by J. R. Ripley
“Interesting,” said Kim. “And not an ounce of body fat on them. I wish I could get away with that.”
Mason started toward the shop, but Kim held me back.
“Tipsy,” whispered Kim.
“What?”
“I think your old college professor has been dipping in the sauce.”
I cocked my head as I watched Mason start up the walk to Birds & Bees, arms swinging. His gray flannel suit hung loosely from his shoulders. His tie was half undone. “Mason does seem a bit unsteady, doesn’t he?”
Kim giggled. “I’ve seen steadier rowboats out on the lake. In a thunderstorm.”
“Let’s go. Mason’s waiting.” He’d already disappeared inside. That meant he’d be facing Esther alone.
“Hold on, Amy. I want to get a picture.”
“Of what?”
“This giant birdhouse, of course.” She thrust her phone at me. “Here, take my pic so I can post it online on my page.”
“Oh, brother.” I took the phone and aimed while Kim posed mischievously in front of the tiny quirky house on wheels.
“Did you know he was going to be showing up with this thing?” Kim smiled broadly.
“Not a clue,” I replied. “Now turn the other way. The sun was in your face in that last shot.”
Kim turned her head. “Do you think your old professor would mind if we take a look inside?”
“I’d mind. That would be trespassing.” Not that I hadn’t done a little of that myself. All in the name of truth and justice, of course.
“But I want to pose in that window.” She pointed to a rectangular window with white trim and a window box that held some faded plastic flowers. “It will be fun.”
“Maybe later,” I said. I handed Kim her phone and gave her a nudge. “If Mason gives his permission.”
“Fine,” grumbled Kim, following me up the walk.
Inside, Mason had cornered Esther in the small first-floor kitchenette in the back corner of the shop. I always tried to leave out snacks and drinks for the customers. There were chairs where they could linger with their refreshments and read from a selection of bird-, plant- and bee-related literature.
“Are you sure you don’t have anything stronger?” I heard Mason ask Esther.
Esther gave me the stink eye. “My fist’s pretty strong.” She waved her clenched hand at the professor’s nose.
“Now, now, Esther.” I grabbed Esther’s hand and lowered it. “Care for some lemonade, Mason?” I pulled the glass pitcher from the fridge and set it beside the sink.
“Thank you, Amy. I am a bit parched.”
Using a pair of stainless steel tongs, I dropped ice in each of our glasses, then poured a round of lemonade. Esther chugged hers down, then helped herself to seconds and a chocolate chip cookie. Mom had baked the cookies in advance of today’s event. Nobody made a chocolate chip cookie like Mom. I heard the tinkle of the door opening. “Could you go assist our customer, please, Esther?”
Esther muttered something under her breath but said she would.
“I’ll go, too,” said Kim. “I can finish setting things up for the kiddies.”
“Kitties?” Mason looked at me inquiringly. “Are you selling cats here now in addition to birdseed?”
“Not kittens, kiddies.” I spelled the word. “We’re having a group of day-schoolers in. I try to hold special events for the children on a fairly regular basis. It’s a way of teaching them something about birds and bees—”
“Oh?” Mason wiggled his eyebrows in a lascivious fashion. He swirled the ice around in his glass, then drank.
“Nothing like that!” I touched his arm. “I’m pretty sure every parent in town would be out for my blood if I tried to teach their children the facts of life. Not that I’d want to.”
“So you teach them a thing or two about our avian and apian friends.”
“That’s right. It’s as much fun for me as it is for the kids.” I offered Mason a cookie from the tray, and he ate it greedily. “Would you care to stick around for it? I know it’s sort of last-minute, but I’m sure the children would enjoy hearing you speak, especially about hummingbirds.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Amy.” Mason yawned. “But I really am rather tired. It’s been a long drive, you know. A long trip.”
“I can imagine.” I set down my glass. “How long is your book tour?”
“Another month. I’ve been on the road for two months already. I’m looking forward to this book-launch tour coming to an end.”
