by Peg Cochran
The appliances were stainless steel, and Monica kept them polished to a high shine. She was proud of what she and Jeff had managed to accomplish together. Although she did miss the coziness of her kitchen at the cottage, she had to admit the extra space and commercial-sized appliances made everything a lot easier.
Monica began work on her cranberry salsa—she would be spending the rest of the morning and afternoon getting the next order ready.
She was chopping peppers when Jeff burst through the door, breathless. “Call nine-one-one,” he gasped, a horrified expression on his face. His eyes were wild.
Monica dropped her knife. “Are you okay?”
“No. Yes—I’m fine. It’s Lori.”
Monica was already yanking off the thin rubber gloves she wore when dealing with the jalapeños. She dug her cell from the pocket of her apron and punched in the numbers with shaky hands.
“What’s wrong with Lori?” she asked as she waited for the operator to pick up.
“I think she’s dead.”
Chapter 3
“Are you sure? What . . . what happened?”
“I went into the shed to grab some tools and when I came out Lori was lying on the ground. I felt her pulse and . . . nothing.” Jeff stifled a sob.
The operator finally came on the line.
“We need an ambulance,” Monica said, trying to control her breathing as well as the shaking in her hands. The dispatcher would need details—the address, directions to the farm. She had to focus.
Monica did the best she could, although she stumbled over the address of the farm and Jeff had to mouth the information to her. Finally she ended the call.
“They’re on their way.”
Jeff wiped his hands over his face. “I’d better get outside and wait for the police.”
“I’m coming with you.” Monica pulled off her apron, balled it up and tossed it on the counter.
She followed Jeff out the door and down the path toward the bog, where Lori’s car was still parked. Although she was tall herself, Monica had to trot to keep up with her brother’s long strides. Her foot caught on a root that had broken through the surface of the ground, and she gave a cry, nearly falling but catching herself in the nick of time.
Rick’s truck was gone, the grass still flattened where it had stood. The wooden hives housing the bees had been unloaded and were placed in even rows on the field bordering the bog.
Lori was lying face down a dozen feet in front of the hives, her hands clenching the grass, her legs splayed.
Monica started toward where Lori was lying when she stopped suddenly. A loud humming was coming from somewhere and it felt as if the very air was vibrating. She grabbed Jeff’s arm.
“What’s that noise?”
“It’s the bees. Someone let them out.” He pointed to a twisted and stunted tree near the bog. Hanging from a low branch were hundreds of bees in an angry, buzzing cluster.
Monica stifled a squeal. She wasn’t allergic to bees but she remembered well the pain of the stinger the time she’d stepped on one in the grass in her bare feet.
“We can go this way,” Jeff said, pointing in a direction that would take them to where Lori was lying but would cut a wide swath around the bees hanging from the tree.
As soon as they reached Lori, Jeff dropped to one knee beside her body. “I’ve already felt for a pulse, but maybe . . .” He held his finger to her neck for several seconds then shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Maybe we should try chest compressions,” Monica said. “See if you can turn her over.”
Jeff was about to reach for Lori when they heard the bleating of a siren in the distance.
Monica breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re here.”
The siren ground to a halt as the ambulance bounced its way over the rutted path close to the spot where Monica and Jeff were waiting. A man and woman in navy pants and white shirts jumped out as soon as the vehicle came to a halt.
The man flung open the back doors of the ambulance and began to wrestle a gurney from the interior while the woman rushed toward Lori’s prone body.
She knelt down, turned the body over and immediately began CPR.
Lori’s face was red and bloated and swollen, especially around her eyes.
Jeff put his arm around Monica and pointed toward Lori. “It looks as if she’s been stung repeatedly.”
Monica glanced toward the tree where the bees continued to hang in an agitated cluster like a bunch of angry grapes.
They both turned their heads at the sound of a car approaching. A patrol car pulled up sharply in back of the ambulance and two patrolmen got out. Monica thought she recognized the one with the sunglasses—he’d been at the scene the time she’d found a body in the cranberry bog at Sassamanash Farm. He still had the same arrogant look as well as the ever-present wad of gum, which he was working furiously, his jaw going up and down like a piston.
They moved closer as they all watched the EMT continue CPR—her face red and shiny with perspiration from the effort. Her partner wheeled the gurney closer to Lori’s body.
“Any luck?” her partner asked.
She shook her head, dropped back on her heels with a sigh and peeled off her gloves. “There’s no response.”
They both turned to look at Monica, Jeff and the two policemen. The woman stood up, brushed the dirt off her knees and walked toward them.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Is she a friend . . . ?”
Monica shook her head. “Not really.”
The patrolman with the mirrored sunglasses reached for his radio. “We have to get the medical examiner out here.” He pointed at Monica and Jeff. “Meanwhile, don’t move anything, don’t touch anything.”
“Surely it’s an accident,” Monica protested. “The bees.” She pointed toward the tree where the buzzing had quieted down somewhat.
“Any sudden death like this, we gotta call the ME,” the other patrolman explained. “It’s up to him to decide cause of death.”
