Death By A HoneyBee (A Josiah Reynolds Mystery)

by Abigail Keam

  Larry had been on a two-day pass in Saigon when Charlie blew up the bar he was patronizing. It took six months before he was released from the hospital, and then the Army just let him go without fanfare. Larry thumbed his nose at the Army and joined the FBI. Since then, he had made it his business to notice things. He didn’t stop just because he had retired. Now Larry fixed his watery blue eyes upon me.

  “So, start beatin’ up with the gums.”

  “Huh?’

  “Spill it.”

  “Okay. Okay. I fess up. Larry, I might be in trouble. You know that Richard Pidgeon was found on my place dead.”

  Larry nodded his head while chewing. “Peeped it in the trees.”

  “Has there been much talk about that?”

  “Talk, oh shoot-fire. It’s all we yack about!” he replied, meaning the other beekeepers.

  “What are the rest of the guys saying?”

  “Different opinions about that. Some say Richard was messing with your hives, deserved what he got. Others just say that it was odd that he was on your property. Paper didn’t divulge much except that he was found dead in a hive. Mystery is why would the bees sting a bee charmer? That’s why gums are flapping. Something happened to rile up those bees against him; otherwise, Richard would never have gotten stung. Bees thought Richard was a solid sender.”

  I harrumphed.

  Larry raised his hand to silence me. “I know you two had your differences, but Richard was a good beekeeper. Never saw a beeyard as clean as his. He loved honeybees, and his honey was as good as can be harvested. You can’t take that away from him, sister.”

  I felt my face redden.

  “Another thing,” Larry said, reaching for the martini pitcher. “There were two cops here putting the squeeze on me about you and Richard.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I played dumb. I don’t dime to flatfoots. If it had been a Special Agent, well, then it might have been different, but I’m retired now. I don’t need to play anymore,” he said.

  “Someone told them about the fight at the State Fair.”

  “It wasn’t me that fingered you. You might want to look Tellie’s way.”

  “Speaking of Tellie, have you seen her since this happened?”

  “She has been awful quiet. I went over to her house twice, but no one answered the door. I knew she was at home because her Suburban was in the driveway. Seems like she wants nothing to do with beekeepers.”

  “Maybe it’s you,” I teased.

  “Naw, dames love me. I had a condolence check for her from the Beekeepers Association and just put it in the mailbox.”

  “Cashed?”

  “Not yet.”

  Larry removed his Red’s ball cap and scratched his bald head. “The thing for you to do is keep active, make sure you make the next bee meeting. If anyone asks about Richard, just say it’s a mystery to you. No wisecracks. No bringing up the past. Keep it simple.”

  “So I look guilty?”

  “You look anxious. I guess the police are turning the screws. They don’t like unanswered questions. Neither do I.”

  “It’s been officially ruled as a heart attack.”

  “Tell people that, but distance yourself from his death as much as possible.”

  “Do you think I had something to do with his death?”

  “Naw, but someone sure-fire did. No bee would have stung Richard alive or dead without cause. Be careful. Watch your back, because someone gave those bees the meanies.”

  “I am just wondering. Why do you think that I had nothing to do with Richard’s death?”

  “You’re no crab apple annie. You’re too square. Dig? This was the work of a sneaky cat.”

  With that said, Brenda, Larry’s wife, pulled into the driveway. Without blinking, Larry took the basket and martini pitcher, placing them under an empty box. He fished out some breath mints and took one. “Get me on the Ameche if you need something. I’ll get the basket back to you at the next bee meeting,” he said over his shoulder while going to greet his woman. I trotted along thinking about what he had said. I guess he knew something about sneaky people.

  I ran errands and returned home to mow around the house. By dusk, I was feeling exhausted. I dressed in a ratty nightgown and climbed into bed early with Baby – not that I slept much, tossing, as my mind was restless again. I could see how people, when in a jam, panicked and ran. I was frightened. I was confused. For the first time in years, I wished Brannon were alive to tell me what to do. If things turned sour for me, I would have to start over in another town. At my age, I didn’t think I had the strength to do so.

