“I reckon they would,” Byron said. “I don’t talk too much to the Darcys.”

Decker sneaked a sidelong glance at Byron. His expression remained flat.

“Turn right there,” Byron said, pointing to a dirt road.

Decker steered the Plymouth onto the path. It was lined with red-flowering bottlebrush trees and terminated at the entrance to a three-story whitewashed, wood-frame house. Next to the house was a red silo, the door open, grain spilling out like melted butter. The Darcys’ residence, like the Howards’, was located amid acres of blooming clover-field. In the distance, behind the house, cows were grazing. The car had traveled about halfway to the residence when Byron told Decker to stop.

“What is it?” Marge asked.

Byron said, “Something’s wrong.”

“How can you tell, Mr. Howard?” asked Marge.

Byron swallowed hard. “Back up two trees, Mister Detective.”

Decker put the car into reverse.

“Look to the right,” Byron said. “The back branch of that bottlebrush tree.”

Through the car window, Decker saw that the rear bough was coated with bees—like insulation around a duct.

“Ain’t no way any of the Darcys would let a swarm like that just sit there on a tree,” Byron said. “It’s at least a day old, judging by the size of the comb.” Byron looked at Marge. “Something’s badly wrong.”

“Sure you want to go in with us?” Decker asked.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Byron answered. He dropped his voice a notch. “I do.”

Decker shifted the transmission back to drive. He parked outside the house. As soon as he stepped out, the stench hit his nostrils. Something decaying. Bees were flying about his face, not nearly as heavy as the first swarm he’d experienced, but there were enough insects to create that ominous, low-pitched hum. He traded a wary glance with Marge.

Byron took a quick walk around the house. He came back and said, “All the cars are gone.”

“What kind of cars do they drive?” Decker asked.

“Pappy D has a two-tone fifties Plymouth. B.B. has a full-sized Ford pickup,” Byron answered. He covered his mouth. “Lord, it stinks.”

“I’ll get the gloves,” she said.

“Gloves?” Byron asked.

“We don’t want to destroy any evidence,” Marge said. “Mr. Howard, I think it would be best if you waited outside.”

“Well, I disagree.”

Decker said, “Mr. Howard, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to insist that you wait outside.”

Byron bit his lip, held back a mixture of anger and fear.

“I know you’re concerned,” Decker said. “I don’t like what I’m smelling, either. But them’s the rules, sir.”

Byron turned away and muttered an obscenity.

Decker nodded to Marge, then turned the handle to the front door. As soon as it opened, a waft of hot, putrefying air blasted their faces.

“Jesus!” cried Decker, holding down a dry heave.

“Here,” Marge said, handing him a jar of VapoRub. “Plug up.”