Tin City (2 page)
“Carbaryl,” I repeated to let her know I was paying attention.
“I should emphasize that carbaryl is not illegal by any means. It is, however, toxic to bees. Apparently, Mr. Mosley’s honeybees came in contact with the insecticide and brought it back to the hive, where it built up over a period of time, resulting in his current predicament.”
“So what we need to do is find the source of the Sevin and ask the perpetrator to stop spraying it.”
Again her lips curled upward just so.
“I like that word—‘perpetrator,’”Ivy said. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Even if we do locate the source, convincing the ‘perpetrator’—she quoted the air—“to cease and desist is problematic at best. It is extremely difficult to demonstrate cause and effect.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” I said. “Right now, we need to find the source of the Sevin. How would I go about that?”
“We know that Sevin is employed to control insect pests on certain crops. We know that honeybees have a range of four miles. It should be comparatively simple if somewhat time-consuming to fan out in, oh, let us say a three-mile radius initially from the infected colony and take samples—soil samples, water samples, plant samples—from likely locations and test them using equipment here at the U.”
“Would you be interested in undertaking such a task?”
Ivy turned to Buzicky.
“It’ll be good practice for you,” he said. “I’ll even give you academic credit.”
“And I’ll pay you,” I added.
“You will?”
“What’s the going rate for something like this? Twenty-five hundred?”
“Dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. Of course, I’ll do it. For science.” She smiled, really smiled. If it had been any brighter I would have needed sunglasses.
I gave Ivy Mr. Mosley’s address in Norwood Young America and directions on where to find it, along with his phone number. I gave her my address in St. Paul and phone numbers—home and cell. I wrote out a personal check in her name for $2,500. She took off her glasses like she didn’t want them coming between her and the number. Forget Sandra Bullock. I swear she looked just like Nicole Kidman.
Shelby Dunston didn’t look like anyone in particular. Instead, she always reminded me of a southern Minnesota wheat field, all golden and windswept. She met me on the old-fashioned wraparound porch of her pre—World War II Colonial wearing a white sleeveless shirt and khaki capris. She probably hadn’t dressed to look sexy but managed it just the same.
The Dunstons lived across the street from Merriam Park in St. Paul in the house that Bobby had grown up in; he and Shelby bought it from Bobby’s parents after they retired and moved to their lake home in Wisconsin. There was a low-slung community center in the park with a decent gym, plus baseball fields, and in the winter there was a hockey rink where Bobby and I played when we were kids. There was also an enormous hill dotted with large oak trees. When we were teenagers—before driver’s licenses—we spent many a pleasant summer evening wandering from the top of that hill to the Burger Chef on Marshall Avenue, where thirty-nine cents’ worth of Coca-Cola bought us loitering rights in a corner booth, and then back again in an endless search for friends, acquaintances, and any kind of excitement. Some nights we’d make the trip several times. Occasionally we would venture to the other side of the hill, out of sight of Bobby’s front porch, and make out with the Catholic girls from Our Lady of Peace and Derham Hall high schools. It was there that I kissed Mary Beth Rogers—the most beautiful girl of my youth—for the first and only time. Glancing up at it now, I wondered
for a moment if Bobby had ever taken Shelby over the hill, but I didn’t ask.
for a moment if Bobby had ever taken Shelby over the hill, but I didn’t ask.
Shelby’s daughters were delighted to get a jar of honey from “that cool beekeeper guy,” even though it had been four days since my visit with Mr. Mosley and one day since meeting Ivy Flynn before I had found time to deliver it. They were even happier with the small bags of mini-donuts I doled out.
“Where did you get these?” Victoria wanted to know.
“I made them.”
“You made them?” Katie asked, her mouth full. “These are just like the donuts you get at the state fair.”
“I should hope so.”
“How did you make them?” asked Victoria.
“I bought a mini-donut machine.”
“Really?”
“Really?” echoed Shelby.
“I bought it off the Internet,” I told her. “Belshaw Donut Robot Mark I. It can make up to a hundred dozen mini-donuts in an hour.”
“One hundred
dozen
mini-donuts?”
dozen
mini-donuts?”
“No home should be without one.”
“If you say so.”
“Let’s go to your house right now,” Katie said.
“Let’s do your homework right now,” Shelby said.
“Ahh, Mom,” both girls replied in unison.
“Ahh, Mom,” she repeated, folding her arms across her chest, giving her daughter the don’t-mess-with-me look that she claimed was being challenged more and more as the girls grew older. To me, she said, “A mini-donut machine. To go with the sno-cone machine you bought last fall, I guess.”
“Four flavors, no waiting.”
“Uh-huh. What’s next? Cotton candy?”
“I was thinking one of those machines that make corn dogs. I was never much for cotton candy.”
“Oh, I love cotton candy,” said Victoria. “The pink kind, not the blue kind.”
“Really. Well, I’ll have to give that some thought.”
“You would buy a cotton candy maker just for me?”
“Sure I would.”
I think she would have hugged me except both hands were filled with donuts.
“Homework,” Shelby said. “Go.”
Victoria left for her bedroom, muttering, “What a grouch,” just loudly enough to be heard.
“What did you say?” Shelby asked.
“Nothing.”
Katie, who was younger and consequently more cautious, followed her older sister out of the room without a sound.
“Honestly, McKenzie,” Shelby said when they were gone.
“What?”
“You’re trying to buy their love.”
“Hey, if it’s for sale, I’ll take it.” I held out a small paper bag for her. “Donut?”
Shelby took the bag and the jar of Mr. Mosley’s honey and went into the kitchen. I followed.
“How is Mr. Mosley?”
