Death By A HoneyBee (A Josiah Reynolds Mystery)

by Abigail Keam

“His name is Brannon Reynolds III.” I laughed. “She tells everyone that she is Brannon’s widow, but his cremated ashes are in a cardboard box in my closet. Yeah, I had to pay for his cremation.”

  Matt handed me a tissue box. “Did I kill my husband? Perhaps the strain of our bickering added to the overall stress of the situation. But in some ways, I died just a little too, so I guess we are both even.”

  “I had no idea, Josiah. You never spoke of Brannon. I thought the two of you just went your separate ways. You never have let on how financially difficult it has been for you.”

  “I say that you have nothing to be sorry for,” exclaimed Franklin as he burst into the room clutching his laptop. “What a soap opera! GAWD, could it get any worse for you? Having to lie to people about your circumstances – that you are one of the down and out poor. No wonder you kept it under wraps. Why, no one would take your calls if they knew you were one of the unwashed . . .”

  “I thought I told you get to get me some food,” I cut in.

  Franklin plopped down on the bed. “I know how you feel, Josiah. If Matthew did something like that to me, I would be devastated. I mean, cheating is one thing, but not even leaving you a kopeck – that’s a crime!” He pointed his tapered finger directly at Matt. “I would have done everything to keep him from making himself a fool over some shameless hussy.”

  “Is that what you call it?” retorted Matt.

  “My Cherry Valance to your Matthew Garth,” Franklin quipped, referring to Howard Hawk’s Red River.

  I looked accusingly at Matt. “You taught him the movie game?”

  Matt grinned sheepishly.

  “You are not thinking correctly,” continued Franklin.

  Both Matt and I looked cluelessly at each other.

  “Look, someone is trying to spook you, Josiah, may I be so familiar. Mrs. Reynolds is just too formal after seeing you in your old lady undies. Sorry, but your shift had pulled up, let’s not talk about how embarrassing that was to see. I thought I was going to go blind.”

  He turned to Matt, who stared furiously back at him. “Well, I did,” Franklin said. “Who want to see an old lady catcher’s mitt?” He continued, “Instead of spending a fortune on lab tests and lawyers, just use the Internet. Everyone spills their most personal affairs on the web.”

  I had no idea where Franklin was going with this diatribe. I was still wondering if I had had clean underwear without holes on when they found me.

  “First of all, the language is just over the top. Who uses thee as you anymore? Comes across as very theatrical. Know anybody that speaks this way, maybe some old Amish lover you’re not telling us about?”

  I shook my head.

  “While you were at the hospital with your husband, did any of the nurses, staff or doctors disapprove of your treatment of your husband?” asked Franklin.

  “Not that I know of. Everyone was professional and courteous.” I thought for a moment. “Golly, Franklin, I’m only fifty. You make me sound like I’m decomposing. Matt, do I really look that bad?”

  “Josiah, stay focused. Okay?”

  “Oh my God! My body really does disgust you,” I said with my voice raised.

  “Josiah,” said Matt exasperated. “I think you are gorgeous for someone your age.”

  “My age!”

  “Let’s get back to the subject at hand,” commanded Franklin. “I bet everyone was listening and someone on the staff disapproved. There are no secrets kept from the people who empty the bedpans. It may have looked like you were a harpy trying to keep this man’s true love away. Do you remember any names?”

  “No,” I answered sullenly.

  “That’s okay,” said Franklin, ignoring the storm clouds gathering in my eyes. He began typing. “I would bet that either Tellie or Taffy has a Facebook page. What we can do is see if any of their Facebook friends worked at the hospital during the time your husband was admitted. That person could have told Tellie or Taffy about your fight with the mistress.” He fiddled with the laptop. “Tellie doesn’t have a page but Taffy does. Let’s see who her friends are.”

  He typed some more while whistling. “Okay, here is a list of friends. Let me know if any of the names seem familiar - or, better yet, look at their pictures.” He placed the laptop on my lap.

  “Don’t you have to be accepted as a friend first before you can have access to her page?” quizzed Matt.

