Table of Contents
Stung to death...
When we arrived at the Chapman property, an ambulance, three fire trucks, and several police vehicles were parked off to the side of the house. Paramedics and firefighters huddled together, studying the beeyard out in the back field. Both the Waukesha Sheriffs Department and the Moraine Police Department were represented. I saw Johnny Jay, the Moraine police chief, off by himself, talking on his phone.
Id never seen a dead person outside of a coffin, and seeing Manny lying there almost brought me to my knees. If Id still had a champagne buzz after riding over in Hunter Wallaces truck, I instantly sobered up when I walked into the apiary and saw Manny Chapmans body.
I wanted to be alone someplace, crying my eyes out. I couldnt stop thinking that if I had been here, none of this would have happened. Logically, however, I knew that I couldnt fall apart. I was the only living and breathing person available at the moment who knew anything about bees. I had to help.
Acknowledgments
My deepest gratitude to:
Jacky Sach, who got me this wonderful gig
Andy Hemken, beekeeper extraordinaire (noteany mistakes are my own)
Adam Baker, for his awesomely vivid map of the town of Moraine
Doug Kennedy, K-9 police dog trainer, who shared canine stories and training methods
Lisa Lickel, my first reader
Heidi Cox, Mary Goll, and Jessica Stapp, who won places in the newsletter for their delicious recipes
Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, for taking a rough sketch and bringing it to life
One
If I hadnt been drinking champagne at noon on Friday, I would have been over at the honey house with Manny Chapman, my beekeeping mentor and owner of Queen Bee Honey, and possibly, just possibly, I might have saved him from what must have been a very painful death. Instead, oblivious to his pending demise and feeling slightly tipsy, I popped open bottle number three and filled more flutes.
Im the only grocer in the unincorporated town of Moraine, Wisconsin, which has a population base climbing steadily toward eight hundred residents. I work hard to fill the needs of the community. Today, business was brisker than usual at my shop, The Wild Clover, mainly because of the free champagne and the one-day sale on everything in the store, including special bullet items such as:
Wisconsin prize-winning cheeses
Cranberries from the northern part of the state, dried and fresh
Whole grains, including Wisconsin wild rice, which is really aquatic grass seeds
Wines from Door County wineries
Thirty-five varieties of organic vegetables
Apples from the Country Delight Farm just up the road
And of course honey products: comb honey, bottled honey, bulk honey, honey candy, beeswax, and bee pollen
Theres nothing like the lure of freebies and discounts to bring out the best in people. Everyone in my little hometown made a point of stopping by my store to tip a glass and wish me well, whether they meant it or not.
Well, maybe not everyone stopped by. My ex-husband, Clay Lane, didnt show up, even though he lived only two blocks away and must have seen the banner tacked to the awning, announcing my freedom party.
You should call him up, Story, Carrie Ann Retzlaff, my cousin and very part-time employee, said in her husky chain-smokers voice. My cousin had close-cropped yellow-as-straw hair and a toothpick-thin body, since she ingested more nicotine and alcohol than nutrients. Invite the ex to join us, she suggested.
I scowled playfully to let her know that was a bad idea. Celebrating a divorce is a lot like celebrating a successful heart transplant. They both hurt like hell, and your quality of life would be much better if the issues leading up to the situation had never happened in the first place. But at least I can say Im still in the game, still alive and kicking. Its all about attitude.
Cheers to all of you from me, Story Fischer, I called out, placing special emphasis on my last name and noting by the clock above the register that Id been a free woman for almost twenty-four breezy, wind-at-my-back hours. Fischer. My maiden name. The one Id reclaimed yesterday afternoon. It sounded so right! Why had I ever given it up?
Story was my nickname, bestowed by childhood friends because I used to be quite the storytellerin a friendly, silly sort of way, of course. I liked Story much better than my given name, Melissa, which my family shortened to Missy before I could even lift my bald baby head. As I grew up, Missy didnt exactly shout out strength and intelligence. Besides, the other kids came up with a bunch of variations for Missy that were truly mean and hurtful. Plus, Story has a bit of intrigue to it.
Story Fischer, thats me.
At the moment, I really missed my most loyal part-timers, twins Brent and Trent Craig, local college students in their sophomore years, working reduced hours at the store around gaps in their class schedules. That left me pretty much alone most days until they eventually reappeared like glorious gifts from heaven.
For this special event, Id been forced to ask Carrie Ann, smoke-scented perfume and all, to work for me while I hosted the party. Dont think anything of it, she said when I thanked her for the third time. She reached under the counter, then tipped back and drained an entire flute of champagne with one chug. This is like hanging at Stus Bar and Grill, only better because I get paid.
I plucked the empty glass out of her hand, ignored her startled expression, and said, No drinking on the job, please.
Why not? Youre drinking, she pointed out.
Yes, but thats why I asked you to handle the cash register.
Crapola. My cousin shook her head at the injustice of it all.
I had a hunch that if I didnt watch the till, Carrie Ann would be giving away the store. How many glasses of champagne had she already had?
The Wild Clover was crammed from aisle to aisle as far as my quickly glazing-over eyes could see. The stores special sales and free-flowing champagne werent just about my divorce. September was National Honey Month and this was our kick-off event. I lifted my head high and gazed at one of the stained-glass windows above me. The panes twinkled with sunlight, beaming rainbow-colored rays that gave the interior a certain magical light.
Two years ago, in more promising times, Clay and I had bought the Lutheran church for a song when the congregation outgrew the building and put it up for sale. The opportunity came about a year after wed gotten married. What better way to begin our new lives together than to leave the city life in Milwaukee, move to my hometown of Moraine, buy the house I grew up in from my mother, and convert an early-twentieth-century church into a grocery store?
Our marriage had been doomed from the very beginning, but The Wild Clover was a success. Once we owned the building, I had removed the pews and the raised altar and converted the space into shelves, coolers, and freezers, but leaving all those fabulous stained-glass windows, three on each side, two in the back, and one above the massive double doors in front. From that beginning the store was born.
