Smokey Eyes Page 5

  You may find Digby to be a bit cantankerous. Put up with him. He’s the only beekeeper south of New York state who has been able to breed Italian Soprano bees. Bear in mind that he does not know what the honey is used for. Remember, only one Peroni lady at a time can know of the magical cream!

  Call Digby first. He hates surprise visits.

  His phone number is on the map.

  Love,

  Nonna

  After a dozen rings the beekeeper answered his phone. He was a man of few words and what he did say sounded like Sam Elliot in a bad mood.

  “I have bad news.” I introduced myself and then told him about Nonna’s passing. He was silent for so long I thought he might have hung up if not for the sound of the buzzing in the background.

  “Sorry to hear that. Ms. Peroni was a good lady. I’m gonna miss her.”

  He went silent again. Only the bees kept me on the line.

  “You still want the honey? Her order has been sitting here.”

  “I do. I can pick it up today.”

  “It’s just after four now. If you don’t hit traffic, you can be here before five. Do you know how to get to my farm?”

  “Nonna drew a map to your place.” I repeated the directions from the bottom of the sketch labeled Map to Secret Ingredients for Cold Cream.

  “Yup, that’s about right. Ya’ get lost, call me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Digby.”

  “Just Digby…” he muttered and hung up.

  Just Digby. Just Kal. Must be a Florida thing.

  With a quick change into blue cotton slacks and a matching top, I grabbed my purse, gave Puff a few more pats and cuddles and hit the road.

  Starfish Cove is not known for rush hour traffic but cutting through Tampa to get to Merryvale would be a mistake. All those tall office buildings would soon be shaking loose their workers like pepper from a grinder. They’d jump into their cars and begin their treks home. It could take three hours to get to Digby’s farm.

  Instead of Nonna’s map route, I headed south along the beaches, treating myself to the scenic route. The twin spires of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge came into view over the low-rise bungalows and condos.

  As I crested the high point of the bridge I felt as if I was flying, lifting higher and higher into the pale blue sky. The bridge offered a stunning view of the emerald green waters of Tampa Bay.

  Once on the other side of the bridge, I pulled onto a shoulder of the road and tried to set my GPS. According to the stubborn gadget Merryvale didn’t exist. I’d have to wing it.

  The scenery changed from single-family homes and gated communities to farmlands. After the eighth traffic-lit intersection in the middle of nowhere, it was time to pull over and study Nonna’s map.

  I rolled into a gas station lot that looked like a setting from a Roaring 20s gangster movie. The rusty metal sign over the pumps showed a flying red horse and a tilted orange sign read You Are Here!

  If I could determine where here was, I’d feel a lot better. I took out Nonna’s map. Unable to orient myself I read the last line of the directions.

  If you get to Fort Lonesome you’ve gone too far.

  Pulling close to the door, I stepped cautiously into the rickety old store.

  The woman behind the counter greeted me with a cheery southern accent. “Hi darlin’. What can I do you for?” She glanced past me taking in my car. “I suppose you’ll be needing gas. I’ll turn the pump on. We have a special on pickled hardboiled eggs today.” Her nametag read Nadine.

  Passing on the pickled eggs, but feeling guilty for not buying anything, I picked up a Chicken Dinner Candy Bar instead. I remembered seeing them in an article on extinct candies. This one had to be the last of its kind. The layer of dust put it at pre-1950s.

  “I’m trying to get to Merryvale.” I said.

  “Darlin’ you’re in Fort Lonesome. You’ve gone too far. What ya’ wanna do is go back to that there billboard with the cow on it. Remember that thing—ugly old cow? Turn down that dirt road for a piece and you’ll come to Merryvale.”

  I thanked her. “How much for the candy?”

  “A nickel.” She stuck out her hand.

  Nickels were almost as extinct as her selection of candy. All I could find in my bag was a quarter. I handed it to her. “Keep the change.”

  I slid back into my car, tossing the candy bar in the trash bag I kept for just such a purchase.

  Down the road a piece, I made a right at the ugly cow on the billboard, continued on the dirt road and arrived at Digby’s Bees at five-thirty.