“We’re thrilled that you decided to make our little Town of Ruby Lake one of your stops. I’m sure it’s not quite the big-city event you’re used to, but I’m hoping for a good turnout. I know Rose Smith, the bookstore owner, has been making plans like crazy. She put up flyers and has advertised your book signing at her store in the local paper and has been running some radio spots.” All of which had to be costing a pretty penny. I knew what it cost to advertise just in our local newspaper.
“I’m looking forward to it. And to your little, what was it? Birds and Brews gathering?”
“Yes. That’s tonight. I host that jointly with Paul Anderson at Brewer’s Biergarten next door. He’s the owner.”
“Is he as enamored of birds as you?”
“No, Mister Anderson is enamored of beer.”
“I see.” He scooped up another cookie.
“I can’t tell you what an honor it is for us that you’ve agreed to speak.” I was gushing like a schoolgirl but couldn’t seem to stop.
Mason laughed. “You know how much I love to talk. And I adore the spotlight. How could I resist?”
“Then why not stick around and meet with the children?”
“I don’t know, Amy . . .”
“We’re going to be having a class on the mason bee along with a hands-on demonstration.”
“Mason bee?”
“I thought you’d get a kick out of that,” I said with a grin. “As I mentioned, the kids should be arriving within the hour.” I tapped my watch crystal. “The children will be making mason bee nests. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay? It’s a group of youngsters from the daycare center. They’re adorable and full of energy. It should be a lot of fun.”
Mason shuddered and yawned once more. “No, thank you. I’d really like to get settled. It’s been a long drive.” He touched my wrist. “I’ll come by later.” He fished his keys from his pocket. “In time for the lecture.”
“Okay, I understand. Will you have some free time tomorrow? I could show you the sights.”
He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not. My publisher keeps me quite busy on these junkets. I have interviews and meetings all day tomorrow, including dinner with a newspaper editor who’s driving over from Charlotte.”
“That’s too bad.”
Mason patted my arm. “We’ll have time the day after that. I’ve nothing on my schedule but the book signing that night.”
“Perfect. I’m going to hold you to it. There’s a lot to see and do around here.”
“I’m sure there is.” The professor tugged at his sleeve. “Do you know a facility where I might park my vehicle?”
“You mean like a recreational vehicle park? You won’t be staying at a hotel?”
“No. The publisher had offered to set me up, but I prefer my tiny birdhouse.”
“It’s fantastic,” I said.
“The best little birdhouse in Texas!”
“I’ll bet.” I knew Mason was a tenured professor at a private university in Texas.
“I’ll have to give you the grand tour. Not that it will take long,” Mason said with a laugh and a wink. “So is there an RV park nearby?”
“There’s a public campground adjacent to the marina across the street—the Ruby Lake Park and Marina. You may be able to get a spot there if the campground isn’t full. Summer is the busiest time of year here in town.”
“I saw the sign for the marina as I was coming in.” Mason nodded. “I’ll check i
t out.”
I walked Mason to the street. “You’ll have to register at the office and get an overnight camping permit.” I gave Mason directions to the lakeside marina office. “You can’t miss it.” We hugged briefly, and Mason promised to return at seven for dinner at Brewer’s Biergarten and the Birds and Brews meeting afterward.
“The professor’s leaving already?” Kim asked.
“He wanted to rest.”
Kim nodded as she counted out bamboo shoots. “Every time we’re finished with a group of kids here in the store, that’s what I want to do, too.”
The children arrived shortly thereafter, nearly twenty of them. Kim and I got busy. “Where’s your bee guy?” Kim looked frazzled already as she set out stools for the teachers and pillows and rugs for the kids to sit on.
I set a five-gallon bucket down in the middle of the open space we had created for the event near the front of the store. “He should bee here any minute.”
Kim groaned. “Must you?”
I heard the sound of the buzzer announcing someone was at the delivery door. “Mom, could you please see who’s at the back door?”
