Death By Design

by Abigail Keam

  “You can stay with me,” I offered.

  Matt winced. “That’s awfully kind of you, Rennie, but Baby’s a concern,” he said, referring to my one-eyed English Mastiff.

  I drew back. “My Baby wouldn’t hurt your baby! How dare you insult my friend.”

  Matt put his hand on my arm. “Baby has never been around a human baby, let alone a crying, fussy baby. And he’s too protective of you. He might see the baby as a threat. No,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t want to take the risk.”

  Franklin came in and sat in a chair. “Plus, Baby slobbers too much. Our baby would be covered in slime all the time.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” I replied, still reeling from the insulting idea that my dog might hurt a child.

  Franklin continued, “Beside there are all those cats that come in at night. The baby could get cat scratch fever.”

  I thought for a moment. “Call June and tell her you’re coming to stay with her.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” scoffed Matt.

  “Why not? All you have to do is flirt with her and she’ll turn the house upside down for you. I insist. You call her.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Franklin, yanking out his cell phone. He hurriedly dialed and then handed the phone to Matt.

  Matt reluctantly took the phone. “Hello? Lady Elsmere?”

  Hearing June on the other end, I grabbed another piece of toast and headed home to my big, menacing, slobbery dog, Baby.

  I was certain June would love having Matt and the baby, but I knew Bunny wouldn’t.

  It was a small thing, but still a payback. I just love being a stinker sometimes. I grinned all the way home.

  12

  I had received a call that my new bees were in, so Malcolm and I hopped in a truck “borrowed” from Lady Elsmere, and made fast tracks to Frankfort, where an entire truckload of bees had just arrived.

  I let Malcolm drive, which might have been a mistake, but I just shut my eyes when he careened around those hairpin curves on the back roads. To my surprise, we arrived safely, as did about thirty other beekeepers waiting to pick up their packages of bees.

  Maneuvering through throngs of vehicles and anxious beekeepers, Malcolm parked the truck in one of the few parking spots still available.

  “Josiah, I can get the bees. You sit here.”

  I already had my door open and was easing myself down to the ground. “Not on your life. I want to check those packages before we accept them.”

  As usual with teenagers, Malcolm shot ahead to hang with other young men he knew and left me in the dust, which meant I had to tug a little wagon along to carry my new packages of bees.

  I’ve never been the most graceful of creatures, even before my accident, but with my limp, I’m positively a fright. Of course I exaggerated my limp, since I didn’t want to stand in line for an hour to get my bees. By making sure I caught the attention of many beekeepers, most of them men, I was quickly bumped up to the front of the line.

  “Howdy, Jo. Get in front of me. You shouldn’t be standing.”

  “Hello, Josiah. It’s been awhile. Still selling at the Farmer’s Market? You don’t look so hot. Hey guys, let Josiah Reynolds up to the front of the line.”

  “Hey there, Josiah. Take my place. I see some people I need to talk to anyway.”

  I’ve also been known to exaggerate my limp in grocery store lines and for plane boardings.

  Don’t judge me. I mean it. Don’t. If you’re a woman, you’ve got to grab the wolf by the throat anyway you can.

  In a few short minutes, I was at the front of the line looking at a mound of 200 buzzing packages, each weighing three pounds, and containing thousands of bees, including a Queen and her court.

  After examining my bee packages and judging them to be healthy, I called for Malcolm, prying him away from the pack of young male beekeepers. Reluctantly, he bid them good-bye, doing that fist-bumping thing young men do these days, and hurried over.

  With little effort, Malcolm secured the boxes in the back of the truck and laid a tarp down to protect my babies from the wind, but to also quiet the bees. Sunlight stimulates honeybees. We wanted them in the dark so they would remain calm for the trip home.

  Within an hour, Malcolm and I pulled into my bee field, where he stopped in front of some empty hives.

  I had lost fifteen hives due to the harsh winter before, and would now be able to repopulate ten empty hives with the new bees. I would split my older hives to make up the rest of the loss.

