The Dreamer

Chapter 3: Out from the Shadows

Neal's loft. January 19, 2005. Wednesday evening.

Neal stayed late at Weatherby's to document his suspicions and then raced to Columbia. He arrived barely in time for his evening visual arts workshop. This was the first evening of the new semester for art critiques, and Professor Myra Stockman plainly had replenished her arsenal of flaming arrows over the holiday. Neal's works were not spared. 

By the time she left his studio, several of what he considered to be his best works bore the scorch marks of her criticism. If Neal hadn't been so rushed in getting back, he might have been better prepared to defend them. As it was, all his brilliant repartees didn't occur to him until thirty minutes after she'd left. By the time he got home, he was drained. A glass of wine, a little reading, then bed.

Ah, fond delusions.

He opened the door to find Mozzie had taken possession of his dining table and covered it with books and diagrams. He was typing at a frenzied pace on his laptop when Neal entered. An opened bottle of wine was next to him, with most of the contents gone. Mozzie really did need his own office.

"Mozz?"

He didn't look up from his laptop. "Pull up a chair," he ordered. "I need your help. We may be up all night."

Neal groaned. "Not tonight. Can't this wait till tomorrow?"

Mozzie paused typing to glare at him with bloodshot eyes. "Oh sure, go right ahead and fiddle while Rome burns. What's one more species lost to mankind? As the lehua flower dies on the tree, slumber away, oh you—"

"Forgive my ignorance," Neal said, quelling his rant, and took a seat at the table. He gloomily studied the wine Mozzie had appropriated: a velvety Merlot with blackberry overtones he'd been saving to have with Fiona. In addition to acquiring his own office, Mozzie also needed to drink his own wine. "Which conspiracy are we talking about?"

"Does bzzz ring a bell? I hope you haven't forgotten."

"Trust me, even if I wanted to, you wouldn't let me." Ever since Mozzie had discovered his passion for bees—a seismic event comparable to being struck by one of Jupiter's thunderbolts on top of Mount Olympus— he'd made sure to keep Neal in the loop. Last month Mozzie had gone into partnership with their friend Billy Feng to produce and market products made with Hawaiian organic honey. Billy, a retired cat burglar, owned a Hawaiian-themed store and café just south of Columbia. Billy's large family in Hawaii supplied them with products based on Billy and Mozzie's specifications.

Neal had hoped to stay clear of Mozzie's new undertaking, but that was not meant to be. First, he'd been roped into creating paintings for the café. Then he was tasked with designing wine labels and critiquing blends for the new collection of honey wines.

Mozzie rarely paced, but he did so now. "We're on the cusp of tremendous success. Last week we held several wine tastings, and ever since we've been deluged with advance orders." In truth, he was looking unusually frazzled. Neal put aside thoughts of the Corot forgery and Azathoth to focus on the crisis in front of him.

"Doesn't Billy have someone to help with the paperwork?"

"Up to now, he hasn't felt the need for one, but with all the additional honey products we're carrying—did I mention we've added a line of organic honey-based cosmetics—we've been overwhelmed."

"What kind of cosmetics?"

"Primarily honey-based face creams, toners, and regenerating serums. Our honey business is in a crisis from too much success, but it's nothing compared to the global catastrophe confronting us."

"Whatever it is can't be that dire," Neal said soothingly.

"You tell me. Our native bees are rapidly going extinct. In particular, the Hawaiian yellow-faced bees are under attack!"