“Okay, I guess. It’s just that he seems so … old.”
She set the jar on the counter and turned toward me. “What is he, now? Late sixties, early seventies?”
“Seventy—two. He’s as old as my dad would have been.”
“My dad just turned sixty-five. He thinks that’s young.”
“I just turned thirty-seven, and I don’t.”
Shelby popped a mini-donut into her mouth. She closed her eyes while she chewed.
“Rushmore, these are amazing.”
Shelby’s the only one who gets to call me by my first name. I was christened after the national monument in whose shadow I was conceived while my parents were on a motor vacation through the Badlands. I liked to joke, “It could have been worse, it could have been Deadwood.” But that line was getting as old as I was.
“I’m still trying to get the sugar and cinnamon mixture right,” I told Shelby.
“No, no, this is good. This is perfect just the way it is.”
She had another donut, and I told her about my visit with Mr. Mosley and his bees. I deliberately edited out his “your girl” remarks.
“When will you know?”
“I have no idea. Ivy—Ivy Flynn, she’s the grad student doing the Meldwork—she just started gathering samples this morning.”
“You enjoy it, don’t you?”
“Enjoy what?”
“Helping Mr. Mosley. Helping any of your friends, for that matter.”
“I like to be useful. I think everyone has that desire. I think we want that more than cash.”
“Or love?”
“Maybe that, too. Besides, it gives me something to do when I get up in the morning besides count my money.”
“There are a lot of things you could do besides what you do.”
“Go fishing? Play golf?”
“Why not?”
“I do go fishing, I do play golf. It’s just … People retire. They scrape enough money together so they don’t have to work and they say, ‘I’ll go fishing, I’ll play golf.’ It’s what they squeezed in during those
brief periods when they weren’t working, and they enjoyed it. But take away the work and suddenly the fishing and golf become their whole lives. And it’s not enough. They go nuts. Some manage it, of course. My dad enjoyed retirement. But he had a hobby. Doing stuff for other people was his hobby. Shingling roofs and building decks and plumbing. He was even a volunteer firefighter for a while. ‘Live well, be useful,’ he used to say. Words to live by.”
brief periods when they weren’t working, and they enjoyed it. But take away the work and suddenly the fishing and golf become their whole lives. And it’s not enough. They go nuts. Some manage it, of course. My dad enjoyed retirement. But he had a hobby. Doing stuff for other people was his hobby. Shingling roofs and building decks and plumbing. He was even a volunteer firefighter for a while. ‘Live well, be useful,’ he used to say. Words to live by.”
“Words you live by.”
“They’re good words.”
“Except you’re not particularly handy with a hammer or a wrench. So instead you perform other—what do you call them, chores?”
“Favors.”
“And the more difficult and dangerous the favor …”
“The more fun,” I concluded.
“And if someone tries to kill you like they did last fall?” There was anxiety in Shelby’s voice, but I pretended not to hear.
“People tried to kill me when I was a cop, too.”
“You and Bobby.” Shelby turned and looked out her back window. There was a swing set that the girls were starting to outgrow and two bikes lying on the grass. Moments passed before she spoke again.
“I thought you were going back to the cops. I thought you were going to take a position with the St. Anthony Village Police Department. Chief of detectives, wasn’t it?”
“They offered me the job, but … The thing is, being a cop, you have to follow an awful lot of rules.”
“You didn’t mind when you were with St. Paul.”
“That was before I spent two and a half years obeying my own rules, coming and going as I please. It’s hard to go back to the everyday grind after that.”
“I suppose.”
A few moments later, the front door opened and closed. A male voice announced, “I’m home,” without much enthusiasm.
“In the kitchen,” Shelby replied.
Bobby Dunston entered. He was the same size as I was, as well as the same age. I can’t remember a time when we weren’t friends.
“Hi,” he said. He wasn’t surprised to see me. I had spent a lot of time in his kitchen when I was a kid, too.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Murder and mayhem abound.”
“So business is good.”
“Too good.”
He went to Shelby, wrapped his arms around her, and held on tight. She returned the embrace. It seemed to last longer than a welcomehome hug should, or maybe it was just me being embarrassed by their obvious affection for each other. After a few moments, Shelby gently nudged him away.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “McKenzie bought a mini-donut machine.”
“I’m going to take a shower,” Bobby said. “I’ll be right back.”
There was a look of concern in Shelby’s eyes as she watched him exit the kitchen.
“He does that a lot lately,” she told me.
“Take a shower? I should hope so.”
“As soon as he gets home from work, before he talks to me or the kids. It’s like he feels he needs to wash off the day first.”
I understood completely. I had been a cop for eleven and a half years before I quit in order to collect a three-million-dollar bounty on an embezzler I had tracked down in my spare time—St. Paul cops aren’t allowed to accept rewards and finder’s fees. Back in those days, I had taken a lot of showers, too.
For dinner Shelby served pasta with a light sauce consisting of olive oil, onion, tomatoes, shrimp, dry white wine, and Italian parsley. However, the girls refused to eat it, insisting instead on smothering their noodles with butter and grated Parmesan. That was fine with Bobby, but Shelby glared at me like I was responsible for corrupting her daughters’ eating habits. Honestly, I don’t see them that often.
After dinner, Bobby also inquired about Mr. Mosley’s health and welfare. I told him the same thing I had told Shelby. That prompted another discussion concerning the aging process, during which Bobby announced that he did not look old, feel old, or behave in any way that could be construed as old, as he was sure his lovely wife would testify, but that I was free to seize any excuse—including advanced age—that might explain my obvious dilapidated and sorry physical, emotional, and mental condition. I would have raced him around the block but I was afraid I’d lose.
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