Death By A HoneyBee (A Josiah Reynolds Mystery)

by Abigail Keam

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, you are,” I replied before I turned and melted into the street crowd. I had to walk seven blocks before I found a pay phone. My legs were on fire from all the walking. I dialed a number that my daughter had had me memorize. I reached an old-fashioned answering service. I said only one word before I hung up – “Rosebud.”

  9

  I needed to push this investigation away from me. Though I was sure I would never be convicted, a murder trial would ruin me financially, costing me everything I had managed to squirrel away. I needed to determine who wanted Pidgeon dead. Still fuming over Goetz’s little trick that morning, I decided to visit Otto Brown. He was Pidgeon’s booth neighbor at the Farmers’ Market. Maybe he would know something.

  The foot traffic at the Market was slowing, so I decided to take a break as it was getting close to the end of the selling day. Some farmers were currently packing up and dismantling their tents. Hiding my cash box in the van, I put a fifty in my pocket and strolled down the median to Otto Brown’s booth. While waiting for his customers to finish their transactions, I picked out some Cherokee Purple tomatoes. After patiently waiting my turn, I offered my selections to Otto to weigh.

  “How’s the day been?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” Otto said, putting the tomatoes carefully in a bag. He scratched his unshaven cheek as he eyed the scale. I didn’t know how he could see the scales from the large eyebrows fingering across his forehead and others caught in his long eyelashes. He would have had pretty eyes except for the hair jungle above his eyeballs.

  “It’s been slow my way too,” I replied trying to establish eye contact with him.

  He didn’t look up from his tasks.

  “I suppose you know that your next door buddy was found dead on my property.”

  “Talk is he died from heart failure.”

  “That’s right.” I could tell Otto wanted me to leave. He kept turning his back to me. I leaned forward. “Otto, did Richard ever tell you that he was gonna mess with my hives? Anything like that?”

  “Can’t rightly say.”

  Losing my patience, I blurted out, “Oh, for gaawwd sakes, Otto, he trashed your tomatoes every chance he got. Said you bought them from a terminal in Lincoln County. You are not going to lose any brownie points by telling me the truth. Now – did he ever say anything about me?” I slid the fifty towards him.

  Otto bristled at the accusation that his tomatoes were not grown by him and stopped arranging them on the table. “Well, now, he didn’t like you, Josiah. Nope, not a’tall. Said you had no business bein’ here as you was rich. That you was takin’ business from real beekeepers.”

  I laughed bitterly. “Go on.”

  “Never said nuthin’ exactly ’bout what he might do but that you best be aware.”

  “Be aware of what?”

  “Well, of him, I ’spect.” Otto pulled a tobacco pouch from his pocket and shoved a big wad in his mouth. He had a paper cup that he used as a spittoon. Yuck.

  “When did he say that?”

  “Couple weeks ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was gunning for me?”

  “’Tis none of my business. Besides I’d be tellin’ ya somethin’ you probably knew,” said Otto.

  “Geez, Otto, you good old boys sure stick together,” I said.

  Otto pursed his lips and spat in his cup. “Richard was no good ol’ boy. He was city. Lived in town. Used other folks’ land to farm his bees. No, Richard was a townie. Not one of us.”

  When I decided I wasn’t going to get any more out of Otto, I left him my fifty and carried a large box of beautiful Cherokee Purple tomatoes to my booth. Otto may be a throwback to the nineteenth century, but he sure knew how to grow heirloom tomatoes. I had no idea what I was going to do with all those tomatoes. Guess I could make a huge batch of salsa. Matt loved salsa. But at least I had discovered that there was smoldering resentment from one older farmer against landless members in the Market. Interesting.

  As I walked back to my booth, I spied Pidgeon’s daughter, Taffy, going from booth to booth, apparently wringing out the last bit of sympathy she could. I wondered if she was talking about me. Or was I just being paranoid? By the aversion of vendors’ eyes as I passed by, I guess being paranoid was correct in this instance.

