Free Moving Is Murder by Sara Rosett Page B

someone who weighs twelve pounds generate three loads of laundry? Upstairs, I heard the gentle splash of water and the murmurs of Mitch’s onesided conversation with Livvy as he bathed her. I closed the washing machine lid and looked at the cabinets without seeing them. The supper dishes were done and I’d started the laundry more to keep busy than anything else. I couldn’t seem to focus on anything tonight. Despite Colonel Witson’s apparent lack of interest, two Security Police officers arrived at our house shortly after I returned from the base. They left with the van and my hand vacuum, so Witson was more interested than he let on. Although I didn’t like his attitude, he seemed to be following up on what I had found.
    I felt a surge of anger and shook my head at myself. My time-delayed anger, which I experienced over and over again, didn’t do me any good. I wished I’d spoken up and defended myself instead of being embarrassed.
    I couldn’t do anything about that now, but I could do a little research. I climbed the stairs from our basement garage/laundry room. In our bedroom, I punchedon the computer. It was too big for the secretary desk that my dad had made, so the computer was squished into our already crowded bedroom on a tiny pressboard desk. While the computer whirred through its warm-up routine, I plucked a chocolate Kiss out of the dish on the desk. Chocolate helps you think, I’d told Mitch. It was logical to have Hershey Kisses beside the computer. I logged on to the Internet and searched for information on bees.
    Even though Witson had the van at the base, there was no guarantee he would do anything. Cass had died an awful, untimely death and whoever planned it was getting away with it.
    The confrontation between Cass and Jeff worried me. That scene combined with Jeff’s knowledge of bees really worried me. I chewed the inside of my lip. Did I want to do this? I scooted the chair closer to the computer. The truth had to be better than not knowing.
    After pointing and clicking my way around a few sites, I found several color pictures on a university education site and realized I had seen wasps, not bees. Wasps! I felt a little better. But if you know how to handle bees, you’d probably know how to handle wasps, too. I scanned the text. Yellow jackets are fairly aggressive wasps, especially if their nest is disturbed. If the hive is crushed it will provoke a fierce response, with wasps stinging repeatedly, instead of only once, as in the case of bees.
    I scrolled down and clicked on the heading “Allergic Reactions.” It described the symptoms of a reaction. If the reaction was severe, death could occur within half an hour, but sometimes within five minutes.
    I bookmarked the sight and continued exploring the other hits. The emergency room on-base had closedlast year. That info was part of Mitch’s in-processing brief and he’d told me, so I’d know in case I ever had to get Livvy help when we were on the base. The nearest hospital was at least fifteen to twenty minutes away. I shivered, thinking of Cass. Even if she had been stung in the parking lot with people around, she might not have reached a hospital in time to help her. Whoever had placed the wasps in her car must have known it would be difficult for her to get to a hospital or emergency room.
    But where was her EpiPen? Had it been in the car and she was too overwhelmed to find it and use it? I’d ask Joe when he called again. I wondered if the police would call him and ask about the wasps and the EpiPen.
    I left the computer and went outside. Mitch joined me in the backyard a few minutes later. He carried Livvy. He’d dressed her in her pajamas dotted with violets. She grinned and gurgled at me. I kissed her fuzzy head and inhaled the scent of baby powder and lotion. “Are you feeling better?” I asked her.
    She punched out her legs in a kick for an answer.
    “What are you doing out here?” Mitch asked.
    “See that?” I pointed