Beeline to Trouble Page 7

  But it would be nice if Mom liked me a little more for the person I am, instead of always wanting me to change into some other version of me. Which isn’t even realistic. That person doesn’t exist.

  Our whole relationship has been like one big roller coaster ride: sometimes nonstop crazy, sometimes starting out gentle and fun, then becoming so scary I want to jump off. Only I’m trapped in the restraints and can’t move.

  In the past, I’ve been passive-aggressive with my mom, thinking that was the best way to get by. Not that I realized there was a professional term for my condition until my sister, the wannabe psychologist, clued me in. I’d let Mom throw zingers at me left and right while I’d barely defend myself in a simpering sort of way (that’s the passive part). Then I’d do even more to make her crazy mad, the whole time subconsciously enjoying her discomfort (the aggressive part). Passive-aggressive. That’s me. Or was.

  That’s what Holly says anyway. I really don’t think I ever had such deeply repressed motives. I’m pretty sure if Mom and I lived across the country from each other, our relationship would improve tremendously. Living in a small town and working with my family members has been . . . challenging at best. Another understatement.

  But ever since Mom hooked up with Tom Stocke, she’d mellowed out and actually seemed to enjoy my company. A new mom had emerged.

  Right this minute, however, judging by the flames shooting from her eyes and ears, the old Mom was back for a visit. I just hoped it wasn’t going to be an extended stay.

  My sister had counseled me on what to do in case of such a situation. I knew exactly how to react. Holly and I had role-played until I got the hang of it. I was about to set some boundaries. No more passive-aggressive behavior.

  Mom looked me up and down. “Don’t tell me you’re working here at the store in those clothes.” My standard outfit of capris, T-shirt, and flip-flops has been an ongoing source of argument for years. “How unprofessional. Haven’t we discussed this before?”

  “Mother, what I wear is my choice. And please stop saying such hurtful things to me.” There, I said it. Holly would be so proud.

  I saw Mom’s surprise. She recovered quickly, though. “What’s this I hear about your sister’s houseguest keeling over dead in your backyard?”

  “It’s true.” This wasn’t so hard. In the past, I would have either denied the obvious or apologized profusely.

  “What will people say?”

  I shrugged. “That a woman died in my backyard.”

  “Stop being flippant.” Mom was getting hot. “It’s one thing after another with you. Poor Holly, a guest dying like that.” Did I mention that Holly is Mom’s favorite? Hands down. (As if it isn’t obvious.)

  “I thought you’d have some concern for the dead woman.”

  “You know how this town gossips,” Mom said.

  “I had no control over what happened to Nova Campbell.” Oh, no, was that a roundabout apology? It was. “And it’s been hard on me, too. A little compassion on your part would be nice.”

  Mom gaped.

  I switched to the subject that really had me upset. “And another thing”—I was really on a roll now—“while we’re having this little chat, you are NOT moving into the house next door to me.”

  “Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m an adult,” I sort of shouted, losing a little composure. “I can keep an eye on myself just fine.”

  “Is that right? Really?” Mom said and started ticking off on her fingers. “You’ve allowed an alcoholic to move into your house,” that was a low blow—we’ve often discussed how Hunter hasn’t had a drink in years, “you’ve promoted another problem drinker to the position of store manager,” Hunter was an alcoholic but Carrie Ann was a “problem drinker”? And again, both were sober, “you have so alienated the police chief that he actually looks for reasons to torment you. How many times has Grams had to pick you up at the police station?” (A few).

  I let her keep going, in order to get it out of her system.

  “And those bees!” Mom continued, waving a finger in my face. “How much conflict have they caused in our community? That crazy neighbor of yours has been a bad influence on you, too. I bet she was right there hovering over the body like a buzzard.” (So true.) Mom paused to give me an evil eye. “Aren’t you going to say anything in your defense?”

  I let the silence hang for a beat or two, then I said from the script I’d memorized: “You and I need to limit our contact for a while. I love you very much, but I just can’t deal with your constant criticism. You need to go.”

  “Wh-what? That’s all you have to say?”

  Then I went off script. “You need to leave the store and not come back for an indefinite amount of time.”

  “You’re firing your own mother?” All kinds of emotions had crossed Mom’s face during our little “chat”—first self-righteousness and calculated disapproval, now outright disbelief and astonishment that I was handling this confrontation so differently than in the past. The latest flicker was a dawning realization that I meant what I said.

  “Yes. Yes, I am firing you.”

  “But we’re family. You can’t.”

  “Yet I am.”

  Mom stared at me for what seemed like forever. I held her gaze. Then she turned and walked out.

  I felt worse than if I’d just shut up and put up.

  But I immediately forgot about our latest tensions when I went back out on the floor and Carrie Ann told me that the town was abuzz with gossip that my sister’s husband had been having an affair with the dead woman.

  “Max was not having an affair with Nova Campbell,” I said when she told me the rumor.

  “I know that,” my cousin said. “But I thought you should have a heads-up about what’s being said.”

  “Who’s spreading the rumor?”

  “Take one guess.”

  “Lori!”

