by Milk;Honey
“That’s what your sister-in-law told me,” Decker said.
“Then what’s going on?” Darlene probed.
“That’s what we’re hoping to find out, Mrs. Howard,” Marge said.
Darlene frowned.
The kitchen became silent. A minute passed. This time, Annette started to pick her nails. Darlene massaged her hands.
Decker said, “It might be better if we waited by another extension in the house. That way we won’t disturb your work.”
“I won’t hear of it,” Darlene insisted. “Sit down. I’ll get you some more ice-tea.”
Marge said, “Thank you, Mrs. Howard—”
“Darlene,” she said. “Everyone calls me Darlene.”
More silence. Annette fidgeted, then got up and turned on the radio. Don Williams was singing about Tulsa Time. Decker hummed along.
Annette smiled at him. “And here I thought you were faking the drawl and everything just to get us to talk.”
Decker laughed.
Annette retied her hair. “I like Don Williams. Has such a pretty voice.”
Decker nodded.
“Darlene met George Jones once,” Annette said.
“Oh, Nettie!”
“Go ahead and tell them,” Annette prodded.
“It was nothing,” Darlene said. “It was twenty years ago.”
“Tell them anyway,” Annette said.
“Well,” Darlene said, breathily, “Byron was playing backup guitar for an old act called the Pineridge Boys at the Palomino. You know ’bout the Palomino?”
“On Lankershim,” Marge said.
“Yeah,” Darlene said. “He used to play bluegrass. My Lord, this was a long time ago. Anyway, who should be in the audience but George Jones. Without Tammy, I might add. I thought I’d die when he came up to Byron and me afterward. He said Byron was a real fine picker.” Darlene sighed. “But Byron’s duty was to his pappy and the farm. Never even thought one minute about being anything else.”
Darlene picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the cauldron. “It was a long time ago.”
The quiet became noticeable again.
Darlene said, “This batch is done, Nettie. Give me a hand with it.”
“Can I help?” Decker offered.
Darlene said, “You can pick up the other side and help me take it off the stove and onto that metal cooling pad.”
Decker grabbed two pot holders and lifted the cauldron himself. “Where?”
“Right behind you,” Annette said.
“Thank you, Mister Detective,” Darlene said.
“What are you cooking?” Marge asked.
“Apple-honey syrup,” Darlene said. “I gave you the recipe for it.”
“Oh yeah,” Marge said, “the one where you strain a half-dozen cooked Granny Smith apples.”
The phone rang. Decker announced it was probably for him and picked up the receiver. He was silent for a moment, then turned his back to the women and whispered into the receiver. A minute later, he hung up and told Marge that Sheriff’s gave them the go ahead.
Byron Howard lumbered into the kitchen, announcing he was thirsty. His bald head was beaded with rows of sweat. He took a callused hand and mowed the water down, wiping his wet palm on his pants leg. He didn’t look any happier to see Decker than he had the first time.
“You still here?” he asked them.
“Looks that way,” Decker said. “We’re leaving right now, Mr. Howard.”
“They’re goin’ to the Darcys, Byron,” Annette said. “Katie Darcy was found on the other side of the mountain, and the detective thinks that don’t look so good, considerin’ how close Linda was to her and all.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Howard,” Decker said. “Sorry for the intrusion.”
Byron faced Decker and blurted out, “I’ll take you to the Darcys.”
Darlene’s face froze in shock.
Annette stammered out, “Now, Byron, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“I’m going,” Byron insisted.
Darlene’s look of surprise had turned to hatred. “Who’s gonna mind the farm?” she asked.
“I weren’t be more than ten minutes, Darlene,” Byron said. “For God’s sake, woman, I think you can last that long with me out of reach.”
Darlene’s mouth fell open.
Byron’s eyes beseeched Decker’s. “Please, mister. I won’t get in your way.”
Decker paused a second, then nodded for him to come along.
“Let’s go,” Marge repeated.
“Ten minutes, Darlene,” Byron said. “I swear it. Just ten minutes.”