  It was around 11:30 a.m. before I got up and fed Baby. It was time for the mail. I drove up the gravel driveway to the mailbox. I usually walked the distance, but it was misting. The mail consisted of the usual bills and invitations to church revivals.

  An envelope with an old-fashioned typed address fell to the ground. I picked it up and opened it. Typed in big letters – “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”

  I turned the envelope over. No return address. The person who sent the letter had used a manual typewriter. It was just like the letters sent to the police as described by Officer Kelly. Now the same person was sending hateful letters to me.

  Many of the members of the Farmers’ Market loathed technology and did not use computers. They still recorded their sales in handwritten ledgers. Could it be one of them?

  When returning home, I put the letter on the dining room table. The next day, I wore latex gloves when getting the mail. Another letter. “MURDERESS!”

  Carefully placing the letter in a baggie, I took it home. A magnifying glass showed that both letters were from the same typewriter as the D was missing its very top.

  I suspected that a woman had sent it. Recalling an article I had read, women punctuate when writing threatening notes. A woman would use an exclamation mark to denote emotion. Men wouldn’t bother. Also, it seemed to me that a man would use the word murder or murderer. Men always think in the male gender.

  Matt came right over after I called him. He had been in the cabana trysting with his new love, Franklin. I could smell sex on him. For a moment, the smell brought back a longing I had forgotten. Hastily, I turned my mind over to the letters.

  “The canceled stamps say Richmond.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything,” I replied. “Someone could have been just passing through. It’s only twenty miles away.”

  “On two consecutive days? I think the person either lives there or drives through Richmond for work.”

  “Could be right.”

  “Let’s start with me taking these to the lab my firm uses. See if we can find anything on it.”

  “How much is that going to cost?” I was down to counting change for gas money.

  “This is not the time to be penny-wise and pound foolish.”

  “Matt, no more than a thousand dollars. I mean it. I really can’t afford that much.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I’ll also find out where Taffy works, and that is for free.” He squeezed my shoulder. Matt then hurried back to his friend. He had forgotten the letters.

  I sealed the letters in zip-lock bags. Walking to Matt’s car, I put the bags on his dashboard. The lights of the cabana were turned off. I left in silence.

  For a while, things were quiet. I went to work at the Market, making some good money. I didn’t see anything of O’nan or Goetz. I started to relax, letting my guard down. Matt brought his new boyfriend home and invited me to dinner several nights. Grateful for company, I joined them at the cabana. It was lovely having the two of them cook while listening to their happy banter. Sometimes after dinner, they would take a quick swim while I curled up with Baby and a good book. I’d hear their squeals of play in the pool from my bedroom. Seeing their happiness had a positive effect on me.

  I was never one for being resentful of other people’s success. I wished them well.

  Days later, the trees were in glorious fall foliage
as I returned home from the Farmers’ Market. Last spring’s foals were prancing in well-mowed fields as I drove past horse farms on Tates Creek Road. A shy pileated woodpecker, winging through the sky, was a rare sight. I followed her flight until she was out of sight.

  Turning into my rutted driveway, I stopped at the mailbox only to find another one of those dreadful letters, again from Richmond. I carefully opened the envelope, quickly reading it. I gasped. Feeling lightheaded, I struggled to open the van door. The slick paper slipped through my fingers, the world became a wall of darkness . . . and I slid into it.

  16

  I opened my eyes to see Matt looming above my face. His severe expression caused me to squeak like a mouse. “Where am I?” I croaked, struggling to sit up. My voice was hoarse.

  “You’re at the Medical Center. Josiah, you scared the bejeebies out of me. I thought you were . . .”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, dead. You were lying in such an awkward position, half out of the van. It was still running.” Matt ran his hand through his thick dark hair. “I was just plain scared.”

