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
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
“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.”
Forty-two
The last time most of us had seen Nikki had been early Friday evening, before the reception started. She’d been fretting about the stain on her dress and had left for the members’ lounge to make sure the flower pin I’d lent her covered it sufficiently and would not impede her ability to sell garden ephemera.
“As I was leaving,” she said, “I saw my husband, Russ, coming in at another gate. I knew he’d look after things if I took a little long, so I didn’t worry about hurrying back.” Maybe that was the reason she had obsessed about the stain—she wanted to look good for the husband she complained about but still wanted to seduce.
“Go on.”
“It took me a while to wade through the crowd waiting to come in. When I reached the members’ lounge, it was empty. You haven’t been in the lounge have you?”
She described one large room with upholstered chairs and small tables arranged in conversational groupings. At either end were the restrooms. There were no doors, just large alcoves with console tables and floral arrangements, leading inside to the sinks and stalls.
“It’s not as if you can see in.” Rolanda said, clarifying for me. “It’s almost like an old-fashioned movie theater.”
“But you can hear,” I said, prompting her.
Nikki nodded her head. “Yes, if the person speaks loudly enough.”
She heard a man and a woman. The woman’s voice stayed even, but the man’s grew louder and more agitated. At one point, the female voice developed an edge. She said everything was under control and the man was overreacting.
“I couldn’t hear how the woman answered,” Nikki said, “but the man sounded like he was losing it. They either got much louder or had moved closer to the entrance of the restroom, so I slipped into one of the stalls. The comments got nastier and I heard scuffling and the sound of someone being pushed. During our worst arguments, Russ would never have followed me into a public restroom to yell at me, much less push me.” What a turnaround; Nikki’s husband was starting to look better.
“The woman said, ‘You look good in a tux. They cover a multitude of sins. They can deflect attention from a weak chin, a few extra pounds, and the absence of … well, you know.’ That’s when I got nervous. I thought, what if
