by Abigail Keam
The old man held up his hand. “Lord strike me down dead if I’m not telling you the awful truth. The man was just a plain nut. He used to drive my late missus to tears with his complaints about hanging her wash in the backyard. Said she had to move her clothesline, as he didn’t like the wind blowing our clothes over the fence line of his property. He was always complaining about this or that . . . and poor Mrs. Pidgeon.”
I leaned towards Mr. Haggard. “Yes?”
“Well,” he took a swig of his beer, “let’s just say she always had bruises on her arms.”
BINGO! “You don’t think he hit her, do you?”
“I never actually saw him do anything, but she had a lot of bruises. I don’t think any woman can be that clumsy.”
I stayed with Mr. Haggard for another twenty minutes before I found the way to my car. I gave him the grits, telling him that it would ruin before Tellie got home. I would make her another one. He seemed grateful at having a hot meal. He promised to return my dish to the Market.
On the way home, I left a message on Shaneika’s answering machine that I wanted her to obtain copies of any emergency room reports on either Tellie or Taffy Pidgeon from the major hospitals in town.
She returned my call the next day and began complaining. “You know that is illegal. Medical records are confidential.”
I laughed. “Quit being a drama queen. Take some of that money from my painting and bribe someone in the records department.”
“Are you nuts?” she yelled into the phone. “I could lose my license.”
“Just do it.” I hung up before she could have the last word.
I didn’t hear from Shaneika for over a week until a courier delivered a large envelope to my gate. It contained the Ellis Wilson appraisal. “Jumpin’ Jehosophat!” I cried when seeing the painting’s worth. Shaneika would be my lawyer until my death and then some.
Next, I pulled out four copies of emergency room medical reports for Tellie Pidgeon from several hospitals over a ten-year period. Cuts, bruises and a hairline fracture gave me what I needed. Each time, she said that she had been in a minor car accident or a mishap at home. Also included were Tellie’s college records, work records and current financial status, which had been dire until she received Richard’s life insurance check. It had been deposited but then she had had a cashier’s check made out to her for $600,000. That was odd. All creditors had been paid except for the mortgage on the house, which was in the early stages of foreclosure. Strange, I thought. Why didn’t she pay the house off? That would have been the first thing I would do.
Even some of Richard’s medical records were included. It seemed that he had a weak heart and was being treated for high blood pressure, high cholesterol and OCD thrown in for good measure.
I laid Tellie’s medical files, the insurance letter, college records, work records on my Nakashima table and began making notes on my yellow legal pad. Tellie had two motives – revenge and money. From her college transcripts, she had majored in pre-med and then dropped out. Her IQ was high.
Logically, a sleuth should always start looking at the person who has a possible motive closest to the victim and then move outward. Tellie was capable of planning an intricate murder. Where was she on the morning of Richard’s death? I had motive but I needed to break her alibi. But then Agnes might have done it. If she still loved Richard, maybe she finally snapped because she couldn’t have him. Or maybe there was some psycho killer roaming the countryside picking off beekeepers.
I then reviewed everything I had about Richard. All information led to a man who was angry, frustrated and in declining health. He was a prime candidate for a major heart attack. Maybe Tellie didn’t want the additional burden of a physically disabled husband. Or maybe Taffy had learned of the insurance policy, and decided that her father stood in the way of her mother and herself living well. No, that couldn’t be. She had an alibi on the morning of his death, but so did Tellie. I’d bet my farm that one of them or both had something to do with Richard’s death.
That night, my daughter called me. “Mother, what you’re doing is going to boomerang on you.”
“Shaneika ratted me out, huh,” I said. “Isn’t my stuff with her supposed to be confidential?”
“Don’t change the subject. What you are doing is irresponsible. You are going beyond badge work.”
“Badges, badges? We ain’t got no badges. We don’t need no badges! I don’t have to show you my stinkin’ badge.”
“The case is closed,” responded my daughter tersely. Apparently, she did not think I was funny quoting from the Treasure of the Sierra Madre.
“There is no statute of limitation on murder. The police can reopen the case any time they like. Do you want someone to send the cops a little note causing them to reopen the case two years down the road? No, this needs to be settled now.”
“What if your theory is wrong? Without substantial proof, Tellie can sue you for defamation of character if you go to the police with it.”
“What if I’m not? I don’t think I am, but I need to check on some things first. I won’t do anything without talking with you.”
“You can’t involve me! I can’t know anything. Understand? I am even going to cut off Shaneika.”
“Yes.” I knew she must not be connected in any form. It would ruin her.
There was silence on the phone. “All right, be careful,” she said. As if she had to tell me.
14
Knowing that Agnes would never receive me at her office again, I tried a different ploy. For several mornings, I camped out on the immense marble reception porch of the Carnegie Center waiting for Agnes to park her big Cadillac that Officer Kelly had so nicely described for me. But I tired of standing against a massive pillar as the public skirted around me going into the building while giving me the once-over. So I retreated to my van. The first couple mornings, I had missed her as her car was already parked in her parking spot. Other mornings, she didn’t show up at all. It seemed that she had a cushy job; she could come to work when she wanted. One morning, though, at 7:30, her Caddy rolled in. I slid down in my seat to prevent her from seeing me and calling the police.
