by Hannah Reed
Hunter put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a nod of encouragement.
I felt isolated from my own species as I forced myself closer to Manny’s body, ending with my feet grounded not a foot away from him. I’m not afraid of honeybees, having spent all of this year and last discovering how gentle and industrious they are. Everyone else was a good distance behind me, ready to turn and run at the slightest sign of trouble from the bees.
“Let’s go put some ice on that bump, Mrs. Chapman,” a paramedic said to Grace, leading her toward the house. “You don’t need to watch this.”
I’d been trying to avoid looking at Manny’s exposed head and stomach, concentrating instead on the bees by the bucket. Now I forced a peek. His face was red and his lips were swollen. So was the lower, bare area around his stomach. That was almost more than I could stand. Nightmares were sure to haunt me that night and for a lot of nights afterward. I stayed focused on his chest area and the immediate problem of removing the bees.
A few yellow jackets had joined the foray, which was common. None of them attacked Manny or me. They just wanted the honey, like the others did.
“Are they eating him?” another of our fine law enforcement officials asked.
“Honey bees are herbivores,” I said. “They only eat plant products.”
I didn’t think it was necessary to inform them that yellow jackets were the ones that were carnivores. They would eat dead, decaying carrion just like a vulture would.
I shut my eyes, but the image of my fallen friend remained vivid. I snapped them back open and looked away.
A police dog leashed to a fire truck bumper studied the situation as gravely as the humans, outwardly calm but alert. Hunter’s dog. The one that had locked eyes with me in the SUV.
Hunter and several other C.I.T.s I recognized from the neighboring communities also studied the situation. To them, this must be worse than a barricaded gunman—much worse. They could negotiate a hostage situation or bring in a sharpshooter to pick off a gunman, but they didn’t have a clue how to handle hundreds of bees.
I squatted next to the beekeeper’s body. If I didn’t have a rudimentary knowledge of bees and their nature, I would have suspected the same thing that the others did—that Manny’s honeybees had killed him. He certainly looked like he’d been stung one too many times. However, these weren’t honeybee stings.
I put a shaky hand out, steadied it the best I could, and poked a finger into the gathered bees as they lapped up honey. They didn’t react to my intrusion, which was exactly how nonaggressive bees would behave.
“Are they still stinging him?” I heard behind me.
“They aren’t stinging him at all,” I said. “They’re eating the honey. If you’d come closer than ten yards you’d be able to see for yourself. Come on over here, but move slowly. You don’t want to scare them.”
Hunter was the only one willing to take me up on my offer. I checked out his attire, especially the button-down shirt he wore.
“Bees are curious,” I said to him. “They’ll crawl in through your shirt collar or up your pant legs. I’d suggest you button up around your neck.”
Hunter adjusted his clothing, then squatted down next to me while bees buzzed overhead, checking us out and planning their landings onto Manny. Not a single one of them tried to sting us. Once Hunter acclimated himself to the unfamiliar environment and discovered that he wasn’t a bull’s-eye on a bee’s target, he leaned over Manny and looked more closely. “There are welts all over his exposed skin.”
I’d been afraid he’d notice that. “Let me get the bees off him,” I said, standing up, grateful that I had been born with a strong stomach.
But I had a dilemma. I had no idea what to do next.
“What can I do to help?” Hunter asked.
“I’m not sure. Stand back while I get rid of the bucket.”
I slowly moved the bucket away from Manny’s body, careful not to put my fingers down on top of any bees. Then I pondered my next move. Some of the honeybees had followed the pail, but a significant number of them remained with the honey on Manny’s chest.
What to do? I glanced at the honey house.
Manny’s honey house was the size of a two-car garage and the shape of a very large garden shed, with window-less double doors. It contained all the standard beekeeper’s equipment and gear and was set up to harvest, process, and store wildflower honey. Since Manny had been working around the beeyard, the honey house wasn’t padlocked. A good thing, since I didn’t have my key with me.
