Death By A HoneyBee (A Josiah Reynolds Mystery)

by Abigail Keam

  I snorted – but then again, Matt had recently passed his bar exam and now worked at a prestigious corporate law firm. He helped me only during his days off, calling beekeeping his therapy from the overachievers, backstabbers and just plain scum. He was referring to his colleagues – not his clients.

  “Sure. Go ahead and take all the pictures you want. I am going back to the house. I have a whale of a headache,” I said while watching the police put yellow caution tape around my hives.

  “Take a breathing treatment,” he called after me. “You’re wheezing.”

  I put my hand on my chest. Indeed I was.

  3

  A sharp knock woke me from a dream of my late husband. It was just as well. I surely didn’t want to waste my time with him now that he’s dead. I got up from my comfortable retro couch, groggy from a late afternoon nap. My medicine sometimes made me sleepy.

  “Just a moment,” I called as I ambled to the steel front double door straightening my shirt. I led a plain-clothes policeman through the welcoming shade of my bamboo and water alcove, and into the great room with its walls of gray concrete and bold abstract paintings of jarring color.

  “I am Detective O’nan. I’m primary on this investigation. We’re finished for now,” O’nan said, scanning the room and my things. He showed me his police ID. His first name was Fred. I was surprised I didn’t see a badge like cops flash on TV. “I just need to take a preliminary statement. We can take a more formal statement later if something turns up.”

  “Turns up?”

  “Just routine,” Detective O’nan assured, taking out a notebook. “In case you remember something else. I already talked with your assistant, Matt,” he said looking at his notes.

  O’nan looked to be in his late-thirties. He was wearing an expensive dark suit that emphasized his powerful, wide shoulders and narrow waist. His stylish haircut played down his thinning blond hair. I noticed his nails were professionally manicured. He reminded me of Tab Hunter. Standing ramrod straight, O’nan towered over me. His metallic blue eyes never seemed to leave my face. They betrayed a hardness that I suspected didn’t have anything to do with working homicide cases.

  “I got up, dressed, went to work in the beeyard and found . . . what you saw. I called – you came. End of story.” I gaped curiously at O’nan. His youthful face seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him.

  “Unhuh,” he said, taking notes. “Anything unusual happen that you noticed before you found the body – sounds? Anything?”

  “Nothing.” I shook my head. “It has been quite a shock.”

  “I’m sure.” His eyes narrowed.

  I stared at the floor. Finally, I said, “There is nothing else to tell.”

  “Okay.” He flipped out a business card and handed it to me. As O’nan turned to go, he saw Matt walk through the door. “If you think of anything, give me a call.”

  I glanced at the card. “All right.” Thinking of my bees, I asked, “Hey, can I get back in the beeyard? My bees need to be watered and powdered,” referring to the technique of dusting them with powdered sugar. By grooming, they knock off parasites. It was a holistic way of treating for mites.

  “Yes, we are completely finished. The crime tape is still up but you can go underneath it.”

  “That’s good.”

  Matt strode past me into the kitchen, pulled the refrigerator door open, and drank out of a milk carton.

  O’nan gave him a quick once-over. I don’t think he liked what he saw. His left cheek quivered for just a moment before he glanced back at me.

  “I can see myself out.” He turned and was gone.

  I faced Matt. “He thinks you’re my fancy man.”

  “How about taking your fancy man out to a late lunch? I just can’t do any work with this happening. Bad juju. Besides, the bees need to calm down before I go back out.”

  “Uptown or downtown?”

  “Ramsey’s is fine.”

  “How is my hair?”

  Matt gave me a lascivious look. “You always look sexy.”

  I grinned and snapped my fingers. “That is why you will always have a place at my table,” I replied. I swept through the door he had opened for me.

