Death By A HoneyBee (A Josiah Reynolds Mystery)

by Abigail Keam

  Nurse Ratched suddenly warmed up to me. “She has had a death in her family and is not working her regular schedule.”

  “I knew her husband, Richard Pidegon. I thought if she were here, I would express my condolences.”

  The nurse looked at the computer board searching for my name, which I had given as Frances Farmer, the mentally unstable 30’s movie actress. If they asked for ID, I was a dead duck. “There seems to have been some question about how Richard died.”

  “Oh really,” I said feigning surprise.

  The nurse looked up from her board. “Oh, nothing sinister. Apparently he keeled over in some woman’s beehive, and Tellie wanted to find out whether he died from bee stings or from some other cause.”

  I shuddered. “Bees scare me. I just swell up like a puff ball when stung.”

  The nurse nodded in agreement. “I guess if he was killed by the bees, there will be a lawsuit.”

  Wonderful. “But she still comes into work?”

  “On an irregular basis, until she can get a handle on all the paperwork you know, will, insurance, funeral arrangements.”

  “Sure. Tell her I said howdy.”

  “Will do,” the nurse said, leaving the room.

  I was left alone to peruse old copies of Golf and Parenting magazines, neither of which thrilled me. Why don’t offices ever order Vanity Fair or Vogue? Forty-five minutes later, I was helping Franklin back into his car with a prescription to settle his supposedly bad case of indigestion.

  “What did you find out?” I asked Franklin.

  “I have no obstructions in my bowels.”

  I cast an irritated look at Franklin as I started the car.

  “Oh you mean about Tellie’s alibi buddy – Joyce Kramer. It would seem our Joyce Kramer recently came into some money and has taken six months off.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Convenient, isn’t it.”

  “Why is she taking six months off?” I asked.

  “The excuse was that she has a sick child she wants to spend time with.”

  “Where did the money come from?”

  “The nurse just said it was a surprise windfall.”

  “Maybe the windfall came from Tellie, who paid Joyce to lie and punch in Tellie’s time card on the morning of Richard’s death.”

  “How can that be done with the other employees about?”

  “If it’s a slow morning, employees could be running out for a quick breakfast or dozing in the back. Joyce could have said Tellie was in the bathroom if anyone inquired where she was. I think it would be easy to sneak out of a place like that. It’s only twenty minutes to my place. Richard could have picked her up and then driven out to my house. Then Tellie would only need five to ten minutes to kill Richard,” I surmised. “Richard is looking at the hives and she comes from behind and stabs him with the adrenaline pen. He has a heart attack and falls into the hive. Tellie drives the same car home.”

  “That’s an awful lot of ifs,” cautioned Franklin.

  I was on a roll. “That has her missing just half an hour of work. It would have taken her forty minutes to drive to her house, but no one would be looking for her at that time. She can easily explain to the police that she was driving home from work when Richard was at my place.” Franklin started to say something but I interrupted. “The ground was dry and the grass had been cut so no car tracks were noticeable.” I smiled. “See, everything fits.”

  “Why don’t you just ask Tellie? Confront her and see how she reacts,” said Franklin.

  “I’m trying to avoid having any kind of confrontation with the widow of the man who died on my property. That wouldn’t serve me any good. Why would she tell me the truth, in any case? She would just call the police on me. I need to keep tabs on her and see if I can catch her in a slip-up without her knowing that I’m snooping around.”

  “Oh, I forgot to give this to you the other day. When you were at the ball with Matt, I did some more snooping on Facebook. I found out that Nancy Wasser likes to frequent The Racetrack.”

  “The Racetrack? Isn’t that a strip joint?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You’re so behind the times. If it is post-1999, you don’t seem to keep up. I mean – have you bought any new clothes in this decade?”

  “Franklin!”

  “The new thing with girls is they go to strip joints and get lap dances.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  I thought for a moment. I knew the manager at The Racetrack. I had met her at a church function. I bet if I explained the circumstances, she would help me. She seemed on the up and up. What could it hurt?