  Even though honeybees are usually gentle when they are being transferred to a new hive, I was still cautious.

  Malcolm and I donned veils and gloves, making sure the bottoms of our pant legs were taped. Nothing is more irritating that a stray bee finding her way into your pants and traveling up your leg to sting the tender part of your thigh. Yaweee! That hurts.

  Malcolm lined up the rectangular boxes so I could lightly spray the bees with water. The water on their wings keeps the bees from flying into the air when released. The boxes are made up of ninety percent screen fabric to which the bees cling–in case you’re wondering.

  Using his penknife, Malcolm carefully extracted the queen cage from the top of the package and handed it to me. I checked the Queen. This one was moving vigorously inside the cage, indicating she was healthy.

  I slowly unplugged the cork from one entrance of the queen cage with a sharp tool and then inserted the cage between two frames in the hive. That entrance was filled with candy, which the bees would eat through to release their new Queen.

  Once this was achieved, Malcolm turned the package upside down and shook 10,000 bees onto the frames and the queen cage. Some bees immediately covered the queen cage, attracted by the Queen’s pheromones, while others fled deeper into the hive.

  After watching the bees descend into the hive, I nodded to Malcolm, and he put the inner cover on. I placed some bee pollen patties and sugar water on top of the inner cover, which had a hole that the bees could use to travel to their emergency food. Then another top called the outer cover was added.

  To seal the hive, I pulled grass to stuff in the main entrance, making sure the bees were blocked from leaving. For three days, the hive would remain closed, giving the bees time to accept their Queen and she could settle in.

  On the third day, the hive would be opened and the queen cage checked. If all had gone well, the Queen would be freed by the bees by eating through the candy plug. If not, I would release her from the cage. Then the front of the hive will be opened to let the honeybees do their honeybee thing.

  We had installed five packages when I spied Matt walking through the fields toward us with his bee suit on.

  Matt stumbled and fell.

  I turned away in embarrassment, not knowing what to do, but Malcolm saved the day.

  “Matt, quit clowning around. Get your butt over here and help.”

  Chuckling, Matt righted himself, apparently with his pride and body unhurt.

  Grateful for the fact that Matt couldn’t see my tear-filled eyes, I pulled the next box toward the end of the tailgate and waved to Matt. “She’s all yours!”

  “It’s so good to be working with bees again. It’s like working with one of God’s miracles,” Matt observed.

  “I’ve never known you to be so philosophical, Matt,” I said.

  “Never had a baby before. Children make you see things differently.”

  “How well I know,” I replied, handing him my hive tool before feeling something brush against my legs. I let out a cry and did a little hop. The last thing I wanted was a curious skunk visiting to see what all the hoopla was about.

  “Who’s that little rascal?” asked Matt, pointing to my side.

  I looked down, relieved to see that it was the old, gnarly, stray dog Charles had rescued. “How you doing, boy? Got tired of staying in the barn?” I reached down and scratched his ears. “Charles found this old boy and has made him his new best friend.”

  �
��Really?” Matt leaned down and petted the dog’s muzzle while examining him. “Looks kind of beat up.”

  Malcolm chimed in, “Pops thinks he was used as dog-fighting bait and then dumped. He’s spent a small fortune on vet bills for this old mutt.”

  The dog retreated several feet away and lay down in the tall grass, watching us.

  “Huh. He seems awfully friendly in that case. You’d think he’d be traumatized,” muttered Matt as he pulled down his veil while I sprayed the bees. With clocklike precision, Matt had the last packages of bees tucked in their hives in record time. He kept glancing over to see if the dog remained.

  It seemed to me the dog intently followed Matt’s every motion.

  Finally the job was finished. Malcolm put in the last of the food and closed the hives.

  “Let me check on the Queens in three days,” Matt requested.

  Picking up the empty cages, Malcolm offered, “I’ll help you, Matt. Just let me know.”

  “That’s great. I’ll be busy the next several days. Matt, are you sure you’re up to it?” I asked.