  He chuckled when he saw a tangled knot of hair protruding from the back of my head. Matt loved playing pranks on me. As much as Matt played to my vanity, he also treasured knocking it down. He had a touch of sadist in him and only told me about the knot after twenty people had seen it and I wondered aloud why people were staring at me. It was just enough tension to keep me from falling in love with Matt. Maybe that is why he did it. He liked our relationship just the way it was. Rumors about us were one thing. Reality was another.

  4

  I was getting dressed for the Farmers’ Market a week later when I received a telephone call from Detective O’nan. Would I be so kind as to stop by the police station after the Market? They just had a few more questions to tie up before they closed the case. Sure – why not. I never suspected a thing, when a little bell should have been ringing in my head.

  The station is only blocks from the Market so I left my rusty but durable VW van at my booth location, with a note on the van’s windshield that I would be returning by four p.m. Each vendor has his/her own 10x10 spot where they park under a tree-lined canopy and sell to the public. There were still some farmers conducting business. During the summer peak, there could be as many as seventy farmers working the Market, which was considered one of the finest in the country. The sales paid my basic bills plus food, and I enjoyed serving my loyal customers who were always pleased to see me. It made me feel needed.

  I swept back my red hair while asking for Detective O’nan at the front desk of the police station, housed in a renovated department store. I lifted my work apron to wipe the grime off my face.

  Minutes later, Detective O’nan and an overweight man with hairy arms stepped into the waiting room.

  I shuddered. I always dislike the look of men who appear part simian. It was a big turnoff for me. Then I felt ashamed of my hypocrisy, as I could probably braid the hair on my legs. Thank goodness I had worn pants.

  Both men shook my hand before asking me to accompany them. That warning bell should have gone off then, but it didn’t. They ushered me into a dull gray room with one table and four chairs. There was no window but a mirror that I suspected was a two-way. The room smelled of Lysol sprayed over the odor of perspiration created by fear. Cigarette burns patterned the desk beside carved obscene words. There were several swastikas tattooed in ink. Lovely. I was afraid to look underneath to see the collection of old gum and crusts of bodily fluids deposited there. Two chairs repaired with duct tape waited at the table. Even though my knees were burning from arthritis, I stood after O’nan motioned me to sit in a chair.

  “Can’t you take a statement at your desk?” I asked, scrutinizing the dismal area. “This looks like an interrogation room.” I chuckled at the suggestion, trying to lighten the mood, but both cops remained stone-faced.

  “Something rather unusual has come up, Josiah,” said Detective O’nan. He sat down and tossed several files on the table. “This will give us some privacy to get to the bottom.”

  “The bottom of what, Fred?”

  “Detective O’nan,” he corrected.

  “Okay, then it is Mrs. Reynolds,” I shot back.

  He frowned. I could tell he was a man who didn’t like to be corrected.

  The hairy fat man leaned forward. “You’re not from around here? Your accent.”

  “And you are again?” I finally sat as my legs were giving out.

  He smiled, a lovely smile with dimples. “I’m sorry. I am Detective Goetz. I noticed that your accent is Midwestern. I just wondered.”

  “I am from northern Kentucky.”

  “Where about?”

  “Boone and Kenton counties.”

  “That explains it.” Goetz smiled again and sat on the corner of the table. “Do you still say ‘please’ for ‘exc
use me?’ Dead giveaway for someone from up around the Cincinnati area.”

  “Yes, I still do. Are you from up there?”

  “Went to Holmes High School.”

  “No kidding. I used to date a boy from Holmes.”

  “Josiah is an unusual name for a woman,” Goetz commented.

  “My grandmother thought if it was good enough for a Judean king, it was good enough for me.”

  “As I remember, Josiah was a righteous king who destroyed prostitution in the Temple.”

  “Male prostitution, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “And you do what now?” interjected O’nan. He must be the “bad” cop in this scenario, I thought.

  “I’m a beekeeper.”

  Goetz shifted in his seat. “Really, that must be interesting. Where do you sell your honey?”

  “At the Farmers’ Market a couple days a week. I have a small apiary.”

