A Hive of Homicides

Smoke is a by-product of combustion—so
where there’s smoke, you can
bet there is or was a fire.

Abby huddled under the bedcovers, trying to make sense of the dream she’d just had. In the dreamscape, she’d been standing in dense, damp fog. Her left hand rested upon a fence post. A raven descended and perched on her hand. Her dreaming mind sensed a familiarity about the bird. Its presence, though ephemeral, transmitted an indefinable heaviness of energy that penetrated her being. In some ways, it felt akin to the weight of grief or unexpressed love when a person bottled those feelings inside. The bird stayed only long enough for her to sense that burden. Without warning, it lifted off the post and took flight. But the dark and heavy encumbrance that the dream presence had brought stayed with her.

Cocooned in blankets and a comforter, Abby listened to the howling wind and a tarp that must have ripped away from its moorings and now whooped, slapped, and flapped. She’d stretched it over an old frame to create a makeshift potting shed on the southeast side of her house, near the herb garden that she and her late friend Fiona Mary had designed and planted. Beyond the windows, these noises added another chorus to nature’s cacophony. As Abby thought about it, she had likely incorporated the flapping sound into her dream as the bird flew away. But why had her sleeping mind conjured the symbol of the archetype trickster in the first place?

Her grandmother Rose believed the raven to be a messenger. And that black bird, with its shaggy throat feathers and bowie-knife beak, portended bad tidings, failure, and loss. Remembering the terrible misfortune that had befallen poor Paola, now sleeping in the other room, Abby surmised the dream might have simply been her subconscious throwing up an image to represent the darkness associated with death.

Sugar stirred. Wide awake, her ears shot up. “What is it, sweetie?” Abby asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She glanced at the clock. The hands indicated it was a little past midnight. Sugar bounded to the living room, barking her head off. Abby rolled from under the warm bedcovers. After tucking a small penlight on the bedside table into her bathrobe pocket, she trotted after Sugar to see who or what was calling at this late hour.

Paola awoke. “What’s going on?”

“Shhh.” Something caught Abby’s attention through the art deco glass panes. Out beyond the porch, a red circle glowed. Someone was smoking a cigarette. Who was there, and why? Heart thumping, Abby recoiled against the wall. She leaned down and touched Sugar, but there was no comforting the dog. She continued barking.

A second or two later, Abby stooped and again peered through the glass. The cigarette burned brighter, as though someone had just taken a drag. Then it darkened. Abby’s stomach knotted. Her back and neck muscles tensed. Adrenaline pumped through her. Perhaps the prowler had watched them leave Paola’s house and had followed them to the farmette. Abby’s skin went prickly hot. A sudden suffocation claimed her. A bigger question loomed—what was going to happen when the smoker finished that cigarette?

Abby watched. The cigarette torched a rag, and the rag blazed. The intruder tossed it onto a blanket she had spread over each of her blood orange trees. What the . . . ? My God. He’s going to burn down the place.

If she’d been alone—just her and Sugar—she might have loaded her gun, slipped out through the kitchen, and crept around to the front to see who was standing in her driveway. Having Paola inside complicated things. Although her young friend had regained mobility and was healing fast, she was still in recovery mode. One thing Abby knew for certain. She would protect Paola and Sugar regardless of the risk to her own life. But there wasn’t a moment to lose.

“Sorry,” Abby whispered as she touched Paola’s shoulder. “But we have to go. Put on your shoes and bathrobe. No lights. Wrap yourself in this comforter.” Paola started to ease out of the bed. She reached back for the pajama-covered pillow.

“Leave the pillow. There’s no time.”

“Why? Where are we going?” Paola stood adjusting the scarf over the vulnerable part of her head.

“I think your phone-call stalker has followed us here. So now we’ve got to hide.” Abby helped Paola put on her robe and tie it. “Here are your shoes. Slide in your feet. And then wait here.”

Abby hustled back to the bedroom, where she yanked her cell phone from its charger. She tapped the side button to bring up the lighted dial and then tapped the number for county communications.

“Dispatch. What’s your emergency?”