“Of course, dear.”
My mother had come down to assist with the kids. She’s a former teacher and is great with them. I’m also sure she misses teaching and can’t pass up the opportunity to spend time with children, especially when they are as young and bright-eyed as these daycare kids. Mom had taught high school or, as she liked to call it, high anxiety school.
As the two daycare teachers herded their kids and got them seated, I finished setting up the materials. The bucket was filled with six-inch pieces of bamboo that Cousin Riley had sawn to length for me. I also had several balls of twine. The children would be building mason bee nests, which are made by bundling a handful of the thin bamboo shoots and tying them together with twine.
“Sorry I’m late.” Mitch Quiles, a squat man with tight black curls, bushy eyebrows, and a crooked nose, had arrived, and his hands were full. Mom’s hands were full, too.
“Good to see you again, Mister Quiles.” I grabbed a box of display materials from Mom and set them at the front of the group. Mitch Quiles owned Quiles Apiary outside town and was the most knowledgeable person around on bees. I introduced him to the school group and let him do his thing. He had brought samples of honeycombs and a small case filled with twenty of the many species of bees that could be found in the Carolinas.
With the kids sitting on the floor and the teachers on the stools, attentions rapt, I passed out paper cups of lemonade and chocolate chip cookies on napkins.
“Although the mason bee is a spring pollinator and we’re a little late for this time of year, you’ll each be making your very own mason bee nest to take home. How do you like that?” Mr. Quiles asked his audience. There were murmurs of appreciation.
“Will we get honey, Mister Quiles?”
“Sorry,” said Mr. Quiles. “The mason bee is a solitary bee. They do not live in hives and do not produce honey. They are great pollinators though.” He looked toward the two teachers. “Maybe you would all like to see an actual honey-producing hive sometime?”
Several kids answered yes.
“Well, if it’s all right with your teachers, I’m sure we can arrange for you to come out to my place one morning. I have a dozen hives you can view.”
“I had hives once,” Kim said out of the side of her mouth. “I wouldn’t have wanted anybody to see them.”
“Quiet,” I whispered.
“What do you say, class?” asked one of the teachers. “Would we like a field trip to Quiles Apiary?”
The vote was unanimous.
We broke up into small groups. Mom and I started handing out bamboo sticks, and Kim and the teachers cut lengths of twine. Mr. Quiles went from group to group, checking out the children’s handiwork and lending a hand.
“How exactly does the bee make babies in here? It doesn’t look like a nest,” a young boy asked, peering into a hollow tube.
Mr. Quiles held up a length of bamboo. “The female bee forms a small ball of nectar and pollen at the farthest end of the nesting tube and lays an egg on the ball.
“Next, she collects mud to create a cell partition and repeats the egg-laying process until she reaches the mouth of the tube, which she caps with mud for protection. Interestingly, the female mason bee controls the sex of her eggs, laying female eggs toward the back of the nest and males toward the front.”
“Why does the mother lay the girl eggs in the back?” asked a girl with short blond curls.
“To protect them,” replied Mr. Quiles.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” complained a boy.
Mr. Quiles patted his shoulder. “Better get used to it, son.”
Kim and I laughed.
After the demonstration wrapped up, I walked Mr. Quiles out to his van and thanked him for coming.
“Anytime, Amy. Thanks for having me.”
“You know, we’re having a Birds and Brews get-together at Brewer’s Biergarten next door this evening. Maybe you’d like to come?”
“Birds and Brews, you say?” Mr. Quiles jiggled his car keys. “I am rather fond of both.”
“Mason Livingston has agreed to talk to our group, so it should be especially interesting.”
Mr. Quiles rubbed his chin. “Mason Livingston, you say? I’d say that could be very interesting indeed.” With that, the beekeeper got in his van and drove off.
3
“Where’s this professor friend of yours?” Paul sounded annoyed. He had reserved half of the outdoor seating area, the space between his biergarten and my bird store, to host this month’s Birds and Brews gathering with its special guest of honor, Professor Mason Livingston.
