Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,16
the entire honey house from her, equipment and all, and have the house moved as one big piece on a gigantic truck, the kind you see with the “Wide Load” flags on the side.
There was room for a honey house in my large backyard, I thought. I’d just have to do some measuring.
Me and my pipe dreams.
But it’s all about having a positive attitude.
Six
Clouds overhead were darkening, but still no rain. Since I couldn’t paddle down the river because my kayak was missing and my effort to see Grace had been a complete bust, I decided that healthy physical labor might improve my day. The Wild Clover was next on my to-do list.
“Business has been steady all morning,” Brent said, nodding his carrot head. The twins both had red hair and a healthy dose of freckles, but telling them apart wasn’t hard, because they weren’t identical. Trent’s hair was browner, and he wore it longer. Plus I’ve known them their entire lives. “This is the first slow-down,” he added.
Trent appeared from aisle four. “You’re early.”
“My morning isn’t going so well. I thought I’d improve it by coming here.”
“I hope you aren’t sending us home yet,” Brent said. “We need the money for all those expensive textbooks we have to buy.”
“You can stay all day,” I promised. I could use the time to find my kayak and track down Grace. “Think you could bring in two cases of honey from the back of my truck?” Trent promptly took on the task.
Third-grade teacher Bruce Cook came in, greeted us, and wandered away with a shopping list in his hand. Then Police Chief Johnny Jay showed up.
“Well, if it isn’t Missy Fischer,” he said, still refusing to call me Story after all these years. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Don’t act so surprised to find me,” I said. “After all, this is my store. It shouldn’t have been too hard, Johnny.”
“It’s Police Chief Jay to you.”
“Whatever.” I bent over to add more honey sticks to the almost-empty containers, careful not to mix the orange ones with the clover ones, trying to ignore him. Maybe he’d go away.
“Heard you were serving alcohol inside this establishment yesterday.”
I glanced up and grinned. “Did I forget to invite you to the party? Shucks. Don’t know how that slipped my mind.”
“I’d like to see your permit.”
“Brent,” I said with a cattish grin, “show Johnny the temporary permit. It’s under the five-dollar bills in the register.”
Brent pulled the piece of paper out of the drawer with a sigh of relief that said he sure was glad I’d managed to stay ahead of Johnny one more time. Even Johnny looked surprised. It pays to be a smart business owner, especially when dealing with authority figures who don’t like you.
Our police chief scanned the permit. I could sense the wheels turning in his overblown brain while he looked for a loophole to nail me. He practically threw the permit back at Brent.
More customers arrived, signaling the end of the lull. Either they had been on their way to the store anyway and it was pure chance that the police chief was inside, or they’d seen his SUV and didn’t want to miss any late-breaking news. Glancing through the window, I noticed that none of my customers had parked near him, though. Johnny Jay had been known to deflate tires if a driver parked too close to his vehicle. And Johnny Jay made up his own rules about what was or wasn’t too close.
He’s a mean one. Yes, he is.
I straightened from my task. “I heard there isn’t going to be an autopsy,” I said. “Why not?”
Customers craned to hear. Johnny noticed and frowned.
“Normally I wouldn’t dignify that kind of question with an answer but I want you to get the facts right—something you don’t always do—so witnesses to my reply are more than welcome.”
Well, that was nasty and totally uncalled for. When had I ever gotten facts wrong?
Customers edged closer, pretending to study the shelves, their ears practically quivering.
“Manny Chapman’s death was not suspicious in any way,” Johnny said. “His body isn’t going to the crematory, which could have changed things. He’s having a normal burial, and his death wasn’t an accident involving other people. According to the medical examiner, Chapman died from toxic stings, in particular stings in his mouth, which caused his throat to swell and obstruct his airway. And that’s that. Why on earth would you suggest an autopsy?”
“Honeybees didn’t kill him,” I said, remembering Manny’s swollen lips. How