“Abigail Mackenzie here. It’s a prowler. He’s set a fire near the front porch.”

“Mackenzie. You called before. Same address?” asked the dispatcher.

“No. Send fire and police out to the Henny Penny Farmette at the end of Farm Hill Road. There’s a chicken on the mailbox.”

“Are you inside the house?”

“Yes, but not for long.”

“Emergency vehicles are on the way. Can you stay on the phone with me?”

“Sorry. Can’t,” said Abby, then hung up. She pushed her feet into her house slippers and tried to think of where to hide. Preferably, as far from the house as possible. Her thoughts latched onto Henry’s RV. Thank God, he’d come back on schedule. This time, he’d parked the RV behind the oleander bushes, where it couldn’t be seen. She snatched the blanket from her bed and wrapped it around Sugar.

After carrying her swaddled dog into the dark kitchen, Abby whispered to Paola, “Follow me.”

Next to the oven mitt, on a hook, Abby located the RV key. Pushing the key deep into her robe pocket where she’d put the cell phone and penlight, she one-handedly unlocked and opened the sliding glass door. Throwing the blanket off Sugar, Abby held the dog by her collar. The two women slipped onto the dark patio, with Sugar yipping her high-pitched alarm. After sliding the door closed, Abby reached for Paola’s hand while attempting to restrain and quiet Sugar. Steering clear of the backyard’s wet grass, Abby chose to lead Sugar and Paola along the flat terrain of the gravel path. They passed the garden swing and followed the path to the end of the chicken run.

“Where are we going?” Paola whispered.

“There’s an RV hidden in the back. We can hide there.”

At the end of the run, next to the metal gate of the chain-link fence, Abby peered into the black pitch, trying to make out the shapes of the oleander bushes. The wind’s whistle through tall pines and pin oaks sounded more like a roar. Gusts lifted and smacked the eucalyptus branches and their long strands of leaves against the ridges of trunk bark. A broken piece of aluminum roofing rattled as the wind lifted and dropped it.

“Gad, what’s that smell?” Paola asked.

“Skunk spray and manure.” Abby held her breath against the stench and hoped that no raccoons, bobcats, or other wild creatures might be roaming. But then again, it was a frosty night, made colder by the wind. So maybe not. She smelled smoke now, too.

After unhooking the metal gate, Abby struggled with Sugar and also tried to help Paola through. Tripping over an exposed root, Paola stumbled and then leaned against the gnarled trunk of the pepper tree. Abby had forgotten about the root and stumbled, too, but quickly recovered. She tried to guide Paola away from the tree. Disoriented, Paola turned in the wrong direction and latched onto the chain-link fence for support. It rattled. Sugar continued her high-pitched yip. Abby froze. Surely, the intruder had to know the dog was out and behind the house. She hoped Sugar’s barking would strike fear in the prowler. If he believed the dog would find and attack him, he might flee. She stole a glance back at the house.

Flames licked the sky. Showers of red sparks rained down. The muscles in Abby’s chest tightened. Rising anxiety threatened to paralyze her. Refusing to let tears come, she cried out softly, “Oh, my God, no. Please, not my house!” Swallowing the lump in her throat, Abby forced herself to turn away. She whispered to Paola, “Keep calm and keep moving. Our lives depend on it.”

Pop . . . pop . . . pop. The sound stopped them in their tracks. Then a loud explosion erupted. The two women huddled together. Grasping Paola’s hand, Abby tried to sound reassuring. “Loud noises can’t hurt us. Don’t let go of my hand.”

“I won’t,” Paola said. “But that fire. It’s your house.”

“God help us,” Abby whispered.

Sugar’s high-pitched yipping reached a frenzied pitch. Abby picked her way toward the oleander bushes. “Quiet,” she commanded Sugar as she struggled with the dog.

They stepped behind the six-foot-tall oleanders. Abby’s teeth chattered. The cold night wind penetrated the thin fabric of her pajamas and robe. “Hold on to my belt,” she told Paola. “This way.”

