Stolen Honey

by Nancy Means Wright

  “To what, Ruthie?” said Colm, coming up behind, kneading her tense shoulders. “Arrest them all? Bring them to justice? Reform the world in a day?”

  “You’re so sanguine, Colm. So damned patient. I don’t want to wait. I want the world perfect in my lifetime. My lifetime, Colm.” He was holding her close, rubbing her back. Unable to come down off her high horse so soon, she said, “Did you look up Leroy Boulanger, like I asked?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. He’s got a record. Well, nothing big—just a stolen car, you know, that sort of thing.”

  She grabbed his shoulders, made him look her in the eye. “What does that mean—‘that sort of thing’?”

  “He jumped a guy once at Alibi. Knocked out his teeth. Got clobbered himself. Police had him in overnight. Aggravated assault, they called it. That’s all I know.”

  “Aggravated assault,” she repeated, and thought of the bruises on Shep Noble’s face. She had to be diplomatic, though. Gwen seemed to favor the boy.

  “Ask your colleague Ashley to tell Gwen about the police record, would you, Colm?” It was a cop-out and she knew it. But she didn’t want to be one to damage a friendship.

  * * * *

  Camille was fixing herself a cup of tea, ready to go back to the computer, when someone banged on her door. It was a tall, wiry woman in her sixties, plainly dressed in a denim skirt and blue cotton blouse, a necklace of pale pink shells around her neck; she gripped her black leather purse with strong tensile fingers. Her name was Godineaux, she said. She’d heard from a relative that Camille was poking her nose into the family’s privacy.

  She spoke rapidly in a coarse voice. Camille imagined her throat full of frogs and salamanders—her threats, too. Camille was to halt this project at once, the woman cried. She had “no goddam business dragging old dirty linen back into the light— who you think you are, the Virgin Mary? What’s my family to you? Some things we don’t want hung up on the line for everybody to see, you understand?”

  Camille was impressed by the laundry metaphor. She struggled to keep her cool. “Who are you?” she asked. “Are you related to Annette? Annette’s a wonderful woman. I only want the world to know she was wronged. Of course I’ll use a pseudonym!” She resisted an impulse to fling herself on her knees, clasp her hands together to show her good intent.

  The woman was unconvinced. She stood inside the doorway of Camille’s apartment, swaying a little on scuffy black heels, her mouth a straight line. How had she known where Camille lived? She would have done some research herself. Or maybe Eugene Godineaux’s common-law wife had summoned her. Camille had asked about Nicole.

  “Do you know Nicole? Is she your mother?” Camille was desperate now. She couldn’t give up her project, no. “I said I’d give fictitious names,” she shouted at the woman, and then softened her voice. “No one will know. Your lives will be the same as always. This will be an academic paper, it won’t reach the general public.”

  Although she hoped it would, didn’t she? She dreamed of a book?

  The woman saw her hesitancy. She narrowed her black eyes; the wrinkles fanned out into her cheeks. “Sure,” she said, “sure, and somebody gets ahold of it, and does his own dirty work, and digs up our lives. And people know. And the cops find us and say they been looking for us and we ...”

  She stopped; she’d gone too far. Her face was chalk-white. She looked clownish with those two small red spots in the center of each cheek where she’d dabbed on rouge. “I said you can’t do this. I said it’s gotta stop.” She was nearing hysteria, clutching at her necklace as though it were Camille’s throat. “You’ll be sorry if it don’t. You’ll be sorry!”

  “Pauline?” Camille threw out the name—Nicole’s daughter would be about this woman’s age now. She would have kept her own name. It was a ploy. But it worked. The woman jerked at her necklace; it broke, the shells scattering on the floor. Her face was tomato-red; her fingers tightened into fists. She rushed at the computer where it sat whirring on its stand, the exam Camille had typed into it still on the screen.

  Camille gripped her shoulders. “Leave that alone. It’s my work. Don’t you dare! That doesn’t concern you—it’s for my class. Get away now!”

  Pauline was strong. She shoved Camille down into a chair, spun back to examine the screen. She stood panting in front of it, then wheeled about, placed two hands on the edge of the chair where Camille was struggling to get up, shoved her back down. “I said leave us alone. You hear?”