  “Yes, Rennie. Quit hovering. In fact, leave the bees to me. I’ll even do the hive splits if Malcolm can help me. Working with them relaxes me. I think even the venom in their stings helps my joints.”

  “No problem, Matt. I like them too, even though they are ornery little cusses,” replied Malcolm.

  “That’s such old time talkin’ from a young guy like you,” I teased.

  Malcolm grinned. “Been reading Henry Clay’s diary that Lady Elsmere gave to Pops last Christmas. Getting back to my roots. Think I’ll take some history courses in college next fall.”

  “Oh, Malcolm, that would please your grandfather so much,” I gushed, peeking at my watch. “Guys. I’ve got to run. I’m supposed to help Mrs. Todd. Talk to you later.”

  Malcolm reached into his pants pocket to retrieve his truck keys. “I’ll run you back.”

  “Stay put. I’ll be fine. The house is not too far, and I need the exercise. I’ve got my phone. If I need help, I’ll buzz you.” I hurried toward the Butterfly, my home on the palisades, with just one last backward glance at the bee yard. I had days better than others, when my legs felt strong. Today was a good day, and I wanted to take advantage.

  Malcolm was busy inspecting the other hives, while Matt was lying in the grass next to the mutt. The dog placed a paw on Matt’s shoulder. They both looked contented.

  I uttered a small prayer of thanks.

  13

  As I approached the Butterfly, I was astonished to see an all-too-familiar car in the driveway–a fire engine red Avanti! What the hell did he want?

  I pushed through the front doors where a flabbergasted Eunice Todd met me. “Where is he?” I asked brusquely as she helped me off with my gear.

  “Having coffee in the great room,” Eunice murmured. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Coffee,” I scoffed. “You mean coffee laced with my good bourbon!”

  I rushed to the great room that overlooks the palisades on the Kentucky River.

  Walter Neff was out by the pool gaping down the cliff.

  I went out. “How are you, Walter?”

  Walter Neff spun around. “I’m a milk bone in a dog-eat-dog world, Josiah. Miss me?”

  “Every flea and tick season.”

  Walter laughed. “That’s my girl. Fat and sassy, although I would say that you could stand to put on a few pounds. You look positively gaunt. What happened to the love handles you were packing? You know I like a little meat on my women. Somethin’ to grab onto.”

  When I didn’t respond, Walter gestured to the cliff. “So this is where it happened? The great fall.” He whistled, mimicking something falling and then crashing. “Must have hurt like a son-of- . . .”

  “How did you know the code to get through the front gate?”

  “My client was kind enough to provide me with it.”

  Of course it had to be Bunny. Who else would be stupid enough to give out the code to my electronic gate, but how did she get it? “What brings you here, Walter?”

  “Toots, you cut me to the quick. Okay. I see how it is. Can I sit down at least?”

  “Don’t bother. You won’t be staying that long.”

  Walter recoiled as though he had been slapped. “Still holding a grudge? I guess I can understand that, but I forgave you for backstabbing me. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. What about you, Toots?”

  I heard the back door open and knew Eunice had let Baby out onto the patio. Baby moseyed over and stood in front of me, leaning into my legs in a protective stance. He turned his massive head toward Walter as a string of doggie slobber slowly sank to the ground.

  Walter’s eyes grew big. “Yikes. I forgot about that monster of a dog.” He leaned forward, at which Baby issued a growl. “I see where O’nan shot him and also why. He’s massive.”

  Baby growled again.

  “WALTER!”

  Walter jerked up, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a tattered journal. “Your good friend, Bunny Witt, has hired me to investigate the break-ins to her homes as per your suggestion. She told me that you thought there might be a connection between her great aunt and the break-ins. She gave me the old lady’s diary. I can’t make heads or tails out of it. It’s written in old lady scrawl.” He tossed the book on the patio table. “You read it, Toots. You’re good at stuff like that. I’ll cut you in if there is a bonus.”

