What you will find here

This is a place to examine plans filled with hope; plans which promise a refuge from chaos; plans which will shape our futures. Veterans with and without PTSD, Pentecostal Presbyterians, Adjudicated Youth, and Artists-Musicians-Writers: I write what I know. ~~~ Evelyn

Monday, June 16, 2014

Excerpt from Follow the Bees Chapter Three

          “She’s your next-door neighbor?” Summer, the Chief’s best friend and ex-wife bit into her sandwich, giggling.

          “She’s only been there for three weeks.”

          “And you didn’t notice?”

          “I’ve been busy.”  He stole a potato chip from her plate.

          “You’ve been depressed,” her words sobered them both.

          “Well,” he gulped from his Zephyrhills water.  “She was right about the mower blade.”

          “Do you think she might be right about the robbers, too?”

          “Robbers, plural.? You believe her?”

          “Yes, I do.  It makes sense.”  Louder, “Jimmy Junior, you’re gonna poke somebody’s eye out with that stick.  Put it down.”  Softer, “God, I sound just like my mother.”

          Roman snorted.  There were some things he didn’t miss about his marriage.  Summer’s mother was one of them. 

          “Do you think your neighbor is connected to them?”

          “No, it doesn’t feel that way.  She sounds more like a professor than a crook.”

          “Professors can be criminals,” she eyed his abandoned onions.  He pushed them toward her.

          “I put Sybil onto checking her basics – tag, driver’s license.”

          “Why don’t you just ask her?”

          Roman scowled.

          “You’re embarrassed.”  And louder, “Don’t you go down that slide face first!”

          “How’s Jimmy Senior?”

          “He’s doing good!  Regional manager paid him a surprise visit and he came out looking great.  He thinks he’ll get a promotion because of it.”

          “Good.”  Jimmy Senior was a solid citizen, sober, Christian, a descent husband.  And there was nothing dangerous about being the manager of an office supply company.

          “How are you doing?” She gave his hand a firm squeeze.

          “The foot stone came in yesterday.  It looks real nice.”

          “I’ll bring Cheyenne by the cemetery after church.  I know she’d like to put flowers on Tudor’s grave.”

          Cheyenne was their daughter:  fifteen, stunningly beautiful in a terrifying way, wild and naïve, hell-bent and heaven bound.

          “I thought she was spending the weekend with me.”

          ”That’s fine.  Just make sure you get her to church.  Sit down on that swing!”

          Cheyenne didn’t take after her mother, thank God.

          “You know, if she’s renting Mr. Sing’s house, you could call him and research her references.  Tell Mr. Sing that you’d like to make sure everything’s alright.”


          “Your new neighbor.  I’d love to know how she knew those things.  In less than five minutes, she knew all about them.  Do you suppose she’s one of those profilers, like on TV?”

          Roman didn’t raise his voice, but the command carried across the playground, “Drop the pine cones.”

          Jimmy Junior immediately complied.

          “How do you do that?” Summer pouted.


          “Get Jimmy to obey you.  You don’t yell.  You don’t threaten.  You just tell him and he does it.”

          “It’s a gift.”


 “This is Chief Zachary Roman with the Coldwater PD in Florida.  I’m trying to reach a Tony Camparella.  Is he available or may I leave a message?”

          “What’s the message?” the accent was New England, maybe Boston, but the phone number Roman had dialed was in Wyoming.

          “I’m calling in reference to a Colette Banister.”

          “Shit.  Fucking Hell.  This is my first vacation in seven fucking years.  How many are dead?”

          “Dead.  Deceased.  Is it a serial killer or just an isolated murder spree?”

          “Mr. Camparella, I seem to be missing something.”

          “Call me Camp, every body does.  You say you’re missing someone?  Boys?  Girls?  Both?”

          “I’m investigating a robbery.”

          Silence, then a grunt.

          “Ms. Banister seems to have noticed some things that no one else did.”

          “A-yup.  That’s Colette for you.”

          “Mister  – Campy, Colette listed you as a reference.  I’m calling to verify your acquaintance with her.”

          Another silence.  Then Camp’s voice deepened, like a guard dog about to lunge. “Last time I looked, Chief Zachary Roman, there wasn’t a section on a police report for references.  You want to cut the crap.  Your number has been logged and this entire phone call has been recorded.  You want to talk to me about Colette; you go through the proper fucking channels.  If the Bureau thinks you’re worth wasting my fucking vacation time on, they’ll patch you through.”


          “The fucking Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Most assholes refer to it as the FB-fucking-I, but if you need me to spell it for you, you can kiss my ass.”

          Chief was holding the phone away from his ear and everyone within the station heard the click if not the actual conversation.

          “Hey, Chief?” Monty was twenty years old and full of himself.

          “What?” Roman sighed as he hung up.

          “How come the only adverb Yankees know is fuck?”

          Roman grunted.

          Sybil, his secretary snapped, “Because they don’t have a chief that’ll snatch a knot in your head if you don’t keep a civil tongue in this office.  Your momma’s gonna hear from me if you ever say that word again.”

          “Yes, ma’am.  Don’t tell my momma.”

          Twenty years old and still afraid of shaming his momma.  Roman smiled.

Excerpt from

Follow the Bees

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

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