Buzz Off

by Hannah Reed

  I took my gloves off, and was promptly stung on a knuckle.

  Ouch! That really hurt.

  Quickly, I scraped the stinger away, crouched down next to the hive again, reached under, and began feeling around. I should have blown more smoke at the hive, because now the bees were getting rowdy. Bee colonies have quite a list of enemies—wasps, ants, mice, skunks, bears, and raccoons, to name a few—and I understand why they need to have their own special swat team. But you’d think by now the bees would know me well enough to give me a break.

  That wasn’t going to happen.

  The next stinging attack came in the space between my right boot and my jeans. Then another, near that one. From the honeybees’ point of view, they and their queen were under full attack. And I was a rookie beekeeper who hadn’t been smart enough to anchor my jeans with elastic and was too excited to wear a bee suit. At least I’d had the sense to wear the veil so my face and neck were protected.

  I gritted my teeth and forced myself to ignore the pain, not an easy thing to do.

  Why was I putting myself through this torture and agony? Because Manny had been in my backyard, not in my house. He knew and loved bees, and he’d been up to something. I had to know what it was. It had to do with the bees, I was sure of it.

  Another bee dove in, stinging my other hand. My throbbing fingers finally felt something other than pain: An object pressed against the hive that didn’t belong there, anchored to the bottom of the hive with tape. I felt along, peeling it away by touch while the sound of pissed-off bees grew louder and louder.

  By the time I scooted away from the hive, I had lost count of the number of stings I’d endured, mostly on my hands and ankles.

  And they really, really hurt.

  Bee-sting therapy, also called bee-venom therapy, is supposed to relieve the symptoms of MS and arthritis, among other ailments. The treatment involves allowing bees to sting the area in question as many as ten or twenty times. The venom is supposed to jumpstart the immune system. All it did for me was jumpstart my pain sensors. By the time I drove home and stumbled through my back door, my ankles had swollen beyond belief.

  But I had Manny Chapman’s missing journal clutched in my puffy fist.

  Thirty-seven

  In my opinion, personal journaling is just what it implies—personal, as in private. Like the diary I had as a girl. My little tidbits scribbled down while lying in bed in the dark weren’t intended for an audience. I hate to think what would have happened if my mom had found mine. She would have had a bird’s-eye view into my mind, which was never a good thing.

  Which reminded me, I wonder whatever happened to that diary . . . ? I decided not to go there. It could only cause panic, thinking Mom may have had it all this time.

  Holly keeps a journal where she writes down her thoughts and experiences. She says she does it to understand herself better, to work through her emotions and analyze their significance.

  I’m not really sure I care to understand my actions better. Analyzing them up and down and sideways would drive me nuts.

  But Manny Chapman’s journal wasn’t a personal diary; it was an accounting of his honeybees’ daily lives. It was a jumble of notes and clippings, all in reference to the community inside his colonies.

  For example:

  • What type of mite appeared when and what he did about it.

  • Dates of harvests and hive splits.

  • The times he caught swarms and the results.

  • Which hives were most aggressive, which ones he considered best for raising more queens.

  I’d had the exclusive privilege of accessing the journal, although I hadn’t spent more than a few minutes on an occasional page, recording an observation of my own or adding an entry at his request.

  The journal was very important to him, so when it went missing, I should have been much more clued in that something was off kilter. That said, I’d been pretty distracted by two deaths—two murders—in as many days, so maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on myself.

  But if the journal hadn’t been stolen, if (as it appeared) Manny himself had hidden it under one of my beehives—why?

  That was the sticky question.

  He’d risked the river despite his water phobia to conceal the journal. And he’d never said a word to me about it being there. Did hiding it have something to do with the break-in at his home, the robbery that Johnny Jay had chalked off as a kid’s prank? Had he been so worried about someone taking the journal that he had to get it off his property? Or had he been hiding it from Grace? Were the answers to my questions inside the journal? I sure hoped so.

  Before I could explore the pages, I had to scrape out several remaining stingers that I’d missed the first time around, and I lay down on the couch with ice bags on my ankles and hands, not an easy balancing act. During my home-style stinger treatment, I heard a knock at the door and Hunter’s voice calling out.

  “I’m in here,” I said, removing an ice pack long enough to tuck the journal under a pillow. “In the living room.”

  Hunter and his giant dog Ben appeared in the doorway.

  “What happened to you?” Hunter wanted to know.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Holly called me and said you’d had a fight with your mother.”

  “Just the usual. Nothing special.”

  Hunter lifted an ice bag and studied my ankle. “Bee stings,” he announced.

  “No way,” I said, observing the beekeeper’s secret oath. Never let anyone know you’ve ever been stung. “I’ve never been stung,” I bragged.

  Hunter made some kind of throat noise, a sure sign he didn’t believe a word of it. “How many times?”

  “Six or seven. Or ten.”

  “Weren’t you wearing protective gear?”

  “Partly. My head is okay.”

  Hunter sat down next to me. Ben stuck his nose on my shoulder and sniffed my hair.

  “Hey, Ben,” I said, and the dog actually wagged his tail.

