Queen Bee

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Well, then, do what Momma said and get a lawyer. You’re a big girl; call someone!”

  “Leslie, I don’t even know a lawyer.”

  “Well, sister? I’d Google it, then. Let us know what happens, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said and pressed the end button.

  I was shaken. Leslie had not expressed any concern or sympathy. But she probably had no more of an idea on how to handle this pickle than I did. Maybe because they were on the other side of the country, it didn’t seem real to them.

  I was feeling very alone in the world. Very. Archie didn’t want to see me? I needed a lawyer? What kind?

  The car door opened. It was Ted again.

  “So,” he said, “there will be an investigation, of course. I don’t want you to get upset, but you might be implicated. I don’t know how they can accuse you of anything, except keeping bees that may or may not have turned into a malicious private nuisance.”

  “My bees have never been malicious. And they’ve never been a nuisance,” I said and then reconsidered. “Okay, they used her car as an outhouse and they bearded her car, but that’s normal behavior for bees. She did not get stung.”

  “The coroner most likely will be calling for an autopsy. In a few days, we’ll know whether it was bee venom that killed her or not. I expect the odds are that it was the venom, because she was an otherwise healthy young woman.”

  “With a very unhealthy mind,” I said.

  “Listen, Holly, want to be smart? Don’t talk to anyone—from any kind of media. And hire a lawyer first thing in the morning. A criminal lawyer. And here’s my number if you need me. You know Darlene, our emergency dispatcher? Her husband, Mark, might be able to help. Come on, I’ll walk you to your door. And stay away from your bee yard. It’s a crime scene that needs to be combed, and you sure don’t want to be accused of tampering with evidence.”

  I’ll admit, I was in total shock. How was I supposed to sleep that night? I sat by my kitchen window and stared at Archie’s house for hours. His lights were on, too. I wrote a text message to him that said, I’m so sorry. If I can do anything, please tell me. And then I deleted it. If he wasn’t texting me, why should I be texting him? I was so confused about Sharon’s death.

  Sharon was dead, but Hunter and Tyler were saved. And did my bees in the pink hive do it? Had they heard everyone’s cries for help to the point that they just decided to intervene? Had anyone seen what happened? What was Sharon doing in my yard in the first place? Why wasn’t anyone asking that? Was she taunting the bees? Trying to harm them?

  I made a cup of chamomile tea, hoping it would help me sleep. I went to bed, but sleep was not mine to be had that night. I caught twenty minutes here and there, but something would wake me up again. A noise. A foghorn. The screech of an owl. The howls of coyotes as the Lowcountry crept toward dawn. Finally, I heard the newspaper brush my driveway and I went outside to pick it up.

  There was no sign of life at Archie’s house. It was seven thirty. I assumed Archie would be taking the day off to arrange Sharon’s funeral, to write an obituary, to order flowers, and to do all the things that are necessary when there’s a death. I went back inside and dropped the paper on the kitchen table. I was exhausted.

  My phone rang. It was Darlene.

  “Bad news travels fast, doesn’t it?” I said. “Who did you hear it from?”

  “It came over the wire from the call center. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t even know the answer to that. But I do know that I need a lawyer.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Mark is free this morning, which is so weird because he hasn’t had a free morning in months! But he wanted to know if you’d like him to come over and talk to you.”

  “Oh! Yes! Please! You have no idea how frightened I am by all of this! I’m supposed to go to Publix this morning, but I think I’m not going in. I’ll call them. Thank you, Darlene! And tell Mark I said thank you, too!”

  I dressed quickly and tidied up the house. And I put up a large pot of coffee. The day would be fueled by caffeine. Then I called Publix.

  “Is Andrea in?” I asked.

  “Not until ten,” came the answer.

  “Well, it’s Holly Jensen. I can’t come in this morning. We’ve had a tragedy and I have to be home.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry! What happened?”

