Death By A HoneyBee (A Josiah Reynolds Mystery)

by Abigail Keam

  “Meriah has asked to meet you, and, as you have had a suspicious death on your property, she wants to explore it.”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “Oh, poo, of course you can. I saw in the paper that the death has been listed as a heart attack. And when have you ever followed the rules?”

  “Can’t you just have a barbeque and serve overcooked hotdogs in stale buns like everyone else?”

  “How absurd. No one has good conversations at a barbeque trying to balance paper plates on their knees while spilling sauce down their cleavage. Dust off your diamonds, darling. I will see you Saturday at eight.” And with that, she hung up the phone.

  Ah shoot-fire! I could see I wasn’t getting out of this one. If I didn’t go, June would make my life a living hell with her constant needling complaints. I was very surprised when I asked Matt, and he readily agreed to go with me. He said he appreciated the opportunity to network. Already fishing for clients. I was sure with his good looks, Matt would soon lure June away from her present lawyer, especially if he turned on the charm. June was a sucker for the pretty boys.

  After working at the Farmers’ Market on Saturday, I rushed home to Franklin’s waiting arms. He styled my hair in a tasteful upsweep and applied just enough makeup to hide my age somewhat, but not enough to make it look like I was hiding my age. While I was grappling with my undergarments, Franklin let the seams out in my silk black tuxedo pantsuit. There were going to be no visible panty lines for his protégé.

  “The black will help to camouflage your huge butt,” he remarked.

  “Thanks for the confidence booster, Franklin.”

  Ignoring me, Franklin rifled through my jewelry box. He found diamond earrings and my pendant of yellow topaz surrounded by diamonds, some of the few pieces I had not pawned yet. He put them on and stood back appraising me. “You’re not a bad-looking woman when you clean up. You have this sort of Valkyrie look going for you,” Franklin said approvingly. “You’re tall and you’ve got good bone structure. Your hair is still a fabulous red with gold streaks. It actually looks real. Do you dye it?”

  “Not yet, but you and Matt are going to give me gray hairs any day.”

  “Well, you look as good as you’re going to,” he said. “Of course, while you and Matt are having a grand time drinking champagne, I will stay here like a good little hausfrau and sit with Baby.”

  Baby raised his massive head from my good bed sheets responding to his name. Seeing no treat was forthcoming, he rolled over on his side, taking up the entire bed with his adolescent frame and began to snore with drool seeping from his massive mandibles.

  I clutched a velvet wrap around me. “Your time will come, Franklin. Just give Matt some room to work up a client list. I’ll bet next year you will be making public appearances everywhere with him.”

  Franklin pouted. “I better be or there will be hell to pay. I am just biding my time for now.”

  “Thank you for your help.” I leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I do look good.”

  “Hubba hubba,” said Matt, standing in the bedroom doorway. Both Franklin and I turned catching our breath at the same time. Matt was wearing a classic white dinner jacket with a red rose in his lapel. His curly dark hair was brushed back from his forehead accenting his high cheekbones and languid dark eyes.

  “Don’t you look great!” I exclaimed, feeling my cheeks redden.

  Matt was gentleman enough to ignore my enthusiasm. He twirled me around. “You look good too. Let’s go and set this evening on fire. We’ll show that Yankee mystery writer, New York has nothing on born and bred Kentuckians, for we are the descendants of Simon Kenton, Daniel Boone, Tecumseh, and Jenny Wiley.”

  “Good lord,” remarked Franklin. “I don’t know who those people are except for old Daniel.”

  Matt flashed a smile. “Look it up on your computer, Franklin. I don’t want an uneducated consort. Get to it.”

  We all laughed but I saw Franklin head for his laptop muttering, “I kilt a bar,” as we were leaving. June’s car was waiting for us at the front gate. We climbed into the old Bentley and it took us exactly seven minutes from my gravel driveway to her palatial house on a winding landscaped paved one. Matt took in the restored pre-Civil War house and gave a low whistle. “I feel like we’ve stepped back in history,” he murmured.