  The next afternoon, I trotted over to see Goldie, who although the manager of a strip-club, was a very religious woman who attended one of the four hundred churches that dot the Bluegrass.

  One time, an English tourist, buying from me at the Farmers’ Market, questioned the number of churches. “There is a church on every corner!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen so many churches.”

  “Well ma’am, it is due to the fact that we are such great sinners. We sin Monday through Saturday and go ask the Lord for forgiveness on Sunday morning.”

  “Must be a lot of sin.”

  “Yes ma’am, among other hell-raising. We are not a quiet people. Remember most Lexingtonians have Scots/Irish blood.”

  “That explains it.”

  “Our love of religion can be traced back to the Second Great Awakening in 1801. The descendants of those twenty thousand people who attended the revival still maintain a strong influence on our culture. If you look in your tourist brochure, you can visit the actual site in Cane Ridge, not far from here.”

  “I noticed you said love of religion and not love of God.”

  “Ma’am, we Kentuckians may make illegal whiskey, bet on the ponies, shoot each other in blood feuds and run drugs up I-75, but we still love Jesus.”

  So it wasn’t a contradiction to me when I walked into The Racetrack to meet a church-goin’ woman. The Racetrack was a dimly lit, nondescript building. A burly man wearing a white shirt and orange sweat pants, who acted as both bouncer and bartender for the light afternoon crowd, greeted me. Music was playing softly, but a dancer was nowhere to be seen. Men and a few women sat quietly at separate tables drinking. I asked to see Goldie, who was nicknamed for the twenty gold bracelets she wore. Clever of her, huh?

  The man motioned for me to take a seat at the bar while he made a call. I ordered a Bloody Mary. A few minutes later, a harried-looking woman with wild gray hair joined me at the bar. She was wearing a smart gray pants suit with a retro Pucci scarf. Goldie gave me a quick hug before asking for some coffee.

  “I take it this is not a social visit,” Goldie said looking quizzically at me.

  “I was hoping you could help me with some information. I know you are busy and I don’t want to take much of your time, but if you would give me ten minutes, I'll get out of your hair.”

  Goldie seemed interested. “Okay, shoot.”

  I quickly told her that I had been run off the road and nearly killed. I had two suspects in mind but I couldn’t prove anything. I had reason to believe that one of the suspects frequented Goldie’s place. Pulling out pictures of Taffy and Nancy downloaded from Taffy’s Facebook page, I pushed them towards Goldie.

  She studied them intently. “Don’t know them, but leave the pictures here. I’ll show them to my girls and call you if anything turns up.”

  “Thank you.” I pulled out a business card along with a hundred dollar bill. She took the card. “If something turns up, I would like some honey,” requested Goldie. “I love honey with my oatmeal.” Without saying goodbye, she returned to the bowels of the club.

  The bartender, who had been listening, palmed the hundred dollars and returned to wiping down the bar with a dirty bar towel. I looked at him astonished as he turned his back on me. I left the bar, wishing I had my hundred dollars back.
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  That afternoon, I helped Matt repair the heater on the pool. He worried with some corroding wires while I told him about going to the strip joint. “I hope I hear from her,” I said as Matt flashed a light into the pump box. After pulling out a carcass of a mouse and making repairs with duct tape, I forgot about the strip club and focused on the rotting guts of my pool. Over thirty years old, the pool’s pipes and mechanics needed to be replaced. I went to bed depressed.

  The Racetrack was a long shot but sometimes long shots come in. The next morning, Goldie called me. “Got something for you. Come around ten to talk to one of my girls.”

  “Ten a.m.?”

  “Ten tonight,” she chuckled.

  “Oh, all right. Will be there.”

  Goldie hung up without another word. Apparently she didn’t like to say goodbye. I wasn’t sure whether to conclude this was rude or just plain cool.

