"What are bees doing in here?"
"Buzzing."

I was used to getting messages from people unsure whether they should be contacting me at all. Before it was legal to keep bees in New York City, people would mumble into my voice mail, apparently afraid the bee vice squad set up stings, so to speak, to entrap those determined to flout the law. In fact, the NYPD generally had other things to do with their time, so it usually took a few determined neighbors intent on getting rid of a hive before the keeper would get a form letter in the mail to remove the bees by such a date or pay a fine and a removal fee.

Other folks were vague out of sheer cluelessness. They'd skimmed a sidebar in Martha Stewart Living or O with a bucolic image of meadows and Mason jars of golden honey, or they read Michael Pollen over their Whole-Foods-packaged lunches, or, less frequently, they just wanted pets they thought they wouldn't have to feed. Most of these were easily deterred when it became clear they had no place to put a hive. It was funny how many people put no thought into it whatsoever and simply imagined a bee hive to be comparable to an ant farm. I actually had a couple of websites for ant farm kits that I routinely passed along to these callers.

This time Uncle Ed relayed the message, saying he knew someone from work with some hives in Brooklyn who had to be out of town unexpectedly and could I take them on for a while.

"He wants them to stay on his roof, but he'll be away for several months," he said. "You can let me know what else you need to know to decide. He doesn't have email right now."

We were sitting at the diner counter waiting for breakfast, our usual saturday morning thing. I looked at him sidelong. I knew where he worked and had my suspicions about just how far "out of town" this guy might be. "He's got hives already set up? And you think I can trust him to pay me for, what, four months? six?"

"He's had the bees almost a year, kept them himself, he said. He saw me on the grounds with the smoker and came to talk. I think he's serious about it; he seemed concerned about leaving them, and he seemed to know his way around the equipment. And he offered to pay for six months in advance."

"What did you tell him about me?"

"I said my sister's kid had a beekeeping business in Brooklyn." I made a face at "kid" and he ignored me. "He asked about your experience; I told him you had an agriculture degree and references and a website. He asked which university and how long you'd been working with bees. That's it."

I could use the work, if it was the right situation. "Well, get me an address and a key, and I'll take a look."

It's always a little odd, entering somebody else's home when they're not there. I usually feel a little embarrassed and a little relieved. The first because there's nobody there to welcome me so I feel I don't really belong; the second because I don't have to worry about the kind of impression I'm making, either of myself or of what I think about their place. Some people are really attached to what you think of their home.

This house was enormous. The entire brownstone. I'd never visited one that hadn't been divided into apartments before. It was kind of run-down and haphazardly furnished, some rooms almost empty and others filled with shelves and tables covered by folders and books and other things. I saw a microscope, some scientific electronics, several skeleton parts, and a large mesh panel covered with padlocks. That might have been some kind of art piece, you never know. Not the usual knick knacks, anyway. Interesting, but unusual. Everything was turned off, and the house was quiet. I felt a little uneasy, but not as bad as I feared, given the circumstances. Not that I knew anything about that besides what I could imagine. Healthy, happy people didn't end up where Uncle Ed worked. The house smelled a little musty inside but otherwise clean. Somebody must have taken out the garbage after he left, cleared the fridge. I didn't realize I'd been dreading that smell until I noticed it wasn't there.

I remembered the time when I was in ninth grade and I was supposed to feed Uncle Ed's cats when he and Thomas were out of town, only when I got there Dan was there. He didn't live with them, and anyway I thought he would have gone on vacation with Uncle Ed and Thomas, like they'd done before. And he didn't seem right. He let me in, and the cats were fine, normal. But there was fast food trash all over the kitchen table and some cans and bottles scattered around the living room. It never looked like that when Uncle Ed was home. He asked me about school, also normal, but he seemed distracted, not really listening to my answers. He said he'd be there the rest of the weekend, no need for me to stop by, just a change of plans and they'd forgotten to let me know, no need for me to call Ed about it. And I left and didn't tell anybody. Nothing really to tell. The house didn't smell right, Dan didn't look right, and Little Ed's over-reacting. They broke up a while after that. So I was glad not to have the same feeling in Mr. Holmes's house, even though I guess it made me think of Dan anyway.

