The Double Dip (A Honeybee Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Katherine Hayton

  “Sit down and tell me about it. If you keep pacing, you’ll wear a hole in your carpet and then you’ll need to replace the whole floor.”

  “There’s a rug upstairs I can use,” Alice said with a frown, not really concentrating. “Mom used it for the hallway when we had to wait three years before we could stick the replacement on the mortgage.”

  Doug nodded and half-closed his eyes. “Well, if you’re not going to tell me about it, do you have a slice of cake left over for my morning tea?”

  Alice gratefully used it as an excuse to get to her feet again, fetching a slice from the Tupperware container in the cupboard. She cut a sliver for herself then reconsidered, adding another slice at least twice as big as the first.

  “What’s the letter about?” Doug asked after he’d finished his coffee and cake ten minutes later. “Is it something important to do with this place?”

  “It’s the official results from the Manuka honey I’ve been trialling out the back.”

  “Good news or bad?” Doug glanced over to her, then smiled. “Or haven’t you gotten that far yet?”

  Alice pulled the envelope out of her pocket and flattened it out on the table. The seal was unbroken, the return address for the Unique Manuka Factor Honey Association printed clearly across the top.

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, girl. I’ve got to get back out into the fields to chop back the poplars along the wind belt. If a storm comes through before then, you’ll have branches spraying all down the back line.”

  With a pounding heart, Alice slid her fingernail under the seal, lifting the gum adhesive. She pulled out the papers and unfolded them, her gaze fixed to a point across the table so she couldn’t see the results.

  Deep breath.

  “UMF 20+ Superior High Grade.” Alice’s hand shook so much the words blurred before her eyes. She passed the notice over to Doug. “That’s what it says, right?”

  “It is. I guess congratulations are in order. What does that mean for the bees, then? Do you want me to plant out more paddocks?”

  Alice nodded, unable to trust herself to speak.

  “Pity your dad didn’t make it this far. I’m sure he would’ve been really proud of you.” Doug gave Alice a pat on her forearm. “I suppose I’d better get back to it. Those trees won’t prune themselves.”

  She nodded again, finding it impossible to swallow past the lump in her throat. The certificate and license code were all she’d been waiting for before labeling the honey and setting it up for sale. If she sold it direct, then it would be worth far more than selling it wholesale.

  Instead of moving toward the computer to organize the print, Alice went out onto the front porch to hug her dog. “We did it, Chester,” she whispered. “We got it off the ground.”

  Chapter Three

  DS Hogarth sighed and stretched his legs out, crossing them over at the ankles. “I’m not sure what I’m meant to make of all of this. Does somebody want to clue me in?”

  “The high-grade Manuka honey can sell for a lot of money in retail,” Sally explained. “So long as it meets the quality control standards set by the UMFHA it’s practically a license to print money.”

  “Lovely. And how does that tie in with the crime you’ve reported?”

  “Someone attacked my highest grade Manuka hives a few weeks ago,” Alice said, her jaw clenching. “The thieves took three full hives and kicked over many others. It’s hard to tell how many of my little ones were hurt or stolen. I can only hope they took the opportunity during transport to get out of the hives alive.”

  “Somebody stole your bees?” The DS ran a hand through his hair.

  “I reported it to the police at the time but there wasn’t a lot they could do.” Alice shook her head, trying not to let her hands curl into fists. “They gave me a copy of the report to file an insurance claim, but that didn’t help out my bees any.”

  “How much money are you talking about here?” Hogarth seemed surprised at the mention of the insurance. “A few grand?”

  “If we sell the honey at wholesale rates, it can go as low as two to three thousand dollars per hive. On the retail market, it’s a completely different story. Our current supply is nowhere near equal to demand and we sell for close to two hundred dollars per pottle.”

  When Hogarth continued to look at her with his eyebrows raised, Alice added, “That’s about twenty thousand or more per hive.”

