Beeline to Trouble

by Hannah Reed

  With Pattie’s ex positively identified, I cut-and-pasted his photo and snazzed it up with a big bold “Wanted—Dangerous” splashed under his chin. Then I called Jackson Davis, the medical examiner, and offered to buy him a drink after work. “I’ll meet you at Stu’s Bar and Grill,” I said when he accepted. I hadn’t seen Jackson socially for a long time, and looked forward to it. Although I planned to combine a little business with pleasure, and hopefully learn something new about Nova’s murder.

  I tacked a wanted poster on the door, freshened up a little in the office, and headed down Main Street.

  The happy hour bar crowd had descended. Stu was behind the bar, since he likes to be in the thick of things, which is the best way for an owner to handle a small business. Whoever manages the cash register controls the business. That got me thinking about spending more time at the checkout counter. And also reminded me that Mom commandeered that position every single time she showed up.

  I sat at the bar and ordered some of Stu’s chicken wings, which are always a popular item. He makes them from scratch and they are delish.

  Jackson came in the door, spotted me at the bar, and bellied-up next to me.

  “Let me buy you something special,” I said to him.

  “Think I’ll stick to beer.” Jackson slid on the stool next to me. “I’m not falling for the same trick twice,” he said. The guy can’t handle his liquor worth a darn, and there had been a time, not too long ago, when I’d plied him with cocktails spiked with triple-strength booze to worm some facts out of him. But Jackson didn’t hold it against me, mainly because I’m pretty sure he has a special place in his heart for me, a certain admiration for me as a woman. I’m not bragging, it doesn’t happen to me often enough. But when it does, a woman knows.

  The medical examiner likes me, and I like him back.

  We both ordered beers. The chicken wings arrived with our brews.

  “How’s the Nova Campbell case coming?” I asked him after catching up on our significant others, and what we’ve been doing in our spare time.

  “I can’t discuss specifics,” he said. “But you know I would if I could.”

  “Let’s talk nonspecifics then. Like how long could a person survive after drinking juice poisoned with water hemlock?”

  “Okay, nonspecifics then.” Jackson took a drink from his bottle of beer. “Depending on the quantity ingested, death could occur anywhere from fifteen minutes up to around an hour or so.”

  I thought about how the group had been running late, how once they arrived Nova had complained about feeling poorly and had gone down to the river, and approximately how long everyone was at my house before Nova’s death occurred. I finished with, “So it’s most likely that she drank the poison right before leaving Holly’s house for mine.”

  “It’s more than likely.” Jackson’s facial expression said he was throwing me a bone. “But the water bottle could have been tampered with before that.”

  That reminded me of the remaining jars of carrot juice that Hunter had taken from The Wild Clover. “What about the box from my store?”

  “Not a trace of poison.”

  Darn! So much for a perfect world. Hunter had been right.

  We both took a few minutes to savor Stu’s chicken wings, then I said, “Other than saying she didn’t feel well, Nova seemed perfectly fine right before she died.”

  “Was she flushed?”

  I thought back and nodded.

  “Other symptoms could include seizures, frothing, nausea, muscle twitching. Next would come respiratory paralysis and/or cardiovascular collapse. Are you sure you didn’t witness any of the symptoms I just mentioned?”

  I shook my head, realizing the tables had been turned. Our town’s medical examiner was examining me!

  “Whoever did this knew his stuff,” Jackson said.

  “Both of the other house guests have that specific kind of knowledge,” I told him. “I just don’t understand why one of them hasn’t been arrested yet.”

  I gazed steadily at Jackson, waiting for more detail, but all I got was, “How about those Packers?” The Green Bay Packers are a big subject, so everybody at the bar heard that and perked right up and joined our conversation. Talk turned to football and I couldn’t turn it back.

  Soon after, Jackson took off for some family event. With Stu’s permission I tacked another Harry Bruno wanted (or watch out) poster on the bar’s door, and wondered what Patti was doing for me, if anything.