When I got up to the brownstone's roof I didn't recognize the hives at first. I'd never seen anything like them outside of a science museum. Honey-colored wood, glass sides, stacked taller than me. At the Brooklyn Bee Co-op folks had been creative with the hives, painting them with different designs and colors; some of the art was great, but it was still farm equipment: utilitarian first, decorative second. These hives were elegant but also inefficient. It would be easy to watch the bees but awkward to get at the combs.

I remembered the microscope and the other science stuff inside; maybe Mr. Holmes was an entomologist? Uncle Ed might know more. In any case, it wouldn't be time to harvest anything for a while, and the hives appeared to be doing well. There were no planters up there, but some of the surrounding rooftops had gardens, and I could see that the hive boxes had hardware for hanging feeders. I think bees do better feeding from flowers but at least they wouldn't starve. And maybe Mr. Holmes would be amenable to suggestions for improvement.

I finally met Mr. Holmes in person a couple of weeks after he got home. He said he wanted to know more about the adjustments I'd made to his set-up and to return some supplies I'd brought over that he'd been able to replace since being back. When he proposed meeting at 7:30am, I was a little surprised as that rarely happens with clients; most of the time we're meeting on weekends or after 6pm when it's still light out that late. But I'm always up early, so I agreed.

We'd been exchanging email about the bees for a little while, by that point. The first message I received from him was one of ten he sent in a single afternoon; first day back, I guessed.

I know going by "Ed" is problematic and people don't like it when they make assumptions that turn out to be wrong, so in my email I have my full name appear in the From: field to try to head off people's expectations: Lilah Edson Bere. I don't like "Lilah" and always sign off just as "Ed". It's a surprisingly good test of whether or not someone pays attention to detail, how quickly they notice or whether they're surprised when we meet in person. Mr. Holmes, in his quaintly formal way, had addressed me as Mr. Bere in his first email. I was Miss in the next.

I was expecting an academic type, grey hair, retired, maybe. Actually I think he even said that in one of the messages when I'd asked how he came to have bees; that the apiary was a project he decided to take up in retirement. And he was even working on some book. In any case, the person who opened the door that morning did not come close to what I'd pictured (and really, I should have known better), but suddenly some of the quirky items in the house made a bit more sense.

As we started up the first flight of stairs, Mr. Holmes shouted "Watson!" loud enough to make me jump. I heard a faint exclamation from the floor above. When we got to the landing, one of the doors opened and a groggy woman with dark disheveled hair appeared, startled to see me and clutching a long baggy cardigan closed over the t-shirt and shorts she'd obviously just been sleeping in. Mr. Holmes stopped, and I set down my toolbox.

"This is my interim lodger, Miss Watson. Watson, Ed Bere, apiculturist. If you need, ah, anything from me, we shall be examining the hives."

Miss Watson did not appear to be a morning person, but her scowl was for Mr. Holmes, not me.

"Epi-what?" Her voice was gravelly and she sounded impatient. "Never mind. It's too early, I need tea." She turned deliberately to me. "Hello. I'm Joan. Did he offer you any? Um coffee? Or tea? Would you like some?"

He started to respond but her raised hand cut him off as she kept her attention on me.

"Ah no, thanks. I'm good," I said, and he immediately began moving off to the next flight of stairs without waiting to see if I followed.

"Right," she said, looking to see where he was going. "Oh! Api- not epi-. You're off to the bees." She eyed Mr. Holmes with some suspicion and went back into her room muttering, "I hope that's not a euphemism."

I thought she seemed a little presumptive, even bossy, for a "lodger"; to be honest the exchange reminded me of how my brother and I goaded each other when we were teens, disregarding everyone else around us. Maybe lodger has a different connotation in England. I picked up my kit and hurried to catch up to Mr. Holmes.