  “Any other beekeepers in the market?” asked O’nan.

  “Yes. There is a Mrs. Simons who specializes in honey body care products and a Rick Niles who sells varietal honey, but he also does beeswax items like candles. I only sell honey.”

  Goetz shot O’nan a look. “Anyone else?”

  I coughed. “No one that I would like to discuss.” I felt my chest begin to tighten.

  “Isn’t there another beekeeper who is a member of the Market?”

  Before I could answer, O’nan cleared his throat. “Mrs. Reynolds, do you know the victim?”

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I didn’t recognize the clothing except that it looked masculine. I’m sure that it was a man – right?”

  O’nan nodded.

  “None of my neighbors have turned up missing so I don’t know this man.” I looked at both of them. “I swear I didn’t recognize the man. Aren’t you going to tell me who he is . . . or was?”

  “Do you know a Richard Pidgeon?” asked O’nan while writing in his notebook.

  I slumped back into the chair, clamping my lips together.

  The detectives exchanged glances.

  “Yes, I know him. What has he got to do with this?”

  “Isn’t he a member of the Market?” inquired Goetz.

  “Yes,” I said grudgingly.

  “He is the man stung to death by your bees.”

  I surveyed the depressing gray walls in order to avoid eye contact with them. “I think I’d better call a lawyer.”

  The deep lines in Detective Goetz’s face sagged. “Perhaps you had better.”

  I pulled my cell phone out of my work apron and dialed. Matt answered on the second ring. “Matt, get me a good criminal lawyer quick or else get your ass over here to the police station pronto. It was Richard Pidgeon dead in my hive.” I snapped the phone shut. Closing my eyes, I announced, “I haven’t anything else to say until my lawyer gets here.” The detectives snatched up their files and exited, leaving me alone in the dingy room.

  I knew I was in trouble. That little bell, which should have gone off earlier, was now clanging loud and clear.

  5

  Matt strode into the interrogation room an hour and ten minutes later accompanied by a black woman with a platinum blonde crew cut. The woman never looked at me, but placed her Vuitton leather briefcase on the battered, nicked wooden desk.

  “Anything you want to tell me?” she said with a faint British clip as she fiddled with her beige silk jacket, still not looking at me.

  Matt discreetly motioned to me to be cooperative. “I don’t know how that man got there. I had nothing to do with it.” I stole a confused look at Matt.

  “What have you told the police?” she inquired, finally training her eyes on me. They burned with an intensity that I have witnessed only in saints, great artists and a few of the homeless wandering around downtown Phoenix Park.

  “Nothing. As soon as they told me it was Richard Pidgeon, I called Matt. I didn’t say another word.”

  “Have you touched anything like a glass or mug? Have you asked for anything to drink?”

  “Noooooo.”

  “Good. Then they don’t have anything with your fingerprints on it.” Still, she didn’t look convinced. “Matt has filled me in on the particulars. We need to find out what they want with you, but I really don’t advise my clients to talk to the police. You should never have set foot in the police station. Have you ever heard of Richard Jewell?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “He found a bomb at the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, saving many lives. You know how he was repaid? The law tried to set him up as the bomber, using his cooperation in the case as evidence against him. Jewell’s life was ruined until he started fighting back with lawsuits. Eventually another man, Eric Robert Rudolph, confessed.

  “You never cooperate with the police, Mrs. Reynolds. JonBenet Ramsey’s family knew that. Same thing. A case was built against them while the media tried them in public. Years later it was released that the DNA evidence was not from any of the family members, but that was little comfort to the family. By then, Mrs. Ramsey was dead.”

  “I just want to clear this matter up,” I replied. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “It seems like plain vandalism gone bad to me.” The criminal lawyer swung her hazel eyes towards Matt.