11
Decker pulled the unmarked onto Sagebrush Canyon Road. Byron Howard sat shotgun, Marge stretched out in the back. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Howard staring at the Plymouth’s in-dash computer, the radio transmitter and mike, all the little lights and dials. To him, it probably looked like NASA control.
They rode a half-mile without speaking. Finally, Marge asked Byron about the biker bar down the road.
The beekeeper waved his hand in the air. “Bunch of lazy bums over there. But they leave us in peace and keep out the niggers.”
“Who owns the place?” Decker asked.
“Kid named Chip,” Byron answered.
“Chip what?” Marge asked.
“Just Chip,” Byron said.
Decker knew conversation was going to be one-way, but he tried anyway. “I hear your brother likes the pizza over there.”
Byron answered yep, the pizza was good, and stared out the windshield.
The road bisected grainfields. Thousands of yellow stalks bowing in the wind, reflecting the fire of the sun. A stone grinding mill slowly came into view, sitting like an island in a golden sea. The sky was freckled with blackbirds sliding through perfumed air.
Straight out of a Wyeth painting, Marge thought. She asked, “What’re they growing here?”
“Looks like rape,” Decker said.
Byron looked up from his lap. “It is rape.”
“Rape?” Marge asked.
“It’s a kind of corn—grain,” Decker said. “My brother’s first wife—no, his second—yeah, it was the second one. She was from Kansas, so that’s where the wedding took place. Grain markets are big out there. Wheat, oats, rape, rye—”
“Just how many wives does your brother have?” Byron asked.
“Only one at the moment,” Decker said. “She happens to be number three. Speaking of family, how many people live over at the Darcy farm?”
It took Byron a long time to respond. When he did, he spoke slowly, clicking off his fingers every time he mentioned a name. There was Pappy and Granny, Luke and Linda. Then there was Sue Beth and B.B., her husband.
Byron said, “Sue Beth is Luke’s older sister.”
He stopped talking. Decker asked if that was the entire family. Byron shook his head no.
“Who else?” Marge asked. She hoped she kept the frustrated tone out of her voice.
Well, there was Luke’s younger sister, Carla, Byron went on to explain. And Earl, the youngest.
“He’s not right in the head,” Byron announced.
“In what way?” Decker asked.
“Just that,” Byron said. “He’s a retard. Nice boy, though. Does his chores without a complaint. Wish my boys were as polite as Earl.”
“How old is he?” Decker asked.
“’Bout twenty-five,” Byron answered.
Decker asked if there were any more people in the household, and Byron answered just the kids. Sue Beth had two, Linda had Katie. Decker added up the total mentally. Twelve people, but nine adults under one roof. And according to Annette Howard, tension between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. Nine adults—nine opinions. A potential keg of dynamite.
“Know which of the Darcys went to the bee meeting in Fall Springs?” Marge asked.
Decker raised his eyebrows. Darlene must have told Marge about the Western Beekeepers Associatio
n. Margie had done a fine job of extracting information from Darlene. They’d compare notes later.
“I know Pappy and Granny D went down,” Byron said. “And they musta took Earl, ’cause they don’t leave him. I think everyone went except Luke, Linda, and Katie—and Carla. She don’t go nowhere for the business. Girl has no sense of family.”
Marge cleared her throat. A signal to Decker saying that statement could be significant, remember it because we can’t write it at the moment. Decker coughed, and Marge sat back in her seat.
She asked, “What about Sue Beth’s children? They go with the parents?”
“I reckon they would,” Byron said. “I don’t talk too much to the Darcys.”
Decker sneaked a sidelong glance at Byron. His expression remained flat.
“Turn right there,” Byron said, pointing to a dirt road.
Decker steered the Plymouth onto the path. It was lined with red-flowering bottlebrush trees and terminated at the entrance to a three-story whitewashed, wood-frame house. Next to the house was a red silo, the door open, grain spilling out like melted butter. The Darcys’ residence, like the Howards’, was located amid acres of blooming clover-field. In the distance, behind the house, cows were grazing. The car had traveled about halfway to the residence when Byron told Decker to stop.