  “You’re kidding.” The DS stared down at his pages, then looked up at Sally. “She’s kidding, right?”

  “Why do you think there’s so much concern over mislabeled products and mixing certified and non-certified honey?” Sally smiled as the man continued to look astounded.

  “It’s big business,” Alice jumped in to say. “The money isn’t the reason we got into it in the first place. Back then, I thought we’d end up selling most to hospitals as an antiseptic for wound treatment. Unfortunately, the original studies haven’t really been added to. What I foresaw in the medical sense didn’t happen, but it didn’t stop the retail sales going off the charts.”

  “A thief stole sixty thousand dollars’ worth of honey from your property?” Hogarth continued to shake his head, apparently unable to make the leap.

  “I don’t care about that side as much as I worry about how they treated the bees,” Alice said, a lump forming in her throat. “Those little soldiers work so hard all year long, it’s awful to think the thief might just scrape them off the hives and dump them by the side of the road.”

  “Who did you report this to?” Hogarth pulled a phone out of his pocket, thumbing in a short code. “Did you get a name and case number?”

  “They’re at home.” Alice waved her hand for him to put away the phone. “It’s too late to do anything about it now. The frames were stolen, the police visited and made a report, and that was the end of the matter.”

  The DS snorted. “And you expect me to believe you let it go at that?”

  “Well, obviously, I didn’t let it stop there,” Alice said in a voice full of indignation. “It’s on a par with stealing my pets or a bunch of milking cows. I wanted them back.”

  “And did you get them back?”

  Alice opened her mouth to reply when Sally tapped a finger on her knee. “Actually, I should probably fill you in on some other parts of the story before we go down that road.”

  “I’d rather stick on this track. Speaking of which, what was so important about the planting that I had to listen to you talk about walking around the land with your father?” Hogarth turned his pen over, clicked it on and off, then tapped it against his pad. “You were adamant you start there, but I don’t see any relevance.”

  “Nothing, I suppose, apart from the beech trees.” Alice’s lower lip wobbled, and she sucked it in and chewed on it for a second. “Part of the reason our brand is in demand comes down to the honeydew. Manuka honey tastes mildly sweet but always has a bitter follow through. When the bees also mixed in the honeydew, it rounded out the flavor and gave it a musty finish that’s softer on the palate.”

  “Like wine?”

  Alice flicked her eyes up to meet the sergeant’s, then flicked away to stare over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re saying the honey is a delicacy because it has different notes that add to a particular type of flavor, like fine wine.”

  “I suppose so. Except, I can eat one and I’d throw up if you made me drink the other.”

  The DS laughed and wrinkled up his nose. “Fair enough, each to their own.”

  “If you’re finished?” Sally gave an expectant glance toward Hogarth, who nodded.

  “Fine. Since you’re so eager to tell me your story, chime away.”

  Sally woke up to a loud crash from the kitchen. She tried to move and groaned at the pain in her temple. When she put a hand up to the right side of her face, it seemed to be stuck to the pillow.

  As her consciousness got itself together to make a concerted effort at holding ont
o whole thoughts, Sally found several new spots of agony dotting her body. The side of her head was the worst but there was a spike of pain in her hip and a dull ache in her side.

  Had she fallen?

  The pain from the hangover she was used to. Although it muddied her thinking, she tried hard to remember back to the night before.

  She’d been at work during the day, a mindless job of data entry which left her forefingers aching at the end of each shift. A two-finger typist, she could keep up with the best of them but only at a high cost. Hunting and pecking meant she hit each key harder than a touch typist. To repeat the gesture so many thousand times over, took a toll.

  Still, the blessing of the job was that it was temporary. The curse was that in a weeks’ time, she’d be out job hunting again. The temp agency kept promising her that one of these days a short stint in an office would lead to full-time employment. After two years signed on with the same firm, it rang hollow.