  Surely he couldn’t be as surly as he sounded on the phone.

  Chapter 11

  The aroma of frying food was the last thing I expected as I pulled up to the small yellow farmhouse with black shutters.

  “You’re late!” A tall gent with mussed up gray hair stepped onto the small porch, the screen door creaking.

  He extended his hand. “Digby. You must be Olive. You look like your grandmother around the eyes. You got her smile, too.”

  I couldn’t help grinning. He was like a character from a western, wearing jeans, a cowboy shirt, and a ruffled apron.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall. I fried up a batch of spaghetti squash blossoms. Figured you’d be hungry.”

  Spaghetti squash blossoms? Never heard of them but it was kind of Digby to go to the effort. It was best not to offend the beekeeper. I needed him and his special bees if I was going be a success in the cold cream business.

  The carpeted hall leading to the bathroom was short and bee-dazzled. Every inch of wall space was covered with bumblebees—in needlepoint, oil, and watercolors.

  The bathroom reminded me of a Cracker Barrel gift shop. Bees and flowers lent their air to every surface. There was even a black and yellow soap dish containing a bee-shaped bar of soap, hand-towels and a crocheted tissue box cover with tiny bee appliques. Digby was into bees.

  I washed my hands, dried them on a small white towel with embroidered buzzing bees along the border. Stepping out into the hall, I walked gingerly toward the smell. It had to be the kitchen.

  “Have a seat,” Digby said as he gallantly pulled out a chair from under the round maple table. He placed a platter of golden orange-yellow somethings on a hot pad in the center. “Isabella would always say these are just like they make in Italy.”

  He stared at me. The expression on my face must have shown my puzzlement. “These are pan-fried spaghetti squash blossoms. Your grandmother never made these for you? She told me they’re an Italian dish.”

  “They must have been something special that she shared only with you.” It was a stretch to imagine my designer clothed grandmother visiting this tchotchke haven.

  The beekeeper smiled as he settled into a chair opposite me. “When I set up the hives for Isabella’s bees, the little fellers needed nectar from a special flower. Bees have an incredible sense of smell. Italian bees are drawn to the blossoms on spaghetti squash. I planted a field of squash just for the Sopranos.”

  Using a spatula, Digby scooped two large blossoms from the platter and laid them on my plate.

  I picked at the delicate petal, which was deliciously crispy. “No wonder my grandmother enjoyed your honey. It came with these yummy extras.”

  “You do remind me of Isabella. She didn’t suffer at the end, did she?” His eyes moistened.

  “She passed quickly.”

  We locked eyes neither of us speaking for a minute.

  I broke the silence. “I’m so glad she left me with a way to contact you. I’d like it if we could be friends. More than beekeeper and customer. How about uncle and niece?”

  He laughed as he took a blossom on his plate. “That’s sounds fine with me. I’ve got no family. Having an Italian niece would be just hunky dory.”

  “How did you come to replicate Nonna’s honey? If I understand correctly you breed bees that are kin to the bees from my grandmother’s village in Italy?”

  “Here’s how Isabella would t
ell the tale, and I’m sure it’s true. She smuggled the first sleeping bees from Italy to New York via a special bonnet she had constructed. Smoke puts honeybees to sleep, doncha’ know. Doesn’t hurt ‘em—just sends them into a sort of hibernation.”

  He demonstrated a large imaginary hat on his head. “She carried a small bellow in her pocketbook. The clever thing pumped smoke from her cigarette up to the hat. Kept the bees calm all the way to New York.” He burst out laughing. “Isabella was a corker! She’s come up with more crazy inventions than Thomas Edison!”

  He laughed so hard he began to choke. After a swig of water, he was back to his tale.

  “Isabella was set with a beekeeper in upstate New York. When she moved to Florida, she left her hives up north. Just brought a queen and a bunch of worker bees. Somehow, she found me and we set up our little system. She never would tell me what she used the honey for. I’m guessing some sort of cake or cookies?”

  I dodged his question by tucking into the second blossom. I glanced around the cheery little kitchen. A delightful picture of the friendship between Nonna and Digby materialized.