  My next assignment was to decide what to wear. My assortment of clothing had shrunk as my waistline expanded. Matt was right. I was not just Rubenesque but getting very fat. The stress of the past several months had turned me into a serious stress-eater and it didn’t seem that it was going to abate soon. I chose a sports outfit. If I wasn’t fit, I could at least look like I hadn’t given up. I fidgeted with my lipstick and actually tried to groom my hair into something that looked styled. Having no real idea why I was nervous, I eventually put it down to the thought of being in a room full of drunken men lusting after young fresh things who showed their personal life for all to see. The idea of sex made me queasy. It dredged up deeply buried feelings that, if surfaced, would make me feel restless and angry. I had enough to deal with. I just hoped no one would make a rude comment about me being a porker.

  I arrived a little after ten, explaining to the doorman that I had an appointment to see Goldie. While he looked skeptical, he made a call on the house phone. I stood out of the way while other patrons paid their cover charge to get in. The odors of alcohol, men’s cologne with body odor and baby powder ran together. The waitresses wore jockey hats and satin low-cut blouses that tied around the waist accompanied by jodhpurs and knee-high riding boots. I thought they were sexier than the near naked women dancing on the stage. Finally, the door manager’s phone rang. He listened and hung up. “Go to the last door on the left.”

  Nodding thanks, I pushed my way through a hothouse of men of all shapes and sizes looking for a good time. Someone cupped my ass as I made my way through. I didn’t even look back. I just kept moving forward until I got to the hallway. Knocking on the last door, I got a faint response. Opening the door gingerly, I peeped in to find a spacious, professional and very clean office. It looked like it belonged to an accountant, which made the nearly nude woman sitting in a chair out of place. She had on a flimsy robe through which I could see every dimple, every curve underneath.

  Sitting behind her desk, Goldie motioned me to sit down in a leather stuffed chair. “This is Daisy,” introduced Goldie. “She says one of your girls came in last night throwing around a lot of cash. Daisy entertained her privately and overheard her talk on her cell phone.”

  I looked at Daisy, who sported a feathered blond haircut and a barbwire tattoo around one of her wrists. She had nice full breasts, one of which had a nipple ring. The sight of it made me wince. Goldie handed me Nancy’s picture.

  “You said this woman came in last night?”

  “She came in right around eleven-thirty. Her name is Nancy. She sometimes comes in with another chick.”

  I held up Taffy’s picture. “This girl?”

  “Yeah, right, but usually without her. She’s a lesbo. One of my regulars. Drinks a lot and then asks for private lap dances.”

  “Lap dances?”

  “Yeah, sometimes five before she leaves.”

  “Isn’t that expensive?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not my problem.”

  “Does dancing for women bother you?”

  “No, I sometimes date women myself. So do many of the girls who work here.”

  “Of course. I’m sure Goldie has filled you in that someone ran me off the road the other day and nearly killed me – totaled my car. I think it was Nancy but I can’t prove it. Did she say anything that might help me?”

  “She was talking to some bimbo on her cell. I think the other girl was leaving her, ’cause she started crying. She said stuff like, ‘I know I shouldn’t have done it, but that bitch made me so mad. The police will never make the connection.’ Stuff like that.”

  “Sounds like she may be your girl,” commented Goldie.

  “Could be, or could be she was talking about a parking ticket. Anything else?”

  Daisy shook her head. “Look – I’ve got a show coming up, so I gotta go. I wish I could help you more. Having someone hit my car and run off would make me really mad but that’s all I heard. I hope you catch the creep who did it.”

  “Well, I appreciate it.”

  “On your way out, catch my act.”

  Thanks. I might.”

  Daisy ran off to do her show while Goldie and I made small talk about people we both knew. Almost forgetting, I pulled out several jars of Wildflower Honey from my coat.

  “Hey, you remembered,” Goldie cried happily. She seized the bottles with gusto, locking them up in her desk. Looking at my startled expression, she replied, “If I don’t, the girls will borrow them.” She rose from her desk. My time was over.

  As we were both walking out, I asked, “Hey Goldie, don’t women date men anymore?”

  “Honey, people don’t date anymore. They hook up. We are both old dinosaurs. Gotta get used to the way the world is today.”

