Page 16 of Demon and the Raven

I shrugged.

“No?”

“To be fair, not everyone believes.”

“Yes, but Mrs. Colman has always purported to see ghosts.”

“Purported?” Lord how I hated that word. Lorne had used it on me when we first met. Somehow, no matter what, it got under my skin.

“You know what I meant. I think she might have heard echoes of spirits in the past, seen things she perhaps wasn’t sure of, but that’s a far cry from where she is now.”

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Before, in town, certain things could be explained away. But out there on the moor,” I said, enunciating the word for his benefit, “there’s no mistaking what she’s looking at.”

“Precisely.”

“But there’s nothing bad out there in the dark, merely souls looking to move on.”

“And drawn to the energy of the living,” he added.

It was nice to have a priest who believed in ghosts. That had not always been the case before Father Dennis came to town. There had been many intolerant, bigoted church leaders at one time or another in Osprey. I was thankful that he, along with the rabbi and the abbot, had never made any of their flocks feel anything but welcome, and they were all very open about their beliefs in the spirit world and unseen things.

After a moment, I realized he was walking at a good clip. His height gave him the advantage, and I had to break into a near jog to keep up. “Are we in a rush?”

“I just want to get to the carnival.”

“Because of the churros?” I goaded him.

“You’re annoying. I’m glad you don’t come to service.”

I gasped. Loudly. Dramatically.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you must know, I simply want to head off a possible situation.”

“Which is what?”

He stopped as we reached the chain-link fence surrounding the high school. “I’m concerned Diana Flint might attack Troy Johnson’s stall.”

“Why?” I asked, gesturing for him to start walking. “What did Troy supposedly do to her?”

“Not just her.”

I groaned. “Tell me.”

“Well, apparently, she believes, as does Ken Slater, that Troy killed their bees.”

Diana was a pill about the fact that her apiary should have been the biggest and best in Osprey. Countless times she’d tried to get my friend and neighbor Troy Johnson’s honey taken off the shelves at the local store. But instead of fighting with her, Troy had opened his own store, selling honey with every added natural flavor one could conjure, as well as candles in every shape and size. He also sold tea and simmer pot mixes. It had been a hit the moment he opened his doors, deservedly so, and now, with the influx of tourists, his business was not only booming, but profits were through the roof. Conversely, Diana’s honey sat on the shelf, collecting dust.

It made sense. Troy made a superior product, was committed to sustainability, and his colony was thriving.

“She’s upset because of Troy’s success, you mean?” I rolled my eyes. “That’s not new.”

“No, no, quite literally—her bees, along with Mr. Slater’s colony, have all died.”

“Died?”

He nodded. “Mr. Aguirre—he cares for the Flint apiary—told me they had an entomologist, or a melittologist, I don’t remember which, come out from the university, and she reported that it looked as though the bees were poisoned, but she had no idea by what.”

“Yeah, but what would that have to do with Troy? He loves bees. He would never hurt anyone’s hives.”