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“We might as well do me,” said Hazel. “She’ll probably creep out the front door and drive to town.” She took her position in the garden and stood turned one-quarter away from Greenlund. She’d decided against having her picture taken in uniform, as the Port Dundas Police Department already had an official photo for the station house, and it had been a while since a good likeness of her had been taken. If these turned out, she thought, each of her daughters could have one, and even her ex-husband, Andrew, might like one for his house. (She imagined it pi
This ensemble (total cost: $385) was just right. It had the kind of elegance she could plausibly display, and she was comfortable in it. Greenlund had her turn this way and that, coming close and then backing away, firing off pictures. “These are going to be heirlooms!” he exclaimed and then took two quick pictures of Hazel’s skeptical smile.
They were still playing with angles when Emily appeared at the back door, holding the phone at her side. She hadn’t changed her clothes. “It’s Melanie from the station house.”
Hazel took the phone. “What is it?” she said to her secretary (whose actual title was executive assistant).
“Have you heard about Henry Wiest?”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
“What?”
“He’s dead. He had a heart attack on the reserve.”
“Jesus. What time did this happen?”
“Midnight or thereabouts.”
“In Queesik Bay?”
“Right. Cathy Wiest phoned Jack Deacon. Someone on the band police called her at home and told her they had her husband in the hospital on the reserve. They didn’t tell her he was in the morgue until she got there. She agreed to let them do the autopsy.”
“Why didn’t she call anyone up here?”
“Isn’t Deacon her uncle?”
“Maybe. But … god! Dead?” Both her mother and the photographer swivelled their attention to her. “And what was he doing in Queesik Bay?”
“Skip, I don’t know!” said Cartwright. “Maybe he was going to the casino. But they found him in the parking lot of one of the smoke shops on the 26.”
Hazel stood with the phone to her ear, shaking her head.
“You there?” said Cartwright.
“I’m here.”
“Funeral’s Thursday. I expect the whole town will be at the service.”
“I bet,” said Hazel. “Okay, Melanie. Thanks for telling me.”
Hazel hung up and stared at the phone in her hand. “Henry Wiest is dead,” she said, like it was a question. “Had a heart attack. At a smoke shop on Queesik Bay Road.”
“Oh, poor Cathy,” said her mother. Henry and Cathy had been married for fifteen years and everyone in the two Kehoes – Gle
Hazel was retreating into the house. “We’ll have do this another day,” she said to Greenlund.
“I understand completely,” he said. “I wonder if my wife knows.” He put the lens cap on his camera and took out his phone.
The autopsy done on the reserve gave the cause of death as cardiac infarction brought on by extreme anaphylaxis. He’d been stung by a bee. That made it the second fatal sting of the summer. There had been news in May of a new strain in Ontario and Quebec and it’d been spotted for the first time in Westmuir in July. Every week now the papers had another story of kids stung on a camping trip or someone having a bad reaction to a sting in a village garden. All the local paramedic teams had tripled their stock of EpiPens and there were editorials on how to deal with the invaders and avoid their stings, from wearing shoes outdoors at all times to defensive soda drinking (“Keep the opening on your pop can covered at all times! Bees love sweet things and will crawl inside your sugary drink only to, possibly, sting you inside the mouth! Ouch!”).
The one death had occurred in Fort Leonard, in the middle of July – a camper on a portage had been stung repeatedly while carrying his canoe – and Wiest was the second. It was impossible to know if you might have an anaphylactic reaction to a bee sting. The problem with anaphylaxis was that you could receive six bee stings in your life (or eat a dozen peanuts, or wear latex gloves twenty times) before the deadly reaction kicked in. And, sometimes, a series of mild anaphylactic reactions would lead to a fatal one.
Henry Wiest owned the hardware store in Kehoe Gle
His wife, Cathy, owned Kehoe Gle
In the afternoon, people were going to pay their respects. Hazel went home first to change into civilian clothes and then continued on to Kehoe Gle
The house was already full of people – friends, relations, townsfolk – and Cathy’s employees had brought over a groaning board’s worth of food from the café. In a cynical part of herself, Hazel wondered how many of those who’d come to give their condolences hadn’t just come for the food.