  Goldie escorted me out of her office pledging that she would call if she heard anything else. She gave me a goodbye bear hug. Plunging back onto the floor, I saw that Daisy was performing.

  I don’t understand pole dancing. I prefer the feather-fan strip-tease era with strippers like Gypsy Rose Lee and Sally Rand, but Daisy wasn’t half bad. The men looking at her were seemingly in a trance. Once in a while, one would reach up and put money between her legs. Daisy had muscles like a vise-grip, never letting a dollar drop. I scooted my way to the door. Seeing me, Daisy winked and blew me a kiss. I stepped out into the cold air.

  20

  It was finally in the paper that a memorial service was scheduled for Richard. I could now have contact with Tellie with a good excuse. I would just go to pay my respects while hoping to find out stuff – what stuff I didn’t know.

  I donned a black dress I had worn when I was pregnant. I brushed my red hair into a tasteful French twist and applied an appropriate color of lipstick. My shoes were free of debris and polished. Feeling like I had a fighting chance of looking respectable, I entered the church early and found Tellie with only one other person paying her respects. When their conversation had ended, I approached Tellie, softly calling her name.

  Tellie turned. She studied me with unbridled mistrust. “Josiah, how nice of you to come,” she said stiffly.

  “Should I be sorry for your loss?” Damn it. Couldn’t I have said something less antagonistic?

  She snorted. “You still have that sharp tongue. One of these days, it’s going to cut you.”

  I tried a more subtle approach. “Tellie, I am truly sorry for your loss. I know what it is to lose someone.”

  “Yes, Brannon. Wasn’t he living with a much younger woman when he died?”

  I flinched. “Let’s bury the hatchet, okay? I don’t want to make trouble but I do think we need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Some strange things have been happening to me. I thought maybe you might know something about them.”

  “Why should that concern me? I really don’t care what has been happening to you.”

  “Even if it involves Taffy?”

  Tellie started to speak but stopped, as Taffy and Nancy strolled into the church, both attired like Goth vampire girls.

  Barely stifling a low groan, Tellie’
s face revealed hostility mixed with pain. So she didn’t like Nancy. This was part of the stuff I had come here to learn.

  The two approached us. Taffy was certainly in a grief mode, as if it suddenly had dawned on her that her father was really dead. Her eyes were red from crying. Nancy just looked ridiculous tagging along.

  “What are you doing here?” Nancy asked me.

  “Paying my respects.”

  “I’d be ashamed to come here after Taffy’s daddy died on your property and all,” retorted Nancy. Taffy glanced nervously at Nancy.

  “Well, I guess that is the difference between grown-up behavior and just weird behavior. You goin’ to a Halloween party after this?”

  “Both of you, shut up,” hissed Tellie. “This service is for my daughter and myself. If you can’t behave yourselves, then get the hell out of here.”

  I mumbled my apologies. Silently asking God to forgive me, I went to sit in the back of the church. I was well aware that Tellie seemed to have a newfound confidence, which had never been displayed when Richard was alive. This interested me. What caused the mouse to turn into . . . at least, a lion cub?

  From the back pew, I had an ideal vantage point from which to study those who came to pay their respects. Gray-haired men, who looked like retirees from IBM, offered their condolences to Tellie. Afterwards, they stood chatting in little pods. I listened to several of the men compare war stories about their IBM careers. Ever so often, Richard’s name would be mentioned. A short silence always followed.

  Members of the Farmers’ Market began to make their appearances. Even Otto Brown, who had bothered to shave and put on his Sunday suit with a clean starched shirt, showed up, with Mrs. Brown, in a brightly colored caftan, following faithfully behind. I watched Otto pat Tellie’s hand a little too long while talking to her and wondered what Mrs. Brown thought of this. Tellie put her hand in her dress pocket.

  “No fool like an old fool, I always say.” I looked up to see Irene Meckler, my buddy from the Farmers’ Market, standing in the aisle. “Did you see old man Brown try to paw Tellie with his wife standing right there.” Irene shook her head. “Disgusting.”