  “Just wait. It gets better,” I replied. Before we could knock on the door, June’s African-American butler opened the door. “Good evening, Charles,” I said, handing him my wrap.

  “Evening, Miss Josiah,” replied Charles. Charles was wearing a white jacket similar to Matt’s. I bit my lip to keep from giggling.

  “This is Matthew Garth,” I said introducing Matt.

  “Evening, Sir.”

  Matt extended his arm for a handshake. Charles ignored the offered hand.

  I whispered, “You don’t shake hands with the help. Just nod.”

  Matt obeyed and nodded to Charles.

  “Very good to meet you, Sir. The guests are in the library as it is a chilly evening,” replied Charles.

  “Thank you, Charles. I know the way.”

  “Very good, Ma’am.”

  “Will I be meeting Miss Scarlet and Mrs. Peacock in the library? I say the candlestick was the weapon,” whispered Matt out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Charles, is Miss June in the library?”

  “I believe she is still dressing, Ma’am. Excuse me Ma’am, but I need to get the hors d’oeuvres.”

  I sighed heavily. I dreaded meeting the other guests without June being present and hated the way she always had to make a grand entrance. I was hungry and wanted to eat soon.

  “Maybe she’s got the vapors,” chuckled Matt as we walked down the hallway lined with silk wallpaper and marble floors. Elegant flower arrangements from the Farmers’ Market rested on antique tables in front of large hall mirrors hanging from the ceiling. Matt took in a deep breath. I knew what he smelled – the green mustiness of lots and lots of money.

  “Get this,” I whispered. “The butler and the kitchen help plus the farm workers are black but June’s secretary and farm manager are white – just like many of the great houses before the War of Northern Aggression.”

  Matt shook his head in disapproval. “How does she get away with it?”

  “Easy. She pays extremely well and has retirement plans for all her staff. Charles has put up with her crap for twelve years. I don’t know how he does it, but I have never seen him complain or get angry with June. When Brannon and I were still together, we would have dinner over here at least once a week.” I touched the walls with pride. “You know this was the first house Brannon restored. He did a great job. This house will last another hundred years without any serious repairs or refurbishing. Brannon did everything just right.”

  We had reached the library, which was at the back of a long corridor. I slid back one panel of the heavy pocket door into the wall frame and entered the room. Immediately the smell of dusty old books and furniture polish hit me. I was glad that I had brought my portable nebulizer along with me.

  “Good evening,” I said, walking towards the guests before I had the chance to identify them. I extended my hand only to find Larry Bingham sipping a brandy and staring back at me. “Larry, what the hell are you doing here?” I asked startled. “Hello Brenda,” I said as an afterthought to his wife.

  Larry shrugged. “I’ve know June for a long, long time from a case I worked years back.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep,” he replied, looking steadily at me. “I’ve never have had the time to accept an invitation before with my work schedule, but now that I am retired, Brenda insisted that we attend.”

  “I have never seen the house and wanted to,” cooed Brenda, looking smug.

  “I’ve never seen Larry in a suit and without his cap,” I said. “Oh, I’m sorry. What an ass I am.” I started laughing.

  “That’s okay. I know it is a shock, but then I’ve never seen
you duded up either, Josiah.”

  “Touché.”

  “My name is Matthew Garth,” interrupted Matt. “Just call me Matt.”

  “I have really forgotten my manners,” I said, feeling off balance. Everyone thought Larry was a humble beekeeper, but I knew Larry used to be a star agent in the FBI. Working on sensational murder cases before he retired, his presence at a dinner party with a famous mystery writer did not bode well for me. I smelled a rat.

  “And I am Reverend Humble and this is my wife, Ruth,” said a tall older man, rising from his chair.

  My mind flashed “as in humble pie,” but I resisted saying it.

  “Of course you are,” laughed Matt. “I have never read an Agatha Christie story where the local vicar was not invited to the auspicious dinner party. What we need now is a thunderstorm to make the evening complete.”

  “I am not a vicar,” corrected Reverend Humble.

