Queen Bee

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  I shook his hand. He seemed like a nice man.

  “On that side of the house. I’m Leslie. Thanks.”

  In a few minutes, we were all in the house, bags delivered to bedrooms, and we gathered in the kitchen around the table, where much of our lives seemed to play out.

  Holly took a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator and filled four glasses with ice. Mark sat in Momma’s usual chair and she harrumphed loudly. Instinctively, Mark got up and sat in another chair.

  “Tea, Momma?”

  “Thank you,” Momma said. “Now, would one of you like to tell me what’s going on or should I watch the six o’clock news?”

  “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of, Mrs. Jensen,” Mark said. “I’ve been a lawyer for over thirty years.”

  “Can you cut to the chase, please?” Momma said. The queen was not amused.

  “Yes. The parents of Sharon MacLean told our chief of police that they’re filing a civil suit against Holly blaming her for the wrongful death of their daughter. They are seeking damages of one hundred million dollars.”

  “Good luck with that,” Momma said. “This child doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, pardon my language.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Next they’ll file a suit against you for harboring a criminal and for keeping a public nuisance, namely the beehives. That is, if they can find a lawyer to take the case.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  Holly said, “It is the craziest, most over-the-top bunch of bull I’ve ever heard.”

  “No lawyer will represent them and no judge in Charleston will hear the case,” Mark said. “It’s going to get thrown out of court. Watch. You’ll see.”

  “And where does Mr. Archie stand on all of this?” Momma asked.

  “Behind his curtains,” Holly said.

  “Probably sucking his thumb,” I said.

  “He’s radio silent,” Mark said. “Not a word. But that doesn’t matter. I’m just waiting to see the CSI report and the autopsy. We should have that any day.”

  “He probably doesn’t know what to think,” I said. “What about the boys?”

  “Well, it’s another transition for them,” Holly said. “They’ve been waving at me from next door with smiles as big as Texas.”

  Tyler said, “Do bees have friends?”

  “No, they work together as a team. But in many ways, human beekeepers are their friends, because we keep their hives free of mites and beetles.”

  “It’s a good idea to have someone watch out for you,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “it surely is.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Stop and Smell the Roses

  Leslie took Momma to see her doctors and I stayed home to work in the yard, which had become a veritable horticultural miracle. I knew the bees were so relieved to be rid of Sharon that they were cross-pollinating like madwomen, hopping from one flower to the next, waggling and leaping in joy, bringing about an insane profusion of blooms. Those dahlias that I didn’t think would thrive were flourishing as though I had fertilized them with unicorn droppings and irrigated them with the tears of saints. Cars stopped to take pictures, and I gave away armfuls of flowers every day. It seemed that the more flowers I cut, the more flowers bloomed. I finally put a sign in the yard that said, Help yourself to a few.

  I was just handing a large bouquet to a carful of curious members of the Sullivan’s Island Garden Club when Mark pulled into our driveway. He got out of the car sporting a broad smile, which had to mean the investigation had gone our way.

  “Hi!” I said. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “I have some very good news for you,” he said.

  “Should we go inside?” I said. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

  “Why not?”

  It was a hot August afternoon and let me tell you, August on Sullivan’s Island was like the seventh circle of hell.

  We went inside. He followed me to the kitchen, where I pulled a cold pitcher of tea from the fridge and filled two glasses.

  I pushed the sugar bowl and a dish of lemon slices across the table to him.

  “I have a friend who works at the county morgue. It always pays to have a friend in places like that. Anyway, she said Sharon died of a heart attack. Natural causes. There was no evidence of a single bee sting, not a drop of venom in her blood. They’ve released the body to the funeral home.”

  It wasn’t my bees!

  “Hallelujah! My bees are innocent.”

  “Right.”

  “No kidding! Wow! But why would someone her age have a heart attack? She wasn’t even old! She was like forty-one or -two.”

  “Well, she may have had that thing Tim Russert had. The widow-maker, except hers would’ve been the widower-maker. Anyway, don’t matter. It wasn’t the bees that did her in.”

  “Then why was she in my yard?”

  “Because she was trying to kill the bees.”

  “She was? Why? Why in the world would she do that?”

  “Who knows? The crime scene guys found a power spray gun she must’ve thrown into the oleanders. It was filled with a mixture of soapy water and a neonicotinoid like Ortho Bug B Gon, which is what people use to kill bees.”

  “That awful . . . well, she was awful! Sorry.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d venture that she came over here with the intention of wiping out the bees, she sprayed the hives, the bees got crazy and started coming after her. Then she started running and had a heart attack and boom, dead body in the backyard. But we will most likely never know the truth.”

  “You’ve got some imagination,” I said. “You should write a book!”

  “What? You don’t think that’s a plausible scenario?” Mark said.

  “I wouldn’t know. But I do know that if I was Sharon, I wouldn’t be taking on almost two hundred thousand bees with one little spray gun.”

  “Two hundred thousand? How many hives you got?” Mark’s jaw was somewhere in between the table and the floor.