  “I am not supposed to comment. I mean, I’m sorry, I can’t comment because it’s a police matter. Anyway, if Andrea has any questions, just ask her to call me, please?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I knew that within thirty minutes every single person who worked or shopped at Publix was going to know something big and really terrible had happened on the island. And that it had something to do with me.

  The doorbell rang at nine. It was Mark Tanenbaum, Darlene’s husband. He was a nice man with age-defying looks, a very successful lawyer and in amazing shape for his age, which I guessed was somewhere around fifty.

  “Good morning,” he said. “May I come in?”

  “Please! And thanks for coming!” He followed me to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Just black. By the way, your garden is unbelievable.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s your momma?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Really? Is that a good thing?”

  “She’s fine. She’s with Leslie and her husband in Las Vegas.”

  I poured two cups and put one in front of him. Then I sat down.

  “Las Vegas. That’s a crazy place, eh? We had an ABA meeting out there a few years back. It was like, wow!”

  “That’s what they tell me,” I said.

  He took a small notebook from the chest pocket of his sport coat and a pen from another.

  He took a sip of the coffee and said, “This is really good coffee. Starbucks?”

  “No, Folger’s. This is some mess,” I said.

  “Well, Darlene told me what she heard on the wire, but why don’t you tell me what happened in your own words and then we can see what to do.”

  I gave him the sequence of events, but I didn’t tell him about the more mystic aspects of my bees or that they might be responding to my pleas for help in ways that they could. It just sounded too crazy. But I did tell him about the bees dropping tiny bombs on Sharon’s car and about them bearding. And I told him about Sharon’s personality and how I thought she was way too uptight. And I mentioned her strawberry allergy.

  “So it’s clear there was no friendship between the two of you.”

  “No.”

  I told him about my relationship with Archie’s boys and Archie and that I had been good friends with Carin. I might have mentioned something about Sharon being a complete paranoid, germophobe, and perfectionist. Maybe.

  “She wouldn’t let the boys bring library books home because they had been touched by other people who might have filthy germs,” I said.

  “Really. Wow,” Mark said.

  “I know,” I said. “Wow.”

  “Criminal law isn’t really my area of expertise, but until we’re sure you need one, I’ll represent you on the house. I’m not going to stand back and watch an old island family’s daughter get pushed around, and that’s what happens if you don’t have legal representation. I don’t think any charges have been filed, but I will stay on it and find out.”

  “Oh, Mr. Tanenbaum, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Call me Mark. Mr. Tanenbaum is my dad.” He smiled and I thought, What a lovely man. “In the meantime, talk to no one. Do not give a statement to the police or the press or say a single word on social media, understand? As far as I can see it, I don’t think any crime has been committed here.”

  “Good. Mark? Why was she in my yard?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. No good reason I can think of. Did anyone see her?”

  “I don’t know. I was out on a date with Ted Meyers.”

  “
No kidding. Well, in your best interest, I’d say no canoodling with him, either, until this is all sorted out.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said, thinking, I finally have a fish on the hook and I have to release him?

  “Look, Holly, you don’t want to get into a he-said, she-said thing with the chief of police, temporary or not. Basically, from here on in, I speak for you. And I think for you. Here’s my card. You can text me or call me any time of the day or night, but please, if it’s possible, let me get my beauty rest.”

  I smiled then and said, “Mark? Am I in trouble?”

  “I don’t think so. I think you should relax until I let you know otherwise. Holly, I’m an old-school lawyer. I like to see all the facts and then we go from there. So far, we don’t have all the facts.”

  “Will you tell me what you find out?”

  “Absolutely. As soon as I hear something, you’ll be the very next to know. I’ll call the coroner’s office this morning. Now, I’ve got to go to the gym. I’ve got a young wife, you know what I mean?”

  “I’m pretty sure I do,” I said and laughed. I felt so much better. “Thanks, Mark.”

  I walked him to the door and as I glanced at my backyard, I noticed crime scene tape everywhere and three men in bee suits walking around, looking in the bushes.