  “How long do you have to keep the ice on?” Hunter put my feet on his lap, readjusting the ice packs.

  “As long as I can stand it.”

  “Need anything?”

  I wanted to say I needed him. That I wanted him to lie down next to me, wrap me in his strong arms, and cuddle me. But I doubted he’d stop at cuddling and I was in severe pain, or had been until I’d applied ice. Instead, I said, “I’m fine.”

  “You got that right.” Hunter smiled.

  I loved his smile. “You came over because my sister called you? Because you were worried about me?”

  “In case you needed comforting.”

  “Nice.”

  “And to ask you a favor.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Anything?” Hunter was running a finger up and down my leg, sending shivers that felt like tiny electric shocks. “Anything?” he asked again.

  “Almost anything,” I clarified.

  “You look pretty helpless at the moment. I’m not sure you’re up to doing me a favor.”

  “I’m almost as good as new.” Or would be soon. A few bee stings weren’t going to keep me down for long.

  “You’re always great,” he said.

  One thing I’d really missed was sweet talk, not that I’d heard it often from Clay. Everybody needs to know they are appreciated, including me. I could almost feel my self-worth ratcheting up a notch or two.

  “What’s the favor?” I asked.

  “I have a training session tomorrow. It starts early and finishes late. I hate to leave Ben alone for that long.”

  Oh no. I could see where this was going. “You’re cancelling on me? Our first official date as adults and you’re ditching me?”

  “The training doesn’t go that late. I’ll be done by six o’clock. But six in the morning until six at night is twelve hours that Ben will be alone.”

  “Can’t he go along with you? Isn’t he part of the program?”

  “These are C.I.T
. drills. Hostage negotiations, weapons practice, the latest techniques and technology, that sort of thing. He can’t come for this one.”

  “Then the answer has to be no.”

  “What happened to ‘ask me anything’?”

  “I said you could ask. I didn’t say I’d agree. You know how I am about dogs.”

  “Ben likes you.”

  The dog stuck his nose on me again and sniffed. Then he licked the side of my face, one long-tongued slurpy lick.

  Hunter and I laughed together. Then he became serious. “I’ll feel better if you’re with Ben. No one will bother you.”

  “Will he attack if someone totally drives me crazy?” Like Patti or Lori or my mother, I was thinking.

  “No, but his presence will deter trouble.”

  “Deterring trouble is good.”

  “I also brought offerings of food,” Hunter said.

  “You did?”

  “Pizza. I left it in the truck.”

  “From Stu’s?”

  “You bet. Holly said you fled the family scene without eating.”

  What a sister, setting me up like this!

  “You better go get it,” I said.

  We stayed on the couch, eating pizza and talking while Ben made himself comfortable on the floor. It’s amazing how fast pain can recede when you’re in a good place with the right person.

  And no, nothing extremely intimate happened. Not that that’s anybody’s business.

  But when Hunter left, I had a canine roommate. How could I say no with him rubbing my legs like that? Hunter, I meant, not Ben.

  I fell asleep right there where I was.

  Manny’s journal had completely slipped my mind.

  “You’re back!” I said when Carrie Ann walked into the market first thing the next morning. Her short hair was looking spiky and perky, and so was she.

  “Saw a familiar truck in front of someone’s house last night,” Carrie Ann said, giving me a knowing smile. “Things starting to heat up?”

  “Searing hot,” I said, giving her a big hug.

  “Who’s the new employee? He looks vaguely familiar.” Carrie Ann arched a brow at her competition. “And how could you replace me so soon? My feelings are hurt.”

  “Meet Ben. He’s Hunter’s K-9 partner.”

  Ben had stationed himself near the front door where he could keep an eye on the street and still know exactly where I was. He was smart. He’d sensed I was now a member of his pack, at least temporarily.

  “Thought the four-legged guy looked familiar,” Carrie Ann said, reclaiming the cash register. “That’s where I know him from. Hunter’s. We need someone like him around here on a permanent basis.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready to come back to work? How are you feeling?”

  “Pissed off. I’m going to catch the creep who tied me up after braining me and when I do, it won’t be pleasant.”

  I believed her.

  Carrie Ann didn’t smell like smoke and her eyes were clear, indicating she was hangover free. In my opinion, new projects and missions are always handy ways to distract us from the same old destructive habits we tend to get bogged down with. So her plan for vengeance might help with her recovery.

  “Johnny Jay hasn’t been his usual efficient investigator lately,” I said. “He could use all the help he can get.”

  “Well, I’ve deputized myself, and our robber better hope the police chief gets to him before I do.”

  “Too bad Holly the champion wrestler wasn’t around to assist you,” I said. “BTW, we’re double teaming at the store from now on. It’s safer.”

  Had I just said BTW (By The Way)? Was Holly’s text-speak contagious?

  “What’s that all over your ankles?” Carrie Ann wanted to know after gazing at my flip-flopped feet. I had on a new pair of flip flops, black with a mini wedge. “Looks like bee stings.”

