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that?”
    “Believe me, this dinner isn’t news.”
    “With my ability to add spin, I could make it a headliner.”
    That wasn’t far from the truth. Patti definitely has a knack for bringing out the very worst in people. She also tended to create problems for anybody in close proximity to her. Which is usually me.
    “You can’t come,” I said. “And that’s final.”
    Patti, with a pout on her face, said, “Have you seen my water bottle? Is it in your office? I can’t remember where I left it.”
    I glanced at the empty holster on her belt.
    The latest addition to her arsenal was a personalized water bottle in a holster.
    She’d ordered it online, with custom inscription that read “Stalkers Have Rights, Too” on one side and “I’m Watching You” on the other.
    Who in their right mind supports stalking?
    “You’d be surprised how dehydrated I can get when I’m following a story and a source,” she’d said when the water bottle had first arrived. “This puppy goes in like this, and”—she’d strapped the holster around her waist, tucked in her new bottle, and put her arms in the air as if she had a gun aimed at her—“hands-free water!”
    “Cool,” I’d said at the time, one of those complimentary sort of fibs that I’m always struggling with, same as with the positive feedback I’d given her about the dragon tattoo.
    “I haven’t seen it,” I told her now, thinking to myself that it could stay lost for all I cared.
    Then I noticed the time. Max and his guests would be at my house very soon, wanting a tour of the beeyard.
    “I have to run,” I said.
    “Where are you going?” Patti called out behind me. I pretended not to hear her.
    A mistake, I know, because all she did was follow me, and popped up later where she shouldn’t have popped up.

Five

    Max called my cell phone to tell me they were run ning late, but that was after I’d already left the store for home. So I had extra time to go a few rounds with Lori Spandle, our local real estate agent and my archenemy. She was standing in the driveway of the house next to mine. Not Patti’s driveway, but the one on the other side, where my ex-husband Clay used to live after we separated.
    Technically, Clay still owns it, since by the time he gave up on the concept of “us” and left town, the housing bubble had burst. His house has lingered on the market ever since.
    “What are you up to?” I asked Lori, hoping she had a decent buyer on the line.
    Lori has a face like a pumpkin (round and orangish), and a personality like an invasive weed, i.e. obnoxious. She’s been known to play around on her husband, our town chairman, a fact I learned when she slept with mine. We’ve been butting heads since grade school, and she’s less than thrilled that I know about her cheating ways. You would think she’d treat me with more respect considering what I know. I tell you, this town is barely big enough for both of us.
    “Since I can’t sell this place because of you and those damn bees,” she said. “I’m going to have to rent it out.”
    “Again?”
    Last time she’d done that there had been hell to pay. But that’s a whole other story.
    “This time I checked references,” she said, snooty as ever.
    Lori seemed way too pleased with herself. She was plotting something against me, that was for sure.
    A casual observer, who doesn’t know all the residents of this town as well as I do, might think I have an extreme case of people paranoia. But I know exactly what everybody in Moraine is capable of, and running the store has given me even more insight—some of it downright scary. One thing I’ve realized is this: Every single one of us has razor-sharp retractable claws. We go about our lives with them mostly sheathed. But it’s only a matter of time before something happens to set one of us off, and we’re ready to scratch somebody else’s eyes out.
    If Lori was grinning at me, she had just filed her nails into deadly