  “Mark! Wait! What’s all that tape and who are those men?”

  “They would be crime scene investigators investigating a would-be crime scene. Don’t worry about them. They’re actually on our side.”

  “Okay,” I said. I wasn’t so sure.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said. “And stop worrying. You’ll get wrinkles.”

  I smiled. He was actually pretty sweet.

  “Thanks.”

  I stretched out on the sofa thinking I might catch a nap. I couldn’t tell you how much time went by, but when I woke up, it was dark outside, well past the cocktail hour, and Archie was at my door. He didn’t ring the doorbell, he was just calling my name, like Stanley calling Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire.

  I got up to let him in and he stumbled into my hallway.

  “Archie? Are you a little bombed?”

  “I’m impaired. I won’t deny it.” He blinked his eyes as he struggled to focus in the light. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

  “Of course,” I said and looked outside to be sure he wasn’t being followed by television cameras. The coast was clear. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Prolly not a bad idea,” he said. “Oh, hell, Holly. I’m a widower again!”

  I began walking toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, and you know you have my condolences, Archie.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I know you didn’t think much of Sharon.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I thought of her,” I said.

  I filled a filter with ground beans and the well of the coffeemaker with water and flipped the switch.

  “Of course it matters!” he said. “It matters what you think and it matters what my boys think. And I didn’t listen to anybody. And now she’s dead. I must be some kind of a bad luck charm.”

  “That’s crazy talk.”

  When the coffee was done, I filled a mug and sat down at the table with Archie.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Drink up,” I said. “So, is there a plan in place for a funeral?”

  “Yeah, her family is planning it. They don’t want any input from me.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “I know what that’s like.”

  “Right? Holly, I’ve treated you awfully bad, and my boys, and I’m sorry.”

  “Who’s watching the boys?”

  “That woman Maureen has them both at her house. She’s got that kid Matt?”

  “Are they spending the night there?”

  “Yes.”

  That was good. His sons didn’t need to see him as drunk as a dog.

  “I’ll call her. I think you should be getting on home now. Tomorrow’s probably going to be a tough day, okay?”

  “Okay. You’ll call Maureen?”

  “Yes, I’ll call Maureen.” I stood up, a message that this visit was ending. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for the coffee. You’re a nice girl, Holly. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “Thank you, and yes, I think you’ve said it before. Now let’s get you up.”

  “Okay, I’m going.”

  Somehow, by God’s grace, he got to the front door and left. I called Maureen.

  “Maureen? Hey! It’s me, Holly. Y’all okay?”

  “Yes, and what a terrible thing. I mean, nobody liked her, that’s for sure. But, damn! Death from a thousand bee stings? How awful!”

  “Is that the story going around? Well, here’s something we don’t know. Maybe it was the bees, maybe it wasn’t, but I can’t imagine that many bees would sacrifice their lives to get rid of her. And if it was bees, and she was allergic, it would only take one. The queen is the only honey bee without a barb on her stinger. She might have done it, but I doubt it, because she doesn’t ever leave the hive except to swarm. Swarming season ended months ago. So I guess we’ll see when the autopsy comes back. And when they examine the findings in my yard. If it was my bees, there’ll be carcasses all over the place.”

  “Are you pissed about something?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I’m just waiting for the morning papers. Give me a shout if you need me.”

  I was sort of pissed that my bees would take the blame when, if her death was the result of bee stings, they were probably only defending their hives. That finding, blaming my bees, could lead to passing laws against beekeeping in residential areas, which would be a terrible thing.

  “You do the same,” she said.

  I went back out to the front of the house to lock up for the night and noticed that my hammock appeared to have an occupant. It was Archie. He’d made it past my front door but not down the steps. It was a warm night. I took a picture of him with my iPhone and sent it to Mark. I just left him there. Hopefully, by the time I got up in the morning, he’d be gone.

