TWELVE
When she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue, it was time for Tricia’s visit with Larry Harvick’s bees—what she’d been waiting for all day. She changed her clothes and flew out the door, not wishing to be late for her appointment.
Tricia texted Harvick upon arriving at his home, a white-painted colonial structure with black-painted shutters that was set on several acres outside the nearby town of Litchfield. He directed her to meet him behind the house. Conveniently, a gravel path led around the front of the home to the back, which housed a red-painted barn and several smaller, tidy outbuildings. She saw Larry at the farthest end of the property, heading toward her.
“Glad you could make it,” he called, sounding jovial.
“Glad to be here. So, tell me about your operation. I’m eager to learn.”
Larry looked back to the stacks of white boxes behind them. “Right now, we’ve got twenty-two hives here and throughout the village. The rule of thumb is twelve hives per acre. Technically, we could manage as many as thirty-six hives, but we’re comfortable with what we’ve got right now.”
“It sounds like a lot.”
“Not really. You’re not considered a viable commercial enterprise until you have about three hundred hives, but that’s the keyword: commercial. We’re more of a specialty operation. Between the two of us—and sometimes our kids helping out—we’ve got about all we can handle, especially now that we own the retail shop in Booktown.”
Tricia glanced toward the hives, which sat near a copse of maples. The leaves were at peak color, and quite a few were already littering the lawn. “I suppose your hives will soon be winding down for the winter.”
“Already started. Honeybees don’t go dormant like others of their species. They cluster together to keep warm during the winter, ensuring their queen will survive the cold weather. Our recent heat wave has kept them foraging longer than usual, as there are still some flowers around.”
“When do you harvest the honey and wax?”
“We did that back in August and September,” Harvick said with a wave of his hand.
Tricia couldn’t help but feel disappointed. She thought she was going to get to see some real bee action. Even so, she did want to learn more about the bees. “I’m curious: Why did you want to put hives in the village proper?”
“Surprisingly enough, bees do very well in suburban and especially in urban areas.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about hives in places like Manhattan being very successful.”
“It’s great for biodiversity. Like the bees in our village hives, most urban hives consist of Apis mellifera ligustica honeybees, which are pretty docile. There’s not a lot of stinging involved.”
“Then why is Amelia Doyle so freaked?” Tricia asked.
Harvick shrugged. “A lot of people just hate bugs.”
“And you don’t consider a bee a bug?”
“Hell, no. They’re my business partners,” Harvick said. Tricia wasn’t sure if he was joking.
Harvick showed Tricia around the couple’s outbuildings, one of which was dedicated to retrieving the honey from the combs with a centrifuge called an extractor. Another building was devoted to molding the beeswax into candles. Production for these products was in full force for the upcoming holiday season.
While Tricia was a little disappointed she didn’t get to actually interact with the bees, she thoroughly enjoyed learning about the Harvicks’ business.
“Thanks for the tour. I feel like I’ve learned a lot about your operation. If you’re interested, I’d love to feature it in an upcoming issue of the Chamber’s newsletter. We send copies to area news outlets. I’ll cross my fingers that one of them will pick it up and give you more publicity.”
“We’ll take anything we can get,” Larry said appreciatively.
“I’ll work something up in the next week or so and send it to you for comments and corrections.”
“All right.”
Harvick walked Tricia to her car.
“So, what do you know about the village’s latest murder?” Harvick asked. As a former sheriff’s deputy, he was interested in such things.
“Not much,” Tricia said, her euphoria of moments before quickly evaporating. She wasn’t about to mention how Lauren’s murder might affect David’s employment status.
“An awful lot of people have met their end these last couple of years in good old Booktown.”
Tricia sighed, hoping Harvick wasn’t about to pin her with the jinx label.
“Yes, well…I suppose these things are bound to happen as a village grows in prosperity.”
Harvick nodded but looked unconvinced. “I haven’t heard much about the investigation. That Irish guy who’s the Stoneham PD’s new chief doesn’t seem to share much with the press.”
“Or with the Sheriff’s Department?” Tricia queried.
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Ian’s good at his job. I’m sure he’s got everything under control.” And to make sure, Tricia was determined to find out if, as reluctantly promised, Becca had spoken to the village’s top cop.
That was next on her list of things to do.
It was after four thirty when Tricia arrived back at the municipal parking lot. Before returning to Haven’t Got a Clue, she backtracked a block or so to the Stoneham Police Department and was once again addressed with another saccharine greeting from Polly Burgess. “And what brings you here on this fine afternoon, dear Tricia?”