Afraid the intruder would detect them if she turned on the penlight, Abby lead Paola in baby steps across the landscape she knew by heart. Still, being familiar with the terrain didn’t make the going any easier. She worried that Paola might trip again. Falling could cause dire consequences for someone with a piece of her skull out. Abby extended her hand in front of her and walked with outstretched fingers until they touched cold, damp metal. Running her hand up and down, she felt the rectangular box of the taillight where it jutted out from the rear of the RV. Slowly, Abby inched her way around and felt for the entrance door on the side. Reaching into her robe pocket for the penlight and key, she realized the items were in the other pocket.

“Can you hold Sugar real tight until I can get the key out?” asked Abby.

Paola whispered, “Sí.”

Placing Paola’s hand around Sugar’s collar, Abby said, “Do not let her wiggle free. She’ll jump.”

“I have her,” said Paola.

Abby retrieved the key and penlight from her pocket. After placing the penlight between her teeth, Abby inserted the key in the padlock. The round doorknob also had a key lock, but Henry hadn’t locked it. Abby opened the door and fought against the fumes of spilled beer and stale cigarette butts. She held the penlight on the interior until Paola and Sugar were safely inside.

Paola’s teeth chattered. “It’s freezing in here,” she whispered, struggling to hang on to Sugar. As Sugar leaped from her arms, raced out the RV door into the dark, and barked loudly enough to be heard halfway down Farm Hill Road, Paola put her hand over her mouth and shrieked, “Nooo.”

Cursing under her breath, Abby thrust her cell phone and penlight into Paola’s hands. “Call nine-one-one again. Lock this door behind me. Do not leave until I come back for you.”

Paola was safe in the RV. She had the comforter for warmth and the cell phone to call for help. Using Sugar’s bark to guide her, Abby raced off into the pitch-black night. With her heart galloping like a wild mustang, she ran, lifting her feet high to keep from stumbling as she raced over the weedy field, past the oleanders, back to the fence. The gusting wind lifted her robe, blew her hair into her face. Thinking that the fire in front of the house had been set to smoke them out, Abby surmised that the intruder could be lying in wait at the rear of the house. If he laid a hand on Sugar, what in God’s name would she not do to save her dog?

Her body tense as a wound spring, Abby needed a weapon, but with no time to get her gun and load it with ammunition, she unhooked the heavy shovel hanging on the chicken house. Flipping on the backyard light would diminish the intruder’s advantage. She hustled across the wet grass to the back door. Yanked it open, half expecting the assault to come from any direction. She flipped on the outside light. Spun around with the shovel raised. Her gaze swept from one side of the backyard to the other. No sign of any movement.

Sugar took off again like she’d been hit by buckshot. She dashed along the dark north side of the house. Abby followed. One hand held the metal shovel head against her chest, and the other grasped the shovel handle, as if she were holding a medieval jousting shield and lance. There he was. On the other side of the front porch. Twentysomething, maybe. A shaved head and dressed in a sweatshirt under a camo jacket, he sloshed fuel from a five-gallon gas can against the tarp of her makeshift potting tent. He’d already set the blankets over her citrus trees and her Jeep on fire. Tall flames leaped upward to ignite the elm tree. Its branches overhung the roof.

Sugar loped toward the man, barking and snarling, then rushed at the man’s legs.

The skinhead set down the gas can on the gravel. The man removed a lighter from his pocket and flicked it at the dog. Sugar continued snarling, lunging, attacking, biting. The man kicked his way over to a pressure-treated length of board lying on the front porch. He threatened the dog with it. When he spotted Abby striding toward him, he called out, “Call your dog off, or I’ll smash its head in.”

“Sugar, come. Now.” Abby knew the dog wouldn’t come. Sugar rarely obeyed any of her commands. Abby regretted that she hadn’t found the time in her overscheduled life for dog training. Both she and Sugar needed it.

The man lunged at Sugar, who renewed her attack. The intruder kicked and swung at Sugar, hitting her back leg. She limped back with a yelp. “Drop the shovel.” The man took a threatening step toward Abby. Sugar snarled and lunged again. “Call her off, or I’ll douse her. One flick. She’s gone.”