  She turned and ran out of the apartment. When Camille looked out the side window, she saw the woman fling herself into a beat-up black car. The license plate read LIVE FREE OR DIE, a New Hampshire plate. Camille jotted down the first three digits of the license—CP3—but then the car sped away in a storm of exhaust.

  Camille sank back down in her armchair, spent, and angry. She couldn’t let some Godineaux relative browbeat her. The woman, Pauline, didn’t understand. Camille was trying to help the family, not hurt it. Why couldn’t the woman understand that?

  “I won’t give up the project,” she told her black Persian cat, who’d come whining into the room, wanting food. “I won’t!”

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday was the day for visitors, it seemed. In a moment of hiatus, Gwen was rushing about, cleaning up the kitchen. No one understood that bees didn’t take days off, that spring was a busy time for beekeepers. Gwen’s goal each spring was to have all hives in place at least a week before the daffodils came in bloom, and then the clover that gave the first major nectar flow and sent the bees back to the hives so loaded with golden pollen they could hardly remain airborne. With April nearing an end, she had only a short time to accomplish this.

  Oh, but the house was a mess! Dirty clothes piled up by the washing machine and schoolbooks and papers sprawled everywhere. Brownie was skipping school every two days, it seemed, claiming a stomach bug, or a bone spur in his heel that the doctor couldn’t find; and today Donna was shut in her room with Emily Willmarth to work on the sociology paper—too busy to do dishes. Mert, as usual, was squatting in a heap of brown ash, working furiously to create baskets for the craft center exhibit. He had no time for dishes. He’d only damage them anyway, poor man, with his shaky hands. She suspected Parkinson’s—she’d have to get him to a specialist.

  The morning had started with two “patients” wanting bees for stinging. Gwen did a little “bee therapy,” though not for pay. She believed in the use of bee venom to treat autoimmune diseases like arthritis and multiple sclerosis. Young Chuck Minor had just left with a jar full of bees to sting his arthritic grandmother with. Then the phone had rung off the hook with only an ominous silence on the other end. She let it ring five more times, then picked it up, only to hear an oath from an irate Russell. “Can’t you answer the fuckin’ phone?” he’d hollered. “Jeezum, Gwen, I been calling and calling.”

  Russell wanted to come home, he said, he wanted to see what was going on, how everyone was, what Donna was up to. “Keep an eye on her, Gwen! But, damn it all, I got three more gigs this month and it just won’t pay to come back to Vermont first.” She told him about the Ball family’s visit, but not about the offer to buy land. When he signed off, he reminded her to keep Harvey Ball “off the property. Don’t let him put a foot on it, Gwen. He’ll turn the grass brown.” And they both hung up, as usual, laughing.

  Now, just as she was knocking on Brownie’s door to remind Vic to take a jar of honey back to his mother, there was a knock on the kitchen door.

  “Hello, hello,” a female voice rang out, and when Gwen dashed down the steps she found a small, tidy woman standing tentatively in her doorway, glancing about. “I’m Camille Wimmet from the college—Donna’s teacher,” the woman said. She thrust out a hand.

  “Why, hello.” Gwen snatched up the hand, which might have belonged to a child, it was so unblemished. Her own hands were scarred from a thousand bee stings. The rest of the woman looked as pristine as her hands: She wore a longish black s
kirt with a lavender cotton sweater and a crisp white blouse. She wasn’t exactly pretty; she had a plumpish nose and jet-black eyebrows that gave her an earnest look, round eyeglasses that dimmed her violet eyes. She looked more like a schoolgirl than a college professor.

  “I’m so interested in Donna’s paper,” Camille went on, “I can’t thank you enough for letting her—and by extension, myself—have the use of your ancestor’s document.”

  Document? Gwen hadn’t thought of the journal as a “document,” but she supposed that was the way sociologists saw it. For a moment Gwen couldn’t think who it was the woman wanted to see. She stared blankly at the young woman.

  The teacher saw her confusion. “Donna told me about her grandfather. You see, I’m working on a paper myself, and the LeBlanc name came up in my research. I thought your father-in-law might not mind talking to me about his family. I mentioned it to him. I was here last week to see Leroy—he’s my cousin—did Donna tell you?”