The only problem being that our esteemed guest of honor was a no-show. He’d already missed dinner. Now he was missing the very lecture he was supposed to be delivering.
I pulled out my cell phone and checked the time. “I don’t know. Mason should have been here by now.” I’d changed out of my normal work clothes and into a blue dress and low heels.
“You want me to go check on him?” Derek started to rise from his seat.
“No, you stay here. Enjoy the game.” I pecked his cheek. “I’ll go.” There was a big-screen TV playing silently in the corner near the bar. Derek didn’t put up an argument. He and Paul had a wager going on a baseball game.
Paul had arranged several tables in a semicircle. Paul, Derek, and I sat at a table facing the others clustered around us. The empty seat beside me was for Mason.
“I’ll be right back, everyone,” I called out to the group as I stood. “I’m going to go see what’s keeping Professor Livingston. Perhaps he got lost,” I suggested, though it seemed unlikely.
“Maybe he should’ve brought along a guide owl!” hooted Derek.
“Very funny.”
“Need some company, Amy?” That was Karl Vogel, former police chief of the Town of Ruby Lake. He pulled the thick, black-rimmed glasses he always wore from his nose and wiped them on his shirttail.
“No, thanks, Karl. You stay and enjoy yourself. I’ll be right back.” Floyd Withers was with him. Floyd and I were old friends. Karl and Floyd lived in the same senior facility and had become best of friends themselves. “Good to see you, Floyd. Spot any interesting birds lately?”
“We spotted a red-winged blackbird the other day,” answered Floyd, looking dapper in a button-down shirt and slacks. His thinning white hair was combed straight back, and his bushy moustache was freshly trimmed. Karl, by contrast, was slowly going bald with a shock of long and unruly white hair that stuck up from the top of his head.
“I want to hear all about it later,” I said, kissing his cheek. “In fact, you should share with the group.”
Floyd agreed.
It wasn’t far from Brewer’s Biergarten to the marina, so I walked. I crossed through the marina and docks to the park that runs along the lake’s edge. The campground was crowded with tents and cam
pers of all shapes and sizes, but it wasn’t hard to find Mason Livingston’s trailer. It was the only bright red, human-sized birdhouse for miles—to say the least.
The campground was filled with people gathered around small fires or at picnic tables, all enjoying the lovely evening air and the spectacular scenery, with the lake in the foreground and the forested mountains in the background.
As I approached Mason’s trailer, I saw a figure I recognized rounding the corner of the tiny house on wheels. It was Lance Jennings, a local reporter for the Ruby Lake Weekender, the town’s local paper. Lance is about forty years old and forty pounds overweight for his six-foot frame.
“Amy.” Lance rubbed his thick nose. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to get Professor Livingston. He’s speaking to our group tonight.” I glanced at the closed door. “Were you interviewing him? Is he here?”
Lance gulped. “N-no. I don’t think so.” He had a computer tablet in his hand, his version of an old reporter’s notebook. “I just got here myself.” He glanced back at the professor’s trailer. “Well, I’ve got to go.”
“Bye.” I frowned as Lance wandered away. “What was that all about?” I muttered under my breath. I approached Mason’s trailer, climbed the two steps to the door at the rear, and knocked. “Professor? Mason, are you in there?” I pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. “Professor? It’s me, Amy.” Was he in? Could he be in the shower? Assuming the odd trailer home had such conveniences. “Mind if I come in?”
“I saw him go in a while ago,” offered a man at a nearby Winnebago. He sat under the RV’s awning playing cards with a woman I took for his wife.
The woman nodded in agreement. “Of course, we’ve been in and out. We only got back from supper at the diner a little while ago.”
“That’s right,” agreed the man, returning his attention to the cards in his hand.
“Thanks. I’m Amy Simms. I run Birds and Bees in town. The owner is a friend of mine,” I explained.
“A bit of an eccentric, isn’t he?” the man called.