  I felt around my body to make sure all my fingers and toes were still intact. “Did I have a heart attack?”

  “The doctor says it was asthma. It must have been a lightning-quick attack. I found an adrenaline shot in your purse, then put you in the van and drove like Old Scratch to get here.”

  I reached down and felt for my legs. My left thigh was very sore where Matt had jabbed me with the autoinjector.

  “I didn’t even know if you were breathing when they put you on the gurney. I am surprised I didn’t run over anyone getting here.”

  “The letter?” I wanted to go back to sleep but struggled to stay focused. I was only half taking in what Matt was saying. Before drifting back to sleep, I heard Matt say something about staying the night for observation.

  The next morning, I awoke in a semi-private room. I groaned, not because I felt ill, but because I had no health insurance. How was I going to pay for this hospital stay?

  Calling the nurse, I had her pull out the IV and got a gruff answer about when the doctor would be in.

  While waiting, an elderly priest shuffled into my room after taking note of my room number. He patted my shoulder and began speaking in Latin. I could smell peppermint on his breath and Aqua Velva emanating from his thin papery skin. Recognizing that he was giving me the last rites, I interrupted, “Father. FATHER! I think there has been some mistake. I am just here for a short time.”

  The holy man looked at me sympathetically and responded, “Daughter, we are all here for a short time.”

  I stifled a laugh, letting him continue. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was Baptist. I made sure that I knew the name of his parish so I could send a note expressing my appreciation. After all, he did take time to try to make me feel better – somewhat.

  When he shuffled out of my room, I called the nurse and had her show the priest to the correct patient. At that moment, I wished I were Catholic. I longed to confess. Just have someone to listen to my inane ramblings. I knew I had sinned three years ago and had not yet atoned for it. But I guess that’s why God invented talk therapy for Protestants – someone to listen to us verbally vomit. It was cheaper being Catholic, especially at a hundred eighty-five dollars a session.

  After a hot shower, I dressed in clothes Matt had brought from the house and sat in the chair by the window, waiting for breakfast. Since I had paid for it, I was damn sure going to eat it.

  Hearing a knock, I looked up to see Matt poke his head around the door.

  “Don’t you look better!” he said with relief. “You even washed your hair. So glad to see it. Now let’s see if we can yank a comb through it.”

  I ignored his smart-ass remark about my hair. I remembered how he let me go into town only a few – how many weeks ago? It seemed like yesterday my hair was sticking straight up in full view of everyone.

  “So what happened?”

  Matt relished telling me about how he found me lying prostrate, how he and Franklin pulled me into the van and rushed me to the hospital. “Really, you weigh a ton. You have got to lose some weight, Babe.”

  “So it wasn’t a heart attack?” I asked weakly.

  “Nope. Just an old-fashion panic attack followed by an asthma attack – still could have been quite lethal.”

  “Did you find a letter nearby?”

  “You mean this little old thing that said you killed your husband?” announced Franklin, who strolled through the door brandishing a soiled envelope in a baggie. “Sorry, but I was outside preparing for my grand entrance.”

  Franklin was as plain as Matt was beautiful. I guess he wasn’t ugly, just non-descript looking. He was lean like Matt and had a face that – just was not interesting. His saving grace was an agile, playful mind that made him sexy. Add his retro glasses, his dyed blond hair and his loud bow ties, Franklin screamed “flaming” but with style. I liked Franklin, but he made me feel clumsy. His mind worked so quickly. “Looks to me like some crabby old Mennonite typed this.”

  “Shut up, this is serious,” snapped Matt.

  “Let me see the letter,” I demanded.

  “I don’t know about that,” answered Matt, looking quizzically at Franklin. “I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

  “What better place to have a relapse than in a hospital,” I said, grabbing the letter out of Franklin’s hand. I read it again.

  “Want to confide in me?” asked Matt. It was plain that he was concerned that there was something to these letters. I had never discussed Brannon’s death with him.