But I didn’t want to use a bee suit and smoker with Hunter and his group looking on. Encasing myself in armor and toting a weapon would only cement their belief that honeybees were dangerous, and that in turn would feed the rumor mill. In a small town like Moraine, the panic button is always within easy reach.
Instead, I set my sights on the bee blower. Bees don’t mind a strong wind. To them, it’s part of nature and they don’t consider it an aggressive act from an enemy. So when Manny and I wanted to get honeycombs from the hives without a bunch of bees tagging along, we blew them away with the bee blower.
Only I couldn’t find it. In the end, I sent one of the officers into the Chapmans’ home. He came out with an extension cord and a large fan.
Jackson Davis, the county medical examiner, had been hiding inside a circle of firefighters, probably wishing he’d chosen a different career. “I’m not going in there,” he said, indicating the flying insects. “I’d have to be nuts.”
“You’re the M.E. for Christ’s sake,” Police Chief Johnny Jay said. “Get your butt in there. Or do you need a shove?”
“We’ll put you in a bee suit,” I said, changing my mind about the armor idea, since it would be the M.E. going in. If one single honeybee stung him, I’d hear about it for the rest of my life. “You’ll be perfectly fine. Most of them will fly away when the fan starts up.”
I directed a silent plea to the remaining bees, hoping my message of peaceful interaction resonated through the universe and came to rest where it should. One could always hope.
With more coaxing and reassurances, Jackson let me help him into Manny’s bee suit. I adjusted the veil for him. Hunter blew the fan at high speed and we watched most of the bees blow away, which gave the M.E. renewed confidence. He went in and went to work. Not long afterward, he gave us a thumbs-down.
The official verdict, the one we’d all known was coming: Manny was dead.
I went into the house and cried with Grace. Up until now we hadn’t been more than polite acquaintances in spite of all the hours I’d spent at her house learning beekeeping from Manny. I’d never been comfortable around her, sensing that she was an insecure woman who resented the interest in bees I shared with her husband. But for now, we put our unspoken differences aside.
After the cop cars and fire trucks pulled away and Grace headed to her bedroom to rest, I went outside on the porch. Hunter was still studying the apiary. The dog I’d seen earlier was on a short leash at his side. Manny’s death hadn’t slowed the bee activity. Honeybees poured in and out of the hives.
Hunter walked over with the dog to join me. I took a few steps back, keeping some distance between us. He didn’t seem to notice that his dog was way too close.
My nose was running, I had a wad of tissues clutched in my hands, and my eyes felt almost swollen shut. “I didn’t know you had a dog,” I said.
“He’s one of our police dogs.”
“What happened after I went in the house with Grace?”
“I seem to be the one delivering all the bad news today,” Hunter said. “Johnny Jay wants to destroy the beehives. He’s right, you know.”
No! Not the bees! I thought, temporarily forgetting the dog. “Nobody knows yet what killed Manny. Isn’t his decision a little premature, not to mention drastic?” I’d square off against the police chief and every cop in the county to protect those honeybees.
“Anyone could see that Manny had been stung all over his bo
dy,” Hunter said. “The bees have to go.”
“Please don’t let Johnny Jay kill them! I can prove they weren’t responsible.”
“You’ll have to make it good, if I’m going to have a case. It’s never easy convincing Johnny Jay of anything.”
“Manny’s bees aren’t Africanized, if that’s the worry.” Africanized honeybees, also known as killer bees, had escaped from a breeding program in the tropics and began to crossbreed with European bees, their gentler cousins. Africanized honeybees were extremely defensive—they had a larger number of guard bees, protected a larger zone around their hives, and would chase for longer distances. “Killer bees can’t survive our cold winters.” Which was true. Wisconsin didn’t have killer bees.
Hunter sighed. “That’s it?” he said. “That’s your whole argument? They aren’t killer bees? Of course you want to protect them, but you have to face facts.”
I leaned against the porch rail. “Listen up,” I said. “Bullet point number one.”