Abby’s heart throbbed. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “Come, Sugar.” Abby might as well have been talking to the wind.

The man threw down the board and picked up the gas can. He pointed the nozzle at Sugar. The dog lunged at the military-style lace-up boots protecting his ankles. With a violent shake of the can, the man doused Sugar.

Abby screamed, “You bastard. No!” Up went the shovel into hard-assault position. After taking aim, Abby lunged with the full force of her body behind the thrust. She levied a hard assault to his head. He partially blunted the hit by using the gas can as a shield. The blow reverberated back through the handle into Abby’s arm and shoulder. She winced.

Blood trickled from the man’s wound as he let go of the can. After snatching the shovel from her, he heaved it onto the gravel. It skidded away. Then he snagged a handful of her hair and yanked her to him. Held her tight. Attempted to jerk the belt from her bathrobe loops. All the while, Sugar waged a battle of her own.

Fearing the man would strangle her, Abby relied on her instincts. One of the many judo moves she’d learned on the force was the big hip throw—O goshi. But she had to move fast. Abby seized the man’s left sleeve with her right hand and snatched his jacket at the small of his back with her left. Right foot first, she hopped, skipped, and pivoted in a split-second maneuver. Her buttocks and back pressed against the front of his body, and with her back straight, she bent her knees and yanked hard. The man flew over her hip.

He held on with the grip of a mechanical vice. Abby hit the ground hard just as sparks crackled and sprayed from the Jeep. The cold gravel pieces punctured her back and buttocks through her robe. The man squirmed on top of her. Pinned her arm under her. A searing pain sliced through her right shoulder. He delivered a blow against her left cheek. With an agonizing scream, Abby writhed. Struggled to wrench free. Tried to reach the pile of river rock she’d stacked beneath the tree. She stretched her free arm over her head in the direction of the rock pile and felt around.

Her fingers latched onto a stone the size of her fist. Writhing upward enabled her to inch closer until she had the rock in hand. But her attacker jerked her bathrobe belt free. Abby sucked in a sharp breath and hammered the rock into the man’s head. His body went slack upon her. Summoning what little energy she had left, Abby pushed him off. He rolled toward the Jeep, which was still smoldering, smoking, and blazing in places. Lying facedown, the man remained motionless even as Sugar continued the battle. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the acrid smell of smoke and the Jeep’s burning wires and electronics permeated the air.

Nauseated by the stench, Abby cried out in pain and shivered on the cold gravel. Overhead, the burning elm crackled. Beside her the Jeep’s blaze roared on. Bleeding and unable to move her injured shoulder or arm, Abby prayed the man would not regain consciousness for a while. Dear God, please spur Paola to make that call if she hasn’t already. Sugar whined and barked and stood sentry next to Abby’s attacker.

“Sorry. Come here, Sugar. Please. Come.”

A vehicle pulled in, and headlights shone on Abby, lying under the tree in her front driveway. Tires screeched to a stop. The driver’s door flew open. A man leaped out and sprinted to her. She heard a heart-wrenching baritone cry. “Abb-yyy. My God, what’s going on here?”

Lucas? Oh, thank the Lord. Abby looked helplessly at him as he knelt and wiped her tangled hair away from her face. She could feel the blood oozing from the cut on her cheek and sharp pain in her hands, where broken windshield slivers had pierced the skin. The rocks beneath her dug into her back and scalp.

“My God, Abby. You’re bleeding.” Lucas reached to lift her.

Abby cried out in pain. “I can’t . . . my shoulder.”

“What’s that man done to you? I’ll kill that son of a—”

Wincing, Abby said, “I think I’ve already done it.”

Lucas fired questions. “Who is that a-hole? Did he set the fire?” He took out his cell phone. “I’m calling the cops. And the fire department.”

“Should be on the way. I’ve already called,” Abby said through chattering teeth. Shivering, Abby didn’t know if it was the shock of the assault or the freezing temperature. Regardless, Lucas’s touch was warm and gentle. “Let me roll toward you, Lucas. Take my hand and tug on my good arm.”