  “Is this privileged?”

  “Pay me a dollar.” He looked at Franklin. “Get out.”

  “I’ll just have to listen at the door,” said Franklin on his way out.

  “Hey, get me something to eat,” I called after him. “I’m starving.”

  I handed the letter to Matt. It read, “THEE KILT THY HUSBAND TOO.”

  I gazed out the window. I didn’t tell Matt about the priest’s visit – how it had left a hard knot in my gut - but I needed to talk to someone. Matt was my best friend, but would he understand? I had to put my faith in our friendship, our common human experience.

  It was hard to admit, but I have always felt guilty about Brannon. I had never explained the events leading up to Brannon’s death to anyone, but now I needed to release the anguish.

  “Brannon and I were in love for a long time but he fell out of love during the second decade of our marriage. For a while, he tried to put on a good face but I knew he was unhappy. We both wanted different things. Brannon wanted to live in a Tara.”

  Matt looked astonished.

  “I kid you not. He hated the Butterfly. He would rather have lived in a palatial, ante-bellum plantation home with gleaming horses grazing in the paddocks, shuffling servants serving mint juleps, and Paul Sawyier prints on the walls. He wanted to be part of the old-money Kentucky aristocracy. I wanted to live in my contemporary house with most of the land reverting back to its natural state, a gravel road and wild animals roaming and a few run-down racehorses. He knew it would look odd if he wasn’t living in what was his most awarded design so he put up with the bees stinging him, the peacocks pooping on his Mercedes, and the isolation. We had lots of money then. If it got too much for him, he would take a trip. I thought nothing of it – that was the way most marriages were after years of living together.

  “It was five years, almost six years ago now, at a faculty Christmas party at the Art Museum that he met her.”

  “The name that can’t be spoken?” asked Matt.

  “Yes. In fact, I introduced them. Can you believe the irony of that?” I laughed bitterly. “She was a rich alumnus, divorced, and bored. She had money, racehorses, and a blueblood family name that went back generations – everything Brannon coveted. After several cocktails, they discovered they had many things in common – same type of art values, life values, money values. What can I say – they
just clicked. Looking back, I would say the affair started that very night. Brannon was smitten. Two months later, he moved out. A month after that, he wanted a divorce. I told him he could have the divorce if I could have everything else. I was going to bleed him dry.” I paused, catching my breath. “He was just as hateful to me. This was not going to be a friendly divorce. The back and forth went on for several years with us both shelling out a fortune to lawyers.

  “Finally, Brannon came to the house pleading with me to agree to a settlement. She was pregnant. He needed our life together over so he could marry her before the baby was born. I should have noticed that he was pale and rather thin at the time, but I was angry and distracted with his proposal. I just couldn’t accept that our marriage had failed.

  “I refused him. He left in a huff. Two hours later, I got a call that he was in the ER and had suffered a heart attack. When I got there, he had been moved to ICU. I commandeered the doctor who said that they were waiting for him to stabilize before they operated. He felt Brannon was too weak at the time.

  “Then she showed up. There was lots of yelling and accusations. I wouldn’t let her in his room. I was still Brannon’s legal wife and had the hospital call security to have her removed. Even though I heard Brannon mumble her name, I wouldn’t let her see him. He died later that night. I can’t help but think that if I had let her see Brannon, he might have had the will to fight.” I began to cry, dabbing my eyes with the bed sheet.

  “It gets tackier: the reading of the will. I got his life insurance policy, an oversight on his part, I’m sure, while she got all the rest of his assets. I got nothing else. He didn’t even leave anything to our daughter. Luckily, the farm was in my name only, an anniversary present to me, or she would have had half of that too. If I had gotten the full interest in his architecture firm, his paintings, bank accounts, retirement funds, I would be filthy rich. As it was, after I paid off the mortgage on the farm, I was broke and she was richer than ever.”

  “Did she have the baby?”