Death By A HoneyBee (24 page)

   
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.

    
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.