Hunter smiled at that. Bullet points had always been my favorite way of listing pertinent facts and he knew it.
“Bullet point number one,” I said again, “honeybees have barbed stingers. That means that when they attack they leave their stingers behind, imbedded in flesh. Did you see any stingers in Manny?”
“No, but you have my attention.” He could tell that I was just warming up. “Are you sure about the barbed stingers?”
“Of course,” I said like a confident pro rather than the rookie that I really was. “Bullet point number two: These bees knew Manny wasn’t a threat. He worked with them every day. The only time he was ever stung was if he accidently put his hand down on one. Number three, honeybees die after stinging. Did you see piles of dead bees around Manny?”
“I didn’t notice, but I’ll take another look.” Hunter’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He still had those laughing eyes I’d fallen so hard for in high school. He’d also had great feet; I have a secret thing about beautiful male feet. A fetish, I suppose you’d call it. Like some women admire butts or chests or pecs. Me? I’m a foot woman. I glanced down to check out Hunter’s feet, but they were encased in his Harley Davidson boots.
“I can tell you have another bullet point ready to go,” Hunter said.
I’d lost focus when my thoughts went south. How could I be thinking of feet at a time like this? “Where was I?”
“Number four.”
“Right. Bullet point number four,” I said, back on track. “The only reason honeybees would attack is if they thought their hive and queen were in danger. But Manny’s bees weren’t agitated like they would’ve been if they’d had to defend their colonies. They weren’t upset at all. There’s no denying he’d been stung all over, but the real culprit had to have been yellow jackets. They don’t lose their stingers, so they can sting over and over.”
“Okay. Okay.” He raised his free hand in mock surrender while the dog watched me carefully. “You should have been an investigator. You missed your calling. Nice observations, especially considering the circumstances. I’ll suggest we wait until we hear back from the M.E. before carrying out any apiary death sentences. I’ll convince the others, including Johnny Jay.”
Yes! A short reprieve.
I was so excited, I wanted to hug him, but the dog stood between us.
“What is it? A German shepherd?” I asked, pointing to the dog. Not that I knew anything about dog breeds—as far as I’m concerned, they just come in big or small versions.
“Ben is not an it. He’s a Belgian Malinois.” The dog looked up at Hunter when he heard his name. “His markings are similar to a German shepherd’s, but Ben would be offended by the comparison. He’s faster, more driven to please. Ben has tackled shooters on command. Once he pulled an armed robber right out of a vehicle window to prevent him from escaping. Ben’s a very bad good guy.”
The dog looked bad. Despite his reserved calm, I sensed he was alert to the possibility of danger and looking forward to the opportunity to wield steel-jawed force.
“If I hug you, will he attack me?”
“You want to hug me?”
“Not if Ben’s going to attack.”
“Of course, he won’t. Ben, stay.” Hunter walked forward. Ben didn’t move a muscle, but I had a feeling he’d be a flash of lightning if Hunter gave him the proper command. With a cautious eye on the dog, I hugged Hunter. “Thanks for offering to help save the bees. That means a lot to me.”
“I heard about your divorce,” he said, softening his voice and leaning against the rail right next to me, so our arms touched. “Should I congratulate you or express my condolences?”
“I’m relieved it’s over. We were only married three years, but it seemed like a very long time.”
“I hear he’s living next door to you,” Hunter said.
“I can’t get rid of him.”
“That must be awkward.”
“Yup.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Same as always. Disapproving and loud about it.”
His dog watched me every second like he was just waiting for me to make the wrong move. It was kind of creepy.
Hunter and I shared a few minutes of thoughtful silence. I’d always liked that about Hunter. He didn’t feel a need to fill every quiet moment. The sound of a car turning into the driveway finally distracted us.
I recognized Grace’s brother, Carl, and his wife, Betty, from several times when they’d been visiting while I’d been working in Manny’s beeyard. They leaped out of a Ford Bronco and hurried toward us. Grace’s sister-in-law was expecting her first baby and looked about three months overdue.
