Mostly Magic

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Mel focused on the wisps of steam curling up from her espresso and drifting away across the other tables. Breathe in, breathe out. She gripped the pendant around her neck, rubbing the peach moonstone between her fingers. Breathe in, breathe 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 German scientist had brought to their meeting.

“Mel?” Lance’s voice jerked her attention back to her cell phone.

“Sorry. I was thinking about what happened,” she said. “Basically, Dr. Drachan was terrified. Between that and his accent, I hardly got anything out of him at all.”

“Nothing?” She could hear the frustration in Lance’s voice. “After you flew all the way to Milan? After he came all that way from Hamburg? Nothing?”

“I know. Believe me, I used all the journalistic tools at my command, and a few very nonjournalistic ones. I tried businesslike. I tried firm. I tried sweet. I tried pleading. I even tried seductive. And you know how I hate seductive. Nothing worked.” Not even my other tools. “The man traveled all the way down here, and I suspect he changed trains and backtracked a few times, but he was still looking over his shoulder and sweating.”

“Which means there is a story. Damn.”

“Yes, that much was apparent. But he was too afraid to tell it to me.” She took another slow breath. “I’m amazed that he even showed up, he was so jumpy.”

“Did he tell you why? Was he afraid someone at Fuchs-Vogler had followed him?”

“Lance, he didn’t tell me anything. Half the time he talked about his daughter’s wedding, the rest he was spouting corporate talking points you’d hear at any press conference. It was obvious he was horribly afraid of something.”

Lance was silent, presumably to consider this piece of information.

“I did my best to calm him down and distract him.” And that was saying something, considering that the feeling of impending doom had nearly overwhelmed her and left her feeling a bit sick.

Mel poked at the origami frog that she had folded in her attempt to calm Dr. Drachan. It jumped, causing someone at a nearby table to point and exclaim, “Ehi, guarda!” Her café tabletop was full of origami creations—a flower, two of the frogs, a dragon, three different birds and five yellow-striped honeybees. Her swift folding of paper into various creatures could always be counted on to enchant even the most distracted children and adults. But the honeybees weren’t in her usual repertoire.

At first, it seemed to work. Dr. Drachan pulled several pieces of paper out of his briefcase, quickly folding honeybees and coloring them for her with a yellow highlighter and black pen. His bees were much simpler than her usual models, but he insisted on folding them for her, telling her, in his halting English, that it was appropriate since she was “wishing to know about the honey”. Apparently 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.

The entire conversation had been very strained and odd.

Now she had five origami bees but no story.

“The whole honey-adulterated-with-antibiotics thing is old news. Most folks don’t understand why that is a bad thing. ‘Free antibiotics in your cereal! What could be better?’” Lance was good at sarcasm. “But you said Dr. Drachan implied that he had something big. Something the average reader would understand. We need something new on this story. It’s not fresh enough. I mean, everyone is reduced to rehashing old details while the thing crawls through the courts, but what is Fuchs-Vogler doing to clean up their act over there? How are they ensuring no more contaminated honey gets past their lab tests?”

“Maybe you should call your friend at the FDA and get the Feds on this. If Dr. Drachan’s as frightened as he seems, this is bigger than the magazine getting a scoop.”

Lance sighed. “I doubt they would pay attention. With all the bad press and scrutiny, they’d probably think it was just echoes of the same story and put it on the back burner.”

“Dr. Drachan is upset about something,” Mel argued. “He has the credentials and the credibility—”

“A whistleblower only matters if he actually blows his whistle.”

“Yes, but I really—”

“Forget it. You’ll get him next time,” Lance said. “I’ve got another lead. Maybe we can help salvage this trip for you.”

Mel took a deep breath and stroked her pendant again. How easily Lance could move on. Even after she got over the dark mood he’d left behind, Dr. Drachan’s sweaty, pinched face haunted her. “All right, but it better not involve another paranoid scientist.” She took a slow sip of her espresso.

“Well, he is a bit publicity shy, which is why this is such a cool opportunity. And he is a scientist.”

“Lance,” she warned.

“Hey, you didn’t hear the perks—he’s tall, dark and handsome. Lots of hair. But a bit on the skinny side for me.”

“Does Mike know you’re lusting after other guys?” she chided.

“His career is lusting after other guys.” Lance laughed. He was happily ensconced in a relationship with a gorgeous personal trainer. “Sadly, this fellow is straight. But he is single.”

