Featured Article » Fiction

Portrait of Bees in Spring

Written by Bradley H. Sinor and Tracy S. Morris

"Now this won't hurt a bit."

Betsy Springer rolled her eyes, remembering the first time she had heard that phrase. Her family doctor had been about to give her a booster shot. Despite what the nurse said, that one had hurt.

"Like I really believe that, Nurse Rached! Do you also have a bridge in Brooklyn that you can make me a great deal on?" Betsy muttered the last part under her breath.

The dark-haired nurse gave her patient a confused look before continuing to wrap a long strip of bandage around the young reporter's ankle. Actually, Betsy thought that the woman tied the bandage too tight on purpose, but she was determined not to give the nurse the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. Instead, she tightened her grip on Denis Sesma's hand; driving her nails into his palm. The fact that he stoically refused to react was typical of the half-Basque artist who had become her closest friend in the months since he had come to work for The Grantville Times.

"My name is Miller, not Rached," said the woman said with a sigh. She spoke reasonably good English but every now and again Betsy could catch just a hint of Swedish in her voice when she became irritated—like now. "I've told you that several times. Why am I not surprised that you up-time young people don't pay attention to what your elders say?"

Denis suppressed a chuckle. This was not the first time he had heard that statement around Betsy.

"You are really a very fortunate young woman," Nurse Miller said as she gently placed Betsy's leg on a stool. "This could have been a lot worse. It's what the doctor calls a grade one sprain. It will take several weeks to heal, but you should have some mobility with the use of crutches. If you don't move carefully though, you could easily hurt yourself again and make it much, much worse." She shook her finger in warning at Betsy.

Normally Betsy would have had a good comeback on the tip of her tongue, but right now all she could do was grit her teeth and try to endure the throbbing in her leg.

"How long have you two been married?" asked Nurse Miller, in what Denis guessed was an attempt to distract Betsy.

"We're not married!" both Denis and Betsy spoke at once.

The nurse said nothing, though her expression suggested she was thinking "Yet."

"Are you finished now?" Denis asked nervously.

"You can go, but make certain that Miss Springer stays off her injury and does what she is told," said the nurse.

"Like I have any control over that," muttered Denis.

"I will fetch you some crutches. You're lucky the doctor has a side business manufacturing them. Otherwise you would have to wait for a carpenter," said Nurse Miller. "How did you say you hurt yourself in the first place?"

"I wish that I was doing something really cool, like fighting off a bunch of mercenaries on our way here. But I stepped wrong getting out of a coach. The trip here to Hamburg is one of the most boring ones that I've ever taken in my life." Betsy looked down, embarrassed at her own clumsiness. "At least it isn't as bad as an injury a friend of mine in high school had. He fractured his ankle hitting it on the side of a concrete curb."

"I believe you. It sounds like you were having—what do you Americans call it? 'A really bad day.'" Nurse Miller ducked her head to hide her smile.

Betsy frowned down at her sprained ankle. "For the record, this not the way I wanted to get close to the story."

The nurse continued as if she hadn't heard Betsy. "Now that I'm done I'll send Dr. Kunze in to see you."

Once the nurse was gone, Denis let go of Betsy's hand and went over to the door. He waited for a good thirty seconds before he spoke, all the while listening to the sounds outside the office that doubled as an examining room.

"I think we're alone, at least for awhile. I don't know why, but I just have the strangest feeling that something is going on here that they're not telling us," said Denis.

Betsy looked up from her ankle with a startled expression. "Aren't you and Paul the ones who are always accusing me of being paranoid and seeing conspiracies where there aren't any?"

"Mr. Kindred just wants you to have proof of them before writing the things up," said Denis.

He retreated from the door to a nearby chair where he had left his drawing pad and a piece of charcoal. "Besides, I told you it was just a gut feeling. I hope I'm wrong. Mr. Kindred said this trip was supposed to keep us out of trouble."

"Yeah right," said Betsy as she pushed herself to the edge of the chair and gingerly lowered her right leg. She inhaled, as if preparing herself for an excruciating task, then grasped both arms of the chair and pushed up. The result was a sharp sensation of pain that forced her back into the chair.

"You weren't listening to the nurse," Denis laughed. "You're supposed to stay off that foot and keep your leg elevated."

"Yeah, elevated . . . check," groaned Betsy.

Denis turned his drawing around so that she could see it. "This is the image I plan to submit with your story. What do you think?"

"You're just trying to distract me," Betsy said.

"Of course I am," he replied.

"You can be just as much of a baby when you're injured." Betsy stuck her lip out in a pout and crossed her arms. After a moment of silence she put her ankle back on the stool. "I guess it's the thought that counts."

Denis's sketch showed a man, his chest bandaged, lying on a table. A second man, obviously a doctor, judging by the stethoscope that hung around his neck, was pouring something from a jar onto the bandage.

"Not bad, but how will we be able to tell that its honey he's using?" Betsy wondered.

"Your story will tell them that," Denis said.

"But what about people who can't read?"

"If they can't read, why would they have a newspaper?" Denis asked.

"Because they like the pictures?" Betsy shrugged. "Or maybe their Aunt Gertie is reading it to them."