  I had a moment then to reflect on how many nights I’d gone to sleep wishing I was in his arms, and I thought I wasn’t so sure about that dream anymore. I wasn’t so sure about anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Strut Yo Stuff, Sugah

  I was waiting for Char to come out of the bedroom, where she was trying on Momma’s latest creation. It was sensational in muslin, which was phase one to making a custom gown as complicated as the one Momma and Charlie had designed. The entire gown was first constructed in muslin, an inexpensive fabric, to be sure it draped properly. So if it looked good in cheap muslin, I could only imagine what it would look like in celery green metallic lamé.

  I was so surprised by what Holly said, and I knew I didn’t respond with the right amount of concern. She must think I’m a coldhearted bitch. I wouldn’t blame her. Sometimes I was one and I knew it. I don’t know why she irked me so. Okay, yes, I know why she irks the ever-loving hell out of me, and when I tell you why, you can add petty and judgmental to the long list of my poor qualities.

  My little sister was a martyr. I don’t know why she always acts like she’s being persecuted, but she does. She doesn’t want to stay home with Momma? Well, Momma ain’t home, so honey, go on, go over the causeway and go get that life you’re always mumbling about not having. And even if Momma does come home, there’s no one keeping you locked in, is there? Well, to hear her tell it, she was going to be blamed for Sharon’s death, which was absurd.

  And she’s afraid of her own shadow. She’s never even had a parking ticket, much less a speeding ticket. The only people she’s really comfortable around are generally under five feet tall. Go figure that one out. Except for Archie.

  And this stupid torch she’s been carrying for Archie? He’s not even that interesting, if you want my opinion, unless you are all hung up on the history of religion, which I am not. Although h
e was soon to be on the market again.

  Sharon was dead? Found in our yard? It didn’t make sense. I’d call Holly as soon as I had a little time and see what the whole story was. But hey, ding-dong, the witch was dead. A cause for discreet celebration to be sure.

  The bedroom door opened and Char stepped out into the living room.

  “Wow!” I said. “Just wow!”

  Celery green was definitely her color.

  “You look like a movie star!” I said.

  “Thanks!” Char said. “I love that it shimmers when I walk. Watch.”

  Char sashayed through the living room to the front door and back to the bedroom.

  “I hate to tell you this,” I said. “But this apartment is no longer worthy of your star power.”

  “As soon as I have my own little club, we’ll move,” Char said. “Your mother is Christian Siriano!”

  “I’m happy with it,” Momma said.

  “You should be,” I said. “Wait until Suzanne sees this!”

  I still could not believe that Katherine Jensen and Suzanne Velour, aka Buster Henry, USMC, Ret., were a number. Do you think the ladies of the Stella Maris Altar Society would understand? Approve? It was just such a long jump from lying in her bed, picking at Holly over every little thing, and satisfying her longings with catsuits. And by catsuits, I don’t mean the kind Lola Falana made famous representing Tigress perfume a thousand years ago. I mean the fleece variety with kittens all over them.

  And now she was designing and making spectacular costumes for Char. Talk about a 180: she was simply not the same woman. I couldn’t see her ever living on Sullivan’s Island full-time again. Not after this. Side note? She was also the happiest I’d ever seen her. Maybe Suzanne was just so outrageous, which she was, that Momma couldn’t resist. Who knows? Anyway, I wasn’t about to suggest a return date to the Lowcountry for either one of us.

  Momma seemed more tired than usual. She had purple circles under her eyes. Her spirits were high, but her energy seemed a little tapped out. But then, we were out every night, doing one crazy thing or another. We went to see a show called Le Rêve, which is this underwater tango that’s about true love versus dark passion—a hard choice if ever there was one. We’d been to the Burlesque Hall of Fame, we’d played miniature golf at a Kiss-inspired course and shot our golf balls through Gene Simmons’s head, and we’d had a tour of the Neon Boneyard. Pretty exciting stuff for a couple of home girls from the Lowcountry.