  I had gotten used to being the center of people’s attention for a long time, ever since my husband became a nationally known architect. I had learned to deal with the curious, the well-intended and the envious who were determined to be hurtful. I stiffened when Taffy approached my booth. Which would she be?

  “Mornin’, Miss Josiah,” she said.

  “Hello Taffy,” I replied, aware that the other farmers were watching from the corners of their eyes. “My condolences for the loss of your father.”

  “Miss Josiah, I won’t play the grieving daughter if you won’t play the concerned friend.”

  “Okay.”

  “We both know Daddy was a big turd,” she continued, inhaling deeply. “I feel like I can breathe for the first time. You did us a favor.”

  “I didn’t do anything, either for you or to your father.”

  Taffy pouted. Like Detective O’nan, she didn’t like being corrected. But then – who did? “Whatever. I just came by to say no hard feelings.”

  I decided to change the subject. “What are you and your mother going to do now?”

  “Well, Mommy is still stunned. She doesn’t know what to do without Daddy barking orders at her at all hours. She’ll snap out of it as soon as she gets the insurance check.”

  “It is lucky that your father had such a large policy,” I said trying to find out how much.

  “How do you know how much it’s for?” Taffy quizzed while readjusting her purse strap on her shoulder. Her heavily made-up brown eyes narrowed.

  I shrugged. “People talk. Say it’s for a million.”

  Taffy guffawed. “I wish.” She pulled her badly dyed blond hair into a scrunchy.

  “I know money can never replace a loved one, but it can soften the blows that come after.”

  Taffy smiled. I hoped that she would spend some of that money on dental repair. “I’ll tell Mommy about your concerns.” She checked the time on her cell phone. “Gotta go. You take care now, Miss Josiah.”

  “Will do,” I said. I watched her leave in a new Prius. So Taffy was already spending the money before her mother got the check. I would have to find out more about Richard Pidgeon’s life insurance policy.

  10

  It was a day for relentless surprises. Arriving home from the Market, I came upon three cop cars waiting at my newly installed gate. I called Shaneika immediately on my cell phone. She was incommunicado so I left a message. Ignoring O’nan as he tapped on my van window, I called Matt as well. O’nan, red-faced, was yelling at me to lower my window and waving a piece of paper in his hand.

  I cranked the van window open. “What’s this all about?” I asked.

  Detective O’nan shoved the paper into my lap. “Warrant to search your house and property.”

  “The bug didn’t work, so you are on another fishing trip, Detective? Don’t you guys ever take a break from harassing people? We are going to sit right here until I hear from my lawyer.”

  O’nan sneered, showing very uniform teeth, the kind that only result from braces. “In that case, I am placing you under arrest for resisting an officer.”

  I was seething now. “You wouldn’t dare!” I glared at O’nan. His blue eyes were lit up kind of crazy. It was my first inkling that his behavior was more than a good cop/bad cop game with Goetz. Maybe he personally disliked me, and would try to take it to the next level to see me take a hit.

  Goetz was leaning against a police cruiser looking uncomfortable. From his body language, I assumed the warrant was O’nan’s idea all the way down the line. But I knew he would not interfere with whatever O’nan did.

  It is not unheard of around here for a suspect’s head to get busted open for
“resisting.” For some reason, I didn’t think O’nan would have any qualms arresting . . . or even tasing me. I realized I hated him . . . because I feared him.

  “Okay,” I said. “I always want to cooperate with the law, but I will be present and taping the entire search.”

  O’nan started to object, but closed his mouth. There was really nothing he could fuss about. I was within my legal rights to tape them searching my house. Climbing into the back of my rusty van, I retrieved a video camera I kept in the case of a car accident. I began by giving the date and time plus all the officers’ names. Turning off my camera, I punched in the code for the gate. I went in first and drove slowly, not wanting the police to accidentally hit any of my animals, which for the most part ran free on the property. I was also stalling for time. A cruiser behind me blew its siren to move some peacocks out of its way. There were deer munching on fruit from a plum tree. They gave a disdainful look at the intruders before jumping over the pasture fence and escaping into the woods.