  Carrie Ann nodded. “I’m pretty sure she was the source.” Then she said, “Your mom just blew out of here. I thought she was on the schedule to work right now. What’s up with that?”

  “I fired her.”

  “What?” Carrie Ann stuck a pencil behind her ear and frowned. “We’re pretty short staffed. Holly’s preoccupied with her dinner party and hasn’t lifted a finger to do anything other than pick out dessert, which she didn’t even pay for. You’re helping her with that dinner, so you aren’t going to stay here long. Only one of the twins is available. And now you fired Aunt Helen right before her shift?”

  Trent and Brent Craig were college students who helped out at The Wild Clover around their school schedules. They’d been with the store since its inception.

  Carrie Ann had a point. I hadn’t thought of the predicament I’d left her to handle. “You’re the manager,” I said. “Can’t you fix this?”

  “Not when you go over my head and randomly fire employees when they try to clock in.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, accepting responsibility and feeling an uncontrollable need to apologize to someone. “I’m sorry. But she went too far, and I lost it.”

  “Milly would do in a pinch, but she’ll be with you at Holly’s.”

  “How about Stanley Peck? He owes me a favor for all the beekeeping help I’ve given him. He could bag for you at least. And answer phones.”

  “I’ll call him. But we need to solve this more permanently.” Carrie Ann gave me a frustrated look, the same exact one I’ve worn myself many times in the past.

  “Whatever you decide works for me,” I said, grateful to have someone else doing a little worrying about business. You know what they say about misery loving company.

  Twelve

  “They’ve almost finished collecting samples at the Paine residence,” Hunter told me over the phone. “Then the samples will go to the crime lab for examination. Max and his guests are already back. They’re being questioned right now. Where’s your sister? They need to talk to her, too.”

  “Why?
Sally already did.”

  “Well, they’re going to do it again.”

  “She was here a while ago then took off with Patti.”

  “If you see her, let her know. Can you meet me at home?”

  Before answering I paused briefly to consider tonight’s event and the amount of prep work involved. Milly would take care of most of it. I’d bring over the steaks and potatoes, so I was in good shape. Besides, maybe Hunter wanted to apologize for his rotten attitude earlier.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  Only, when I showed up, Hunter acted like he didn’t even remember about his bad behavior. And he and Ben weren’t alone. A forensic team was waiting at the bank of the Oconomowoc River.

  “I thought you weren’t on this case,” I said to him, keeping my voice low as we approached the bank.

  “I’m not, officially. But these are my guys. Professional courtesy and all that. They need you to walk them around, explain what transpired. Since I wasn’t here at the time.”

  Okay then, another little dig about not calling him immediately after it happened. “Right here,” I said to his forensics team, pointing down into the calm, shallow water. “This is where we found her.” I walked them through the tour I’d given the others before Nova died, starting with Holly cringing by the house, the rest of us meandering through the beeyard, Nova saying she didn’t feel well and deciding to stay outside while the rest of us went into the honey house, then coming out to find her facedown in the river, the whole horrible effort to revive her.

  I left out a few things. For one, the tension between Camilla and me, since that had nothing to do with anything. I’d thought long and hard about mentioning Patti’s weird behavior between the time we went inside the honey house and the moment we realized we couldn’t bring Nova back. I’d seen movement out of the corner of my eye at the riverbank, and my neighbor’s wet pants and shoes proved she’d been in the water.

  Patti acts suspicious on an ongoing basis; she’s hard to read and impossible to understand even on a good day when she’s willing to share her convoluted logic. But I hated the thought of siccing Hunter on her by relating those observations. In her own time and her own way, I trusted that Patti would explain what the heck had been going on.

  Besides, Hunter was still being a crab-ass.

  I also skipped over Nova’s snide behavior toward my sister, how she’d disparaged Holly’s fear of bees, then had gone on to criticize her household-management skills. I wasn’t about to give the cops a reason to look any more closely at my sister. I was in serious protection mode.

  After I finished talking, they asked me to go over the whole thing again.

  Some of the members of the team were tinkering with tools, siphoning up water samples, kneeling down near the spot I indicated, all very absorbed in their specific jobs.

  When Hunter took a phone call and wandered off with Ben at his side, the canine as intent, alert, and serious as his partner, I went into the garden and picked a bunch of arugula for tonight’s salad. While I was in the kitchen washing it, I saw Hunter come inside alone. I considered turning around, running out the door, and sprinting back to the store. Instead, I decided to wear my big girl pants. I waited where I was.

  He started right in. “If you had asked me if I thought I’d ever have to submit to an investigation involving a death in my own backyard, I never would have believed it was possible.”

  I controlled my eyeballs. Instead of rolling them, I met his flashing ones. I could have reminded him that I was sort of used to situations like this (my short, dead-end block had become a real dead-end for a few other poor souls in the past). But saying that wouldn’t have defused the situation one bit, so as hard as it was, I kept quiet.

  My heart thumped, though. Was he about to bail on our relationship already? I chewed my lower lip waiting for the shoe, or rather for his Harley boot, to drop.

