Slugfest

Forty-one

“Well, you might have guessed when she said she harvested her honey every month. Perhaps she was thinking of tapping sugar for maple syrup. All the beekeepers I know harvest in the fall.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been lied to, and I’d get over it. I should have been tipped off when she mentioned Garland’s lost show credentials, but I’d assumed that he was lying to her, not that she was lying to me. So, who was the girl I’d treated to a bagel earlier that morning and why had she concocted that story about Garland Bleimeister?

The real Cindy Gustafson gave me a good price on six pounds of honey—two pounds each for Lucy, J. C., and myself. She even threw in a set of honey dippers and painstakingly wrapped each jar in colorful tissue paper without using tape, just a few strands of raffia attaching the dipper with the last knot. Ordinarily it would have annoyed the heck out of me that she was taking so long, but even though she wasn’t the woman I’d met that morning, her name was on one of those two pages. When given an audience, people love to talk about themselves, and Cindy was no exception.

Buzz Word sold artisanal honeys, lip balms, and soaps. The company was based in Bensalem, Pennsylvania, and at present this Cindy Gustafson was the only employee.

When people heard she was a beekeeper, they expected her to be Olivia Walton, churning her own butter and wearing a long dress like the Amish or the Mormons.

“That’s tiresome. I prefer Coach. Or St. John, when I can afford it.”

Beekeeping wasn’t like that—you could have one box or a hundred. You didn’t even need much room, maybe four cubic feet per box. Cindy knew one man who had his hives on a roof in Philadelphia, ten boxes with ten frames in each. And it only took a few hours a week, except when he harvested.

Cindy had gotten into it in college. A sign outside the cafeteria asked for volunteers to help with a study on an early outbreak of what they’re now calling colony collapse disorder, the thing that is or isn’t happening depending on which scientific paper you read. She was fascinated by the rules of the hive—queen, drones, female workers. Things happening at a set time. The orderly transfer of power when a new queen is chosen and nurtured. It was civilized. There were no surprises. She appreciated that.

As a thank-you, the organizers of the study gave Cindy a few pounds of honey and some of the beeswax, which she packaged in colorful tins and gave to friends as presents.

Then the campus store wanted to carry them.

“It supplemented my wardrobe allowance at school, and my parents were pleased that I showed an interest in something other than getting married, but it was just for fun. I took it up again after I divorced. My husband was deathly afraid of bees. He was allergic to bee stings.”

The first year all her bees died. The next year she did better, but nowhere near the seventy pounds a year per hive she had planned on, based on her research and the business plan she’d devised. All her items were under twenty dollars, which she had determined was the right price point. She started selling the products at farmers markets, then moved up to county fairs, finally graduating to shows like the Big E—the Eastern States Exposition—and this one.

“People want to spend money at shows. What other explanation is there for the ridiculous number of mops and chamois cloths sold at events like these?” It was David’s pinecone-nightlight theory. These people had done their homework.

As casually as I could, I broached the subject of the dead boy, but she claimed to know nothing about him. All I knew was that he was from New Jersey and may or may not have gone to Penn State.

“As it happens,” she said, “my younger sister graduated from Penn State, but from your description of the boy, I doubt she knew him. She was an extremely serious student. Too serious. For a time my parents worried that she was putting too much pressure on herself, but it resolved itself. An adviser helped straighten out her priorities.

“In any event, I haven’t read the paper for days. Since I got here, it’s been all work. This is hardly a huge moneymaking proposition for me, but I certainly don’t want to lose any.”

“So, your sister is a former denizen of Happy Valley. Do you know of any other use of that expression other than its being a nickname for the Penn State campus?”

She thought about it. “Wasn’t that what they called the English expatriate community in Kenya in the twenties?”

That jogged my memory. I’d screened a documentary years back on the unsolved murder of a wealthy Englishman just outside Nairobi during that time period. The press may have even called it the Happy Valley Murder. And now there was another. Very different, of course, but long after the case was solved some well-read magazine journalist would eventually pick up the story and use the headline for Garland’s story as a private joke he was sure no one else would get.

“My ex-husband traveled to East Africa frequently for business.” She fingered a large chunk of tanzanite on her earlobe. “He bought me these. He was always bringing me something. Unfortunately, the last time it was a rather nasty infection. Just when you think you know someone.

“We moved past it,” she said. “I went back to my maiden name and picked up the hobby I’d given up when we married. It keeps me busy.”

Cindy Gustafson stowed my purchases in two sturdy black paper shopping bags, and I thanked her for her time even though she hadn’t shed any light on Garland Bleimeister. I was still ravenous but didn’t need the upper body workout of carrying six extra pounds while I searched for a place to eat, so I headed back to my booth to drop off the honey.

When I arrived, Rolanda Knox was waiting for me. I was not happy she’d blown me off and talked to the cops without me. I thought we were in this together, and I didn’t know if what she said dovetailed with my story. The look on my face revealed my irritation.

“Is that your suburban, white-bread version of the stink eye?” she said. “’Cause when I deliver the stink eye, I usually like to squint a little. Sometimes I adopt a quizzical look if I really want to scare the person.”

I placed the honey on the edge of the table where Primo’s smaller works were displayed. There was a note on it.

“Some guy dropped that off,” Nikki said quietly, not wanting to get between me and Rolanda.

“Guy or a guy?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Who’s Guy? Tall fellow, tan, outdoorsy. He didn’t say his name. Just asked if you were coming back.” No one could mistake Guy Anzalone for outdoorsy. Rolanda hovered as if waiting for something.

“And what’s the purpose of this visit? Tossing cells? A random strip search for badges?” I asked.

“Will you quit it? I came to talk to you about that thing. Those boys we know?”

“You’re being surprisingly discreet for someone who blabbed all about it this morning.”

“Is that why you look like you’re sniffing baby poop? They found me. The janitor, Anthony, called the police late last night as soon as the papers hit the street. The cops were waiting for us at the church before Otis’s service even started. His poor mother had to be sedated. Really ruined the moment, having the police at her son’s funeral. I left early and came straight here to see you. While I was waiting, Miss Nikki told me something you ought to hear.”

“Miss Nikki. I like that.”

“Spend a few hours in the old neighborhood and you fall back into the old ways. Tell Miss Paula what you told me.”