New Amsterdam: Tess (2 page)

“During my first year as a rookie, I logged more hours in a patrol car than any cop in my unit. I also gained fifteen pounds.”

Chapter One

Gotham Online

NYC Detective Swarms to the Rescue

By: Darby Wallace

Any hopes of toasting the holiday weekend were interrupted last Friday evening when a swarm of bees invaded the popular dining establishment, Dunbar’s Oyster House. As the sun was setting over the New Jersey horizon, and happy hours were becoming early dinners, a swarm of 35,000 bees ransacked the restaurant in search for a new home. A NoHo resident dining in the Seaport was stung several times, but he is expected to make a full recovery.

311 or 911 – who ya gonna call? Like a scene from the iconic
Ghostbusters
, Detective Raymond Paggetti, the New York City Police Department’s unofficial beekeeper, rolled onto Beekman Street in a yellow truck with black stripes. After police officers secured the infested area, Det. Paggetti began his efforts in safely capturing the honeybees. With a large metal box and an insect vacuum, Det. Paggetti meticulously rescued the homeless bees within the first hour of his arrival.

As the newest superhero to grace the streets of Manhattan, Raymond Paggetti claims he’s just a regular guy from Long Island. His interest in bees began as a teenager when he found an active hive inside his family’s Suffolk County barn. The fascination grew, providing him with the title of Youngest Beekeeper in the Long Island Beekeeper’s Association.

While serving two tours in Afghanistan, Paggetti worked closely with an American development program providing beekeeping training courses to Afghani farmers as an alternative to the opium trade. Paggetti joined the police force in 2004, and has been responding to bee emergencies since 2006, the year he was promoted to Detective on the unofficial “bee bee-t.”

Since mid-March, Paggetti has responded to thirty swarm invasions, the largest yielding close to 75,000 homeless bees. “It’s not an easy job, but one I find very rewarding,” he said, adding that we need bees for more than honey. Our ecosystem relies on bees to pollinate close to one-third of the world’s food supply. Paggetti holds the recent warm weather and the decrease in formidable hive conditions responsible for the current bee situation in New York City.

On the northern edge of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Levi Jones, a partner at Brooklyn Soil Rooftop Farm, was prepared to accommodate the Seaport bees. By setting up bait hives of queen bee pheromones mixed with lemon grass oil, Mr. Jones was able to lure the queen and the swarm to specific locations. The Seaport swarm has settled in nicely in Brooklyn, and currently occupies some prime real estate with one of the best views of Manhattan.

Det. Paggetti offers some sage advice when confronted with a swarm, “Bee respectful.”

“Damn, I missed all the good stuff.” Thessaly Sinclair scrolls to the bottom of the online article and clicks on the related links.

Her older brother, Kip, slides a plate of warm biscuits across the rustic pine table and laughs. “How do you even get Wi-Fi in here?” Kip motions to their surroundings – a barn the size of an airplane hangar.

Closing her laptop, Thessaly replies, “Dad had it installed last week. Don’t you keep track of all the orders and contracts?”

Kip slathers strawberry jam on a biscuit and exhales loudly. “I sign off on a dozen orders a day, Tess. I don’t read them. I just make copies and then shove them in a shoebox back at the house.”

“That’s your business method?” Thessaly laughs. “Later I’ll show you how to use my favorite accounting software. And then you can access it at any time – even on your phone.”

“I bet you impress all the fellas,” Kip drones.

Taking a sip from a glass of iced tea to hide her laughter, Thessaly rolls her eyes. “Accept it, brother, no more lazy days on the golf course shootin’ the shit with old dudes – you’re a twenty-first century farmer now.”

“Tess, chicks don’t dig a farmer.” Kip shoves the remaining biscuit in his mouth and sighs. “And Asheville isn’t really hopping with modern women.”

The Sinclair farm is situated on lush soil and tucked inside a valley in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Only minutes from Asheville, North Carolina, the farm services local markets, popular eateries, and most notably, the Biltmore Estate. What started as a fun hobby for Rosalyn Sinclair and her three children quickly evolved into an empire – Sinclair Honey, Sinclair Jam, and most recently, Sinclair Events.