With Lucas’s help, Abby was soon standing. Two sirens wailed on the approach to the farmette from Farm Hill Road. Abby’s knees buckled as she tried to walk on her own. “Sure hope my attacker doesn’t have a gun on him. Guess if he did, he would have used it by now.”

“I’ll check just as soon as I get you settled in my truck,” said Lucas. He hoisted her into his arms and carried her to his vehicle, with Sugar barking all the way. Crying out in pain at the jostling of her shoulder, Abby stole a look at her house. Already, flames engulfed the elm tree’s lower limbs where they scraped the southwest corner of her roof. Light from the blazing Jeep and the tree danced on broken shards of glass from the blown windshield.

“You heard the explosion?” Abby asked Lucas.

“Like a cannon. Feared the worst.”

Abby’s mouth felt as dry as henhouse straw. She tried to swallow. “That idiot poured gasoline on Sugar and threatened to set her on fire. I’ve got to get her water, Lucas.”

“Sure. I’ll get her some. But you come first,” said Lucas. He helped her onto the truck’s bench seat, turned up the heater fan to warm her, and was starting to close the door when Abby called out to Sugar.

“Come, girl.”

Sugar leaped up into the truck with Abby.

Engine eight screamed into the far side of her driveway, which had two entrances. Following the fire engine was a police cruiser. Abby’s trembling began to subside. But the thought of Paola freezing caused Abby to tense again. As soon as the scene was safe, she’d send Lucas to get Paola. Two law enforcement officers exited their cruiser. Abby realized they were Officer de la Cruz and his cadet. Their shift must not be over. Watching Bernie talk into his shoulder radio, Abby reckoned he was reporting to dispatch that he’d arrived on scene. Seeing the injured man on the ground, he would check him out and call for an ambulance. Or a coroner’s van.

Abby watched the police duo help the firefighters do a four-man lift of her attacker to move him out of harm’s way. The firefighters, working like ants on a honey bucket, began to spray water and pink retardant on the blaze. Lucas talked with Bernie, while the cadet checked the man on the ground, most likely for a weapon. The cadet, probably a new hire from the local academy, found something, because he motioned Bernie over, and the two put on nitrile gloves so as not to contaminate any evidence they might recover.

The fire medic trotted over with a doctor’s-type bag and administered first aid to Abby’s attacker. After checking for a pulse and examining the man’s head, he broke an ampoule and waved it under the man’s nose. Abby’s attacker began to move his limbs. When at last he sat up with help from the fire medic, he was facing Lucas’s truck. Abby breathed relief when the cops cuffed him. Locked in the police car, the man couldn’t hurt anyone now. Lucas and the fire medic turned and trotted toward her. Abby noticed that Lucas had positioned himself so that she didn’t have to see her attacker while the fire medic examined her.

“It hurts like nothing I’ve felt before. I can’t move my shoulder,” Abby said.

“Your left shoulder is lower than the right, and there’s a lateral deltoid depression. My guess is you’ve got a subluxation of the left shoulder. Quite possibly, you could also have a fracture of the humerus.”

“In English, please,” said Lucas.

“I believe she’s got a classic partial dislocation of the left shoulder. And for some first-time dislocations, there can also be an upper arm or shoulder girdle fracture. Need an X-ray for that.”

“Can you reposition it?” Abby asked. “I can’t take this pain. My muscles are drawing up tight in that area. Help me if you can. Please.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be transported? There’s an ortho doc on call in the ER tonight.”

“If you’ve had the training to reset the darn thing, let’s not argue. And if you need me to sign a permission form for you to treat me, I promise I will.”

“Okay, then,” said the fire medic. He helped Abby out of the truck and stepped behind her to reposition her arm. “Count to three.” The fire medic placed his hands strategically on her shoulder and arm.

Abby counted, “One, two, three.” She felt a snap and instant liberation. “Ohhh, my God in heaven,” Abby murmured. “Relief at last.”

