“Yes, sir, we can do it all.” Byron lifted a pine box from the bed. “Shame to let all them bees inside go to waste. Might as well hive them. I’ll give them back to the Darcys, if they want ’em when they come back.”

He looked at Decker, his skin shaded pea green. “They don’t know, do they?”

“I haven’t told them,” Decker said. He asked Byron to give the directions on how to suit up. It took Byron a moment to regain his color, to find his voice. Finally, he explained the procedure and told Decker not to make any sudden moves. Bees get nervous, same as people, he lectured.

Wide-brimmed hat, long steel veil, thick gloves, rubber boots, Decker was drenched in sweat before he took a step. Looking through the wire mesh, he felt as if he were in jail.

Byron took the lead, Decker followed. Inside, Arnie was scraping blood off the living-room floor. Marge was scribbling in her notepad, Ozzie Crandal was examining a footprint on the floor.

“Did anyone order an impression of this?” he asked.

Decker said, “Not yet.”

“Then I’ll order an impression of it,” Crandal said.

“Good idea,” said Marge. She’d almost managed to keep the acerbic edge out of her voice, but Ozzie picked it up.

He added, “Someone was walking out of the scene, not in. The toe directed to the front.”

Marge said, “How come there’s only one print?”

Crandal seemed stumped. Decker said, “There’s a bunch of prints in the kitchen. Maybe someone realized he was tracking blood into the living room and took his shoes off.”

“That’s the way I see it, too,” Crandal added.

“Way I see it, too,” Marge aped him.

Crandal said, “Look, lady—”

“Everyone cool it,” Decker said. “I’m as hot as hell in this getup, and my patience is about to snap, too. So how about we all keep our mouths shut, okay?”

“Fine by me,” Marge said, between clenched teeth.

Crandal muttered something, then went back to work.