Plan Bee Read Free

struck the stained-glass etchings on the upper part of my store. It had been a church before the congregation outgrew it and built a larger space on the outskirts of town. I’d converted the building into a grocery store, specializing in local produces and products—cheeses, wines, bakery items, flowers, fresh fruits and vegetables, and a long list of seasonal items.
    The exterior was exactly as it had been back then, except for the addition of a blue awning with The Wild Clover name imprinted on it and some colorful Adirondack chairs out front that I’d painted myself. It even had the old bell tower—not that we rang it these days—and a cemetery on the far side, where a whole lot of Lutherans rested in peace.
    As to the confrontation with our police chief, Mom was sort of right. The physical fight with Johnny Jay had beencaptured on film, and she wasn’t about to let me forget it. Ever. Not that the altercation was my fault in any way. Johnny Jay really dislikes me, and he doesn’t try to hide how he’s always gunning for me.
    Believe me, the feeling is mutual. He was a big bully as a boy. Now he’s a big bully adult.
    “There isn’t any crime wave committee,” I informed Carrie Ann. “Mom just made that up so you would tell me exactly what you just told me. Another shot across my bow.”
    “I really believed her,” Carrie Ann said, heading toward our outdoor booth where she would sell honey products and other items from the store for the duration of the festival. “Don’t tell me your mother’s starting to make up stories, too?”
    I grimaced at the reference to the history behind my nickname. Melissa is my real name, but somewhere way back I became Story due to an innate ability to reshape the truth. Those days of tall tales are behind me, and most of my friends, family, and acquaintances have forgotten the “story” behind the nickname. Except one or two. Like Carrie Ann. And my mother.
    Sometimes when I’m the most frustrated, I feel like my mother doesn’t have a single redeeming quality. But Mom has a lot of friends, so I have to imagine that she has a kind and generous side. Just one she hasn’t revealed to me. My younger sister Holly must see it, because she and Mom get along just fine. Though that might be because Holly doesn’t have a spine when it comes to dealing with Mom; she just lets Mom take control of whatever she wants.
    One thing I will say about our mother—she isn’t into gossiping. She doesn’t start rumors, and she doesn’t spread them. And believe me, there’s plenty of muck going around in a town this small and intimate. But on the other hand, she believes most of the gossip she hears, no matter how salacious, especially when it pertains to me.
    Just as I was about to duck inside the store, my grandmotherpulled up in her Cadillac Fleetwood, with Holly, looking terrified, in the passenger seat. Even though Grams is a hazard on the road, nobody is going to pry her out of the driver’s seat until she decides to leave this earth, which isn’t likely to happen anytime soon. At her last physical, the doctor said she’d be good until at least a hundred.
    I moved closer to the building in case Grams jumped the curb.
    She didn’t. But I heard the Caddy’s front bumper kiss the parked car in front of it.
    “Back up a few inches,” I called out, and she did. Good thing there wasn’t a car behind her or that one would have been an innocent victim, too.
    Holly slid out looking all sleek, with a new hairstyle that wrapped around her face à la Marilyn Monroe. My sister may dress just like the rest of us—in shorts, sandals, sleeveless summer tops—but she carries an air of wealth around with her that is only achievable with real bucks. That’s because she’s filthy rich, having married Max the Money Machine, and her clothes cost five times as much as mine or anybody else’s in Moraine.
    But a hefty price came with her financial freedom—for me, that is. Holly’s husband