Chapter 1
Chapter One
Mel focused on the wisps of steam curling up from her espresso.
Breathe in, breathe out. She gripped the pendant around her neck, rubbing the peach moonstone between her fingers.
In. Out. She was tempted to ask the waiter to add some amaretto to her drink.
She needed something to dissipate the overwhelming sense of dread the Italian scientist had carried into their all too brief meeting.
“Mel?” Lance’s voice jerked her attention back to her cell phone.
“Sorry. I was thinking about what happened,” she said.
“Sounds like Dr. Ricci was nervous?”
“He was terrified. I hardly got anything out of him.”
“Nothing?” She could hear the frustration in Lance’s tone. “After you flew all the way to Milan? Nothing?”
“I know. Believe me, I used every journalistic trick in the book, and a few non-journalistic ones. I tried businesslike. I tried firm. I tried sweet. I tried begging. And you know how I hate to beg,” she said.
“What about flirting?” he said, laughter in his voice. “That works sometimes.”
“Not with this guy. Nothing worked.” Not even my other tricks. “He was looking over his shoulder and sweating like he was afraid he was being followed. I half expected a red laser dot to show up on his forehead, followed by a gunshot.”
“Which means there is a story. Damn.”
“Absolutely. But he was too afraid to tell it to me.” She took another slow breath. “I’m amazed he even showed up, he was so jumpy.”
“Did he tell you why? I mean, he said it was about some new virus, right? Who would care that much about a bee virus?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. Half the time he talked about his daughter’s wedding, the rest was about how they were making headway on CBPV—Chronic Bee Paralysis Virus, but nothing about this new virus that spooked him.
And I already knew about his work on CBPV.
I took some notes, but…it was seriously weird. ”
Lance was silent, presumably to consider this piece of information.
“I did my best to calm him down. Distract him.” And that was saying something, considering that the feeling of impending doom had nearly overwhelmed her.
Mel poked at the origami frog that she had folded in her attempt to calm Dr. Ricci. It jumped, causing someone at a nearby table to point and exclaim, “Ehi, guarda!”
The tabletop was full of origami creations—a flower, two frogs, a dragon, three different birds and five honeybees.
At first, the origami seemed to help with the skittish doctor.
Her skill at folding paper could always be counted on to enchant even the most distracted children and adults. But the honeybees weren’t hers.
Halfway into their conversation, Dr. Ricci had pulled several pieces of paper out of his briefcase and folded them into honeybees, then colored them with a yellow highlighter and black pen.
His bees were much simpler than her models, but he insisted on folding them for her, telling her, in his halting English, that his daughter had taught him the design a long time ago.
That had been when he pulled out a photograph of a pretty young lady and informed Mel that his Anna had just gotten married and was expecting.
The whole conversation had been very strained and odd.
Now she had five origami bees in her little café menagerie and nothing to show for her efforts.
“Damn. We’ve sunk a lot into this for no story. No new bee virus… Not that I want a new bee virus.”
“Of course, but if there is a new virus out there, beekeepers need to know about it. The USDA needs to know about it.” She sighed. “Still, even for a new virus, I don’t understand the urgency. He could have told me about it over the phone. Why did he want a face-to-face?”
“I heard the voicemail. It did sound like he had something big,” Lance said. “Like he was handing you a prize-winning story or something.”
“Well, he was upset about something,” Mel said. “And he has the credentials and the credibility—”
“A whistleblower only matters if he actually blows his whistle.”
“Yes, but I’m really—”
“Forget it. You’ll get him next time,” Lance said. “Right now, I’ve got another lead. Maybe we can still salvage this trip for you.”
Mel took a deep breath and stroked her pendant again.
How easily Lance could move on. Even after she’d gotten over the dark mood he’d left behind, Dr. Ricci’s sweaty, pinched face still haunted her.
She took a slow sip of her espresso. “All right, but it better not involve another paranoid scientist.”
“Well, he’s a bit publicity shy, which is what makes this such an interesting opportunity. And he is a scientist.”
“Lance…” she warned.
“Hey, you didn’t hear the perks. Tall, dark, handsome. Lots of hair. A bit on the skinny side though.”
“Does Mike know you’re lusting after other guys?”
Lance laughed. “His career is lusting after other guys.” Lance’s partner was a charming personal trainer. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll turn out to be straight and single.”