“It looks obvious to me,” Jeff said, pointing at Lori’s body. “She’s been stung repeatedly.”
The patrolman pushed his cap back, revealing a puckered line across his forehead where the brim had been. “Like I said. It’s not for me to say. You gotta wait for the ME.”
“Detective Stevens is on her way,” the patrolman in the sunglasses said, straightening his shoulders slightly.
Monica looked from the patrolmen to Jeff and then back again. “Detective Stevens? But surely you don’t suspect . . . foul play?”
The one patrolman pushed his hat back a bit farther and scratched along his hairline. “It’s routine, ma’am. Only routine. Nothing to worry about.”
By now the sun had reached its peak and was shining through a momentary break in the thick clouds. Monica wiped her sleeve across her damp forehead—she didn’t know whether she was perspiring from the heat or from a case of shock. The perspiration was certainly at odds with her hands, which were as cold as if she were standing outside in the middle of a blustery winter with no gloves on.
Monica, Jeff and the patrolmen stood around in awkward silence, waiting for the arrival of the ME and Detective Tammy Stevens. Monica had first met Detective Stevens back in October when the detective was nine months pregnant. She’d subsequently given birth to a boy and had gone back to work. Monica knew her to be smart, efficient and fair.
Finally, they heard the whine of a car in the distance, and a red late-model Chrysler Town & Country appeared around the bend. It came to a stop a dozen yards or so from the scene, and a man in gray dress slacks and a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up got out. He had brown hair cut short and was wearing glasses with dark frames.
The two patrolmen scurried toward him. Monica could see them gesturing toward the scene but couldn’t hear what they were saying. They were
headed to where Lori’s body lay when another car came jouncing down the path, kicking up dust as it came to a stop in back of the ME’s van.
Detective Stevens emerged from the second car. She stood surveying the scene for a moment, her hands on her hips, her blond chin-length hair blowing in the slight breeze, before she began walking toward Monica and Jeff. She was wearing a khaki skirt that looked rather tight in the waist and a dark green, short-sleeved blouse.
Monica smiled as Stevens approached.
She greeted Monica and Jeff and jerked her head in the direction of the body. “I’ll have a word with the ME, but I want to talk to both of you as well, so please stick around if you don’t mind.”
Jeff scowled, and Monica knew he was thinking of all the work that needed to be done before the sun went down. He plopped down on a tree stump and ran a hand through his thick hair.
Monica was thinking of work as well. She needed to finish this batch of cranberry salsa and start on another one. The way things were going, it looked like she’d be in the kitchen all day and possibly half the night.
Stevens was gesturing to the two patrolmen. The one had pulled his hat back into position and both were listening attentively. As Stevens finished and turned away, they dashed toward their patrol car and opened the trunk.
Stevens had a brief consultation with the ME then turned and walked back toward where Monica and Jeff were waiting. She reached them just as the two patrolmen began stringing up black-and-yellow plastic crime scene tape.
Stevens blew a lock of hair off her forehead. “Thank goodness it’s cooling down.” She glanced at the sky where the sun was now half covered by clouds. She looked back at Monica and Jeff and pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.
The crime scene tape fluttered and snapped in the wind that had picked up considerably since that morning.
Monica motioned toward it. “Surely this is an accident,” she said to Stevens.
“It’s only a precaution to protect the scene. Right now all we know is that we have a deceased female who is too young to have died of old age. Who knows what the ME will uncover? Quite possibly nothing sinister, but we have to be prepared.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the patrolmen then turned back to Monica and Jeff. “What happened here? Can one of you tell me?”
Monica and Jeff both began talking at the same time. Monica motioned for Jeff to go first.
“Rick dropped off the bees this morning, but it was too cloudy so he decided not to let them out.” He pointed toward the beehives arrayed on the scrubby grass.
The look of confusion that crossed Stevens’s face would have been comical under other circumstances.
“The honeybees are needed to fertilize the cranberry crop,” Jeff explained, pointing toward the bog now, where the pink flowers were rippling and bending in the wind.
“Who is Rick?” Stevens tugged at the waistband of her skirt.
“Rick is the beekeeper. We’re only renting the bees.”
Stevens’s look of confusion deepened. She shook her head as if to clear it, opened her mouth then shut it again. “The victim appears to have been stung numerous times,” she said finally. “If you didn’t let the bees out . . .”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Jeff admitted. “We’d agreed to wait till tomorrow. Lori knew that.”
“Lori?”
Just then Rick’s truck came into view, stopping behind Stevens’s car. Rick jumped out. He paused for a moment, taking in the scene, before rushing over to where Monica, Jeff and Stevens were standing.
“What’s happened? Is Lori okay?” He was breathless and sweating.
Stevens took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “And you are?” she asked, pulling a notebook and worn pencil stub from her pocket.
“Rick. Rick Taylor. Those are my bees.” He pointed toward the swarm of bees hanging from the tree.
“Is Lori the young woman who—”
“Yes,” Rick interrupted. “Is she okay?”
