Telling the Bees (23 page)

Claire had been the only one to fight back. It was why she’d gone away and, tragically, why she’d also come back. Claire had returned from Detroit to protect Hilda. This ultimately selfless act had both drawn her to and cost her everything and everyone she had ever tried to love.

I had been sorely wrong about the man with the bolo tie. He had been the escape, not the trap. He had died too soon. A soldier on leave, he had been a hero in the war. And Claire had loved him dearly, his strength, his confidence, his laugh. He had died in an automobile accident not more than a mile from the Harmony Ballroom. The tragedy—the deep sorrow—of her life had been that it was her father who had lived on for another twenty years and, in yet another drunken moment, had taken advantage of his daughter, against her will, when she was weakened with grief. As Harry Junior tried to tell me, when a hive goes bad, look within.

I am certain I must have nodded off a time or two as I read because late-afternoon shadows had already begun to cross the kitchen table when I finally closed the old diary on its last entry, written in Claire’s distinctive bold scrawl, just a week before she died.

Thursday, April 30, 1992. That silly old fool. Does he really think we don’t know what he’s doing? We need the money, but not that much. I told Mrs. Stevenson to buy the candles if she liked them, but not to do us any favors. I don’t think she’ll be back again. Good riddance, I say.

I sat for a while, I don’t know for how long, fingering the rough, brittle spine of the diary. I can only assume the diary had never been scrutinized as carefully by the police investigators when it was first found as it perhaps should have been. Or that even if they had read it carefully, the oblique significance of its many telling details had been missed or misinterpreted by all but the one person in the world who could have understood. But I had refused to read more than a page or two of this diary the first time I’d held it in my hands. I thought I had done enough. I had identified the handwriting on its pages.

The evening shadows had deepened further by the time I rose stiffly to take a clean plate from my cupboard, spoon a few tablespoons of honey onto it, and break apart the heels of a loaf of store-bought bread that had grown stale in a plastic bag sitting atop my old chrome toaster.

I nudged my back door open with my shoulder, which I suspected ached from more than the simple chill of the evening, and I trudged across my porch, down the stairs, and out to my number one hive, the plate of honey and bread in one hand, which shook ever so slightly, and Claire’s diary tucked under my other arm.

Most of the field bees had already returned to the hive as I plucked a sticky bit of bread and honey from the plate and set it on the hive’s landing board. I reached into the pocket of my old dungarees with my free hand and withdrew my key ring, which I began to jangle softly in front of the hive.

Little brownies, little brownies, your mistress is dead.

I set the plate on top of the hive. I slipped Claire’s diary from beneath my arm and set it next to the plate. I jangled the keys again and then set them on the hive.

Little brownies, little brownies, your mistress is dead.

I wiped the honey off my fingers on my trousers, having abandoned my habit of carrying a bandanna in my back pocket some time after Claire and Hilda were buried. I picked up the keys and shook them again. Then I set them down and picked up the diary.

Little brownies, little brownies, your mistress is dead.

I opened the diary, its leather spine cracking in yet another crooked line. I turned to the first page, cherishing the sweet fragrance of jasmine that wafted gently upward as I began to read softly aloud.

A few errant field bees stood at the entrance to my number one hive. Their wings flapped slowly as if they wished to take to the skies again, to search one last time for something sweet to cherish before nightfall.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Elizabeth George: Friend, mentor, inspiration. I only hope I can give back as much to others as you have given to me.

Deborah Schneider: Your passion has been a beacon.

Marysue Rucci: I spent a year of revisions railing against you and being in such awe of your editor’s eye at the same time. You told me over and over that I would only have one shot at my first novel and you wanted it to be the best it could be. Thank you for pushing me so hard. And thank you, Sara, for all you’ve done since.

Diana Lulek: Thank you for being such a calm, supportive voice when I needed it most.

Nancy Brown: You may have read just about everything I’ve ever written; thank you, girl.

Suki Fisher: Your novel is next.

Barbara Fryer: You’re a wild woman. You are my inspiration.

April, Tish, Elaine, Chris, Steve, and Reg: You were there just about from the start. Your eyes were key.

Gloria, Grant, Suzan, Sandy, and Jan: You’ve been in my corner so long, the edges are starting to round.

And finally, to my glorious family: John, Christen, and Sean. Thank you all for your patience and belief in me. Hope you are ready for more rosemary chicken.