Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,85

rephrased the same question different ways without any luck. With nothing more to discuss, Stanley helped load the hens, feed, and a bale of straw into the back of the truck. Holly and I headed out.

“That man is hiding something,” I said.

“No luck getting him to talk?”

“Nope.”

Ten minutes later Stanley drove out of his driveway. We blew out of our hiding place and gave chase.

“Stay back or he’s going to see you,” Holly called.

“He’s not going to check his rearview mirror for a tail,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Outside of the movies, what real person does that? When’s the last time you glanced back to see if a vehicle was following you, one you recognized?”

“He’s bound to notice eventually.”

“Besides, last time I stayed back, I lost him. I don’t want him getting away this time.”

We left Moraine, following the rustic road, which was becoming more familiar to me from all the time I was spending chasing Stanley around. He wasn’t in a hurry, going much slower than the speed limit. On the same stretch where I’d lost him before, he turned into one of the driveways I’d checked last time. Only last time I hadn’t noticed that the main driveway went one way and a smaller, gravel drive went another.

Stanley followed the gravel one.

“GFI!” Holly shouted, getting excited. (Go For It!) “Follow him in.”

Instead, I pulled over and parked. Hens squawked from the back of the truck. “Let’s wait a few minutes, see if he comes out.”

Fifteen minutes later, Stanley hadn’t reappeared.

“Let’s walk in,” I said.

“ITA (I Totally Agree),” she said. “That will be less obvious.”

The driveway was longer than we thought, ending at a small cottage tucked between a mature maple and an oak tree. A woman’s home, with lace curtains peaking out, fresh flowers on windowsills, and tended daylilies all along the front.

Stanley’s car wasn’t parked next to the cottage, so I assumed he’d pulled into a small garage close by. That explained why I hadn’t spotted his car the first time I chased and lost him on this same road. I remembered turning into this driveway then.

As we edged around the back I spotted beehives.

Not many. Five to be exact. Certainly not Manny’s bees, judging by the beehive construction. And while you can’t really tell one honeybee from another, completely different hives meant different honeybees than the ones I was searching for.

I moved closer to the back of the cottage, wondering who lived there. Holly stayed with me. Not a sound came from inside.

Holly tugged on the back of my top, gesturing with her head and her eyes. Time to go. Let’s get out of here. I shook my head back. Not yet. Three feet to one of the back corner windows. I had to look in. We’d come this far. Two feet. One. Crouching lower than the window, easing up. Eye level. Holly right beside me.

It was a good thing the window was closed when I backed up, tripped, clutched my sister for support, and took her down with me. Holly let out a muffled yelp. We untangled and crawled out of sight.

I’d discovered Stanley’s secret.

He had a girlfriend, one who was at the moment naked and entwined with Stanley on a bed right before our eyes.

And here I had been, peeking in at them like P. P. Patti without a telescope. If I found time, I’d be ashamed of myself later.

Holly and I darted back down the driveway a safe distance before speaking to each other.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Stanley has a girlfriend,” I said, which was pretty obvious to both of us.

“He doesn’t want anybody to know.”

“It’s our secret.”

“Right.”

“He’s learning about bees because of her.”

“Right.”

“Stanley isn’t Gerald Smith. He isn’t the phantom bee thief.”

“Right.”

At the bottom of the driveway, we meet my new chickens running toward us, free as birds. At least, I assumed they were mine, since they looked exactly like the ones I’d picked up.

“Grab them,” I said in a stage whisper, spreading my arms wide in hopes of driving them back toward the road.

Instead the hens banded together, dodged to my right as one unit, flapped their wings, and made it all the way to the cottage side of my blockade, still running on their scrawny chicken legs.

“Get them.” I was right behind two escapees but couldn’t help noticing that my sister wasn’t. “We have to stop these chickens or I’m going to have some explaining to do. What will I tell Stanley?”

“I don’t deal with live chickens,” Holly called