  “Ya’ know I could never sell this Italian honey to anyone except you. Isabella made me promise.” He blotted his mouth with a paper napkin. “She was a smart lady. She told me one day you would come for the honey. I never thought it would be without her. Watcha’ gonna bake?”

  “I’m not that much of a baker but I’ve got Nonna’s recipes and that’s a start.”

  “If you ever want a tester—I’ll be here.” He glanced out the window. “Gotta have you back on the road before it gets dark. Next time you come I’ll introduce you to your grandmother’s bees. Meantime, take some spaghetti blossoms with you.”

  While Digby placed fried blossoms in a Tupperware container, I studied the pictures taped to his refrigerator door.

  A snapshot of him decked out in his beekeeper’s gear complete with the netted hat was pinned under a plastic picture of a hive. Next to it clipped under a heart-shaped magnet was a picture of Nonna. The photo showed a lady in her fifties, dark hair, and green eyes. She was sitting on a fence waving at the camera.

  This little house of bees must have been my grandmother’s happy place. Everybody needs a secret place where they can store their bliss. A hive of happiness.

  Digby walked me to my car, opened the door and helped me in. He handed me the Tupperware containing the fried blossoms, then walked around to the passenger door. He placed a cardboard box on the front floor. It held a quart-sized Mason jar of honey wrapped in plastic.

  “Don’t want that thing spilling in your car. You’d never get rid of the ants.”

  I started the engine and rolled down my window.

  “Thank you. This has been really nice!”

  “Ditto. Not every day I get me a niece!” He banged the top of the car door. “Drive safe!”

  As I bounced down the rocky road, I realized how very much I didn’t know about my grandmother. She had more than one secret. How many would I discover as time went on?

  Thinking of time, I popped down the visor and looked at myself in the mirror. Would I have enough time and energy to whip up a batch of the magical cream tonight or could the shop go one day longer without it?

  By the time I got home, I had just enough strength to put the honey on the counter and the Tupperware in the refrigerator. One more day of miracle rather than magical cream couldn’t hurt—could it?

  I fed Puff a small can of turkey pate. While my sweet kitty ate, I stepped in the shower. Holding a washcloth to my face I took care not to get splashed.

  After I toweled off, I slipped on my softest pajamas and crawled into bed. Puff joined me. I was sound asleep before I had time to worry about tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  The sound of squawking gulls arguing over sea pickings floated through the open window of my bedroom. Morning had arrived in all its face-splashing glory. Today was the day Lizzy would learn that you couldn’t teach a Peroni woman to swim. It wasn’t a case of being obstinate it was a fact.

  I resisted getting up and allowed the soft purring near my ear to send me back to sleep. Down. Down. Down. I dove back into dreamland swimming through turquoise water with my lashes bent into my eyes and my breath labored. In my dream I was rescuing Lizzy who struggled with a dark hairy sea monster. The harder I paddled the thicker the water became until I couldn’t breathe.

  With a gasp I pulled off my satin sleep mask. Puff rubbed against my cheek, her fur carried the warm kitty smell I loved. I kissed her nose.

  “Wow. That was some nightmare. I’m glad you woke me up. Not sure I could have saved Lizzy.” I dabbed at my face to dry the dream water and rolled over to see the sun needling me. Not one chance in a hundred that it would rain today. I was doomed to get my face wet and make a fool out of myself in The Billows pool.

  My plans for the day were set—survive swimming lesson, solve murder, and possibly save historic hotel. Piece of cake! Which reminded me I was hungry.

  A slice of non-dairy cheesecake and a banana served as my light breakfast. One shouldn’t swim on a full stomach. Just thinking of swimming caused me to choke on a chunk of banana.

  I put the container of honey at the back of a pantry shelf. It looked innocent enough.

  After changing Puff’s litter pan, I filled her ceramic kitty dishes with water and dry food. She’d be set until I returned. I wondered what she did all day besides nap. Did she think of me and imagine what I might be doing?