Mel felt a brief pang of envy and guilt. Lance persisted in trying to make everyone in the world was as happy as he was. “Does this paragon of male magnetism have a name? A story? A centerfold in New Scientist? What are we after here, a story or his phone number?”
“My dear Mel, we are after the scoop about his deal with Meyer Agro-Chemical.”
She sat up a little straighter. Meyer had been an arch-nemesis of hers for some time, and Lance knew it.
The multinational corporation had a habit, more like a strategy, of awarding huge grants to scientists and institutions as a means to eliminate expert witnesses and dampen criticism of their products and practices.
They managed to track down a source she had been developing for field test information on their herbicide-resistant wheat and had shut him down with a hefty promotion and relocation to France.
There was a mob-like code of silence with these people, but no shallow graves—unless you counted burying people in money.
“I’m listening.”
She could sense Lance’s smug smile from across the ocean. “I thought you might. His name is Dr. Daniel Woodruff, and he’s a big critic of one of Meyer’s insecticides. I am crap at those scientific names, but it’s the one they sell as Sustain and a bunch of other—”
“I know it. The one killing the bees.” She picked up an origami honeybee thoughtfully.
“The one allegedly killing the bees,” Lance clarified. “Dr. Woodruff has been pretty vocal about Meyer’s role in this whole colony collapse revolution thing.”
“Disorder. Colony collapse disorder. CCD,” Mel said. “CCR is a band.” Lance was an astute editor and newshound, but his grasp of the technical side of environmental science was a bit lacking.
“Right. But whenever anyone calls it CCD, I think of my Catholic upbringing and have disturbing flashbacks,” Lance quipped.
“Anyway, Woodruff’s been studying the impact of Meyer’s insecticide on the bees.
Apparently, the results aren’t so good for Meyer, who have their own bought-and-paid-for scientists saying that the whole thing is a combination of environmental stress, naturally occurring parasites, and some virus which, well, they just happen to have the treatment for. ”
Mel finished the rest of her espresso. “Sounds like their usual angle.”
“Well, this Woodruff guy isn’t having any of it. He says his research shows that the Meyer insecticide weakens the bees’ nervous systems—takes away their ability to do those dances they do when they find honey and stuff.”
“They don’t find honey, Lance,” Mel corrected. “They find nectar which they use to make honey.”
“And that is why you are the intrepid environmental freelancer and I am a mere mortal who only has the power to decide whether or not to pay for your stories.”
“Touché. But it sounds like this is all on the record. Where’s the story?”
“Rumor is that Meyer is dangling a huge grant in front of Dr. Woodruff involving some weird theory on the…resistance of feral bee hives to CCD because of natural comb and varying cell size. Whatever that means,” Lance replied, clearly reading from something.
“So, trying to buy him off.” Mel waved at the waiter, pointing to her cup. “Un altro, per favore?”
“What?” asked Lance.
“Getting another cup of coffee.”
“How many languages do you know again?”
“I know how to say ‘I will die without another cup of coffee’ in about six,” she said. “So, you were saying?”
“Right. Here’s where it gets good. Dr. Woodruff really doesn’t need their money.”
“You think he’s going to turn Meyer down cold and live to tell the tale?”
“Exactly!”
“I feel like I’ve heard of this Dr. Woodruff before. Should I have?” Mel asked.
“Not sure. Like I said, he’s publicity shy.
Although he seems to be well respected in the beekeeping business.
They call him ‘the bee whisperer,’ if you can believe it.
” Lance stopped. Mel could hear him tapping away at the keyboard.
“Teaches undergrads at Blount University, but he’s been on personal leave since his grandfather passed away last year—doing his own research on the bee problem in various countries, guest lectures at universities and institutes, that kind of thing.
I sent you an email with some info on him. ”
Mel finally remembered where she had heard the name. “Wait a minute. A Woodruff who isn’t interested in Meyer’s money? He’s not related to—?”
“Yep. Son of Marshall Woodruff, CEO of Hartford Pharmaceuticals.”
“Whoa. That puts a spin on things,” Mel said.
“The son of Marshall Woodruff is a rebel beekeeper?” In addition to running the multinational pharmaceutical company owned by his wife’s family, Marshall Woodruff was a powerful voice for the pharmaceutical industry domestically and internationally, and not known to be an avid environmentalist. Quite the opposite.
“Heh. I knew you’d like that part,” Lance said.