  “It was just a figure of speech,” rejoined Matt. He turned to me and lifted an eyebrow. Matt thought people who took everything literally were impossibly boorish.

  “Oh,” replied Reverend Humble.

  “What do you mean by ‘making the evening complete’?” asked Brenda, warming to Matt.

  Matt eased down beside her on a heavily brocaded couch. “Well, we have the village shaman, the constable, a knight of the law – that’s me.”

  “No,” interrupted Brenda, her eyes shining. “You are the rogue, the adventurer.”

  “If you like,” smiled Matt. “Our hostess is a peer of the realm, her guest of honor is the detective.”

  “What am I?” asked Brenda.

  Matt grinned at her and Mrs. Humble mischievously. “You and Miss Ruth are the beautiful court ladies that will be rescued from any sign of danger by a dashing young man.”

  “I like the sound of that,” laughed Ruth. “I’ve always wanted to be rescued so I could swoon into some handsome man’s arms.”

  “What rubbish,” murmured Reverend Humble.

  Larry fixed his gaze at me. “What about Josiah? What is she?”

  Matt strode over to me and rested his hands on my shoulders. “Josiah is the sacrificial lamb. The innocent led to slaughter . . . that is until we catch the real murderer.”

  I shrugged off Matt’s hands. They felt hot and heavy. “You are quite right, Mr. Humble – rubbish indeed.”

  “Reverend,” he corrected me.

  “Whatever,” I replied, pouring myself a neat scotch.

  “What we are missing is a doctor, someone who can tell us the manner of the victim’s death,” interjected Larry.

  “Not necessary. Since CSI, the lay person can pretty well assess cause of death,” replied Matt.

  Larry scratched his ear. “I disagree, but this is your party.”

  “No, daaarlings, it is my party!”

  We all turned to stare at a diamond-laden June tottering into the room with the aid of a cane. I stifled a laugh when I saw she was wearing a tiara. A much younger woman with streaked blond hair stood beside June wearing a simple blue chiffon gown with only a simple gold chain adorning her tanned cleavage. She was prettier that her jacket photo portrayed her.

  “I see everyone has introduced themselves,” commented June. I went up to June and air-kissed her on the cheek whispering in her ear, “What are you up to, you old bag?”

  Lady Elsmere ignored me and introduced Meriah Caldwell to her guests. Meriah shook hands with everyone and pleasantly remarked on the weather. “I hear we are going to have a storm later tonight.”

  Matt choked on his drink and started coughing. Ruth patted him on the back. The rest of us grinned.

  Meriah looked around. “Did I say something funny?”

  “It was just before you came in that Matt was stating all that was missing was a dark and stormy night,” I answered.

  Meriah flashed some seriously whitened teeth. “I see. Yes, that is funny.”

  For several uncomfortable moments, people stared at their drinks.

  At last, June interrupted the silence. “I hope ya’ll goin’ to be more chatty at supper. We’re havin’ seven courses.”

  “I love that accent, Lady Elsmere. Where did you acquire it?” I teased.

  “Your claws are out earlier than usual, Josiah. I am from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, and proud of it. You won’t find me ashamed of my humble beginnings.” She nudged Matt. “I have wonderful pictures of me when I was young. I was quite the looker in my day.”

  “I would be pleased to see anything you wish to show me, Lady Elsmere,” Matt replied with a wicked smile.

  June guffawed and gave Matt a playful nudge. “Josiah, Matt is a treat. Nowadays, men don’t practice the art of flirting. They are such boors.”

  Brenda shot a look at Larry. “See, I was right. He is the adventurer.” Larry nodded in concurrence.

  Suddenly, an explosion of thunder shook the room and the lights flickered. We exchanged looks and broke into laughter. Charles, stone-faced, appeared at the door and announced, “Dinner is served, Madam.”

  June grasped Matt’s arm and proceeded out the door. The Humbles and the Binghams followed. I looked at Meriah and shrugged. “I guess I’m your escort,” I said placing her hand on my arm.

  “Delighted,” the mystery writer replied.