The fire medic treated her cheek and then asked to see her hands. Taking each of Abby’s hands in turn, he examined them. “I don’t see any embedded glass. It looks like the cuts are superficial. Still, I advise you to let the ambulance transport you to the hospital. You need to be thoroughly checked out.”

“Yeah, I know. You have to say that. But I’m worried about my friend Paola Varela. She’s in an RV at the back of my property. Hurry,” said Abby.

The fire medic said, “Of course. And it’s your choice to be transported or not, but you’ve been assaulted, and you really ought to get medically evaluated. I assume that you’ll want to press charges.”

“Oh, I’m pressing charges, all right, and for what it’s worth, that guy is facing more than an assault charge.”

“Good enough, then.” The fire medic put away his medical bag and joined his team to get someone to go check on Paola.

“You’re made of stronger stuff than any woman I know,” said Lucas. He removed his coat and slipped it around her shoulders. Then he reached into his truck and turned the key to cut the engine, leaving the lights on for the firefighters, who had begun the mopping up. “Let’s get you and Sugar inside your house. Fire will soon be out. This nightmare is over.”

“Could you do something for me?”

“Do you have to ask?” Lucas encircled her with a muscular arm. With the front door of the house still locked, they walked along the north side to the back patio. Sugar followed and raced into the house as soon as Lucas pulled open the slider.

“Put out some fresh water for Sugar. She’s panting so hard. She’s my hero . . . well, one of them.”

“You got it.” Lucas closed the slider and helped Abby walk to the living room sofa bed. While Sugar slurped from her bowl of water, Lucas got another, larger bowl down from the cabinet and filled it from the sink with fresh water. After setting it on the floor next to Sugar’s water and food bowls, he looked over at Abby. “How about I make us a pot of java? I know where you keep the coffee, and your friends out there would likely appreciate a cup on this cold night.”

Abby chuckled. “Good idea. Coffee for them, but none for me, thanks. I’ve had enough adrenaline pouring into me to last a lifetime. Assault and arson are two things you think will never happen to you,” said Abby, leaning against the sofa cushions. “What a nightmare.”

“That guy didn’t just assault you, Abby. From the looks of it, he was trying to kill you,” said Lucas. His expression darkened. He left the kitchen to go to her bedroom. Within seconds, Lucas reemerged with the comforter from her bed. He laid it over Abby, pulled it up to her neck. “What am I going to do with you?” He kissed her lightly on the head. Then, after walking back to the kitchen, he went to the cupboard located nearest the sink and took down the coffee canister.

The patio slider opened, and a firefighter walked Paola into the kitchen.

“We’re going to be okay now, Paola,” Abby called out from the sofa bed. “Come sit with me.” She patted the edge of the sofa bed. “What a night. My Jeep’s destroyed. The eave supporting the front porch roof and the elm tree limbs caught fire. The blaze is out now. My citrus trees are still standing, but all the blankets I’d used to cover them went up in smoke. I can only pray the trees will survive.”

“Abby, I’m so very sorry,” said Paola. “These terrible things happened because of me staying here tonight.”

Lucas said, “Well, I’m staying the night now, too, with your permission, of course, Abby. I’ll be standing guard with Sugar. Come dawn, I’ll leave.”

“Not before I make you one heck of a farmhouse breakfast, Lucas. But are you sure?” Abby said.

“Damn right. Who knows if that nutcase has a partner who might try to finish the job?” Lucas flashed a rare smile. “Okay by you, Abby, if I put Sugar in the shower to wash away the gasoline from her coat? I noticed some Dawn dish soap on the counter by the sink.”

Admiration swelled in Abby’s heart that Lucas would not only be thinking of her and Paola but also of Sugar. “Of course, Lucas.”

Five Ways a Honeybee Hive Can Die

When a honeybee hive loses its queen through old age, disease and death, a failure to mate, or lack of food, and the hive doesn’t replace the queen, it spells the death of the hive. There are many other reasons why a hive can die or a colony can collapse, including the following:

1. Pesticides and fungicides harmful to bees

2. Infectious diseases

3. Pathogens (bacterial, fungal, viral, and parasitic)

4. Starvation

5. Hive pests