  “Not if she hasn’t put that on her privacy setter,” said Franklin. “She’s letting everyone have access to her page.”

  Matt looked over Franklin’s shoulder. “It says right here on Taffy’s profile that she works in the tourist industry in Berea. She must go through Richmond to get to work.”

  I scrolled down several dozen pictures trying to ignore the incendiary comments on her page about her father’s death. My name was mentioned several times. Great. Finally I came to a woman who seemed familiar. I pointed her out to Franklin.

  “See – all you needed was a computer. Not a detective.” Franklin took his computer back and typed in some more. He looked up triumphantly. “It seems a Nancy Wasser is a retired ICU nurse from the Medical Center. You now have your link and can reasonably conclude that Taffy sent those letters.” He punched in some letters. “I’m going to email her that I know Miss Josiah and that I think her honey tastes awful. Let’s see what she says in return.”

  “No way,” said Matt. “Unethical. That might be considered entrapment.”

  “Horse poo! I will do it myself using another name and my other email address.”

  “If this backfires, I had no knowledge of it – got it?” I said.

  “Ditto,” said Matt.

  Franklin smiled. “Quote from Ghost?

  Matt might be right about Taffy. We knew the connection and the manner of the letters. But why would Taffy use such archaic language? Thee and kilt was old mountain language, not in her frame of reference. And why send the letters to me?

  Matt started to say something but my doctor came into the room. Twenty minutes later, I was wheeled to Matt’s waiting car. I felt ugly, fat, and repulsive, but I was on my way home. Those boys should volunteer at a hospice. There’d be laughs for all, including the corpses.

  17

  During the next several days, I stayed close to home. Matt and Franklin both made it a point to be at the farm before dark, taking over responsibility for its security and feeding of the animals. I think we were all a little spooked and needed life to assume an aura of calm and routine. Normal and boring sounded pretty good.

  It also gave me the time to sew my costume for the annual Cherokee Stump Harvest Ball, which was the farmers’ largest fundraiser. Matt was to be my escort. He was going as Prince Philip and I as Maleficent, one of my favorite Disney characters from childhood, which was not particularly healthy for an eight-year-old. It should have given my mother pause for her child to be pricking her doll’s hands with a needle and shouting, “Touch the spindle. Touch it, I say!!!”

  Sleeping Beauty was so passive, I was yawning even more than she was. Maleficent was a naughty fairy, who dressed in a truly magnificent purple and black gown with matching headpiece and a fantastic staff, making a real fashion statement to my eight-year-old mind. She suited me perfectly

  as I felt edgy and discordant, but I planned to have a good time with Matt, who happened to be an excellent dancer.

  Franklin had already outfitted Matt with tights and a red cape. Matt made Franklin throw away the huge rhinestone codpiece he had glued together, saying he wouldn’t be caught dead in it. Matt topped the costume off by confiscating my great grandfather’s Civil War sword as the Sword of Truth.

  On the night of the dance, Franklin showed up as giddy as a helicopter mom on prom night. He proceeded to help me into my costume, did my makeup, help don the headgear, and then take pictures of both Matt and myself standing in the hallway holding hands. The only thing missing was a corsage.

  Baby growled as we were leaving and snapped at the back of
my dress. Franklin reprimanded him by saying, “Bad Baby. Bad Baby. Be good or I’ll have to discipline you.”

  Matt grinned. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

  Franklin groaned. “Dirty Dancing. Take care now, kids,” he said waving goodbye.

  I knew when coming home, Franklin and Baby would be happily ensconced in my bed while I would have to make do with the guest bedroom. Matt would bed down on the couch or sleep in the cabana.

  Matt drove my ten-year-old Mercedes to Spindletop Hall, a classically styled mansion built with money from the Salt Dome oil field in Beaumont, Texas. It was so named, as it resembled a spindle top. Miles Frank Yount had acquired the leases on supposedly tapped-out plots and drilled deeper until he hit a second vein of oil in 1925. This was the origin of the great Spindletop fortune. Too bad old Miles died at the age of fifty-three. He didn’t have much time to enjoy his good luck.