Two miles from the sprawling farmhouse stands a favorite spot of not only the grown Sinclair children, but the residents of Asheville. Five years ago, the royal blue barn facade was restored to the original pre-WWI structure, and then a large addition was constructed to accommodate a cozy three-hundred guests for gatherings. Located in a field of sunflowers, and reachable only by a stone path, brides and grooms flock to secure this idyllic spot for weddings. The Sinclair Barn is booked solid every weekend during the spring and summer, and every third Sunday, the family hosts a farm-to-table dinner featuring on-site preparation. Recently, the cast of
The Hunger Games
feasted on North Carolina barbecue, fried okra, and strawberry rhubarb pie. And as a result, Sinclair Events finally made it on the first page of the Asheville tourism magazine.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Thessaly cracks open a biscuit, places a pat of butter on each half, and then closes it. “And where’s Shelby? I want to spend some time with him before I leave tomorrow.” She delicately peels apart the biscuit and adds a spoonful of creamed honey before taking a bite.

Standing from the table, Kip answers, “I dunno. I think he stopped by the hospital to have lunch with Dad.” Kip clears his dishes from the table and heads to the large, industrial kitchen.

The patriarch of the Sinclair family is a renowned cardiologist. Born and raised in Boston, Dr. Bruce Sinclair moved to Atlanta in the late seventies to complete his surgical residency. During his first year of private practice in an affluent suburb, he treated a beautiful Southern debutante with a heart murmur. It’s poetic that Bruce and Rosalyn Sinclair fell in love over a few skipped heart beats.

Returning from the kitchen with a clipboard, Kip announces, “Fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, green beans, and banana pudding.”

Frowning, Thessaly rants, “Good ‘ol fried chicken. Drinks?”

“Um, local brewery wants a chance. Peach tea, of course. Maybe some Jim Beam Honey?” Kip teases, knowing Thessaly is still churning from the whiskey shots from the Fourth of July.

Ashen, she replies, “Absolutely not.” Returning a text, she adds, “Hey, do you need me this afternoon? I’m meeting Mary Alice and her fiancé at the Grove Park Inn for a late lunch.”

“Nah, I have it covered. The staff will be here soon – and you scare people, bossy pants.”

“What?” Thessaly squeaks.

“It’s true. You’re on a perpetual sugar-high – darting around and shouting demands like a crazed toddler,” Kip replies.

Smiling, Thessaly slides the laptop into her bag while staring out the large window. The lavender catches her attention so she suggests, “Tell Beatrice to use the yellow gingham tablecloths. I’ll have Oscar cut the lavender and wildflowers for the vases.”

Kip nods while checking off items from the clipboard. “Yes ma’am – gingham, lavender, vases, and another round of Jim Beam. Hey, give Mary Alice my love.”

Patting Kip’s arm and offering a consoling smile, Thessaly patronizes, “Aw, sweetie. You’re like twenty years too young for her. Stop pining for my friend and find someone that appreciates a frat boy.”

Kip’s cheeks redden. “I’m twenty-seven!” All three kids inherited the Sinclair English skin – freckled, pale, and easily flushed. “And a half.”

“Exactly. I’ll see you later?” Thessaly calls over her shoulder with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah. Stop by the warehouse – Junebug came in just to see you.”

Thessaly pauses by the metal barn door and says, “Kip, in case I haven’t told you, I think you’re doing a fantastic job. Mama can relax knowing you’re out here.”

“Had to be done, Tess.” Kip places his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants and shrugs his shoulders. “Summer is our busiest season – and Mama needs to take it easy for a few months. I’ll bribe Shelby to help out, too.”

“And just think of all the weddings with young, drunk, desperate bridesmaids at your disposal!”

Shaking his head and walking back to the kitchen, Kip mumbles under his breath, “Pest.”

Laughing, Thessaly slides open the heavy door to be met by the blazing afternoon sun. Adjusting her focus, she takes a moment to marvel at the kaleidoscope of sunshine shimmering along the trees of the adjacent peach orchard. She and her brothers spent lazy afternoons running through that orchard, soaking up the sun, acting out scenes from Sci-fi movies, and daring each other to eat the fallen, bruised peaches. There was that one time, in the summer of ‘99, when Shelby had to be rushed to the emergency room for consuming a dozen fermented peaches. But a stomach pump didn’t stop the Sinclair kids from returning to the orchard the very next day to beat the record.

