FRIDAY, MAY 5
Chapter 1
“This is the life,” I said, as I wriggled into an even more comfortable position in the hammock.
I wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. As far as I knew, there was no one within earshot. But just in case there was, I was going to do my best to look—and sound—like someone who was deeply contented and should not be disturbed for anything short of an actual emergency. Although the people most apt to interrupt me were safely occupied elsewhere—Michael, my husband, was teaching his Friday classes at Caerphilly College, and my twin sons, Jamie and Josh, were at school until three.
My notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I called my comprehensive to-do list and calendar, was nearby, but I’d already checked, and nothing in its pages had to be done right now. For the next hour I was on hammock time. I could read. I could put on my headphones and listen to some music. Or I could just lie here and enjoy the balmy May weather, the masses of blooms in our flower beds, and the fascinating aerial ballet of hummingbirds darting to and from the nearby feeder.
The hummingbirds. I sat up with a frown. The last time I’d found the time to watch them, there had been half a dozen of them, impossibly small, their iridescent jewel-toned bodies sparkling in the sunshine as they paused, sipped, and darted away. Now there was only one, flitting around the feeder. And he didn’t even seem to be feeding—just darting about.
Was there something wrong with the latest batch of sugar water? This little guy and all his fellow hummers had been keeping us busy refilling the feeder—sometimes they went through two batches of sugar water a day. And if the feeder ran low, they could always turn to the vast quantities of pollinator-friendly blooms we’d planted in the yard. Every year we added more flowering perennials—multiple cultivars of bee balm and columbines, salvia and milkweed. Great ropes of native honeysuckle covered long stretches of the fence around our yard. And while I preferred to spend my energy on perennials—if you’re going to all the trouble of digging, why not plant something that will stay around for at least a few years?—Rose Noire, our nature-crazy cousin-in-residence, had gone overboard with the annuals and biennials—foxgloves, hollyhocks, cleomes, petunias, nasturtiums, zinnias, and who knew what else. We had almost as many flowers on display as Flugleman’s, the local garden supplier. We even had baskets of jewel-colored fuchsias hanging from limbs and poles at various spots around the yard, and a vast field of purple clover just across the fence in a pasture that was technically part of Mother and Dad’s neighboring farm.
The sight of all the flowers cheered and calmed me. Maybe this hummingbird just wasn’t hungry at the moment.
Just then another hummingbird flew toward the feeder—only to jerk back as the first hummingbird attacked, making a sort of buzzing noise and stabbing with his needle-sharp little bill. The newcomer fled, and the first hummingbird resumed circling the feeder, like a sentry patrolling his station.
Was this dog-in-the-manger act normal hummingbird behavior? Did our beloved little pollinators bully each other away from the feeder? I should ask my grandfather. Sometimes it was useful to have an eminent naturalist in the family.
Then again, did I really want an hour-long lecture about the feeding and reproductive behavior of hummingbirds? I’d ask my grandmother Cordelia. When it came to backyard ornithology, she was just as knowledgeable and a lot more practical.
I’d film a little of the suspected bully’s behavior first. I was reaching to pull out my phone to do this when it rang. Okay, that was convenient. But when the caller ID showed it was Randall Shiffley calling, I sighed. Randall might be trying to reach me about any number of things, but the odds were that he was calling me in my role as his part-time assistant in charge of special projects. Or, as I sometimes called it, the Mayor’s Special Assistant for Headaches and Nuisances.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“The NIMBYs are at it again.”
I winced and stifled a groan. The NIMBYs—short for “Not in my backyard!”—was our shorthand way of referring to many residents of Caerphilly’s ritzy Westlake neighborhood who were constantly filing complaints against their neighbors. Not, usually, their fellow Westlake residents. Unfortunately, their neighborhood was on the outskirts of town and bordered by several farms. And most of its residents were, as Randall put it, “not from around here.” Affluent retirees. Businesspeople who either didn’t mind a long commute or managed their far-flung empires remotely. The occasional distinguished professor recruited by Caerphilly College. Not, for the most part, people who had any previous experience of living cheek by jowl with working farms.