  Of course, as the agency liked to point out to her, making an effort would usually involve fewer sick days than she used. No one there had ever had the temerity to come straight out with a lecture on the ills of drinking, but Sally didn’t need them to. She was intelligent when the booze wasn’t turning her brain to mush. She could read between the lines.

  Friday. It had been Friday yesterday which meant it must now be Saturday morning.

  What had happened after work? Where had she gone?

  After lying still for a few minutes more with no new memories stirring, Sally left it alone in favor of getting up. A harder task than she’d expected as the side of her face appeared to be glued to the pillow. Each time she tried to tug it loose, the pain along her head exponentially increased.

  Blood.

  When she finally gritted her teeth and wrenched the pillow away, Sally saw her blood had glued her fast in place. Now she’d freed herself, she could feel the slow trickle of a new stream flowing down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, feeling a glut of emotion come spilling up from her soul.

  Why do you keep drinking when it does this to you?

  Sally felt the easy tears of a hangover prickle at the backs of her eyes. She didn’t know what had happened but the blame for that lay squarely at her doorstep too. Each time she promised—just one drink—she’d wake up in the same state.

  A box of tissues sat on the bedside table. It took a few false starts before Sally got her feet under her long enough to snag them, then retreat back to the bed. She pressed one up against her cheek to stem the new blood flow. It was always slowing to sludge, most of the wound sealed during her drunken slumber.

  Another crash from the kitchen was followed up by a monologue of swearing. Jason must be trying to make himself breakfast with a mind bleary with the excesses of the night before.

  As her own stomach lurched, Sally couldn’t understand how he could consider eating. The sour mix of old booze and bile churning in her stomach made even the thought a no-go area.

  When the blood stopped flowing, Sally spat on another tissue and tried to clean the side of her face. Goodness knows how many hours she’d lain in bed with the stuff drying to rock-hard glue, but it didn’t want to go anywhere. She’d need to soak it with a wet flannel before it could be removed.

  The bathroom was such a long distance away, it took another few minutes before Sally attempted the feat.

  When she looked at her reflection in the cabinet mirror, she wished she’d stayed in bed.

  Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Not just from drink and sleep but aided by the bruise sneaking along the side of her face. Whatever she’d whacked her head on last night, she’d done more than the usual damage. St. Christopher must have given up in disgust and gone to watch over someone else for a change.

  The wet flannel went from soothing to excruciating in about five seconds flat. It felt like it was doused in antiseptic rather than just water. So much for the Dettol that she’d been going to apply next.

  With gritted teeth, Sally kept the cloth pressed in place. She mightn’t head outdoors any further than the mailbox today, but she still wanted to be presentable. Even if there was no one to see her, keeping up appearances was long ingrained.

  After a few minutes of soaking, the caked blood stripped away to reveal the dark purple and brown of bruised flesh. With gentle fingers, Sally probed the outer edges of the tender flesh. Her hairline covered the main wound, leaving her unable to examine it in closer detail.

  “Do you know what I did to my head?” she asked, walking through into the kitchen. A gag of spit rose in her mouth at the smell of bacon cooking. The grease, usually a welcome aroma, poked spiky fingers into her tummy, stirring up trouble. She swallowed, clenching her throat hard to stop anything coming up the other way.

  Jason turned and stared at her through narrowed eyes. His face was pinched and cautious. She should have known right that second what had happened but was too absorbed in her own foolish regret to interpret the signs.

  “You don’t remember?”

  A wave of anger washed over Sally, leaving her dizzy. “I wouldn’t ask if I did,” she spat out, feeling unreasonably defensive.

  Thank goodness your mother isn’t alive to see you now.

  Thanks, brain. Really helpful.

  “You fell and hit your head on the side of the mantel.” Jason kept examining her for a moment, then turned back to his frypan. “I asked if you wanted to go to the emergency room because you wouldn’t stop bleeding, but you insisted you were fine.”

