Anyone Missing at the Apiary?
The good thing about being a one-man police force, Bob Ashby thought, was also the one bad thing. You’re it. You’re the first, and you’re the last. You play first string all the time. But there are no subs on the bench anyway, so it really doesn’t matter. When you get an exciting call, there’s no one to interfere with you, or give you orders – or steal the glory, if any. But then there’s no one to help you either. No one to share your ideas. And most important, no one to back you up.
That’s what Bob Ashby did not like about what he was doing right now. He flat did not want to go in to Hoffman Apiaries by himself. It was not that he was so new on the job. Even though he’d been Norberg’s entire police force for only a few months now, he was an experienced cop. Police work didn’t frighten him.
And although he had been a city cop, he had country smarts. Spending every single summer on his grandparents’ farm nearby had taught him a few things. He even knew something about bees. Years ago, in high school, he’d completed a project on bees that earned him the highest mark he’d ever got in science. The bees were not a problem.
The problem was Ed Hoffman. He was downright scary. Not big scary or mean scary, but spooky scary. Bob had only seen him once, but that had been enough. You didn’t forget his face, not with those blue eyes, so pale they were almost white. And that funny smell about him. Sweet, like honey. But not really sweet either – Hoffman didn’t wash very much. Even his place gave you the willies. It was just off the edge of town, which is natural enough for an apiary, but in a swamp. How many normal people live in a swamp?
Then there was the woman, the one the locals called just that: The Woman. She was short, somewhat dumpy, and never looked at or spoke to anyone, one of those people who seem to go through life without ever communicating.
Bob steered his pickup off the road and onto the rutty laneway that ran through the swamp toward Hoffman’s house. For a moment he wished he had his uniform on. Somehow it gave him more confidence. But until he’d heard the gunshot a few minutes ago he really hadn’t thought of himself as being on duty. That was another thing about being a one-man police force. You named your own hours, but then the hours never stopped. You were on all the time.
He eased the truck past the last clump of spruce and cedar until his headlights picked out Hoffman’s dilapidated and shack where it clung to the edge of a small clearing. There was no movement, no sound from the house.
Uneasily, Bob moved the truck as close as he could to what appeared to be the door to the old place. He got out and knocked. Nothing. He knocked again, harder this time, and got a sliver from the old, unpainted boards. He also got results.
“Go ‘way!†The voice was outside. It had come from the other side of the house. And it sounded drunk.
“It’s Ashby! Police!â€
“G’wan! I don’t want any police. Whaddaya want here anyway?†The voice was definitely drunk.
Bob followed the voice around the corner until he came upon Hoffman, seated on the ground against the shack with his feet on an overturned washtub. The smell was unmistakable but somehow there was less sweetness this time.
“That shot,†Bob said. “I heard a shot and it came from here. No question. Just a few minutes ago.â€
Hoffman glared with his menacing eyes. “Oh yeah. Yuh must’ve heard it when it went off.†He waved toward the corner of the shack. There was no gun there. “I was cleaning it. No law ‘gainst that, is there? It went off. No law ‘gainst that neither. It was on account of a bee. I think I got one a’ the hives too close ta th’ house.†He belched wetly. “Made me jump. Flew right inta my face. Confused, I guess. Like cops!†Hoffman snorted at his own joke.
Bob felt embarrassed. Typical overreacting city cop. People in the country have guns. They clean them. If Hoffman is stupid enough to clean it with a shell in the chamber, well that’s his business.
“Where’s The Wo…your wife? The lady?†Bob had to say something.
Hoffman belched again.
“She don’t live here. Not my wife anyways. Comes and goes as she pleases.â€
This is ridiculous, Bob thought. What am I doing here?
“Well for heaven’s sake, be more careful with your gun next time,†he said.
Hoffman only belched again.
Feeling very awkward, Bob retreated to his pickup, got in and turned it around a little too fast for the space available, and moved down the laneway, trying to put some distance between himself and the smelly old beekeeper. It was only when he got to the road that he stopped cold, thought again, then reversed. Smelly old man or not, Hoffman had some more explaining to do.
What had Hoffman said that made Bob Ashby change his mind?