Mel felt a brief pang of envy. Lance persisted in trying to ensure that 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, 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 archnemesis of hers for some time now, 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. Meyer had managed to track down a source she had been developing for field test information on their genetically engineered sugarcane 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 said calmly.

She could sense Lance’s smug smile. “I thought you would be. 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 oth—”

“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 on some aspects of environmental science was a bit lacking.

“Right. But whenever anyone calls it CCD, I think of my Catholic upbringing and shudder,” Lance quipped. “Anyway, he’s been studying the impacts 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 for which, voilà, they opportunely happen to have the treatment.”

“Sounds like their usual angle,” Mel agreed and drank down the rest of her espresso.

“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. They make it,” Mel corrected.

“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.”

“Point taken. 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 all that means,” Lance replied.

“In effect buying 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 anyway?”

“I know how to say ‘I will die without another cup of coffee’ in about six,” she said. “So, buying him off?”

“Right,” Lance said happily. “But here’s where it gets good. Dr. Woodruff really doesn’t need their money.”

“And you think he’s is 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.

“Probably not. Like I said, he’s kind of publicity shy. Although he seems to be well known in the beekeeping industry. 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 basic 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—”

“Yep. Son of Marshall Woodruff, CEO of Hartford Pharmaceuticals.”

“Whoa. That puts an interesting spin on things,” Mel said. “The son of Marshall Woodruff is a beekeeper?” In addition to running the multinational pharmaceutical company owned by his wife’s family, Marshall Woodruff was a very powerful voice for the pharmaceutical industry domestically and internationally, and not known to be an avid environmentalist. Quite the opposite, if she recalled correctly.

“Heh. I knew you couldn’t resist,” Lance said.

“Mille grazie!” Mel said as her steaming cup of espresso arrived. “Is there some angle here between father and son that I should know about?”

“Oh, I’m sure you will plumb the emotional depths of the story like you always do, but I am only interested in what Dr. Woodruff has to say about Meyer’s offer and their splendid insecticides.” Lance’s tone was just a bit too gleeful.

“Where is Dr. Woodruff on this superb Saturday evening? Somewhere in Europe, I presume?” Mel pushed the origami figures off her closed laptop and grabbed the backpack from her chair.

“He’s at an international conference in Bologna, sponsored by some alphabet soup group—CRA-API. It’s being held at the Hotel Aemilia. He’s giving a speech tomorrow morning, and he’s not scheduled to leave until Monday, so you should be able to catch him there.”

Mel relaxed. Bologna was only a couple of hours away.

“You can take that cool high-speed train they have.” Only someone who didn’t travel as much as Mel did would sound that jealous about a train ride.

“Or I can take this cool high-speed convertible I rented and enjoy the ride,” she responded, looking across the darkened street at her Mini. “It’s a beautiful spring evening in Milano. I think I’ll relax and enjoy my dessert, then head out early in the morning.”

“I want your job,” Lance said.

She sighed. “If this is a bust, please tell me you have something for me to make that interminable plane ride worthwhile.”

“Hey, you’re the journalist. I’m sure you can find something to write about,” Lance said, then relented. “I’ll look and see what else is hot over there. There’s probably another conference or an EU committee meeting or something brewing.”

“Thanks, Lance. Talk at you later.”

“Bye, short stuff.”

Mel made a face at the phone and slid it into her pocket. Waving to the waiter, she picked up one of Dr. Drachan’s creations. How odd. The nervous scientist had made bees for her, and now she was off to interview a bee expert.

There was no such thing as coincidence, not in her experience anyway. A few origami bees might come in handy as a conversation starter with a beekeeper. She slid them into her backpack thinking she could also reverse engineer the design and add it to her repertoire.

When the waiter arrived, she ordered panna cotta and handed him an origami flower, then leaned over to give one of the frogs to the admiring patron at the next table.

“Grazie!” came the laughing response from both.

*****

“Bitteschön,” Daniel said.

The German scientist was clearly amused. “Your accent is not so good, Dr. Woodruff, but your stories about your mountain and your opa are wunderbar. You do need to write the book, I think.”

“Maybe I will.” He had included some uplifting and humorous stories about Pops and Woodruff Mountain in his speech, because there was a distinct lack of encouraging news about their battle to save the honeybee.