  Another jolt of self-pity ran through Sally. One of these days, she’d insist on staying home and wind up dead. Why did anyone let a drunk woman decide what was in her best interests? On the other hand, convincing a drunk man to do nothing was an easy sell.

  “Do we have any aspirin? The medicine cabinet’s empty.”

  Jason pushed her aside as he carried the hot pan across the kitchen, leaving a trail of dripping grease on the floor. Great. She’d have to clean that up later. “If it’s not in the bathroom, then no. Don’t you have any in your purse?”

  Sally shook her head, regretting it an instant later. The headache from her hangover intensified, sending bolts of pain up through the backs of her eyes. Usually, she’d try to gulp down a cup of coffee and take a cold-ish shower to see if that helped. Her aching skull and her bubbling stomach yelled at her that, this time, it would be a mistake.

  “I’ve made enough for two if you’d like a bacon sandwich to start the day.” Jason shoved his plate of food in Sally’s face and in a second, she’d turned and run from the room to heave over the bowl.

  This is why you shouldn’t drink.

  No kidding, brain. Perhaps next time you could interject that piece of wisdom before the first beer goes down my throat rather than the morning after.

  I do. You don’t pay attention when there’s a cold one in your hand.

  A tear slid down Sally’s face and she sat back on her heels, stretching up to activate the flush.

  No. When a drink was in front of her it was far too late. She needed to stop going to the bar in the first place. Let alone, stocking alcohol at home.

  Except…

  Except what, brain?

  Except, I’ll look the other way right now if you want to take a shot of hair of the dog. Just as medicine.

  While half of her thought it was a great idea, the other half of Sally had to lean over the toilet bowl again.

  “You okay? I can get you an antacid if you need it.”

  “No, thanks.” Even the thought of a glass of cold water seemed too much of a stretch for her roiling stomach.

  “When I’ve finished breakfast, I’ll nip down to the dairy and pick up aspirin and a pack of tums.”

  Another sign Sally ignored. Jason was never so helpful if he wasn’t making up for something. A pity there was no space in her head to notice such things.

  Self-pity took up half, dealing with her self-abuse, the other.

  Chapter Four

 
“I hate to sound like a broken record, but I’m struggling to understand how this fits with the current situation.” DS Hogarth frowned, an expression so close to genuine worry that Sally gave a snort of laughter.

  “I’ll get there eventually,” she said, her voice low as though the hangover she described was something she had to deal with right now. “This is the first time I’ve laid all of this out for someone. I’m sorry if it takes up time, but we should be fine on that score. Jason’s still got some distance to cover.”

  The sergeant shifted in his seat but at least he didn’t sigh. If Sally heard that noise now, she might lose her courage altogether. What she wanted was for someone to hold her hand, but Alice would flinch away from the contact and Hogarth would stare down his long nose and shake his head.

  Where was that nice young DC when she needed him?

  A crash from around the back of the house told her Willington’s exact position. That was the pile of empty beer crates Jason stored halfway between the rear door and the garage. Why, when it blocked a perfectly good path, she hadn’t bothered to ask him. After all, when he visited her a few months before, it wasn’t like she’d expected him to stay this long.

  You never think ahead.

  Thanks, brain. Nice talking to you.

  “How long ago did all this happen?” The DS leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bright. “I take it this isn’t the story of your reconciliation with Jason after he got out of prison.”

  “No.” Sally wrung her hands together. If no one else would take her hand, she’d just have to do it herself. “This is back when we were just married.”

  “The first time he hit you?”

  After a short pause, Sally nodded. Shame sent a tidal wave of tears to pinch her nose and flood her eyes, but she tipped her head back and let them drain away. Too much had happened to waste the effort on shedding them now.

  “Actually, it wasn’t the first time. It was just the first serious injury, something I only noticed looking back. Before, it was gripping my arm too tightly while steering me away from a man at a bar or giving me a pinch on the bum that left bruises.”