  I went home and found that Hunter had dropped Ben off. I let him out for a run through the yard.

  Patti joined me, stepping out of the shadows, her black garb blending into the background.

  “Hunter has a condition to you staying with us,” I told her. “You have to talk to Johnny Jay about what happened with the Mercedes.”

  “I don’t know a thing.”

  “Then that’s all you have to say.” I figured she was lying, but looking back in time, I hadn’t actually seen Patti near the car. Just something big, black, and suspiciously human. “Let’s go down to the station and get it over with,” I suggested, giving her the benefit of the doubt, though that doubt was a crumb so small a mouse might overlook it.

  “I can’t,” she said. “What if Harry comes back while I’m away and does something to my house?”

  “We’ll have to take that chance.”

  “What if the chief doesn’t let me go once I’m inside the station?”

  A definite possibility. “Then Hunter and I will watch your house.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  I reluctantly agreed. How had she gotten me so entrenched in her life?

  Patti called the chief. He would meet us there.

  We walked down to The Wild Clover and took off for the station in my truck.

  Johnny Jay has a special interrogation room within the police station, one I’ve visited enough times to name details with my eyes closed. Bare-bones, heavy wood, lockable door, eagle print on the wall, not much else.

  “You stay out here, Fischer,” Johnny said to me from a wide-legged stance in the waiting area.

  “I came in to answer questions of my own free will,” Patti said to him. “And she’s my advisor. Story comes along. Or I clam up.”

  Johnny Jay blustered, but Patti held firm. I’d never acted as an advisor before. Was that something like an attorney, giving legal advice? Whatever it involved, I liked the idea a lot, especially if it torqued off the chief.

  Into the room we went.

  Johnny Jay is a jerk but he isn’t a buffoon. He’s wily as a fox, smart, forceful (as in major bully), and tackles a case like a linebacker. But law enforcement officials have to work within some pretty strict guidelines. I understand that. They can’t randomly break into someone’s house to search for evidence. They can’t just haul a suspect in and book them without going through a whole lot of red tape, either.

  That’s Patti’s main argument every time she inserts herself into an investigation and rushes right over the gray area into the black zone. Her moral compass points in a completely different direction than most of ours.

  Hopefully she would handle this interview with some semblance of common sense.

  “Start at the beginning, Dwyre,” Johnny said after swinging his legs up on the table. “And this better be worthwhile.”

  Patti told him about her marriage to Harry Bruno, how she’d managed to hook up with a mobster without knowing it, and how eventually she got away. And how now Harry Bruno was out to get her, and she needed police protection.

  “And why would that be?” Johnny Jay said to Patti. “Could it have anything to do with his second wife dying right next door? You knew her, right?”

  Patti’s eyes were shifty, but she answered with a half-truth. “I knew of her.”

  “The witness protection program might be a good match for Patti,” I offered.

  “Did you witness something that could put Bruno behind bars again?” Johnny Jay asked her.

/>   “Not exactly,” Patti said. “But I could come up with something.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “If you refuse to do anything,” I said to Johnny, “Bruno will murder Patti, and then you can put him back behind bars without any effort at all.”

  Johnny said, “Stuff it, Fischer.” Then to Patti, “Was there anything you witnessed during the marriage that you can offer us?”

  “Not really,” Patti said.

  “Then you can’t go into protection to feed off our tax roll.”

  It had been worth a try.

  “So Bruno shows up at your residence,” Johnny said, impatience in his voice. “And for no good reason you torch his car.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Patti said.

  “That would be a really smart reason to be afraid.”

  Patti shrugged. “I wasn’t anywhere near there.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was on vacation.”

  “Exactly where were you?”

  Patti mumbled something about visiting with friends in a neighboring town, and Johnny said he was going to confirm her story. “Write down their names and address for me,” he told her.

