The Beekeeper's Extremely Bad Morning

How it begins

Ruth Adler's bad morning began with a missing jar of heather honey and became significantly worse behind the council display.

Her old bee suit hung at home behind gardening coats, retired from commerce rather than forgotten by its owner.

The councilor lay beside a stack of folding tables. The jar stood upright near his shoe, its lid neatly replaced.

For one absurd second, Ruth was grateful it hadn't broken.

Then she called for help.

By the time the market square had been cleared, half the festival had agreed there'd been a swarm at noon. A frightening swarm. An enormous swarm. A swarm that had chased the councilor into the display tent.

Ruth stood beside Jonas Cole and listened to the story improve with each retelling.

"There wasn't a swarm," she said.

Jonas glanced at the hives beyond the demonstration fence. "You sound certain."

"I'm certain those bees weren't flying here at noon."

Rain had kept them close all morning. The festival's much-advertised sunshine had arrived late and without apology. Ruth had spent eleven years working hives before moving into landscape design; she still noticed the weather before she noticed most people.

A woman in a yellow coat insisted she'd heard the buzzing herself.

"Where were you standing?" Ruth asked.

"Beside the lavender."

Jonas looked toward the stall. Three large pots of lavender stood in a row beneath the banner.

"Those weren't there at noon," he said.

The woman folded her arms.

Across the square, a police officer was photographing the honey jar. Ruth watched him turn it carefully, revealing a label she'd never put on any of her products.

It bore her name. The handwriting was almost right.

She thought of the jar missing from her stock, the late sunshine, and the way everyone had found the swarm so easy to believe.

"Jonas," she said quietly, "tell me exactly when you moved those plants."