“What is it?” Marge asked.
Byron said, “Something’s wrong.”
“How can you tell, Mr. Howard?” asked Marge.
Byron swallowed hard. “Back up two trees, Mister Detective.”
Decker put the car into reverse.
“Look to the right,” Byron said. “The back branch of that bottlebrush tree.”
Through the car window, Decker saw that the rear bough was coated with bees—like insulation around a duct.
“Ain’t no way any of the Darcys would let a swarm like that just sit there on a tree,” Byron said. “It’s at least a day old, judging by the size of the comb.” Byron looked at Marge. “Something’s badly wrong.”
“Sure you want to go in with us?” Decker asked.
“Yes, sir, I do,” Byron answered. He dropped his voice a notch. “I do.”
Decker shifted the transmission back to drive. He parked outside the house. As soon as he stepped out, the stench hit his nostrils. Something decaying. Bees were flying about his face, not nearly as heavy as the first swarm he’d experienced, but there were enough insects to create that ominous, low-pitched hum. He traded a wary glance with Marge.
Byron took a quick walk around the house. He came back and said, “All the cars are gone.”
“What kind of cars do they drive?” Decker asked.
“Pappy D has a two-tone fifties Plymouth. B.B. has a full-sized Ford pickup,” Byron answered. He covered his mouth. “Lord, it stinks.”
“I’ll get the gloves,” she said.
“Gloves?” Byron asked.
“We don’t want to destroy any evidence,” Marge said. “Mr. Howard, I think it would be best if you waited outside.”
“Well, I disagree.”
Decker said, “Mr. Howard, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to insist that you wait outside.”
Byron bit his lip, held back a mixture of anger and fear.
“I know you’re concerned,” Decker said. “I don’t like what I’m smelling, either. But them’s the rules, sir.”
Byron turned away and muttered an obscenity.
Decker nodded to Marge, then turned the handle to the front door. As soon as it opened, a waft of hot, putrefying air blasted their faces.
“Jesus!” cried Decker, holding down a dry heave.
“Here,” Marge said, handing him a jar of VapoRub. “Plug up.”
Decker coated each nostril with the salve, then took out a handkerchief and placed it over his nose and mouth. Marge covered her face with her hands. The layout was similar to the Howards’ place. A quaint country living room, but this one smelled as ripe as a slaughterhouse. Bees flitted through the air like confetti. The floors were peg-and-groove pine, and streaked with trails of red-brown crust. A path of footprints, stained the same color, led from the kitchen to the front door. Big feet—around a size eleven, followed by a smaller size—maybe seven or eight. Decker pointed it out to Marge, and she nodded and pulled out a notebook.
Decker took a good look around the room. Nothing overturned or uprooted. The furniture was upholstered in bright red and yellow florals, the material intact without rips or tears, the pillows decorator-arranged. The matching curtains were whole as well, the pleats hanging straight. Nothing yanked apart or pulled down. No overt signs of struggle here. Marge tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed to a dark, fuzzy line on the floor. The line moved, wriggled about like glitter, a queue of bees piled atop each other.
Decker cautiously stepped over the bees and neared the kitchen. The stench was unbearable, the air dense with bees droning out a requiem. Decker added more VapoRub to his nostrils and put the handkerchief back over his face. Marge coughed behind her hands.
The kitchen proved to be as large as the Howards’ and equally as modern. Decker took a swift look around the room, forcing himself to study detail. The shiny sunlit steel appliances were splattered with caked blood. Puddles of curdled milk had collected on the countertops, and empty cans of formula were strewn about—on the stove, on the counters, on the floor. An open gallon jar of honey lay sideways, its contents now a plasmic glob on the floor. Hundreds of bees were wading in the cloudy brown pool, their forelegs and tongues eagerly gathering the pickings.
Finally, he allowed his eyes to rest on the center of the floor. First a quick peek, then he focused on the grisly sight.