  “Three. The real number is probably closer to one seventy,” I said. “But there’s not a doubt in my mind that she didn’t know that. She probably thought that maybe there were a thousand or so in the hives. Most people do.”

  “Just so you know, we’re not entirely out of the woods yet. While I know there’s not a judge that would hear the case of you telling the bees to kill her, to some people you’ve got something potentially dangerous in your yard, and there’s still the civil suit from her parents.”

  “Let them sue me. What I really cared about was Archie and his little boys, and I’ve lost them now. It’s not even my fault.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” Mark said. “I’ll bet they come around. Give them some time.”

  I looked at Mark, and I hoped I didn’t seem ungrateful, because he had gone to an awful lot of trouble on my behalf.

  “Mark, I hope you know how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me. For my whole family, really. I just wish we could make the rest of this nightmare go away.”

  “Well, we got rid of the criminal piece of Sharon’s death, and I’d call that a good start.” He winked at me. “My grandmother was a beekeeper. Kept bees for probably fifty years. So I know how it is with honey bees. Around here, anyway. But I never realized she kept that many bees, I gotta say.”

  So he knew.

  “Maybe it was just a coincidence. And I don’t think they would’ve swarmed her—if they did, that is—unless she provoked them, which she did. In any case, she shouldn’t have been sneaking around in my backyard.”

  “Agreed. So, I’ve got to push on. I’ve got depositions all afternoon. Nothing as colorful as this, however.” He stood to leave. “Now, should anyone from the press or television call, tell them you’re not talking except to say it’s a great relief to know that the bees had nothing to do with Sharon’s death and that you offer condolences to her family as well as Arc
hie’s. And not one more word after that, okay?”

  “Okay. Come on. Let me cut some flowers for Darlene. I’ll give you a container of water to put them in.”

  “That would be awfully nice. Thank you.”

  I sent Mark away with dozens of roses and dahlias and he couldn’t get over the fragrance. He said they smelled like heaven. I had to agree.

  I looked over at Archie’s house. I couldn’t understand the silence. At this point he had to know the truth about what really happened. Why didn’t he want to talk to me? Maybe he was freaked out that he had to go through another funeral. Maybe he was unhappy that the boys weren’t mourning Sharon. Maybe he was embarrassed that he hadn’t done enough to protect his boys. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The fact was that their curtains were closed, and I only saw the boys as they ran to and from the house.

  Hunter had finally healed well enough to be back on his bicycle and tearing down the street with Tyler in his wake. I called Maureen to give her the update and see what she might know.

  “No kidding. A heart attack! Wow,” she said.

  “Yep, and she was the one trying to kill my bees, not the other way around.”

  “I’ll be darned. Well, the boys have been over here a lot, swimming and playing with Matthew. They seem to be fine. In fact, they seem the happiest I’ve seen them since Tyler’s birthday.”

  “I’ll bet so. Now, there’s going to be a funeral, and I’m sure I’m not welcome there, even though she was the one trespassing with bad intentions.”

  “That’s nonsense, Holly. You should absolutely go to the funeral. If you don’t, you’ll look guilty.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “You know what? This might sound crazy, but in some really weird way, I feel like I’m being punished for Sharon’s bad behavior. Is that my imagination or does the world just have to have someone to blame?”

  “I know what you mean, but I think that once the truth gets around, people’s suspicions will go away.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  I was working on convincing myself of my complete innocence and doing a so-so job of it. I wondered what would happen if I tried to enlist the bees’ help with Archie. Maybe I’d just go sit with them for a bit and calm myself.

  I felt a little shaken that the boys transferred their affection for me so quickly into a friendship with Matthew, but then I knew in my heart that all those little boys ever wanted after they lost their mother was to feel normal again. Sharon in their lives was a thousand steps backward, but a friendship with a classmate who had a nice family was a much-needed leap forward. Still, when I should’ve been congratulating myself on a job well done—that is, helping the boys survive their hideous stepmother and their useless father—I couldn’t help missing having them around. Or being needed.

  Leslie and Momma came in around four o’clock.

  “I’m exhausted,” Momma said. “Let your sister fill you in. I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

  “Okay,” I said and turned to Leslie. “What did the doctors say?”

  “There’s a slight change in the tumor on her liver and they want to zap it with a targeted chemo.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, it’s pretty incredible, really. They snake this probe through your groin to the exact position of the tumor and then they give it a shot of chemo, killing it.”

  “I thought they said her tumor was benign,” I said.

  “I guess they saw something to the contrary this time,” Leslie said.

  “When is this supposed to be happening?”

  “They’re going to call her in the morning with a time. Actually, it’s not supposed to be a big deal. They do the procedure, which takes about an hour. Then they keep you overnight just to be sure you’re stable. Then you go home.”

  “What if the tumor grows back?”

  “Then they do it again, I guess,” Leslie said.

  “Man,” I said. “Momma’s brave.”

  “What choice does she have? This is the latest medicine there is for what she’s got.”

  “I just—I don’t know. It scares me, you know?” I said. “So listen, I’ve got news, too.”