  Here was a disparate match! Yes, Donna had told her about the relationship. She was glad, actually, to know that Leroy had a relative nearby. “Mert doesn’t go out much,” Gwen said. “He doesn’t drive anymore. His hands aren’t always steady on the wheel.”

  “I understand. I heard about. . . your helping him with the, um, marijuana.”

  Gwen flushed, but the teacher was smiling. Gwen smiled, too. She spread her hands in a gesture of peace. “Well, go on in. He works in there. Coffee?”

  The teacher shook her head, and Gwen led the way to Mert’s workplace. “You have a visitor, Mert.” Her father-in-law grunted but didn’t look up from where he was concentrating on the star bottom of a new basket. Gwen followed the teacher’s eyes. One wall held a gun rack, another a photograph of Mert dissecting an old car. Shelves held twists and curls of split wood and, rising up out of them, framed photographs of the family. The largest photo was a ten-by-fourteen color shot of Russell, taken at one of the reenactments, looking virile even in his forties (actually, he was two years younger than Gwen) with his hard lean bronze body, a tomahawk stuck into the sash that held together his striped loincloth. Oh, but he was a handsome devil! She wanted to reach right into the photo and embrace him, feel his sinewy arms around her back. Smell that fragrant mix of sage and tobacco.

  Mert was making a basket with a Demijohn bottom. “It’s a better basket than the Abenaki Star,” he told the women’s feet. “I mean, the Star is made the same, but you got eight straight uprights and you got eight tapered. It was my Aunt Sylvie on the LeBlanc side made the Demijohn bottom—the old way’s lost now. So I only make the Demijohn on special order.” He looked up. “You’re the one wanted to see me?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Camille said. “About your family. Your Aunt Sylvie, her sister Maxine.”

  Mert cocked his head, stared up at the visitor; he put down his work. “What you want to know about her for? That Maxine, she got in trouble. Not all her fault, though.”

  Camille sat down on an overturned box. “I’m here because I’m writing a paper about the French-Canadian impact on this state. I’m a Franco-American myself, you see. I came across Maxine’s name in the university archives. Some of those women were unfairly committed. Your aunt may have been one of them.”

  Camille’s voice softened toward the end of the speech. Mert nodded and went back to his Demijohn bottom. Gwen liked the professor. She felt that the young woman wouldn’t come on too strong with Mert, that he could take care of himself. She tiptoed out of the room, shut the door on the pair.

  The phone rang just as she got to the sink to wash up a few dishes. It was Harvey Ball. He had an offer, he said: “You won’t get another like it. I can go a hundred thirty thousand on your place. That’s twice as much as it’s worth—we’d have to tear down the house. I’m just doing it for my son. For you. You can move into town like I said, out of town if you want. I’d think you’d want to, with all this trouble. What people are saying about you. Saying—”

  She slammed down the phone. She didn’t want to hear any more. Couldn’t. Her legs were buckling, her face was on fire. The nerve of the man! She banged her fists against the wall, leaned her body into it, felt the tears well up in her eyes. Maybe she should sell. Maybe she should.

  She felt rough sturdy arms grab her elbows, pull her about. “It’s all right, all right,” Olen soothed. “We’ll get you out of this, Gwen. We’re working on it. No one on the force thinks you did it. Or Donna. My feeling now—it’s all a tragic accident. Like you said, the bruises came from the nightshade. Who’d ever think a boy could die like that from nightshade?” He coughed, looking troubled. “If you’d just pull up the nightshade, other stuff that’s compromising...” He handed her a clean white handkerchief. She blew into it.

  “I tol’ you, Olen. I can’t. My father-in-law.” She heard him groan. She was naughty, she was an irate child. Was she being unreasonable? Was she really a witch for growing healing plants? Why, in her ancestor’s day she might have been hanged! She had to think things through, straighten out her priorities.

  She pulled away. She had to get to work, she told Olen. Work was therapy.

  “You’re taking him with you?” He pointed through the open screen to where Leroy was piling mended hives into the pickup. “Did you know he was arrested once for stealing a car? And there’s more. Oh, yes, we’ve got a file on him. I wish you wouldn’t keep him here. It worries me. For Donna’s sake—think of Donna. Think of your boy.”