  “If you want to move back to your house until this is resolved,” I said, keeping my voice neutral, “I’ll understand.” Which was a whopper of a lie, but I was giving him an out. Though if he took it, I’d never speak to him again.

  Suddenly Hunter’s features softened. “I’m not that easy to get rid of, sweet thing,” he said, coming over and pulling me close. “We’ll work through this. It’s only a bump in the road.”

  Wait until he found out about the next “bump,” the one where my mother moved in next door. Even though I’d strongly asserted myself by demanding that Mom not move in there, odds favored her doing exactly as she pleased. Which usually was exactly the opposite of what I pleased. Mom didn’t let my feelings slow her down. And I suspected once Hunter found out, that teeny little bump would become a serious-sized mountain.

  Then I remembered a really important question I’d forgotten to ask Hunter earlier. “What were the samples you said were collected over at Holly’s?”

  “For one, they found a half-empty sport water bottle in the victim’s room.”

  “You mean half full,” I corrected him, staying positive.

  Hunter paused, then chuckled, giving me a glimpse of the man I love. “Half full then.” He changed the subject, his eyes traveling the length of my body. “How about later tonight we start over with half naked?”

  That sounded fine to me, but I knew Hunter better than he knew himself. Once that man gets on a trail (hot or cold, whether officially working it or not), he stays on it until the bitter end. How else would he have been promoted to detective so fast? But at least he was making a token effort to acknowledge there was an “us.”

  “What was in the water bottle?” I said, snuggling into his arms.

  “Carrot juice,” he said. “We also found a bottle of it in the refrigerator. Both are in toxicology testing right now.”

  My carrot juice? Could something in it have killed Nova Campbell? My palms started to sweat, my mouth went dry, and my heart was misfiring, the beat too fast. Instead of admitting that I was the source of the questionable carrot juice like I should have, I froze up. My mouth refused to open, and my brain said we were going to wait and see what Jackson found. That was the choice I made on the spot, more than likely unwisely. But Hunter was so wrapped up in the case, he didn’t notice my reaction. After that revelation, he went back out to the river to work with the forensic team.

  Believe me, I wanted to tell him. But by the time I had an argument with all the different voices in my head, weighing the pros and cons, Hunter was gone. And what if nothing came of it? I rationalized. I’d just saved myself from another one of Hunter’s little temper tantrums.

  It took me some time to recover from the latest bit of shocking news. I trudged up the stairs, fell spread-eagled on my bed, stared into space for an indeterminate amount of time, and wondered if the universe was out to clobber my new relationship before it had barely started.

  When I could function again, I realized it was time to go over to Holly’s house. I changed into a yellow sheath dress and dressier flip-flops. Then I walked to The Wild Clover and removed every carrot juice container from the cooler, placing them in a box in the back room with a note that warned, “Do Not Use!” Just in case the entire batch was contaminated. Just in case I was indirectly responsible for Nova Campbell’s death. Just thinking about it made me nauseated.

  But the last thing I wanted was to panic everybody about possible poisonous ingredients in the food at Holly’s house right before Milly and I served dinner over there. Holly and Max had enough to worry about without considering that the source of a guest’s early departure from this world might possibly have come from their very own kitchen.

  All this was pure speculation on my part anyway, of course. If Hunter had really been concerned, he would have warned them. Part of me wished I didn’t have as much information as I had. My imagination was firing on all cylinders.

  The most logical solution (in spite of my overly active imagination) was that Nova Campbell had eaten something she shouldn’t have. End of story.

  But I plan
ned to keep my eyes open and my ears to the ground.

  After packing last-minute supplies into my truck, I drove to the Paines’ and joined Holly and Milly in my sister’s expansive, state-of-the-art kitchen—the one she never uses. Her kitchen would have made the country’s leading chefs want to move right in. It was full of cool features: a Sub-Zero fridge, two ovens, high-quality pots and pans all hanging within reach, razor-sharp knives capable of slicing right through the thinnest paper.

  Just to be on the safe side, I opened the refrigerator and perused the contents. No visible carrot juice at least. The police had presumably taken it with them.

  Working quickly, I sliced the baby red potatoes, dusted them with sea salt and rosemary, and popped them in the oven for a slow roast.

  “I’ll watch those for you,” Milly said. “Go on and see the others.”

  Holly and I left Milly in the kitchen, preparing the arugula salad. She was actually whistling while she worked. Outside, Chance Anderson was setting up to serve drinks. He wore a bow tie and looked like a high-class bartender, a role he played well.

  Moving away from listening ears, I brought Holly up to speed on my relationship concerns.

  “Hunter’s going to leave me,” I told her. “I just know it.”

  My sister studied me, then said, “You have serious abandonment issues.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do. Though I’m not exactly sure why, since nobody has ever actually deserted you. I mean, with Clay, you’re the one who ended the marriage, not him. Are you afraid of being left alone?”

  “I can handle alone.” And I could. As if I was ever really by myself anyway, with so much family in town. Still, I really did like my alone time.

  “Are you clingy with him?” the junior psychoanalyst asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Complacent?”

  I thought about that one. “No, but maybe I have been kind of passive-aggressively encouraging him to go back to his house.”