  “Tell it,” she said.

  “Sharon died of natural causes. Not one bee sting. The coroner’s office released her body.”

  “Dear God! What a relief! You going to the funeral?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe I should send flowers,” I said.

  “Send flowers? You could just donate flowers! What the hell is going on in our yard?”

  “The bees are pollinating like mad, probably celebrating the death of the evil one. But, if there is a funeral, I don’t feel good about going. I don’t want to see her parents.”

  “You’re chicken shit, you know that? They won’t even know who you are. I’ll come with you.”

  Sharon’s obituary was printed in the Post & Courier the next morning and it also gave the details of her funeral. There was to be no wake. And Momma was to go into MUSC the day following the funeral.

  “She was a Catholic!” Momma said. “What do you know?”

  “You never know,” Leslie said. “She sure didn’t appear to be a devout anything except a dedicated pain in the butt.”

  “Amen to that. Momma? If your tumor was a big panic, your doctors would have you there, like, right now,” I said.

  “That’s true! That’s got to make you feel some better,” Leslie said.

  “Oh, yeah, I feel really great about having a cancerous tumor on my liver,” she said. “I should call Suzanne. I promised I would.”

  “We’ve got to get you your own cell phone,” Leslie said.

  “I have a very strong feeling that you’re going to be fine,” I said, even though I had no such feeling.

  “Sweet Mother of God, I hope you’re right,” Momma said.

  And then there was the discussion of the funeral.

  “The gates of hell opened wide when she croaked,” Momma said. “I smell sulfur.”

  “Momma! You know it’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead!” I said.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Momma said.

  “Sulfur,” Leslie said. “You’re terrible.”

  The QB harrumphed.

  “What am I going to wear to this?” I said.

  “Wear your beekeeper getup,” Momma said. “You know, make a statement.”

  “Boy, Momma, you’re on a roll today!”

  Leslie said, “If I were you, I’d wear anything but black.”

  “Too bad I can’t wear that pink dress,” I said.

  Even Leslie agreed. “It’s a bit bright for a funeral. Let’s dig in my closet. I might have something.”

  There was a navy linen sheath dress we decided was just right. And my neutral sandals from the wedding were fine with it.

  “Well, it’s a good thing we’re about the same size,” I said.

  “Wear sunglasses,” Momma said. “Be mysterious.”

  “Was she like this in Las Vegas?” I asked.

  “She?” Momma said.

  “We know. We know. Meow,” Leslie said.

  Momma cleared her throat. “I think we should all go to the funeral. After all, we are their neighbors.”

  What Momma really meant, and she had not taken this position often, was that she wanted to be there if anyone tried to corner me or blame me. I had my mother and sister on my side.

  “Dial Suzanne for me,” Momma said.

  Leslie did and handed Momma the phone. Momma got up and headed to her bedroom to have a private conversation.

  “Momma’s sweet on Suzanne, whose real name is Buster.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah. Like seriously sweet.”

  “Wow.”

  The next morning at nine thirty, we piled into Leslie’s Benz and rolled down Middle Street to Stella Maris Church. The bells in the tower were ringing a mournful dirge.

  Everyone on the island loved a good funeral, and given the circumstances of Sharon’s
death, it was no surprise that the church was packed to the rafters. And it was the second time Archie and his boys were burying someone in a short period of time. I recognized many people from part-time teaching at the Island Elementary School, and I assumed there were a lot of Archie’s colleagues present as well. There were many massive flower arrangements on the altar and the tone was appropriately somber.

  Archie and his boys followed the casket up the aisle and were seated in the front row on the left. We were in the back of the other side of the church. Momma and Leslie were giving tiny smiles of recognition and little waves to people whose eye they caught. I was engrossed in prayer and self-examination. I was deeply troubled by the reality of Sharon’s funeral and the fact that whether or not I was directly or indirectly involved, there was still suspicion, even in my own conscience, that some of the responsibility for her death lay at my feet. I knew that in the weirdest way it was true. I begged God’s forgiveness. And I even asked God to forgive Sharon. That was the best I could do for her. If the situation were reversed, I doubted she would pray for me. And I prayed for Carin then, too, hoping that she’d ask the good Lord to forgive me. I knew that she had no anger toward me. In fact, I could still feel her gratitude.

  Finally, the Mass was ended and the processional took Sharon’s casket to the waiting hearse, which would then take her remains to be buried in Mount Pleasant. I watched as Archie and his boys walked together, followed by her parents and close friends and family. It had to be an awful ordeal for his boys, as I was sure they were reliving their mother’s funeral.

  We did not go to the cemetery. I delivered a sheet cake to the house for all those who would stop by to help Archie and the boys get through the remainder of the day.

  I watched from my living room as dozens of people came and went from Archie’s house. There were at least ten or so kids at any given time, running around their yard. It was good to see children there again, to hear their laughter and to see Hunter and Tyler at play, just being kids.

  Around seven that night I got a text message from Archie.

  Thanks for the cake, it read.

  You’re welcome, I answered.