolfed it down, gulped, and it was gone. I sensed a vomiting episode in our near future. We’d been there, done that, more times than I cared to remember.

  Next, Dinky ran behind one of the headstones and wound the leash around a crabapple tree’s trunk enough times that she could barely move. Before I could reach down to untangle her, I tripped over something, lost my balance, and hit the ground hard, face-first, barely having time to break my fall with my hands.

  Dinky barked only once when I went down, and then hushed up, becoming perfectly quiet. I felt her breath on my face and her tongue in my ear, licking away. When I rose up on an elbow to brush her back, I spotted the outline of the thing I’d fallen over.

  After sitting up and more carefully considering the object, I realized what had really tripped me up.

  A human leg!

  Attached to a body!

  (Thank God. Because an unattached leg would have totally flipped me out on the spot. Not that I was holding it together all that well anyway, because the body wasn’t moving. Not a good sign.)

  I was pretty sure the person on the ground was a male, judging by the manly shoes on his feet. I couldn’t tell for sure, though, because the face and shoulders were covered with an extra-large black plastic garbage bag.

  I’d like to think I’m braver than I really am, that I have the courage to face the unexpected with calm and resolve. In hindsight (that twenty-twenty kind), what I should have done was rip that plastic away and reveal the person underneath. If I’d done that, it would have saved me a lot of grief later on.

  But the last thing on my mind at the time was checking to find out who was under the plastic.

  Instead of displaying bravery beyond the call of duty, I grabbed Dinky, unclipped the tangled leash to free her, leaving it wound around the tree, and dashed for the bright lights of the store.

  “What happened to you?” Brent called as I blew by him, racing for the back room. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. “Be all right,” was all that came out before I slammed the door and slumped down in my office
chair.

  I tried to calm myself with deep-breathing exercises. It didn’t work.

  Somebody was out in the cemetery, maybe dead—okay, probably dead based on the lack of motion and that black plastic bag. The chicken part of me had the shakes bad, but the businesswoman part was thinking of how the discovery of a body would affect tomorrow’s festival.

  I weighed my options. I had choices here. One was that I could contain the damage by dragging the body into hiding and pull it back out tomorrow night after the Harmony Festival ended. Then I could fake the same trip over it again.

  After not much thought, I threw out that choice as a really, really bad idea for a lot of reasons.

  Another option, I could call Patti and collaborate with her on the next move.

  She always had plenty of never-thought-of-before-by-

  humankind ideas. But the reporter in her wouldn’t go along with a cover up. She’d want to make it sensational. No, I couldn’t tell Patti.

  Then I thought, what if the person isn’t dead? What if I held a life in the palm of my hand this very moment, and it was expiring because I was sitting here doing nothing?

  So I went with the last and final option, the most logical one, though it was the one I liked the least. I called Johnny Jay, our police chief. Or rather, I called 9-1-1, which was almost the same thing as calling him directly since he would know about my call about two seconds after I finished making it. I gave the required information to the dispatcher, pointedly requesting discretion on the part of the responders.

  “Please, no lights or sirens,” I said. “This might be nothing.” That wasn’t true. Something, rather than nothing, was out there, but the less the other residents knew, the better.

  The first vehicle to arrive at the scene was Johnny Jay’s police SUV, running full out with lights and siren. “Fischer,” he said when he got out and spotted Dinky and me waiting outside under the awning. “Figures you’re involved.”

  I caught his typical boring, superior attitude. We ex-

  changed a glare.

  Johnny has the clean and polished lines of a Boy Scout, which proves you can’t go by looks. He also has a linebacker’s build that he uses to intimidate the weak and the helpless. His bully tactics have never worked on me though. That’s a good chunk of the reason behind our animosity. I don’t like how he tries to bully me; he hates that it never works.