Forbidden Entry (26 page)

As I bumped and rocked along the deserted mud track leading into Raven Creek, I passed by an incredibly junk-littered yard where two small boys stood throwing rocks into a pool of water in front of a rundown, rambling stone house with all of the windows shuttered. Could this be the same house where Burton Carr's mother had stayed before she died? There were two rusty pickups and several older model cars parked in the long, gated driveway with the inevitable
NO TRESSPASSING
sign prominently posted. The two boys were giggling and obviously having a great time when all at once, the front door flew open. A gaunt-looking young blonde woman holding a baby on her hip rushed out shouting tersely for the kids to come. I was taken aback when she glared at me, eyes bright with fearful suspicion before swiftly herding the children inside and slamming the door behind her.

I frowned and drove on. What the hell was that all about? What was she afraid of? Did she perceive me as some kind of threat? I remembered Marshall's assertion that authorities suspected that many of the residents were cooking meth or guarding other personal secrets. Was there something going on behind those covered windows that I dare not see? Raven Creek definitely had its share of strange people. And speaking of strange, directly ahead of me, I recognized Daisy Dorcett plodding through the muck in knee-high boots and wearing a yellow rain slicker. She held out her camera, snapped a photo of something, then stooped low to retrieve an item from the tall grass alongside the road, which she then stuffed into the drawstring bag tied around her waist. All the while, she wore a serene smile as if she were out strolling on a beautiful, sunny day. Pulling even with her, I powered the window down and waved a friendly greeting. “Hey, Daisy! Where are you headed this cold, rainy afternoon?”

She stared at me with an ultra-blank expression for a few seconds before her blue eyes brightened with pleasure. “Oh! You came back! You came back to visit my sugar gliders, didn't you?”

I checked the clock on the dashboard. I had about three hours of daylight left. “I'd love to see them if it doesn't take too long.”

“Okay! Okay!” She wheeled around as if she were about to bolt in the opposite direction, then hesitated, her pale brows knitting together in a puzzled frown. “But, first I have to get honey. Darcy told me to get more honey today. I'm going to see the bee man. Sometimes he lets me help him with the hives. I like the smoker and he lets me wear the…the…long funny face thing.”

“The veil,” I interjected with a smile.

“Yes! The veil! Yes! One day he showed me the queen bee!” She paused, her expression growing concerned as she groped in one pocket. “Darcy gave me money.” Finding nothing, she searched the other pocket and pulled out some bills, crowing, “There it is! Money for honey. Money for honey!”

She exuded an air of such delightful, childlike innocence I could not help grinning. “Would you like me to give you a ride to his house?”

“But, I'm all muddy,” she said, observing her boots. “Your car will get very, very dirty.”

“It's already dirty.” I gestured for her to come. “Get in.”

She hurried around to the passenger side and heaved her bulk up onto the seat, announcing happily, “I walk a lot. I walk all around everywhere. I hear everything. I see everything.”

“Well, that's great. It's a beautiful place to live.”

“Turn around and go up that road,” she exclaimed, pointing over my shoulder. “The bee man lives beside the funny-looking house. He works and works every day, but he never gets done. Never. Never gets done.”

“I wonder why?” I mused aloud, executing the turn.

She fiddled with the drawstring bag on her lap. “I think he's too sad. He's a very sad man.”

Interesting. What she lacked in intellect, she made up for in keen observation. In fact, she seemed far more perceptive than Darcy gave her credit for. “Why is he so sad?”

“I don't know. He doesn't talk much. He has a silly name.”

The idea of visiting the beekeeper sounded intriguing, but also resurrected the memory of the ghastly file photos of Luke Campbell's bloated body in the modular toilet. Why not take advantage of the opportunity to pick the brain of an expert on honey bee behavior? I smiled at her. “You're right. Stilts is a silly name.”

She gave me one of those vacant looks as if she didn't quite understand me. “He has a different name.”

“Yes, it's very different.”

And then in a lightning-quick change of subject, she thrust her camera in my face. “Want to see my pictures?”

“Sure.” I stopped alongside the road and she held the camera up so I could view the screen as she scrolled swiftly from one to another. Many of them were nothing noteworthy, just endless landscape shots, the surrounding homes, her animals and then the ones she'd taken of me just yesterday. “Very nice,” I murmured and then a thought struck me so I dug out my phone. “Want to see one of my pictures?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink. “Please! Please!”

I swiped the screen until I found the photo of Jenessa and Nathan. “Do you remember meeting these two people?”

She stared hard at the photo then looked up at me. “The pretty girl! She took Blacky home with her!” She touched the photo with her forefinger. “Poor kitty only had three legs. Three little legs.”

“Darcy told me that you took this photo, right?”

A wide-toothed grin accompanied her eager nod. “With
her
phone. Then she took a picture of me.” But then her smile faded swiftly. “She promised to come back. I marked it down. She never came back. No, never came back.” She blinked at me several times, appearing slightly befuddled and I didn't have the heart to tell her I knew why. While she continued tabbing through my photos, I turned onto an even narrower, rougher dirt road and soon arrived at the unfinished house. The six rain-darkened chimneys jutting skyward into the gray storm clouds presented a rather forbidding sight. To me, the stone pillars looked like grave monuments. Piles of river rock surrounded the base of the empty shell along with mounds of wooden planks, sodden bags of cement and an array of tools. Why had it remained incomplete after so many years? Lack of funds? Lack of motivation? What a weird-looking place. I pulled out my phone and took a few photos.

“She came for honey,” Daisy murmured with a faraway expression glazing her eyes.

I looked at her sharply. “Who did?”