  Dinner was a sumptuous affair. June informed us that the menu had been borrowed from a dinner that Henry Clay had given at his home, Ashland, in honor of the French ambassador in 1849. The wine flowed, followed by champagne. I was a good little girl. I ate everything on my plate. I noticed that Meriah barely touched her food. Maybe that was the secret of how she kept so thin. She kept stealing glances at me from under her long dark eyelashes. It didn’t stop me from grazing on everything in sight.

  “Josiah, you seem to approve of my new cook,” June acknowledged.

  “June, I have rarely had a dinner so fine or companionship so . . . well . . . so companionable.” I looked around. “Is that even a word?” I giggled.

  “Someone has had a little too much to drink,” complained the Reverend.

  I wanted to retort – but kept my mouth shut – for once.

  “I’m feeling a little lightheaded myself,” stated Larry, coming to my rescue. “I’m like Josiah. I have eaten to the full of this most delectable food. I don’t think I have ever had a better meal, even in Paris – that’s France, not Kentucky. If I were in baser company, I would unbuckle my belt.”

  Brenda shushed him.

  Pleased, June stood. “We will have port and dessert in the parlor. Charles, show my guests the parlor, please.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  The guests rose as one and waddled behind Charles as he escorted us to the parlor.

  Meriah brushed up against me. “Excuse me,” she said. “I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

  “If it is about Mr. Pidgeon’s death, I can’t help you.”

  “I know you think this is forward but I am looking for a hook for my next novel, and when June told me about what happened to you, I was fascinated. I know you have been through some exasperating trials since then, but I thought you might offer some insights.”

  “All I know is that I found a dead guy in one of my beehives and since then, my life has been a living hell. Look, you’re the mystery writer – if you wanted to kill someone how would you have done it?”

  The two of us walked into the parlor. Everyone stopped talking to listen to our conversation.

  “Well, the bee stings alone could have killed anyone.”

  I interrupted, “Mr. Pidgeon died of a heart attack.”

  “Perhaps from the fear of bees.”

  Matt stood by the window cradling a glass of port in his hands. “Mr. Pidgeon was an experienced beekeeper and a charmer to boot. Bees never stung him.”

  Meriah sat down. “That’s the mysterious part. Why would bees sting a charmer? Because someone made them sting him, which brought on the heart attack. It could still be murder after all.”<
br />
  I accepted a plate with chocolate bourbon cake. “Those are my thoughts exactly.”

  Reverend Humble thought for a moment. “It still could have been something more simple. The grass was wet with dew. He could have stumbled and fallen into the hive. Your bees, not knowing him, stung him from fright and caused him to have a heart attack.”

  “But what was he doing there in the first place?” asked Brenda.

  “That is the sixty-four thousand dollar question, my dear,” replied Larry.

  “What do you think, Special Agent Bingham?” asked Meriah. “Was it foul play or just an accident?”

  “I’m retired now. Just plain old Larry will do.” Larry looked at me. “Don’t have enough evidence to decide, but I know our girl here didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Why is that?” asked Meriah.

  “Josiah is just too damned obvious.”

  “Besides,” Reverend Humbled observed, “the butler always does it.”

  “You would be surprised at how often the employee is the killer of his employer,” stated Meriah. “I have done lots of research on that subject.”

  “And I think in two of your books, the personal assistant is the murderer,” chimed in Brenda.

  Meriah bowed her head. “Thank you for reading my books.”

  “Do you hear that, Charles?” asked Lady Elsmere. “You might do me in yet.”

  For the first time that evening, Charles grinned.

  While the others were discussing Richard’s death, I sidled up to Larry. “What did you give Tellie at Richard’s funeral?”

  “I gave her a check from the Beekeepers Association.”

  “You told me that you left that check in her mailbox,” I accused.

  Larry broke into a smile. “This is why I know you didn’t have anything to do with Richard’s death. You asked all the right questions.”

  “You are not going to tell me, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s none of your business,” he said quietly.

  I thought for a moment. “You said that Goetz and O’nan came to see you.”