Agnes parked some distance from me, so I silently got out, hoping to intercept her before she entered the Kentucky limestone building that housed her business.
“Good morning, Agnes.”
She looked like a million bucks in her fur-trimmed suede coat, swinging a Kate Spade purse. Agnes recognized me immediately and reached for her cell phone.
“Before you call security,” I added quickly, “you might want to know that I plan to tell the police that you omitted certain facts when you told them your story.”
“Still drinking the blood of children?” Agnes said with quiet confidence. She unnerved me, but I was determined to have the last word with her. I had no idea why she was so hostile. A vampire – really!
“Look, we can do this in the cold or go somewhere warm.”
“Get in my car and be quick about it,” she commanded, looking down the tree-lined street.
She unlocked her car, and I slid into the passenger side. It had been a long time since I had been in a luxury car that had all the bells and whistles. I sank into the creamy champagne leather seat.
“What do you want?”
“One thing about being an academician is that one knows how to do research,” I said reaching into my pocket, “like about your accident.” I pulled out a copy of a newspaper article and handed it to her. “It seems that you lied to me, Agnes. There was, indeed, a car accident in which you and Richard were injured, but there was no other third party. You were the drunk driver.”
Before she could respond, I produced a copy of her divorce decree. “And it wasn’t you who wanted the divorce, it was Richard who wanted out - who told you to get lost. The only thing you told me that was true is that you loved him, which I believe you still do. It must have galled you that Richard went on with his life, married again and had a child.”
Agnes was quiet. She started the car.
Not knowing what she was up to, I pulled my taser from my pocket. “Don’t try anything funny,” I said.
“You sound like a cheap detective novel,” she quipped. “Relax. We are just going around the block while talking. I don’t really want to be seen sitting here talking to you.” She settled back in the luxurious captain’s chair and pulled out into the traffic. “I told you many truths. The accident did aggravate Richard’s condition. It made him unbearable to live with. He began hitting me. One day, I hit back. Thought I had killed him. I never loved anyone but Richard, but I refused to let any man use me as a punching bag. What was there for us to do? Richard thought we should live apart before something awful happened. He loved me too. He was willing to let me go until he got better. He wanted the best for me.”
“Yeah. He was a saint.” I rolled my eyes. “So he divorced you.”
“The plan was that when he had conquered his condition, we would remarry, but the thing is he didn’t get better.”
“And not only did he not come for you, but married a younger sweet thing. That must have been hard for you to take.”
“Richard never really loved Tellie, but he wanted a child and . . . Tellie was convenient.”
“You actually fell for that line of bull?”
“Tellie was what he needed.”
“You mean someone compliant.” An idea came to me. “Wait a minute! You and Richard never stopped seeing each other. You stayed in touch. You were always the real wife. Tellie was merely the woman who bore the child, cooked and cleaned for Richard, essentially a maid for him.” I pointed a finger at Agnes. “But you were the one he loved. That is why you were going to make Richard the beneficiary of your will. I bet he was always the beneficiary of your life insurance and pension as well.”
“We had a standing date every week for the past twenty-seven years. We both got what we needed.”
“Good Lord, you sound as though you’re proud of this.”
“I’m not ashamed of my love for Richard nor can you make me ashamed. I made the best of the cards dealt to me.”
“How does Tellie play into all of this?”
“I lent him money to consult with the best doctors but no treatment ever helped him. It seemed like he was just hardwired to be a jerk but . . . other times, he was so sweet. We had been divorced for years when I told Richard I didn’t think we were going to get married again. He would be wonderful for months and then without warning, he would be a monster and then go back to being wonderful again. I couldn’t take it. Richard accepted that I loved him but I wouldn’t live with him again. But he was still relatively young. He wanted a child, a family. Finally, he met Tellie. She was very passive and seemed to like being told what to do. She was what Richard needed.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“No, but I knew what she looked like.”
“Did she know about your, uh, accommodation with Richard?”
A shrug.
“And your relationship with Richard was ongoing. You got the best from Richard while poor Tellie got the butt end of the stick.”
Agnes said nothing, but concentrated on driving. It started to drizzle. She turned on the windshield wipers.
I tried another tact. “Do you think he beat Tellie?”
“I know that he sometimes slapped her, but not hard.”
“He told you?”
“Yes, he had no secrets from me.”
“On a regular basis?”
Another shrug. “It was none of my business what went on between them.”
“You didn’t call the police?”
“If Tellie wasn’t going to call, who was I to interfere?” defended Agnes.
“He ever hit Taffy?”
“God no!” Agnes answered disgustedly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Richard would have told me.”
“Were you jealous of Tellie?” I continued pounding. I might never get another chance to discover the truth.
“Of Tellie, no. That she had a life with Richard – of that I was jealous.”
“So, if you had been born a masochist, you would have stayed with him?”