  I pulled my bathing suit out of the rarely used drawer and stretched the wrinkles out of it. The poor thing hardly saw any action. I was an air person. I loved to fly. I piloted hot air balloons and skydived—but the idea of getting my face wet—fuhgeddaboudit.

  Standing on the condo balcony, I took a few calming breaths. I can do this. No big deal. If Heather can swim, I can too. My eyes rolled back in my head. How many times had I heckled myself this way?

  My pale green tank suit was a bit outdated, but still fit and flattered. I threw on a floral print shift that would double as a beach dress, gave Puff a final squeeze, and set out to get my face wet.

  It was just past nine when I pulled into the vacant guest parking lot at The Billows. I’d heard the Gatsby-era hotel was faltering. Like a grand old lady, she’d run her course.

  I arrived early to make friends with the water before Lizzy and Heather dragged me in. I grabbed my beach bag with towel and entered the manmade grotto alongside the pool.

  The faux cavern was constructed of real boulders, not the theme park kind. It formed a tunneled walkway along one side of pool and joined up with the boulders that offered a shelter for swimmers. The design shaped an arch from the walkway into the water creating a darkened cave at one end. No doubt a lot of teenaged and should-have-known-better adult canoodling filled the cavern with suppressed giggles and moans throughout its history.

  I slipped off my flip-flops and barefooted my way along the edge of the pool.

  No dead frogs floating—check! No knife-wielding killers in the shadows—check! No TV camera crew—check!

  A rickety sliding board graced the beach end of the pool. I wandered over, intending to sit on the steps that led to the top of the slide. Aside from the pesky gulls, the place was silent. I had the feeling I was being watched. I glanced back at the hotel but didn’t see anyone.

  One touch of the sliding board stairs gave me the shivers. The steps were too gritty to park my butt on. Instead I grabbed the handrail and leaned against it. I gazed at the hotel in all its antique glory.

  A five-story white wood-sided structure with emerald green trim, The Billows was a thing of bygone beauty. Huge windows, some backed by Tiffany glass on the inside, mirrored the morning light. An exterior white metal stairway zig-zagged up one side to the roof, a hundred-year-old fire escape. The last of the great wooden hotels, it had survived countless hurricanes, heat and bugs. But now it was a neglected granny of a building.

  “Olive?”

 
“Kathy! You startled me. I was just admiring your hotel.”

  She looked so vulnerable in her tan shorts and green polo shirt with The Billows’ logo on the pocket. Her blonde hair was done up in a ponytail. She wore no makeup and could have passed for a child.

  “Poor old thing,” she said, nodding toward the structure.

  “Not to pry, but I understand your business is off.”

  “Off is an understatement. It’s as if a curse fell on the grand old gal the day I took over. The Billows has been in the Angel family since it was built. My great, great, grandfather had it constructed from native Florida pine in the late 1800’s.”

  “It is a shame. You would think with the craze for nostalgia you would be turning guests away.”

  She looked as if she was about to cry.

  Tears always get to me. “Maybe I can help.” I patted her arm.

  Kathy shook her head. “Not much to help. The city council retroactively applied building codes that require impossible renovations. Even if the hotel was as busy as The Brent, I could never afford to make the changes.”

  “Brent Toast has a hotel?”

  “That man has or had everything!” she retorted. “He’s going to take his greed to the grave with him. The only thing he didn’t have were rodents. I’ve got the market cornered on rats. They came from nowhere and began breeding like bunnies. The estimates from the pest control people are more than what’s left in my father’s small estate.”

  She nibbled on her thumbnail. “Last month was the capper to a horrible season. Have you heard about our new un-paying guest?”

  “Why un-paying?”

  “He’s a ghost. I’m terrified of ghosts—had nightmares about them chasing me when I was child. My father would tease me and pretend to be a ghost. I never got over it.”

  I watched her expression to see if she smiled. The poor thing merely shivered.

  “A young couple from Vermont came here on their honeymoon. A ghost dressed in pirate clothes walked in on them at a most inappropriate time. Not that there is an appropriate time for a spectral visitor. But they went screaming down the road. They posted horrible reviews all over the internet.”