Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,40
would work mornings until eleven, since Holly hadn’t seen the sunrise since she married Max. My sister and I would work until three, and the twins would take over from there. The weekend schedule was up in the air, but we’d polish it off in the next day or two.
Holly cheerfully followed along with Carrie Ann, learning how to use the register. As usual, Mom and Grams argued about who was going to drive home. Grams, emerging as the victor again and proving she’s the only family member who can win a confrontation with Mom, pulled out into the street at her normal crawl. I heard someone honk at her, then an angry male voice call out something unprintable.
Holly came over to watch. “Grams is going to get killed one of these days,” she said.
“But she’ll go out happy.”
“IK (I know). BTW (by the way), I didn’t get any sleep last night worrying about you and that tip. I’m almost relieved they arrested Clay. But I’m not sure you are out of the proverbial woods yet. What about that e-mail? Do you think Clay did it? If he did, he better admit it.”
“Holly, do you think Grace Chapman is capable of murder?”
“What are you thinking? That she killed Faye?”
I hadn’t really thought about that. “I was thinking more along the lines of Manny.”
“That’s crazy talk. Why would Grace murder her husband?” Holly asked, looking surprised that I’d even suggest that. “And how?”
“What if she managed to catch a nest of yellow jackets and used the blower to direct them at Manny?” Okay, that was a stretch, even to my ears, but it was a new angle and had possibilities. “She could have locked him out of the house and out of his car, so he didn’t have any place to hide. Yellow jackets don’t give up until they chase you down.”
“What about Grace during all this? Why didn’t she get stung?”
A flash of insight. “She wore the bee suit.”
“Is Grace still plain and mousy and righteous?”
“Yup. That’s her.”
“Well, when you work out her motive, please share it with me.”
“Holly, I heard that Clay and Grace were having an affair.”
“Noooo!”
I told Holly what I knew, which was totally unsubstantiated gossip.
“You can’t believe everything you hear,” Holly said, which was exactly what I had thought at first.
“You’re right. I can’t see Grace with Clay.”
“Not in a million years. It’s just nasty talk. And you’re above that stuff.”
“Right.”
“Besides, you’re supposed to be concentrating on staying out of trouble with the law.”
“Right.”
I drove my truck toward Holy Hill, searching for Hunter’s place, hoping he was home. I passed the Holy Hill National Shrine of Mary, which was run by the Carmelites, towering above the countryside at the highest point in southeastern Wisconsin. Devout worshippers made pilgrimages to the sacred chapel, and on weekends hundreds of visitors picnicked on the grounds.
I passed the Shrine’s entrance and turned onto Friess Lake Road, checking mailboxes on the side of the road as I drove, looking for the address Carrie Ann had scrawled for me on the back of a napkin. Most of the homes were hidden at the end of long, curving driveways, tucked back behind pines and native shrubs. I turned in when I found numbers that matched Carrie Ann’s.
Hunter’s truck and his Harley were parked next to a small, log-hewed house, surrounded by woods.
Wisconsin is Harley country, since the motorcycles are made here and they are such fine machines.
About Harleys:• Hog fever affects people from all walks of life—professionals, skilled workers, white collar, blue collar, retirees, the unemployed, you name it.
• Some famous riders are Malcolm Forbes, Jay Leno, Elvis, and the duo Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda in Easy Rider.
• Harley bikers have their own dating website.
• More and more women are riding their own bikes.
• The black leather outfits rock—jackets, boots, all the accessories.
The September afternoon sun ribboned through the tree canopy as I walked up to the house, the smell of burning firewood drifting on the air. Gleaming canine eyes watched me from inside a screened door. Alert and ready.
“Hey, Ben,” I said, thinking he’d relax if I said his name. A tail wag would be nice. Maybe even a bark or two. Instead, Ben watched me in silent anticipation.
“Hey, Story.” Hunter came out of the house wearing jeans, slung low on his hips, and pulling a shirt over his head, giving me a glimpse of hard muscle and lean torso. “What’s up?”
“I’m glad I caught you home.”
“I just now stopped home