As Thessaly grew older, the peach orchard served as a hidden make-out spot with her high school boyfriends. It was fairly accessible by car, yet hidden from the main house and her over-protective father. One Thanksgiving, home from Duke University with her college boyfriend, Thessaly experienced the most erotic vertical sex pinned against a peach tree. And then a few days later, under the same peach tree, she and her boyfriend promised to move to New York after graduation.

Swinging her bag over her shoulder and shielding her eyes from the sun, Thessaly hops into one of the farm’s pickup trucks near the service entrance to the back of the barn. She cranks up the air-conditioning, adjusts her designer sunglasses, and then drives the three miles on a gravel road to the warehouse.

The brick cottage has always been one of Thessaly’s favorite places on the farm. Packaging honey and jam is more of a scientific process rather than a culinary method, and Thessaly remains fascinated with the product-end of business. So much so, that she opened her own artisanal store in New York City selling handcrafted condiments.

Thessaly parks the truck in the small, paved lot and presses the horn. After fastening her shoulder-length blond curls in a low ponytail, she grabs her bag and exits the truck. The glossy yellow door to the warehouse swings open as a short, round woman with bright-red hair comes stumbling out.

“Tess! Get over here,” the woman urges, arms wide open and ready for a hug.

Standing almost a foot taller, Thessaly embraces the woman and closes her eyes. “Junebug, I’ve missed you! How was your Fourth?”

June giggles as she takes a step back to study Thessaly’s appearance. “Stayed up at the cabin and fished – ended up grilling hot dogs for dinner.” June winks. “Oh my, you’re so thin. And your clothes! Tess Sinclair, you’re a New Yorker.”

Blushing, Thessaly replies, “Junebug, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“C’mon, Tess. Let me show you the first batch of wildflower honey – such a pretty shade of pale yellow.”

June takes Thessaly’s hand and leads her into the warehouse. Actually, warehouse is an industrial term – the cottage is more like a modern kitchen with shelves of bottled honey and jam, baskets of fresh fruit and herbs, and walls lined with family photos and honeybee watercolor canvases. The familial feeling inside the warehouse reaffirms the importance of capturing nostalgia within the business. In fact, the Sinclair success comes from excellent products packaged and branded to mimic southern traditions.

“God, it smells delicious!” Thessaly runs her hand along the stainless steel counter of the work station, stopping at a large copper pot lined with Teflon.

“That’s your daddy’s special request,” June whispers between pursed lips.

Thessaly nods and says, “Ah, nectarine honey with Stevia.”

“Yep. Smells divine, tastes like shit. But your daddy is determined to put the agave folks out of business with this sticky goop.” June scoops a ladleful of the cooling orange liquid and grimaces.

“It is pretty nasty,” Thessaly teases, leaning against the counter. “So, Junebug, how’s the summer supply? I need a fairly large shipment this month.”

Replacing the large spoon in the pot, June replies, “We’re busy as bees, Tess!” That joke never retires on a farm. “The warehouse is expecting so much honey this summer that your mama was looking into some new buyers – natural skincare products, I think.” June wipes her hands on her blue apron and moves to a small desk. “Fill out the form so I can set your order aside.” June taps the page of her puppy wall calendar and adds, “Percy is scheduled for the fourteenth of July. Is that a good delivery day for you?”

“Yes, it should be.” Thessaly instinctively stirs the congealed liquid in the cooling pot. “I have three more restaurants on the rotation now, and several event planners have scheduled meetings.”

“That’s wonderful, Tess! And how’s your cute little shop – The Hive?”

Thessaly moves to the desk and takes out her phone. She grabs one of the yellow and black striped pens from a utensil crock, pausing to study the framed family photo displayed on the desk, and then opens the inventory app on her phone.

“It’s been more fun than I could’ve ever imagined! I love going to work, and I love knowing that a piece of my family is always with me.” Thessaly checks off ten gallons of raw honey to be used in the store, ten crates of the eight-ounce honey jars to be labeled and sold, and three dozen, thirty-two-ounce jars for vendor services. “I also have a side project I’m launching and I need a different packaging. Can you get the four-ounce jars that are cubes?”