  Now she was feeling stubborn. “I need Leroy. He knows bees. I haven’t time to train anyone else. You’ll have to accept that, Olen. Now, if you want a cup of coffee, there’s some left in the pot. I have to go. Donna’s in her room if you have any questions. Mert has a visitor. Donna’s professor,” she explained when he raised an eyebrow. “She’s writing some kind of paper on French-Canadians.”

  “Oh? Well, I just came to look at the site again, where Noble died. To see if there’s anything else there—a thread, a fiber we missed. By the way, the tests showed Noble had more than marijuana and alcohol in his blood. He had Ritalin—that stuff they give kids these days to calm them down? Mix it with alcohol and anything can happen. Did happen—goddam irresponsible kid!”

  “He’s dead,” she reminded him, blowing her nose again.

  He sighed. “Anyway, thanks, I could use a cup of coffee. Then I’ll be off. But remember what I said,” he called after her as she flung on a red plaid wool shirt over her jeans and gathered up her bee apparel. “About those plants. It’s not just me you have to worry about. It’s the others. The chief wants it all pulled up.”

  She didn’t answer. Leroy was already in the pickup, waiting; he was wearing a Red Sox cap; his face appeared frozen shut under the bill, which was pulled down practically over his dark eyes. She knew he didn’t want Olen coming around.

  But Olen’s words worried her. How much did she know about Leroy? Had he really stolen a car? She wondered if her father had known that.

  “Where to?” the boy muttered. Seeing her frown, he glanced away.

  “Shoreham. I want to check the hives on the Pomainville farm.”

  She revved up the truck. She didn’t look at Leroy. But she could feel him scowling at the police car that was still parked in front of the house. She started to put out a hand, to tell him not to worry, that she would protect him. But she pulled the hand back. There was something about his anger that frightened her.

  * * * *

  Olen Ashley watched Gwen pull out of the driveway with Leroy in back. It worried him, yes, it did, having that fellow on the property. He hadn’t wanted to tell Gwen about Leroy’s past— Hanna had asked him not to. But she was so stubborn. So vulnerable. If anything happened to her, well, he couldn’t take that. He couldn’t live without Gwen. Not that he’d ever push himself on her—he’d never do that! Never! She had her husband, though they weren’t suited at all. He’d never understood that marriage. He was still with Jennie when Gwen first brought Russell around.
Russell was handsome, athletic—a runner. But he was Indian. Indians ... well, they had a different way of looking at the world. They had no concept of the law. They were always protesting this or that, felt they had a right to the land just because it happened they’d gotten here first.

  Olen pulled up a couple of deep breaths, poured himself a mug of coffee. He was comfortable here in this kitchen. Though less so since Donald Woodleaf’s death. With Don alive, he’d been able to drop in more often. Don liked to talk, Don was an American Revolution buff like himself. He and Olen were brother Masons, shared the secrets, the hand grips. When Don was almost struck that time by a falling tree, Olen had saved him. “May my body be cut in two,” Olen whispered, remembering, “my entrails burned, ashes scattered—should I fail a brother in need.” Would a brother Mason ever have to do that for him?

  Don, of course, had been a buffer between him and Gwen. The three of them could share a coffee or a beer, laugh a little. After he died, things got awkward. Gwen always jumping up in the middle of a conversation, feeling self-conscious, even guilty, he supposed, with her husband away. He wasn’t always able to disguise his feelings. Sometimes the feelings just popped out in his face and he’d have to leave before he lost control.

  Now there was this nightshade case. Someone—Leroy, he figured—had dragged that boy into the nightshade, though that hadn’t killed him. It was the boy’s asthma, the inebriation, the Ritalin in his blood that did it. Absolutely. The whole thing had been an accident, like he’d told Gwen. He would try to prove that. Get her off the hook when the court case come up. But not Leroy. Oh, no. Leroy still had questions to answer.

  The voices grew louder in the next room. What did that woman want with Mert? What could the old man tell her that would help some paper she was writing? He heard snatches of the conversation—she had the louder, higher voice. Something about .a Mrs. Perkey, the word “sterilize” . . .