  “Objection,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Is my . . . um . . . friend”—I’d almost said client—“being arrested? Charged with any crime?”

  “Oh, shut up, Fischer, and sit down.”

  Like that was going to stop me. I said to Patti, “Don’t give him any more information.”

  Patti pushed away the paper and pen he’d shoved at her.

  Then to him I said, “Instead of trying to arrest the victim, maybe you should go after her ex-husband. Arrest him. And what about a restraining order? Get her one of those, too.”

  “You don’t give me orders, Fischer.”

  “Isn’t it obvious what he was up to?” I said. “His car was right outside her house. And he wasn’t in the car when it blew. Where do you think he was? Inside her house, that’s where. It’s a no-brainer.” Even for you, I could have added.

  “Somebody stole the man’s car,” Johnny said. “According to him.”

  “Somebody stole his Mercedes and just happened to ditch it outside his ex-wife’s house? If you believe that, I have a piece of swampy river to sell you.”

  “That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. Legally my hands are tied.” Johnny swung his legs off the table. I had a momentary and delightful vision of him hogtied to the table, trussed up with an apple in his mouth. Sometimes I disliked the man so much I felt sick. He stared into my eyes and said, “Unless a witness steps forward and identifies him at the scene, there isn’t a thing I can do about it.”

  I was pretty sure it was too late to step up even if I wanted to.

  As we left, I taped up one of Harry Bruno’s wanted posters on the cop shop door, hoping it wouldn’t come down as soon as Johnny saw it.

  Patti really loved the poster.

  We came out of the police station into the gathering dusk—cloudy, moonless, humid, the air smelling damp and earthy. At my house, Patti changed clothes, although I wouldn’t have known it if she hadn’t informed me of that fact. She must purchase all her clothing in multiples. Black tees, black cargos, etc.

  After that, she left for parts unknown. I spent the evening raiding the refrigerator and sharing my finds with Ben. Hunter came in after I’d gone to bed, gave me a neck nuzzle, and slid in beside me.

  I wasn’t sure when Patti got back.

  Twenty-eight

  I love sunshine. It makes the world seem such a happy place. My bees love it, too. They were humming and buzzing and landing on me, in a friendly, nonaggressive way. Most people don’t understand that just because a honeybee lands on you doesn’t mean she’s out to get you. My little friends are inquisitive creatures, that’s all.

  Besides, my bees are used to me puttering around by their hives. I’m part of their daily routine. They’ve even accepted Ben, and he in turn tolerates them.

  I donned the bee suit and accomplished the task of gathering all the wonderful, sweet-smelling honey that my honeybees had been so busy making. This was going to be a bumper crop year for Queen Bee Honey.

  Stanley Peck called, wanting to come over and watch how I check my hives to make sure they are free from diseases. There are several kinds of diseases that can really hurt them. A watchful beekeeper is a successful beekeeper, as my own former mentor used to state ad nauseam. So I look for irregularities in a hive’s patterns, and I make sure the larvae and cells appear healthy and odorless. For example, eggs cells should be pearly white, not yellow or brown.

  It all comes with experience, which Stanley doesn’t have a whole lot of yet. He’s a newbie. So am I, in the scheme of things, but in Stanley’s eyes I’m the expert.

  When Stanley rounded the corner of my house, right away I saw that he was doing a big no-no in the business. Not exactly a warning that pops up in training manuals, but one that some of us have learned the hard way.

  Stanley was eating a banana.

  Honeybees have a huge social network, ranging far and wide just like humans do on the web. Only they are more advanced, they communicate with each other by releasing chemicals that other bees recognize and act on.

  I’ve been in beeyards right after a hive has protected itself from invasion, and guess what the air smells like after they’ve done their chemical thing? Bananas, that’s what.

  “Ditch the banana,” I yelled.

  “Hunh?” Stanley said, looking major confused.

  Stanley’s banana was about to set off a bee alarm.

  Oh wait, it already had.