  Yount’s widow, Pansy, along with her grief, moved to Kentucky to take part in the American Saddlebred industry. To claim her place among the gentry, Pansy built Spindletop Hall, a mansion that stood out among mansions in Lexington.

  The house had 40 rooms including 14 bathrooms, which covered an area of 45,000 square feet. All pipes inside and outside were made of copper, as were 102 window screens. There were seventeen houses for servants, eighteen barns, one tennis court and one swimming pool, which sat on 1,066 acres of rich Bluegrass land. Pansy also had the largest Jersey cattle herd in the United States.

  But things did not turn out well for Mrs. Yount. The Kentucky Blue Bloods did not accept Pansy or her newly acquired third husband, Mr. Grant, as the Texans were considered “new money.” Our homegrown aristocracy can be very cruel.

  The house was sold in 1959 to the University of Kentucky for less than its original building cost of a million dollars in 1935, and the locals have jealously guarded it ever since. Brannon thought it one of the most beautiful private residences he had ever seen.

  In 1962, it became a private club for UK and hosted a variety of functions. One of the farmers, also a UK staff member, reserved Spindletop Hall for the farmers’ annual Cherokee Stump Harvest Ball. The grand hall was decorated with pumpkins and its curved double staircase encased with blinking lights and glittering fall leaves. The band played a mixture of rockabilly and swing music, and everyone was decked out in spectacular costumes – a great many of them dressed in authentic-looking Civil War garb. Away from public glare, the farmers could just be themselves, dancing the Cherokee Stomp or old-school jitterbug. There would be much drinking, eating, carousing and gossiping before the night ended. Maybe a little bottom-pinching here and there. Of course, that would occur after the church-going farmers had left.

  After stuffing ourselves with Southern delicacies like country ham, corn pudding, cheese grits, and sweet potato casserole from the heavily laden buffet table, Matt and I took to the dance floor, joining others doing the American Bandstand version of the jitterbug. In fact, most of the dancers were old enough to actually remember Dick Clark

  hosting his show from Philadelphia. I taught Matt steps that were simpler than the ones he had learned in dance school.

  Matt was a wonderful dancer who made any partner look good. I noticed women eyeing him with open admiration while some of the men glanced at him furtively. I was proud of Matt’s stunning good looks. I like beautiful things and he was beautiful.

  “Oh, Matt,” I cooed wistfully, “if only you were straight.”

  “Oh Josiah, if only you were a man,” replied Matt as he twirled me around the room.

  I was exhausted after the seventh dance. Matt sat me down at our table and fished out my albuterol spray as I had started to wheeze. He left to get some coffee, only to come back with a soda, which he plunked on the table.

  “Taffy is here,” he said, pushing the bottle with the tip of his finger towards me. I grabbed the green bottle and took a big gulp. “I’m going to ask you not to make a scene.”

  “I have a great big medical bill due to Taffy,” I replied, scanning the crowded room.

  “You have no proof that she sent those letters – just a hunch.”

  “Then this is a perfect occasion for getting some.”

  “Josiah, I have just started practicing law,” Matt said softly. “I can’t afford being associated with a catfight at Spindletop. Take it up with the courts and sue her.”

  Since Matt rarely made requests of me, I grudgingly acquiesced.

  “Good, then I can tell you that bull dyke, Nancy Wasser, is with her,” murmured Matt in my ear so bystanders could not hear him.

  “I never thought Taffy was gay,” I said.

  “She may not be, but her friend definitely is. My gaydar went off the charts.”

  “And isn’t Nancy a tad too old for her?”

  Matt shrugged noncommittally. “What do people say about us?”

  “But we’re just friends.”

  “They don’t know that. We think it’s fun to make them think otherwise.”

  “Oh, how the plot thickens.”

  Matt excused himself to go to the men’s room. I drifted outside onto the terrace to catch some fresh air. Several people were gathered in groups talking quietly. One of them was Taffy dressed as a scarecrow. When she saw my costume, she smirked, whispering something to Nancy. I decided to say hello.

  “Taffy, glad to see you getting out,” I said smiling. “Is your mother here?”

  “Nope, she’s working.”