“Where is she?” Carl asked.
“Lying down,” I answered, getting what I thought was a cold glare from Betty. Or maybe that’s how she came across when she was shocked by tragedy.
We all handle bad news differently.
Four
“How many times are you going to arrange that same shelf?” Stanley Peck asked. I’d been rearranging a honey display back at The Wild Clover while trying to clear the image of my dead mentor from my head. The day was like a bad dream, only I wasn’t going to wake up from this one.
My loyal part-time employees, the twins Trent and Brent Craig, had arrived at the market ahead of me. They were working the counter, checking out customers and bagging.
“Carrie Ann got wasted and went home as soon as we got here,” Trent had said when Hunter dropped me off.
Just great. I’d have to deal with her at some point.
Word spreads fast in a small town, and Moraine is no exception. Customers flowed through the door of the store, hanging around to get more details and to commiserate.
“Manny started me out with my first queen bee,” I said to nearby customers. “When I wanted to have hives in my backyard, he gave me thousands of worker bees. And when he realized I was serious about beekeeping, he included me in his business, teaching me what he knew and giving me a cut on any sales I made.”
I wasn’t telling anybody anything they didn’t already know. Everybody knew how Manny had taken me under his wing, but we were all reminiscing and sharing stories. I wiped away a renegade tear and continued, “Other beekeepers have lots of problems with diseases and mites. Not Manny. He was the best beekeeper and he left some big shoes to fill.” Which was true. Bee management came with all kinds of problems—parasites, pests like ants and mice getting into the hives, predators, and diseases, both old and new. Manny was always on the cutting edge of new technology and preventive care.
“We target practiced together,” Stanley said. “Right out in his backyard with Grace and Carol egging us on and critiquing every shot.”
“Manny was one of a kind,” Milly Hopticourt added. Milly was a seventyish retired schoolteacher built like Julia Child and, like the famous chef, she loved to cook so much that I’d made her the official tester for all of the recipes that appeared in The Wild Clover newsletters.
“
He’ll be missed plenty,” other folks agreed.
That was an understatement from my point of view, and not only from a personal perspective. The future of his honey business was in serious jeopardy with his death. I’d secretly counted on a full partnership at some point in the near future, and with him gone, that dream was totally shattered.
Manny, or rather Grace now, owned the honey house, the land, the equipment, and most of the bees. All the bees, actually, except for the two hives in my backyard I kept to pollinate the neighborhood gardens and to provide me with a little honey for my own personal use. Could I carry on without him, keep Queen Bee Honey going? Would Grace even agree to sell the business to me?
Not to mention another pressing business-related problem—my total lack of expertise at managing bees. I’d been in training for a year and a half, but it was only this spring that I started with my own hives. Could I manage eighty hives alone? If Grace would give me the opportunity, I’d make it work. Manny had known what he was talking about when he said that bees would get into my blood. They had.
I gave up on reshuffling the honey products, since it wasn’t helping numb the pain I felt, and went outside where people were loitering in front of the store. The crowd not only filled the assortment of Adirondack chairs lined up on the grass, it spilled out onto the sidewalk. “I heard the sirens early on,” Emily Nolan, the librarian, said. Her presence made me realize how the day had flown. If Emily was here, the library must be closed, meaning that it had to be after five. “Didn’t all of you hear the sirens?” she asked.
I hadn’t, but then I’d been focused on myself, living inside my own head, laughing and celebrating, boozing it up while Manny’s life oozed away.
I must be a slow learner because it took a while after I went back into the shop for the reality of the situation to sink in. I suddenly realized I had bigger worries than an employee drinking on the job and an ex-husband living next door to me. It didn’t take long for the news of Manny’s death to spread, for people to find out that I’d been at the scene and saw some of what happened. My presence in his beeyard and the manner and place where Manny died didn’t help matters one bit.