  Here they came, all those girl scouts and guards. A whole slew of them. And these girls were out to get my friend. I know I’ve said again and again how gentle they are. Normally. Unless they’re provoked. And the smell of banana triggers a hostile response in honeybees. (By the way, coconut hair shampoo and conditioner invokes the same negative reaction. That one I learned the really hard way, too.)

  “Throw the banana!” I backed away from him since he was still coming forward, about to unwittingly share his newly found problem with me.

  Stanley, not thinking straight, threw the banana at me. Ugh!

  “Ow,” he said, starting to wave his hands. A dark cloud of ticked off bees had their landing gear out and some of them had found their target.

  “Run!” I hollered, taking my own advice.

  We made it inside with limited damage, considering the extent of Stanley’s mistake. A few bees followed us but made hasty attempts to withdraw as soon as they realized they were inside enemy territory.

  Hunter turned from a window where—judging from the amusement on his face—he’d witnessed the whole thing.

  Neither of them could believe it when I explained why my bees had gone on the attack.

  “We have to get Lori over here,” Stanley said. “And gift her with a basket of bananas.”

  That was one fine idea.

  “We’ll have to check the hives for diseases another time,” I said. “They’re too riled at the moment.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Stanley said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Who eats a banana right out in front of the world, anyway?” my boyfriend asked Stanley. Hunter’s sparkly eyes slid my way.

  And that’s how my morning started out.

  Not too bad, considering several of the past mornings. A few bee stings and a lesson for my apprentice and one for me—write down every single weird detail regarding bees so I don’t forget to pass them on to beginners.

  Hunter and Ben left for work, and right after Stanley took off, Johnny Jay intercepted me on the way over to the store. Luckily Carrie Ann was opening that morning.

  “I need a word with you, Fischer.”

  “No way, Johnny.”

  “It’s Chief Jay to you.”

  “And it’s Ms. Fischer to you.”

  Johnny looked tired this morning, like he’d had a rough night. Being on call twenty-four/seven w
as starting to accelerate his aging process. There were other dependable officers who could easily pick up some off hours, but the chief is a control freak and has to be involved in every single incident that occurs. It’s his fault and his problem. The bad thing for me was that lack of sleep made him ornerier than usual.

  He dangled his handcuffs, a trick that has gained my cooperation more than once. But not today.

  Maybe it was the “lawyer” side of me coming out of the box again, the same one who had appeared briefly during Patti’s interrogation yesterday, surprising the heck out of me. Where did that new me come from? I’d like to invite her over more often.

  “You were spying on my house just now,” I said, throwing some accusation into my voice. “Weren’t you? You waited until Hunter left, knowing I’d be passing this way soon. Are you actually stalking me?”

  Johnny chortled like my suspicion was ridiculous, but he turned a teensy shade of pink. “I don’t need to stalk you,” he said. “You follow the same pattern, day in, day out. The bees, then the store, sometimes Stu’s, and in between you snoop where you don’t belong.”

  Was I that predictable? Apparently, since Johnny had hit it right on the head, except for that snooping part. I think.

  “We need to talk right now,” he said.

  “Give me one good reason.”

  And he did.

  His next simple but powerful words were music to my ears considering the source. “I need your help,” he said.

  The police chief had never, ever asked for my assistance before. Ever.

  This had to be really, really good.

  How could I resist? But first, caution. “No handcuffs? No interrogation room?”

  “Neither.”

  With that, I climbed into his police chief car. And mind you, not in the back where the doors don’t open from the inside and a thick sheet of hard plastic separates the front from the back.

  No, this time I sat in the passenger seat. Life was improving.

  Twenty-nine

  “Where are we going?” I asked, all perky and chipper on the outside, but on my guard on the inside, considering who I was sitting next to. Johnny turned south. At first I thought we might be heading back to the station, that I’d been tricked into the car by his efforts to appear human, but we drove right past the cop shop.