In the middle were three bodies—one male and two females—all of them covered with a sticky coat of blood and honey, a nappy blanket of bees and flies, and rice-size maggots. The skin was bloated, the underlying fascia had been partially eaten away by bugs and decomposition. Though the insects were crawling over most of the flesh, it was possible to make out the remnants of faces—a light blue eye, a lip, a cleft chin. One female had a hand resting on her open bowel, the male had his right leg blown off. To the right, slumped against the metal door of a walk-in refrigerator, lay another male. His face had been a meal ticket for the bugs, and most of his innards had been exploded. His legs were nearly severed from his body. His body was attached to his limbs by only thin strings of tendons. A human marionette. Shotgun blasts all around. Decker shook his head.
As he stared at the piles of blood and infected meat, he felt a sudden, sharp pain on the back of his neck. Damn. One of the suckers had finally got him. He felt a warm swelling rise on his neck and looked around for Marge.
She’d left, but another had come to take her place. In the corner of the room stood Byron Howard, his eyes fixed upon the carnage. His shoulders sagged forward, his eyes and cheeks were wet with tears. His lips uttered one word over and over. Linda, Linda, Linda…
12
Rina squeezed the Porsche into the garage and breathed a sigh of relief. She and the car were whole. Her head and neck ached from the tension of driving—God forbid she’d come home with a mark on the metal. Why were men like that about cars? To her, an automobile was nothing more than a way to get from one place to another. From now on, either she’d drive the Jeep or rent an old Volvo. Besides, she felt strange behind the wheel of a German car. Though it never bothered her parents—they’d driven Mercedes for years, and both of them were camp survivors—it bothered her. Carl Benz had been a war criminal, Ferdinand Porsche a star member of the SS.
She locked the car, closed the garage door, and heard banging coming from the backyard. Although the unmarked wasn’t parked out front, Peter must be home. Maybe Marge had taken the Plymouth and dropped him off.
“Peter?” Rina shouted as she walked toward the barn. “Peter, I’m back. And the Porsche’s still in one piece.”
Rina entered the barn, then stopped suddenly. Her heart started pounding in her chest. A strange man. This one kneelin
g, bare-chested, wearing only corduroy shorts and sandals—one sandal, rather. His left leg was a prosthesis. The handicap calmed her slightly—no doubt she could outrun him. Still, she reflexively pulled a .38 from her purse and gripped it in her hand.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The man eyed the pistol, then the woman.
“My name’s Abel Atwater,” he drawled. “I’m a friend of Sergeant Decker. I’m fixin’ up his barn.”
“Sergeant Decker never told me about any man he hired to fix up his barn,” Rina said.
Abel kept staring at the gun. “Well, I don’t think Pete wanted me here while you were here, ma’am. I just came back to get my tools, and I saw this warped board here. No one was around, so I thought I’d do a quick repair before I went home.” Abel started to rise, then saw the woman’s hand tighten around the butt of the revolver. “If you want to go into the house, lock the doors, and call him, I’ll wait until he gets here. Or I’ll just leave.” He chuckled nervously. “Hey, I’ll do anything you want.”
Rina regarded him. Painfully thin, as if he had cancer…like Yitzchack in his final days. Only this one had normal coloring, wasn’t ashen….
She asked, “Where do you know Yitz—Where do you know Peter from?”
“We were in the army together—”
“Peter was in the army?” Rina interrupted.
“Yes, ma’am, he was.”
Rina stared at him.
Abel said, “We did basic together—Fort Jackson, Polk for advanced training. Then overseas to Fulda and Nam—B Company, third squad. Later, they switched Pete from an A-gunner to a medic. He was too tall for footwork….”
Rina said nothing.
Abel asked, “None of this sounds familiar?”
“No.”
“Pete never talks about Nam, huh?”
Rina shook her head.
“That’s old Doc for you—tight-lipped.” Abel patted his prosthesis. “Uncle Sam’s souvenir.”
“I’m sorry,” Rina said.
“Can I stand up, ma’am?” Abel said. “I’m frozen in an uncomfortable position, and that little piece of metal in your hand tells me I’d better ask permission before I move.”