"If you think it will help, I could draw a label with a bee on the jar," Denis said.

"Then people who can read will see the image and wonder why that doctor is putting honey on that man's bandages," Betsy said.

"Which will make them want to read your story about how the navy doctors who don't have antibiotics are using honey to keep infection out of serious wounds," Denis retorted.

"Just like the Egyptians did in the time of King Tut." Betsy smiled in satisfaction.

"King Tut?" Denis tilted his head to the side in a thoughtful pose. "Was he in the movie about the archeologist with a bullwhip?"

"He's from history, not movies." Betsy waved her hands in the air as she spoke. "He hasn't been discovered yet. But when he will be—or was in the future—those archeologist types that found him figured out that the ancient Egyptians were using honey to fight off infection in wounds long before antibiotics. What do you think of this for a headline—" She spread her hands in front of her face as if to picture the headline on a newspaper "Teaching a new dog old tricks."

A new voice chimed in. "Not bad."

Betsy and Denis turned to see a rather large man standing in the doorway. The pair of crutches he held in one large hand suggested that this was the one they had come to see, Dr. Johannes Kunze.

"I'm sorry that I am late for our interview, young lady," said Dr. Kunze, apologetically. "But we've had a bit of . . . trouble with Thomas Radetzki, the bee keeper who supplies our honey."

Denis and Betsy exchanged a look.

"What kind of trouble? Denis asked.

"He was supposed to bring us a fresh shipment of honey this morning, from his latest harvest. I saw him only two days ago and he confirmed his plans to me," the doctor said. "But he has not kept his schedule, which is most unusual. The man is normally quite punctual."

Dr. Kunze lifted a shoulder in a helpless shrug. "Since he is a civilian, I can't justify sending a seaman to go check on him, not for just being late. But I remembered that you said you wanted to speak to him for your story. I thought that perhaps you could go to his apiary and check on him."

"Normally I would be happy to help, Doc. But . . ." Betsy pointed at her leg.

The doctor smiled in that "I was expecting that comment" way that had always irritated Betsy. "I hate to send you so soon after your injury, but there is no one else available right now. If you go it will help put my mind at rest. I just have a bad feeling about the whole matter. We can loan you one of our wagons so that you can stay off of your injured leg. If everything is fine, you can fetch back the honey with you. And when you return, we can finish your interview. I would go with you, but we are short-handed."

"You must be busy," said Betsy. "You haven't even had your pants repaired."

"My pants?" said the doctor, glancing down at his trousers where a ragged piece had been ripped out. "Ja, it got caught in a wagon wheel earlier today. Nurse Miller has offered to repair them when we have time. So will you do me this favor and look in on our missing beekeeper?"

"All right." Betsy chuckled, and then muttered under her breath. "The things I do for a story."

"Would you mind if I asked a question?" Denis asked as the doctor handed Betsy her crutches.

She braced them against the floor and tried to use them to stand. Her first attempt was not a glowing success, since she rammed her bandaged foot against a side table and dropped back into the chair. She stifled a muffled groan through closed lips. "I feel like one of the Stooges here."

Denis winced in sympathy, and moved to help her. Betsy's glare caused him to back out of her way with his hands in the air in mock surrender.

After a few deep breaths Betsy levered herself up to a precariously balanced standing position. While keeping her weight on one foot, she tucked a pad under each arm, and then began to hobble forward. She moved only a few feet before she tottered as if about to fall. This time, when Denis stepped forward, she allowed his steadying hand on her shoulder.

"Ready?" Denis asked.

Betsy gave him a reassuring nod before tottering forward a step. Her smile brightened as she took another step and then another, aiming herself toward the door. The doctor nodded approvingly and stepped aside to let her pass.

"Now, about that question?" the doctor asked Denis

"Would I be right in assuming that there is more worrying you than just a late shipment of honey?" Denis asked.

"We are at war," The doctor shrugged. "This is a military hospital and that honey will save soldiers' lives. With the number of spies traipsing around the USE—it would be one more way to strike back at the navy."

"I'm sure the beekeeper just lost track of time," Betsy said over her shoulder as she stumped down the hall. "We'll go out there, collect the interview and the honey and be back here before you know it."

****

Outside, the stable hands brought out a one-horse wagon with a buckboard on it. Denis lifted Betsy into the seat carefully. Then he tucked his drawing tools alongside her before vaulting into the driver's place.

The road between the hospital and Radetzki's apiary was fairly well maintained, but Betsy winced in pain with every stone or rut that the wagon bounced over.

Denis slowed the horse to a sedate walk.

"You don't have to go this slow, it will take us twice as long," Betsy touched his shoulder. "I'm fine."

"It should only take a few hours by wagon," Denis said. "Since it is still early in the day, we can afford to take a little extra time."

"I would rather get our work here done with and get back to Grantville." She frowned down at her bandaged ankle. "This is so inconvenient."

"The nurse said that if you stayed off of it for a few weeks, you should be as good as new."

"I'm no good at sitting still," Betsy crossed her arms and looked out across the field that bordered the road. Denis pinched his lips together to keep from laughing.