  I was at the point of curtly refusing and tossing Walter out on his ear when he shot one of his signature salacious grins and tipped his pork pie hat at me. “I’ll see myself out,” and with that he was gone.

  14

  I wore myself out rehearsing the nasty things I was going to say to Bunny when next I saw her, and went to bed–exhausted and mad. I was going to return that diary and give Bunny a piece of my mind. Yes, sir. No buts about it!

  15

  I felt something nudge the bed. Slowly opening my eyes, I focused on a long strand of drool. “Baby, what do you want?” I asked, pushing the Mastiff’s massive head away from mine.

  Feeling a hot blast of fetid breath on my face, I exclaimed, “Gosh, your breath stinks! What do you want?”

  Baby bounced his head on the mattress again while barking loudly.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m getting up. Someone must have to go potty.” I got up and let Baby out through my bedroom door. Mist from the river was rising and beginning to creep across the patio.

  Baby went over to the diary, which I had left on the patio table, and barked. He turned to see if I was watching. Seeing that he had my attention at last, Baby went to the grass area and did his business. For some ridiculous reason, Baby always wants me to watch. Why do dogs do that? And do all dogs do that?

  “Oh dear, I left that book out in the damp.” I hurried over and retrieved the diary. Sitting in a chair while Baby sniffed various places in the grass and plants here and there, I surveyed the scenery. Hearing coyotes howl across the river, Baby began howling too.

  “That does it. I’m not sitting out in the cold while you serenade your buddies. I’m going in,” I told Baby.

  He reluctantly followed, plodding his massive paws on the floor. It sounded like sandpaper scraping stone.

  I spread the diary open so the pages would dry from the damp and went back to bed.

  I had no idea that this mundane action would result in a lucky break for unlocking the diary’s secrets, or that it would turn out to be so unlucky for Bunny.

  16

  Eunice was catering the big whoop-de-doo for the couture exhibit, so I tagged along when she had a meeting. Eunice took the back roads at a leisurely pace. We gaped, gawked, and generally gossiped about other people’s property along the way until we entered the long drive to Hilltop Manor on Old Frankfort Pike, where the main exhibit was being held as well as the main reception and gala.

  Hilltop Manor was an antebellum mansion which had been turned into an art gallery.


  “I hope this guy doesn’t want to have young girls parading around in hoop skirts serving Mint Juleps.”

  “Oh, heaven forbid,” I mocked.

  Eunice shot a severe look in my direction, but I ducked.

  We climbed the huge limestone steps to the portico, and it took both of us to push through the massive walnut front doors.

  “Goodness,” I complained. “Don’t they have a handicapped entrance?”

  “It makes you wonder who they were trying to keep out,” came a voice from the shadows.

  Startled, both Eunice and I peered through the darkness of the entrance hall. Eunice barked, “Who said that?”

  A tall, middle-aged man emerged from the shadows. He was sporting a pencil-thin mustache and was entirely too good-looking for his own good. “I’m so sorry,” conveyed the man in a silky tone while he extended his manicured hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Thaddeus McPherson. I’m afraid I’m the curator of this exhibit, and I was to meet a Eunice Todd to discuss the reception.”

  Eunice leaned forward and shook his hand. “I’m Mrs. Todd. This is my friend, Josiah Reynolds.”

  “Mrs. Reynolds. Delighted to meet you both,” he said as he shook my hand. He had a nice firm grip, but not crushing like some men. It was pleasant to the touch.

  “Mrs. Todd.”

  “I don’t mean to be forward, but I detect an accent. Are you British?” asked Eunice.

  “I haven’t been to my homeland for decades, but you’ve found me out. Born and bred Londoner. I’m afraid if you had met me thirty years ago, my accent would have been more cockney than anything else. Through the years, I’ve worn the rough edges off some. But, dear lady, I might add I hear a Bermuda lilt in your cadence.”

  Eunice gave Mr. McPherson a winning smile. “I had the privilege of running one of the finest hotels in Bermuda for over twenty years before coming home. I guess some of the island’s ways rubbed off on me.”