Jeff put a hand on Rick’s arm. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”
“What happened?” Rick looked bewildered. “She was okay when I left. I know she had a headache, but who’s ever died from a headache?” He looked from Monica to Jeff and back again, a puzzled look still on his face. “She said she was about to leave, so why was she still here?”
“It appears she’s been stung repeatedly,” Stevens said. “Do you know if she was allergic?”
Rick shook his head and his bangs flopped from side to side. “No. She worked with the bees all the time. The occasional sting is an occupational hazard. But I’ve never known her to have a reaction before.”
“But if a person is stung repeatedly . . .”
Rick shrugged. “It’s possible that numerous bee stings could release enough venom to kill, but we’re talking hundreds, if not thousands, of stings.” Rick scowled. “Besides, why were the bees out of the hives?” He looked around as if an answer could be found somewhere in the vicinity.
“She must have let them out herself,” Jeff said. “I went back to the shed,” he gestured over his shoulder, “to get some tools, and when I came back I found Lori on the ground and the bees swarming in that tree.”
Rick shook his head even more vigorously. “She would never let them out—not without the proper protection. At the very least she would have put her hat and face mask on.” He made a motion in front of his face. “A sting on the face is especially painful and can cause a great deal of swelling even without an allergic reaction.”
The brief glimpse Monica had caught of Lori’s face flashed across her mind. Rick was certainly right. Her face was so swollen as to be nearly unrecognizable.
“Officers.” Stevens turned and yelled to the patrolmen who were leaning against their patrol car. Both of them now had their hats pushed back, and the one in the sunglasses was patting his forehead with a handkerchief.
They shot to attention and turned to look at Stevens.
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“Go check the victim’s car. See if you find any beekeeping gear in there.”
They both nodded and began walking briskly toward Lori’s car.
“Let me get this straight. The victim apparently let the bees out herself,” Stevens said.
Rick danced from one foot to the other. “But that alone wouldn’t necessarily cause them to swarm the way they did.” He pointed toward the cluster still clinging to the tree branch. “Something would have had to rile them up first.”
“What sort of something would that be?” Stevens paused with her pencil poised over her notebook.
Rick shrugged. “Any number of things—waving your arms or trying to bat them away, walking in front of the hive. Or disturbing the queen.” Rick looked over to where the ME was performing his examination. “Certainly Lori knew not to do any of those things.”
“How long had she been working for you?” Stevens asked.
“Not too long—a couple of months maybe. But still, she was a fast learner and certainly knew how to avoid disturbing the bees. That’s beekeeping one-oh-one.”
Stevens nodded and made a notation in her notebook.
“Can I ask where everyone was when this happened?” She waved a hand toward the beehives. She looked at Jeff. “You said you were in the shed.”
“I was in the kitchen,” Monica said quickly. “I’d made a couple dozen batches of cranberry muffins, and I was starting on the cranberry salsa.”
Stevens turned toward Jeff.
“And when you came back, the victim was already on the ground?”
“Yes.”
“And you?” Stevens turned toward Rick.
“Me?” Rick pointed at himself and took a step backward.
Stevens nodded without saying anything.
“I . . . I was . . . I stopp
ed in to say hello to my wife. She works over in the farm store.” He pointed toward the white clapboard building. “She’s been working there for several months.”
“So you walked over there.” Stevens jerked a thumb in the general direction of the farm store.
“I took my truck.”
Rick stuck his hands in his pockets, and Monica could see his fists were balled.
Stevens looked puzzled.
“I was heading somewhere else right afterward,” Rick explained. “And I wanted to leave straight from there. But then I saw all the commotion over here. . . .”
Why did Rick look so guilty? Monica wondered. Surely he didn’t have anything to do with this?
“What happens now?” Jeff asked. “This must have been an accident.”
Stevens shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“Autopsy!” Monica said, alarmed. She’d seen murder investigations up close before and wasn’t looking forward to being involved in another one. “So you think it wasn’t an accident?”
“Most likely it was an accident,” Stevens said. “But we’ll find out.”
Chapter 4
Monica had to really scrub to get the stains from the cranberry juice off her hands. Occupational hazard, she thought, as she ran a nailbrush foaming with soap over her fingers. But she’d finished the salsa for the order from Fresh Gourmet, and she still had time to get ready for the dinner she’d planned for the evening. In her mind, that was a win-win.
Monica wasn’t much for fashion and makeup, but since Greg was coming, she did take a few moments to dab some powder on her nose and change out of her jeans and T-shirt—her usual uniform while working in the kitchen.
Her hair refused to cooperate so she pinned it up in a loose knot on top of her head. She glanced in the bathroom mirror. A touch of lipstick and she would be ready.
The dinner she’d planned was a simple one—she didn’t have all that much time for fancy cooking. A couple of good steaks, cooked to a perfect medium rare, was always a hit. She had fixings for a salad and she would grill some zucchini and toss it with balsamic vinegar to bring out the vegetable’s sweetness.