  Matt held up his hands in defeat. “Don’t confer with me. I just passed my bar exam six months ago. I don’t know what they want of Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “I would think that if anything occurred it would be a civil lawsuit from the man’s family asking for damages.” She paused, lost in thought. “It seems odd to me that they have you in an interrogation room.” She leaned to scratch her leg framed in expensive but conservative black leather pumps.

  With that platinum hair, why bother trying to be conservative, I thought.

  “My problem is your daughter wants to know what this is about, and I am to call her in an hour. Let’s see what they want but don’t answer anything until I nod. Okay?” Leaning over me, she said in a very low voice. “I’m doing this as a favor for your daughter. You jack me around, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  I swung around glaring accusingly at Matt.

  “I had to call. She knows the lawyer to get for this. For God’s sakes, I’m a tax lawyer, babe,” Matt replied, loosening his tie.

  “Are you the best?” I asked the woman.

  “You bet.”

  “Then I can’t afford you.”

  She glared at me as if I had just piddled on her expensive shoes. “I thought I had made myself clear. Your daughter has made certain arrangements with me. As your daughter is a silent partner of your farm, she is entitled to have anything concerning the farm legally represented by me.”

  “What total bull!” I sputtered.

  She capped her Mont Blanc pen. “What’s it going to be? We can see what they want, only if you listen to me before answering. Or we can walk.”

  “Matt?” I pleaded.

  He shook his head. “Josiah, I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes if you don’t talk to them, it makes the police think you have something to hide. And then, if you do talk to them, you can stumble and say something stupid that really puts them on your scent. It’s fifty-fifty,” countered Matt.

  I realize that a death in my beeyard was not something from which I was going to walk away. I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. I nodded slightly.

  My newly appointed lawyer motioned to Matt. “Do tell

  those very nice policemen who are watching us behind the mirror to come into the room. We are ready to proceed – that is, if it is convenient for them.” She pasted on a phony smile. I was surprised her teeth weren’t pointed like a shark’s.

  O’nan switched on the video camera.

  “How official is this?” asked my lawyer whose name I learned was Shaneika Mary Todd.

  “Let’s just say we are concerned and have some questions. This is just an informal talk,” O�
��nan replied.

  “Yeah, right,” muttered Matt.

  “We are entitled to a copy of the tape you are making,” Ms. Todd demanded.

  “Oh sure,” replied O’nan as he leaned forward, unbuttoning his jacket. I sensed he was lying.

  Ms. Todd pulled a tape recorder from her briefcase. She pushed a button. “Just in case your video gets lost.”

  A faint smile appeared on Detective Goetz’s face before vanishing like a magician’s coin.

  O’nan proceeded. “Your full name, please?” he asked pushing a microphone towards me.

  “Josiah Louise Reynolds.”

  “Address?”

  “Route 169, Lexington, Kentucky.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Beekeeper.”

  O’nan looked over his notes at me. “You are a professor at the University of Kentucky.”

  “Yes, ummm no, both my husband and I were professors. I was a professor of art history, specializing in religious art. My husband was a professor of architecture. Brannon, my husband, also had his own architectural firm. He is deceased.”

  Ms. Todd broke in. “Just answer what they ask,” she warned me.

  I nodded. “I retired three years ago after his death.”

  Ms. Todd pressed me under the table.

  “I am sorry,” I said to no one in particular. “I guess I’m nervous.”

  “Why is my client here?” interrupted Ms. Todd. “Isn’t this just a simple accident? A tragedy I’m sure, but my client is not responsible for some misbehavior on a vandal’s part.”

  Detective O’nan leaned back in his chair. “Well, here’s the problem. The coroner’s preliminary report came back yesterday, and there are some unanswered questions. It seems that Mr. Pidgeon died from a heart attack.”

  “There you go,” I blurted confidently.

  “More tests are being done. But what we want to know is what was he doing on your property around your hives?”

  I shrugged.

  O’nan opened a manila folder taking out some official-looking documents. “It seems that you and Mr. Pidgeon knew each other.”