****

As the hours passed, the city gradually gave way to rolling countryside. In an obvious attempt to distract herself from the throbbing in her ankle, Betsy described, in extreme detail, the plot of several different movies. It hadn't taken Denis long, after he had met Betsy, to master the art of looking like he was listening, while letting his mind wander.

When the wagon crested a hill, Denis wished he had time to sketch the picturesque scene in front of them. It would make an interesting painting, very different from the things he had been doing for the newspaper. He missed doing art like that, but a regular paycheck was a really nice thing to have. Fresh yellow straw thatched the roof of the beekeeper's cottage. Around the yard, a riot of roses, chamomile and lavender flowers sprouted.

"Hey look!" Betsy broke off and pointed to a field bordered in shrubs that were covered in pink flowers. Denis craned his neck, seeing dozens of insects darting back and forth between the flowers. "Bees!"

Denis pulled the wagon to a stop and squinted at the cottage. "No smoke coming from the chimney. He may not be home."

"One way to check," Betsy said.

"You wait here. I'll go look."

"No way!" Betsy shook her head. "You aren't leaving me out of things. I don't care if I end up having to crawl after you."

Denis sighed. So much for any hope of her being reasonable because of her injury—not that there actually had been much hope of that to begin with. If Betsy had been agreeable, he probably would have been worried about what she was plotting.

As the two of them crossed the yard to the front door of the cottage, they could hear excited barking from inside the building.

Betsy looked at Denis with a sly smile. "Sounds like someone has a little yappy dog."

"If the beekeeper is home, one would think that he would come out to see what his pet is barking at."

Betsy shrugged and reached out her hand to knock. The door creaked inward under the pressure of her rapping. The little dog that they had heard then squeezed through the opening and began to run in circles around the two of them, barking as it did.

"Hello? Anyone home?" Betsy called out as she hopped through the doorway, holding her crutches awkwardly. "Your door is open and—Uh oh!" She froze, with one hand on the door frame to keep her balance.

Denis stepped behind her and looked over her shoulder, then he swallowed hard. A man that he presumed was Thomas Radetzki sat at the table in the tiny kitchen, face-down on a tray of sausage and cheese. A bread roll and cloth napkin lay upside down next to one of his open hands. A knife, sticky with what Denis guessed was honey, lay next to the other. It looked as if the beekeeper had died right in the middle of sweetening his Brötchen.

The two of them looked at one another, and then Betsy clomped her way into the kitchen with Denis at her heels. She moved to the table and held her hand over his mug.

"His tea is cold," she said. "He's been dead for a while."

"We had better fetch Dr. Kunze. He may be able to tell us why this happened," Denis said.

Betsy pulled a second chair away from the table and plopped in it, allowing her crutches to clatter to the ground. The dog ran up to her, barking and nuzzling at her uninjured leg at the same time.

"Oh, you poor dear," she said as she picked the animal up, put it in her lap and began to scratch it behind its ears. "You're an orphan now."

At that moment, a figure stepped through the door behind them. Betsy twisted and saw a man in a dark jacket standing there staring at them. The stranger scanned the room slowly, then turned suspicious eyes on Denis and Betsy.

"May I ask who you are?" One of the newcomer's eyebrows winged upward.

"Dr. Kunze sent us. I think we should be asking who you are?" Betsy countered.

"Adelard Gottschalk, Seaman Apprentice with the USE Navy."

Betsy wrinkled her forehead. "I thought Dr. Kunze said that he couldn't send a seaman. Are you part of the hospital staff?"

"I am not assigned to the hospital. I'm with Naval Criminal Investigative Service and was here to see Herr Radetzki on USE business."

"NCIS? You're like a navy detective." Betsy grinned. "Just like Sherlock Holmes on water, only real! I bet that would make a great addition to the story that we're working on. When this is all over with, can I interview you?"

Adelard looked to be no more than a year or two older than Denis, but he moved in the manner of someone who had complete confidence in his authority. He ignored Betsy's request. Instead he walked over to the body and stared down at it for a time, as if cataloging everything in front of him; then bent down to bring his eyes to the level of the table.

"Dr. Kunze sent us to check on him." Denis said to fill the awkward silence. "He was supposed to be delivering a shipment of honey today. Was he expecting you to visit?"

"That information is classified, I'm afraid." The weight of his gaze made Denis feel nervous.

Gottschalk reached over and carefully lifted the dead man's hand, the limp fingers drooping down in reaction. "I would estimate that he has been deceased less than three hours."

"Because rigor mortis hasn't set in?" Betsy asked.

"Correct. Plus the jars of honey for today's shipment are sealed," said the seaman, pointing over to the work bench that occupied the other end of the room.

There were nearly a dozen jars of wax-sealed honey sitting there next to a brazier, tripod and lumps of beeswax that were no doubt used to seal the jars for transport. On the floor was a box filled with identical wax-sealed jars. While there were several projects under way in the USE for manufacturing and marketing Kilner-style screw lids, they were still a long way from being widely available, so this was still the best way to protect the contents of a jar.

"I bet he got up early, which was probably his usual routine." Betsy ...