Tricia refrained from wincing at the insincere words. “Is Chief McDonald available? I’d love to speak to him.”
“About the Barker murder?” Polly asked sweetly.
“Um…perhaps. Is he in?”
“I’ll see if he’s available.” Polly tapped the intercom button. “Chief, Tricia Miles is here if you’ve got a minute to give her.”
“A minute,” came McDonald’s tinny reply.
“I’ll just see myself in,” Tricia said.
“You do that, dear.”
Tricia appreciated that Polly’s change in attitude helped her keep her job, but she also thought she preferred the more honest—old sourpuss—Polly instead.
Tricia knocked on the chief’s office door before turning the handle. “Ian?”
McDonald rose from his chair. “Tricia, come in. Sit,” he said, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “What can I do for you today?”
Tricia took a seat and got straight down to business.
“Have you spoken to Becca Dickson-Chandler about her lunch meeting with Lauren Barker on the day Lauren died?”
McDonald frowned. “No. Was I supposed to?”
Tricia sighed in exasperation. “Becca told me she’d talk to you.”
“Well, she didn’t. Just what did they chat about?”
Tricia conveyed everything Becca had told her days before about Lauren’s security concerns.
McDonald’s frown deepened, and he let out a sigh of frustration. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just hire you as a detective for our force.”
She knew he was joking. “I’d have to be an anonymous member. As it is, I sometimes feel like an informant. People tell me things, but I insist it not be in confidence because crime—murder, in particular—is too important, too final, not to give the victim a shot at justice.”
McDonald nodded. “I’ll pay Ms. Dickson-Chandler a visit.”
“Perhaps you’ll get more from her than I did—something that could lead to Lauren’s killer.”
“Perhaps,” McDonald agreed, but somehow he didn’t look at all convinced.
“Were you able to track down the mystery man I saw Lauren speaking to?”
“Your description was pretty vague. I spoke to Lauren’s editor at the publishing house and her agent, but they weren’t very helpful. Apparently, Ms. Barker kept her relationships with them on a business level only. Most of their interactions were conducted via e-mail.”
Tricia nodded. And she remembered her conversation with Marina Costas about Lauren’s personal effects taking up space at the Sheer Comfort Inn and Angelica’s promise to contact the village’s top cop.
“Has my sister spoken with you concerning Lauren’s suitcases?”
“No. And no one’s come forward. No attorney has contacted my department to volunteer information relevant to Ms. Barker’s estate. But sometimes, these things take time. It could be weeks or months before someone steps forward to claim an inheritance or represent an estate.”
“That’s too bad,” Tricia lamented. “Shouldn’t the Stoneham Police Department take possession of Lauren’s things? Surely you don’t expect the inn to store them indefinitely.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure my team secures Ms. Barker’s personal effects while we try to find an heir.”
“Did you find anything of interest when going through her things?” Tricia asked.
“Just a copy of her high school yearbook—the year she graduated.”
Tricia’s eyes widened with interest. “And?”
McDonald shrugged. “I read through the messages from her former classmates, but it meant nothing to me or anyone in my staff.”
Of course, because none of them knew Lauren. Why hadn’t he shown the book to someone like Stella Kraft, who not only knew Lauren but had probably taught other members of Lauren’s graduating class? She suggested he do so.
Again, McDonald shrugged. “Will do. Have you got anything else?”
Wasn’t it enough that she’d given him several venues to investigate?
She told him about the sandwich delivered to the inn and suggested he again speak with Marina. “If I come up with anything else, I’ll let you know,” she promised. And with that, Tricia rose from her seat. “I need to get back to my store to shut things down for the day.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” McDonald said sincerely.
“I always strive to be helpful.”
“Yes, you do. And I appreciate it.”
Those were words seldom (ever?) uttered by McDonald’s predecessors. She didn’t care to know whether it was a genuine sentiment.
“We’ll talk again soon,” McDonald promised.
Tricia nodded and left his office, closing the door behind her. As she exited the building, Polly called out sweetly, “Have a nice evening.”
Tricia paused long enough to look over her shoulder and replied, “You, too!” And then she was off, heading back to Haven’t Got a Clue.
The shadows were already lengthening. The night crept over the landscape ever faster these days. Between that and the chill in the air, Tricia thought about the winter ahead. She longed to spend a week on some tropical beach, come January or February, with David massaging sunscreen on her back. He might be gone by then, she thought, and if he wasn’t, as a new employee he wouldn’t have earned any vacation by then, either.
George Harrison said it well when singing about a “long, cold, lonely winter.”
Tricia only hoped that wouldn’t be her fate.