Parsons’ face is unscratched. She wasn’t able to mark him when she grabbed, but she got a reward for her effort nonetheless. He slaps a hand to his left ear as though he expects to find the gizmo behind his ear instead of nesting in the palm of Drew’s hand.
“How much?” he asks grudgingly.
“Depends on whether you’re moving cheap Tauruses, AR-Fifteens, or pricey H and Ks. How many guns a crate? How many crates a month? I’m willing to bargain.”
It’s the beginning of a long and detailed conversation. While she listens, Drew imagines the ATF agents slipping into place, surrounding the tow lot, deactivating the fence. She hits the floor the second the loudspeaker barks. Parsons is still sitting in his chair when the first agent bursts through the door. Two of them put him down on the floor. He stops protesting his innocence as soon as Drew opens her jacket and untapes the wire.
Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms doesn’t bring Sergeant Lorello along for the fireworks. They scooped him up quietly at his house yesterday, around the same time a team picked up Joey. The girl’s in the wind. They say Lorello’s cooperating, but Drew figures she’s not going to get a slot at the BPD police academy on the sergeant’s say-so.
On the other hand, she’s made a few friends at ATF, and one of the agents thinks he might know a guy who knows a guy. That’s the way they do it in Boston.
Sweet and Low
by Peter Lovesey
Peter Lovesey has won innumerable awards for his fiction, including Gold and Silver Daggers from the British Crime Writers’ Association, the Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement, the 1991 EQMM Readers Award, and first place in the MWA’s 50th Anniversary Short Story Contest. Later this year, fellow members of the U.K.’s Detection Club will honor him with a collection of stories to mark his eightieth birthday; in 2019, he’ll be recognized by the Bouchercon Convention in Dallas for Lifetime Achievement.
The thief came at two-thirty A.M. on an October night, dressed in a white protective suit like an invader from another planet, not a scrap of flesh visible. Large hood with dark visor. Gauntlet gloves. Calf-length boots. Carrying what looked like a firearm, he strode across the turf towards the area behind the farmhouse, where Shirley Littledale’s twelve hives were sited.
A bee rustler.
The stealing of beehives is hazardous but rewarding. Each hive contains a colony of up to fifty thousand bees, and the vast majority collect nectar that is processed into honey. The value of honey has increased as the bee population has declined. Bee rustling has become a profitable crime.
The sensible time to steal beehives is by night, when bees and humans are supposed to be dormant. The object carried by the raider wasn’t in fact a firearm, but a defensive weapon known in the trade as a smoker. Fumes wafted into a hive will confuse the colony by masking the bees’ internal communication system. They are unable to rally and make a united response.
After the bees were subdued, the rustler moved the box-shaped hives by hand trolley across the yard to where a flatbed truck was parked. In a little over twenty minutes, all twelve were taken and the getaway vehicle moved off.
Inside the farmhouse, Shirley Littledale slept on.
“Bee rustling? Get away,” Helen Morgan said.
“It’s true,” her friend Gaye said. “They drove off with her entire stock, her apiary, or whatever it’s called.”
“I’ve never heard of bees being rustled. Sounds like something out of an old cowboy film.”
“They’re livestock, same as cattle, when you think about it. Anyway, it had a terrible effect on Shirley. She’s bereft.”
“It’ll have a terrible effect on us all.”
Gaye was president of the local branch of the Countrywomen’s Guild, but not because she was pushy or ambitious. She had been shoe-horned into the job by Helen, a strong personality who was secretary and mainstay of the branch. Without Helen, they would have folded years before. Their main objective was to support good causes and honey was the top seller on their market stall, more of a money spinner than homemade jam or even homemade cakes. The guild also had its social side enjoyed by all the members, but the fundraising always came before the partying.
“When did this happen?” Helen asked.
“At least a week ago,” Gaye said.
“Some rogue beekeeper.” Helen was never without an opinion.
“How do you know?”
“Bees aren’t any use to anyone except a beekeeper. You need the know-how, or you get stung to bits. Vicious little things.”
“Vicious?” Gaye said in surprise. “I thought everyone liked honeybees.”
“Not me. Have you ever gone near a hive?”
“Now you mention it, no. Everyone knows you have to respect their territory. Have you had a bad experience with bees?”
“Not specially. I’ve been stung a couple of times. Most people have. But I do have some idea what goes on in the hive. They’re ruthless with each other and I’m ashamed to say it’s a female society — a queen bee and thousands of workers, all female. The males — the drones — have a short life. They have only one purpose, to mate with the queen, and that kills them.”
“With a smile on their little faces.”
Helen didn’t often get jokes. “They’re the lucky ones. All the rest are forced out of the hive when the weather turns cold and they quickly die.”
“Poor things,” Gaye said.
“What goes on with the queen is even more savage. As soon as she emerges from her cell she kills any other potential queens. Unlike the workers, she can use her sting time and time again. It’s serial murder.”
“I’m rapidly revising my opinion of bees. You seem to know a lot about it.”
“My ex was a beekeeper. Still is, as far as I know. It takes all sorts. I’m sorry about Shirley, but bee people are a small community. The police will know who to ask.”
“Shirley hasn’t called the police,” Gaye said. “She doesn’t want them involved.”
“Why ever not? It’s theft. Those bees must be worth hundreds, if not thousands.”
“She’s in a state of shock.”
“Yes, but...”
“She made it very clear she isn’t going to make an issue of it.”
“What does her bloke say?”
“Him?” Gaye’s eyes rolled upwards. “You know what Ben’s like, the fat slob. Does nothing except prop up the bar in the pub each evening and ogle any woman who comes in. He’s useless at running the farm.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“No, but it’s common knowledge. Shirley’s in denial about him. She gets what she wants in bed and doesn’t realise there’s more to life than that — or ought to be. He’s a stud, that’s all.”
“A drone.”
Gaye laughed. “That’s him exactly, leaves all the running of the farm to Shirley. She’s far too sweet-natured. She ought to get tough with him. It’s so unfair.”
“I’ve never heard her complain. I thought she was reasonably content.”
“She likes the beekeeping, certainly. She thinks of her bees as family. Positively dotes on them. That’s why she doesn’t want the police involved — in case it panics the thief into destroying the hives. I feel so sorry for her.”
“If she’s so attached to them she must want them back.”
“Ideally, yes, but she seems resigned to losing them, poor soul. She’s talking about keeping chickens instead. It won’t be half as satisfying.”
“Or productive. A few hens don’t bring in much income. We can’t sell more eggs on the market stall. We’ve got our supplier already.”
“There’s nothing we can do... is there?”
“We have a duty to help,” Helen said as if she were addressing the branch committee. “It’s in the interests of the guild. All the income from the sale of honey.”