  The warrant gave O’nan the right to search my house and property for Pidgeon’s missing vehicle and epinephrine pens. The pens gave me a clue. Every beekeeper keeps one handy in case he gets one bee sting too many and goes into anaphylactic shock. Epinephrine, which is nothing more than adrenaline, will save a life. It usually comes in a tube with a springboard needle that thrusts through clothes into the thigh. They are called adrenaline or adi pens for short. Yet, a dose of epinephrine can cause a heart attack if the heart is weak. A glimmer of an idea took root in my mind.

  Once we got to the house, the entourage of cops waited for me to punch in the code for the home security system. I took this opportunity to warn them. “Guys, you break it, you pay for it. Understand.”

  O’nan just grimaced. I looked about for Goetz but didn’t see him. I watched a cadre of young policemen with military haircuts spread out through my property. Their faces revealed a childlike excitement as though they were about to hunt for Easter eggs. Deep in my heart, I worried they would plant evidence.

  I keyed in the code to the house, and opened the steel front door letting the police pass into the main hallway. Almost every one had the same expression – one of awe. The waterfall cascading off the roof into a rock-hewn basin, the moats filled with water plants, the exposed steel frames, the wooden beams, the large expanse of glass overlooking the river, and the artwork, which had taken me a lifetime to collect, hanging on the concrete walls. One cop popped his gum and whistled in admiration.

  O’nan waved his hand getting their attention. He separated them into groups of two. It would be hard for me to keep up with them as they were going through my things. I resumed my recording.

  O’nan sidled up to me. “Mrs. Reynolds, do you have any adrenaline injections?”

  “Yes, I do. I also have the prescription for them. I can account for each and every one of my injections.”

  “I will need a copy of your prescription.”

  “I can get that and more.” I went to a writing pad and wrote my doctor’s number on it while hearing closet doors opening and furniture being pulled out. I handed the paper to O’nan and then resumed recording. The ransacking of my house went on for twenty minutes. My paintings were torn from the walls and sculptures turned upside down. Suddenly, I heard a crash in the other room. Running into the library, I found a horrified cop clutching an early Stephen Powell glass piece.

  “I am sorry. It slipped. I think the neck is cracked,” said the officer, his face clouded with dismay. He was truly mortified. Even so he had just damaged an important piece of art.

  Turning towards O’nan, I could barely control the anger in my voice. “That is a $30,000 Stephen Powell work. It is a one-of-a-kind piece of hand-blown art glass. Now it’s ruined,” I protested.

  O’nan glanced at it. “Put some glue on it. No one will notice.”

  “You crazy fu . . . ” I said when my cell phone interrupted me. It was Shaneika. I hurriedly told her what was going on. She told me to put O’nan on the phone.

  “Unhuh,” he said picking lint off his pants. “Unhuh. Nope. Okay.” O’nan handed the phone back to me. “Let’s wind this up,” he called out to his minions, waving a finger in the air. He then turned towards me, “You can file a report about that glass and see if the city will pay for it. Just call the Department.”

  The commotion had awakened Baby, who was now whimpering in his crate. I let him out, but before I could grab him, he rushed over to O’nan. Growling, he tried to protect me by placing himself between O’nan and me. Unfortunately, in his excitement he piddled right in front of O’nan. “Great watchdog you got there,” said O’nan, stepping back from the puddle. I picked Baby up and cradled his squirming body. He smothered my face with puppy kisses while still dripping droplets of urine.

  “Yeah, well, he knows who’s responsible for this mess. Can’t you go now and leave us in peace?”

  O’nan rounded up his men and was gone. It had taken less than thirty minutes to destroy a $30,000 art piece and ransack my home. It had made O’nan’s day, but I was sorely pissed.

  Several hours later Shaneika arrived and found Matt and me in my office going through boxes of records from my years of teaching at UK. Baby was happily chewing on a toy in Matt’s lap. “You sure got some crazy-ass art in this weird house of yours,” remarked Shaneika. “Is that a George Nakashima that you are using for a dining room table?”

  “I am surprised that a homegirl would recognize a George Nakashima,” murmured Matt, thumbing through some old correspondence.