Those of us who were locals, or at least long-term residents, could almost predict when newly arrived Westlake residents’ raptures over the lack of traffic noises would give way to complaints about the roosters waking them up at dawn. When they’d notice that the green, unspoiled landscape they liked to gaze out upon contained not only cows but also cow pies and muddy pig wallows. When they’d realize that the fresh country air they’d been rhapsodizing over was often scented with manure.
And that’s when they’d suddenly become Caerphilly’s problem. Or, more accurately, my problem.
“Who’s in their sights this time?” I asked.
“Edgar Bortnick and his bees.”
“Oh, good grief,” I muttered.
“Yeah. Apparently, Edgar had another big dustup with Wally the Weird.”
I knew Edgar well, because last year Dad had gone in for beekeeping in a big way and Edgar was his guru. And Walter Inman, aka Wally the Weird, a retired businessman from the D.C. area, was my personal candidate for the worst of the NIMBYs, mainly because on top of harassing the neighboring farmers he frequently picked fights with his fellow NIMBYs.
“Supposedly Edgar promised he’d move the hives that are right across the fence from Wally’s patio,” Randall continued. “But it’s been a week now, Edgar’s bees are still dive-bombing Wally and his guests, and Edgar’s nowhere to be found. Hasn’t answered his door, and his voicemail’s full.”
I felt a brief twinge of anxiety but reminded myself that this was normal for Edgar.
“Remember,” I said. “Beekeeping’s a sideline for him.” Even in my own head I was careful not to repeat my mistake of calling it a hobby. A passion, an obsession, a vocation, a calling—but not, according to Edgar, a hobby.
“Yup, I know the wildlife photography’s his main gig.”
“Which means he’s always going off in the woods for days or even weeks with nothing but a canteen and his camera,” I pointed out.
“And normally I’d assume that’s what he’s doing now,” Randall said. “But there are a couple of people he usually asks to keep an eye on his place when he does that—my cousin Sam, who has the farm next door, and your dad. I checked with both of them, and he didn’t say anything to either about being gone overnight.”
Definitely worrisome.
“It’s always possible that something happened to delay him,” I said. “The other day Dad was telling me about how Edgar once sat in a tree for three days, trying to get some good pictures of a nest full of newly hatched screech owls. And you know how spotty cell phone coverage is the second you get a few miles from town.”
“Odds are that’s what’s happening,” Randall said. “And that if he did agree to move his hives, he’ll be doing it when he gets back—although I kind of doubt that Wally the Weird is telling the truth about Edgar agreeing to move the hives. But there’s not much use in my trying to explain any of that to the NIMBYs. Could you maybe go over and work your diplomatic magic?”
Under most situations, I’d have said Randall was at least as diplomatic as I was. But he was right—I usually had better luck soothing the savage NIMBYs. Of the three people whose farms bordered Westlake, Edgar was the one the NIMBYs hated the most, but they complained almost as often about Randall’s cousin Sam, who specialized in organic, pasture-raised pigs. Wally the Weird and the rest of the NIMBYs seemed to confuse “organic” with “odor-free” and resented having the pig pasture visible from their elegant, upscale backyards. And they also assumed that Randall’s refusal to ban his cousin’s pig-keeping was due to nepotism rather than common sense.
“So you want me to go over and calm Wally down?” I asked.
“No, actually it’s the Brownlows complaining today,” he said. “Apparently Wally was bragging about winning his argument with Edgar, so they were all expecting the beehives to be gone by now. Though if you can track down Wally, that would be a good thing, too. Mr. Brownlow seemed to find his absence downright suspicious. We don’t want poor Horace having to dig up Sam’s pig wallow again.”
Copyright © 2023 by Donna Andrews