“The girl in the picture.”

I drew back in surprise. “Really? How do you know that?”

“I showed her where he lives. She talked to Stilts and then ran away, laughing.” She blinked fast. “No wait. Maybe she was crying,” she whispered, appearing troubled and uncertain. “Did I make her cry? I didn't mean to. Didn't mean to.”

My mind whirled in confusion. Her statement made no sense at all. “Well, I'm sure it wasn't anything you did,” I soothed her, patting her shoulder.

Without responding, she turned away, pushed the door open and headed towards the gate. Grateful that the wind had died down, I got out and followed her, but flinched when a muscular-looking boxer rushed up to us, barking ferociously.

“Hi, Oscar! Hi there, boy!” Daisy called out, calmly approaching the yapping dog without fear. He settled down immediately and licked her hand before warily approaching me.

“Hi, fellah,” I said, tentatively extending my palm. He sniffed it and then apparently lost interest. Stubby tail wagging, he wandered away into the brush as we continued across the overgrown, unkempt yard. Daisy rapped on the metal door of a mobile home that displayed more rust than paint while I took note of the rows of white wooden beehives lined up at the far corner of the property. It was so quiet I could hear the steady musical drone of their wings.

“Mr. Stilts!” When she got no response, she knocked several more times, rattling a faded plaque beside the door that read:
IF YOU DON'T HAVE BUSINESS WITH ME, MIND YOUR OWN
. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the curtain move slightly in the adjacent window before hearing a gruff, masculine voice inquire, “What do you want? Who's that with you, Daisy?”

“She's my friend. My new friend. I need honey.” Daisy pulled out the bills again. “Three jars.” She held up three fingers. “Exactly three.”

The curtain dropped back into place and after another minute or so the door slowly opened to reveal a tall, gangly man that Ginger would have dubbed ‘a long, tall drink of water.' A tangled mass of shoulder-length graying-blonde hair surrounded his gaunt, unsmiling face. His dark green eyes, flinty and intimidating, probed mine with a look of suspicion. “And you?”

“Um…sure, I'll take a jar, Mr. ah…”

I waited for him to fill in the blank but all he said was, “Wait here.” He closed the door again. Daisy was right. He didn't talk much. He also struck me as introverted and very unsociable. When he returned, we paid for the honey and I decided what the hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained. A question unasked is a question unanswered. I handed him my card.

“Kendall O'Dell. I'm in the area following up on two recent fatalities and also wanted to find out if you could shed any light on the death of a man by the name of Luke Campbell. He was stung by a swarm of bees inside a modular toilet down at the gravel company. Are you familiar with that story?” I issued him a hopeful smile.

He studied the card and then looked up at me. Apparently hugely unimpressed by my credentials, his dark brows inverted into a deep V over his oddly misshapen nose. In fact it was so crooked, it seemed misplaced on his face like a broken Mr. Potato Head doll. “You talking about that arrogant, officious asshole who called himself a documentary filmmaker?”

“Yes.”

His lip curled in disgust. “He kept pestering me with foolish questions until I had to threaten to shoot him if he came on my property again. And yes, the sheriff's people already questioned me about him. Several times.”

I opened my mouth to ask the next question, but he cut me off with, “Yes, bees sometimes leave the hive. No, they weren't my bees. They could have come from someone else's hive or been wild. I don't know how they got inside that glorified outhouse unless someone left the door open. Yes, sometimes people do stupid things to provoke an attack. It's possible he was being pursued and a few of them got inside. Anything else?”

His callous reaction to what must have been an agonizing death disturbed me greatly. Man oh man. Talk about cold-hearted. Watching his expression closely, I thrust Jenessa's photo in his face. “Do you recognize this girl?”

He stared at the photo, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. When he looked up at me, the depth of hatred reflected in his hollow gaze sent a painful shock zinging through my gut. “What about her?”

“Daisy said she came here to buy honey from you. Is that right?”

“Maybe.”

What reason would he have to be evasive? “Well, was she here or not?”

“Twice. Did she send you here to grovel on her behalf?” Eyes deadly cold, he shook his head and stabbed his finger against his chest. “There's no forgiveness in here, never will be, so you might as well be on your way.”

My head reeled. Grovel? Forgiveness? For what? What was he talking about? “So, you're saying that she came here a second time after she bought the honey from you. Why?”

“You're kinda pushy, ain't ya?”

I gave him a thin smile. “I can be. Daisy told me she was crying after her last visit. Why was that?”

His gaze turned arctic. “I don't want to talk about it and it's none of your goddamn business anyway.” He turned to Daisy and modulated his tone. “You don't need to be carrying tales like your sister does. Now, why don't you run along?” But to me he commanded, “
You
, get the hell off my property.”

Goggle-eyed with confusion, Daisy clutched the honey jars to her breast while her head swiveled back and forth between us.

His abrasive, insensitive, downright weird behavior both confounded and intrigued me. I didn't budge. “Are you aware that she and her boyfriend were found dead less than two miles from here last week?”

His sneer switched to that of a ‘deer in the headlights' expression and he appeared to stop breathing. “How did she die?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

He stood unmoving, staring at me in utter disbelief before his eyes ignited with a gleam of what I can only describe as triumphant vindication. A tiny smile blossomed at the corners of his mouth and he began to tremble all over.

Daisy and I exchanged a startled look. Was he having a seizure or something? I was poised to ask him if he was all right when suddenly he jammed his fist skyward and burst forth with a shout of guttural laughter that seemed to emanate from the depths of his bowels. “Yeeeeeeesss!” he bellowed. “At long last!”