  Shaneika grimaced. “Well, I’m sure you would know – a stylista like yourself,” she responded with a lisp and a limp wrist.

  “Speaking of being a stylista, how’s that Billy Idol haircut working out for you?” asked Matt.

  “Bite me,” retorted Shaneika.

  “I found it!” I cried. “I knew I had seen our buddy O’nan somewhere before.” Matt scooted closer so he could read off my lap as Shaneika grabbed a chair.

  “In 1989, O’nan took one of my classes with several of his jock buddies. An easy A or so he thought. He was on a baseball scholarship. Well, the class was harder than he had anticipated. I caught O’nan and his baseball pals cheating on a test. Here is the letter about it to the dean, his coach, and his scholarship sponsor.”

  Shaneika’s eyes brightened. “I can do a lot with this,” she said, perusing the letters. “Especially with what I found out today.” She beamed triumphantly. “It seems that Pidgeon’s heart attack was possibly caused by too much adrenaline pumped into his system. They found two weird-looking puncture points on his neck but can’t positively say they weren’t bee stings. The working theory is that someone injected the adrenaline rush, and then used the bee stings to cover up the wounds.”

  “Adrenaline like from an epinephrine injector or pen,” nodded Matt.

  “But because of all the bee stings they really can’t identify a point of entry, not so that it will legally stand up in a court of law.”

  “So they have no weapon, no vehicle, no point of entry of the adrenaline into the body,” I said.

  “In other words, they have a theory, but no case. No real evidence. They can’t legally say it was murder. They can’t find any weapon with your fingerprints on it. They don’t even know how he got there,” said Matt.

  I thought for a moment. “Let’s say they did find an adi pen with both Richard’s and my fingerprints on it. Could they prove it was murder? Maybe he and I were there, and he was getting stung and having a reaction. How can they prove that I didn’t give him the injection in order to save him?” I thought some more. “If he were subject to multiple bee stings, wouldn’t his body produce more adrenaline anyway? How can they prove the adrenaline was from an injection and not produced by his own body?”

  Shaneika looked baffled. “That better not be what happened, Miss Josiah, because that means you lied to me. If for some reason, the DA wanted to push this case that would be our defense if they could ever ti
e one of your pens to Pidgeon. We would probably plead it down to manslaughter.”

  “I didn’t lie,” I assured Shaneika. “I’m just thinking out loud. Looking at all the possibilities. I am fearful of what O’nan might try in order to convince the DA. At this point, he could twist the facts into anything he liked. Besides, it seems that the point of Pidgeon showing up in my yard was to place blame on me specifically. Or else why wouldn’t the killer do it in Pidgeon’s own beeyard where it would look like a simple accident.”

  “Perhaps the murderer, and I say this with reservation as I don’t really believe a murder took place, wasn’t sure that the bees would sting Richard enough to cover point of adrenaline entry. Having his death in your beeyard gave the police someone specific to look at in case the medical examiner could pinpoint cause of death,” countered Shaneika, reaching over to pet my mastiff. She casually wiped Baby’s slobber on Matt’s pants leg.

  “Can you get O’nan thrown off the case?” asked Matt, smearing the slobber from his pants onto Baby’s fur. “It is clear that the police have nothing concrete, but O’nan is using this incident to get back at Josiah.”

  “It looks pretty obvious that O’nan is using Pidgeon’s death to make your life a living hell. Yeah, I can get him thrown off, and also request a review of how the case was handled,” mused Shaneika. “But it will only antagonize him more.”

  “My experience has been that backing down from bullies only compounds the problem. No, let’s hit back. I don’t like him thinking I am defenseless,” I said.

  “Did O’nan end up losing his scholarship?” asked Matt.

  “I don’t know. After I kicked him out of my class, I didn’t keep up with him,” I said. “It didn’t concern me anymore.”

  “Until now,” said Matt.

  “Until now,” I concurred.

  “I think we should have a victory dinner,” stated Shaneika. “Just a few more nips and tucks, but basically, this nasty business is over. Miss Josiah, you are elected to cook, and then after dinner, show me around this crazzzy house of yours.”