  “Giant mosquitoes in my garden,” I lied, as any good beekeeper would. “They itch. I’ve been scratching them.” I lifted and scratched an ankle for effect.

  Holly called right as I finished restocking a bin filled with peanuts in the shell. I tucked the scoop into a pile of peanuts and answered the phone.

  “What happened to you yesterday?” she said without so much as a hello. “Mom was speechless for the first time ever. She didn’t say a word for at least fifteen minutes after you bolted.”

  “I thought of something I had to do. Then Hunter came over with a pizza, thanks to you.”

  “You’re welcome if that’s your impression of a thank-you. Oh, and just so you know, Max and I are going to Milwaukee for the weekend.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I’ll be in on Monday.”

  “Eleven sharp?”

  “Was that sarcasm? If it was, you better take it back because I covered for you with Mom. Everything is cool, and you don’t even have to explain your bad behavior to her.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I told her you always act erratic when you have your period.”

  Okay, then.

  “TC,” were her parting letters (Take Care).

  Thirty-eight

  Saturdays are always busy at The Wild Clover. It had rained overnight, but tapered off to a light drizzle by morning. The forecast called for sun by noon, if the weather team could be believed.

  Wet weather didn’t stop the tourists, although Main Street was a bit less traveled than usual. The fall months in our area bring out people from the cities to watch the trees change colors. Moraine is tucked between Milwaukee and Madison, an easy drive from both cities, which makes it a logical stop along the rustic road leading up to Holy Hill. People came through town, hunting in the antique store for buried treasures, with frozen custards in their hands and spare money to spend. Their brightly colored umbrellas disappeared as soon as the clouds parted and sunbeams replaced raindrops.

  Customers picked out handfuls of old-fashioned penny candy from bins lining one wall of the market, scooped peanuts into paper bags, and selected fresh flower bouquets, which Milly Hopticourt had, as usual, brought in first thing when the market opened.

  Milly also brought in a new recipe for the newsletter using the wild grapes I’d picked for her. “I need more honey,” she said. “I’m working on something very special for next month’s issue.”

  I handed a jar to her, free of charge, since she worked so hard on the newsletter and shared her creations with the rest of us.

  “That’s one scary dog,” she said, watching Ben as he sat at quiet attention near the door.

  “He’s a Belgian Malinois,” I said. “He tracks bad guys and hunts drugs for the police.”

  “You don’t say.”

  We both studied Ben. He was acting more like a regular dog now that Hunter wasn’t around, although he would never be a frolicking pup. I was still cautious when he was nearby but I didn’t want him to sense any of my fear, which, as luck would have it, was starting to subside just a little.

  “I heard you better not raise your voice around those attack dogs,” Carrie Ann called over, raising her voice. “They hate that.”

  “What would he do if I yelled or screamed?” Milly wanted to know.

  Carrie Ann shook her head. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out. Aren’t you worried he’ll hurt business, sitting at the doorway like that?”

  By now a couple of kids were petting him. Ben maintained an attitude of tolerant indifference. “He’s used to crowded situations,” I said.

  Another group of tourists came through, buying the caramel apples we got from Country Delight Farm.

  Brent Craig showed up, saying his twin brother, Trent, would be along in a few hours.

  I kept waiting for a slowdown so I could start reading Manny’s journal, which I’d hidden in a box of honey jars in the back room. Unfortunately, I had no spare time, but that was a good thing as far as taking in cash was concerned.

  A few locals showed up and gossiped. I listened in.


  “When are they going to have that dead girl’s funeral?” one of them said. “I haven’t seen anything about it in the newspaper.”

  “They must be holding the body. It’s a murder, after all,” someone else commented.

  “Has Story’s rotten ex-husband been arraigned yet?”

  “Shhh. She’ll hear you.”

  “She knows he’s rotten. And a murderer besides!”

  “If you ask me, she’s in on it. The police chief found that dead girl’s earring in the back room of this very store. Right over there.”

  “That’s not exactly how I heard it. Story found it and called the police chief.”

  “I’m sure it’s the other way around. And what about the robbery?”

  “She might have a partner who decided to go solo.”

  “You watch too much television.”

  “Shhh. Here she comes. Hi, Story. My, these tomatoes sure are nice and ripe.”

  Lori Spandle came in. She bought bratwursts and buns for grilling and six ears of corn, pulling down the husks on at least four times that many before making her final choices.

  “Any progress on the Chapman deal?” I asked, convinced that Lori was just blowing smoke to make herself look important.

  “It’s progressing,” Lori said, vaguely. “My new associate and I are working on it.”

  “What new associate?” Carrie Ann asked.

  “My new real estate partner, my sister, DeeDee. And the name of the interested party is confidential, as Story well knows from all her efforts to pry it out of me.”

  “DeeDee’s your new partner?” Carrie Ann snorted. “What kind of partner? Your partner in crime?”

  “That hit on the head must have scrambled your brains, or you wouldn’t be talking that way, Carrie Ann Retzlaff.”

  I stepped in. “Let’s be nice.”

  Lori glared my way. “I heard what you did to my sister, accusing her of stealing from your store, and I think it’s just terrible.”