“Yes. Some women are very much into being submissive. You need to ask Tellie about that lifestyle. I am just not put together that way.”
“So it was Tellie’s fault that she got hit?”
“If she is a masochist, then yes. She got what she wanted and needed.”
“You are sitting there and actually telling me that women who are beaten by men are all masochists and want it. Do you know how weird you sound?”
“Do you know how stupid you are? I didn’t ask to fall in love with a man whose habits I loathed. If you are one of those people who think a person can control whom they fall in love with, then you are stupid indeed. The heart has a will of its own. Besides there was more to Richard than what you saw. He was smart, funny and a good listener. Yes, he had faults, but you have no idea how hard he fought against his brutish nature. Sometimes he won. Sometimes he lost. I blame myself for it. If he hadn’t been in that wreck, those traits might never have surfaced. And how in the hell am I to know what Tellie did or didn’t like in their marriage? You don’t know what went on between them. Maybe she loved the challenge.”
“You should have moved on.”
“Like you did?” sneered Agnes. “I did some checking of my own. Rumors around town say that you were having an affair with a Zac Efron look-alike gigolo and that’s the reason your husband left you. He took up with a woman young enough to be his daughter and gave all his money to his little pregnant girlfriend.”
I had been getting rather tired of Agnes’ sanctimony, and now she had hit a hot button. “That brings me to what you told the police about needing to see Richard because you were making him your heir. What was that about? Why not just put his name on the will? You didn’t need to talk with him to do that. What did you really talk to him about?”
Agnes sighed and lit a cigarette. She blew the smoke in my direction. “I wish you would just disappear. I really dislike you butting into my life.”
“Tell me what I want to know and I’m just a memory.” I snapped my fingers. “Gone, just like that.”
“I have cancer.”
I could hardly control my guffaw. “Christ Almighty, you’re playing the cancer card.”
Agnes tugged at her beautiful lustrous ink-black hair until it came off in a mass. In place of the wig were gray tufts of hair and wide patches of baldness.
“Removal of both my breasts, radiation, chemo, new age crap – you name it, I’ve tried it.”
I should have been contrite. I should have been embarrassed. I should have been sympathetic. But I wasn’t.
“Who is your heir now?”
“Taffy.”
We had stopped at a red light. “Wow,” I said. “It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person.” I opened the car door and stepped out into the rain. Slamming the door shut, I began the walk back to my van, never looking back. I hoped I’d never have to see Agnes Bledsoe again. Talk about a bloodsucker.
15
I was checking on my bees in the early morning to make sure their water troughs were full. Like cows or horses, honeybees must be fed, watered and treated for diseases.
Today my job was making sure they had enough honey to make it through the winter. I checked by pushing with my knee on the back of the hive. If the hive easily tilted forward, the hive had too little honey. If it stood steadfast, then the hive was fine. Only two of the hives needed help. I would give them emergency food tomorrow.
Since it was now nearly time for lunch, I made several sandwiches of thick roast beef with homemade potato salad. Putting everything in a handmade basket along with a big pitcher of martinis and a soda for me, I drove to see Larry Bingham, my bee mentor. He was the person who had helped me install my first package of honeybees. With
out him, I never could have survived the travails of beekeeping. He was also president of the Lexington Beekeepers Association. If anyone had his ear to the ground, it was he, and I wanted information.
Larry was a retired FBI man who purchased 10 acres in Anderson County on which he kept hives and a garden. In the late summer, he puts a vegetable stand in front of his house. His customers are on the honor system, leaving money in a cigar box. Larry has made twenty-four thousand dollars this year so far.
I found Larry in his honey house putting honey jars in boxes. The Doors were blaring on the CD player. He sniffed the air. “What’s buzzin’, cousin?” He turned and smiled when he saw the basket. Walking over, he took the basket without even speaking to me.
“Hello to you too,” I said laughing.
“Good to see you, Josiah. Shove your clutch down here.” Larry pulled out a folding chair for me. Peeking in the basket, Larry’s face flushed with pleasure. He handed me the soda and shook the pitcher. “This is going to hit the spot,” he declared. “Bring any olives?”
I nodded, watching him pour a martini into a paper cup.
“Know what I had for lunch?”
I shook my head.
“Just a dried-out baloney sandwich, and I was lucky I got that. Brenda has me on some rotten diet. I had to sneak that crappy sandwich out of the house.”
I glanced over at the back of the house. “I don’t want to get in trouble here.”
Larry waved at the house. “Don’t get scared. The missus’s gone into town. She will never know that you brought food to bribe me with.”
I feigned offense. “Can’t I just want to spend time with my good buddy?”
Larry loved puzzles, forties-era slang and late-sixties rock ’n’ roll. Said that puzzles and riddles had always relaxed him even when it became his work, which was in intelligence during the Vietnam War. I would ask him to tell me about his spook operations for the government, but he never bit. Larry never engaged in war stories. Classified, I guess. Loving the Army, he would have made it his career, but life was going to go in a different direction. Wasn’t it John Lennon who said that life is what happens when you are busy making other plans?