  “I understand that the medical examiner is releasing your father’s body with the cause of death listed as a heart attack. I am sure that is a relief for both you and your mother.” I had already forgotten my promise to Matt.

  Taffy said nothing. I was hoping to bait her into revealing something. “Is there going to be a service soon?”

  “Yes. It will be in the paper,” replied Taffy coldly, her scarecrow makeup making her eyes look abnormally large.

  “I see. Who is your friend?”

  I could see Taffy was becoming uncomfortable. It pleased me to see her squirm.

  “This is Nancy Wasser.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied.

  Nancy stared at me, not uttering a word.

  “Let’s see, Nancy Wasser, Nancy Wasser. When my husband was ill, he had a nurse named Nancy Wasser. That was about three years ago. His name was Brannon Reynolds.”

  “I don’t remember. I have had lots of patients.”

  “I could have sworn you were my husband’s nurse. I guess that is why you are dressed as a nurse tonight, Ms. Wasser?”

  “Are you suppose to be the devil or somethin’?” sneered Nancy.

  “I am Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Doesn’t she get killed by Prince Charming?” baited Taffy, looking at Nancy for approval.

  “It’s Prince Philip,” I corrected. “But she does exact her revenge before she bites the bullet. I would keep that in mind.”

  Taffy immediately became sullen. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that when a particular type of person is pushed, they sometimes push back – hard. You know – the Don’t Tread On Me motto.”

  Nancy snapped, “Lady, you sure got some sharp edges on you. A person is likely to prick themselves on you.”

  “Isn’t that funny that you used the word prick . . .”

  Sensing someone at my elbow, I turned around.

  “Oh, darling, here you are,” murmured Matt in my ear while pinching my elbow.

  I stifled an “ooouch!”

  Matt smiled at the ladies when he felt me flinch. “Good evening, Taffy. Please introduce me to your charming friend.” Taffy introduced Nancy as Matt bowed and kissed Nancy’s hand. “I adore your nurse and scarecrow outfits. How original.”

  I could tell Taffy and Nancy were wondering if they had just been insulted or praised. I was wondering myself.

  “Showoff,” I muttered under my breath.

  Matt blocked my view of them. “Your drinks need fr
eshening up. Allow me, please.” He reached for both of their glasses, which they relinquished. “I hope that each one of you will honor me with a dance later this evening.” Pulling at my sleeve, Matt said, “Come away, dear.” Matt smiled back at the ladies.

  Taffy beamed at Matt while her friend looked suspicious. Either way, Matt had two glasses in his hand as he steered me towards the kitchen. After talking with a waiter, Matt procured two baggies in which he deposited the glasses. “Get your stuff,” he ordered. “We are leaving now.”

  I quickly grabbed my staff, purse and my grandfather’s sword from our table. Hurriedly passing through the massive front doors, I hopped into the Mercedes, barely closing the door as Matt peeled away. I guess it had not occurred to her, but I now had Taffy’s DNA and fingerprints. We made off like bandits.

  Giddy with our success, we congratulated each other on the glass scam. We kissed, gave each other the high five, and giggled like fools. We had taken Ironworks Pike, the back road to home, thinking that other guests including Taffy would take I-75. We were not paying the least bit of attention

  when we were suddenly hit from behind.

  “What the . . . ?” yelled Matt, grabbing the steering wheel tighter. He glanced into the side mirror.

  I turned around in my seat only to experience another jolt of the car hitting us. The car’s brights were glaring so I couldn’t see the type of car or driver. Matt was barely keeping my old Mercedes from careening off the road. Suddenly, the attacking car pulled into the opposite lane and sped up to become even with us.

  “Watch it, Matt. They’re going to run us off the road!” I cried.

  Matt cursed at the other driver and slammed the brakes while the other car sped on. My car stopped in the middle of Ironworks Pike. Turning to each other, we both gave a collective sigh while watching the other car’s tail lights disappear.

  “Do you think that was Taffy?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you say that she drives a new Prius?”

  “Yes.”

  “I really couldn’t see who was driving or how many were in the car, but I don’t think it was a Prius. Sat too high up,” stated Matt