Beeline to Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page A

assessment of Chance, I said good-bye and drove off.
    The road through Chenequa is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever traveled. It’s a winding, charming pathway through towering hardwoods with brief glimpses of all those mansions along the lake. Wildflowers frame the sides of the road in magnificent displays of color from early spring to late fall.
    When I spotted a four-wheeler stopped along the roadway just off one of our many trails, parked right next to a particularly rich patch of flora, I suspected what was going on even before seeing the coneflowers and columbine bunched in the woman’s greedy garden-gloved hand.
    “That’s illegal,” I shouted out the window, pulling over and throwing open the door, pounding over to the woman, who was wearing a safari hat with a strap under her chin and wielding a pair of shears. “You can’t pick wildflowers here.” This wasn’t my first encounter with a violator. Wisconsin has an aggressive wildflower protection law. Not everybody knows that, so I’ve taken it upon myself to inform them when I bust the thoughtless buggers red-handed.
    The woman had a narrow face and froglike protruding eyes, which she used to give me a hard stare. Then she said, “Who says I can’t pick these?”
    “The Department of Natural Resources,” I answered, not really sure whose jurisdiction this particular crime fell under.
    She actually had the nerve to bend over and snip off another flower, a beautifully formed purple coneflower.
    I hate when people think they can take what doesn’t belong to them, especially when they know better. And this woman was now properly informed. She slowly added the coneflower to her bouquet as though intentionally mocking my effort to stop her. I wanted to thump her for the smirk on her face.
    “I’m reporting you.” I was getting seriously ticked off. “What’s your name?”
    “Oh, give it up already. Get back in your piece of junk and drive on home.” She did a brush-off wave with her hand.
    While this wasn’t the first time I’d gone out of my way to protect the natural world from human predators, usually when I explain the law to them, they become contrite and apologetic, not outright hostile like this piece-of-work. Where was local law enforcement when you needed it? Knowing our police chief and his motivations, probably hiding down some driveway, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting five-overers rather than actually doing some good for a change.
    “Look,” I said, with a tone that hopefully conveyed logic and reason, “take what you’ve already picked, but leave the rest alone, okay? I’m sure you didn’t intend any harm.”
    Her gaze wandered over to a wild monkshood, one of our most valued and protected flowers. Believe me, as a beekeeper, I know my natives, and this one was not going to die at her hand.
    “Don’t even think it,” I warned her, a big part of me wishing I’d breezed right past her without stopping. This day was
not
progressing on track.
    She made her move.
    I made mine.
    Wearing flip-flops (my favorite footwear) during a confrontation on unstable terrain isn’t the best idea, but this wasn’t exactly a well-laid plan.
    I tripped and grabbed wildly for something to steady myself, which turned out to be the woman’s hat. The strap around her chin stretched, and I heard her gurgle, the same sound my grandmother’s dog Dinky makes when she yanks too hard at the end of her leash. A sort of gagging, strangling sound.
    I really had been trying to stop the woman without getting aggressive. Really I had.
    “Get away from me,” she croaked when I quickly released the strap. She pushed me away from her and hurried for her ATV with the flowers still in a firm grip.
    Because a woman can never be too careful, I thought, What if she has a gun in a storage compartment somewhere on the ATV? Or some other kind of weapon, like pepper spray?
    But I decided I’d take my chances. Refusing to even think about consequences, I hustled