Death By A HoneyBee (26 page)

   
“Yes, it is ironic to see how pretty she looks today of all days.”
   

   
“What’s that getup Taffy got on?
 
She looks like early Madonna.”

   
Not knowing what to say, I just shook my head.
 

    
Irene sniggered.
 
“Oh my God, there’s another one dressed like an eighties reject.”

    
I looked piously at a prayer book, as I knew people were looking to see who was snickering.
 

    
“Shh,” I cautioned Irene out of the corner of my mouth.
 
“Don’t get us thrown out of church.”
   

    
Irene began coughing and opened her large purse to find a mint.
 
“Chest cold,” rasped Irene to an irritated woman turning around to see who was causing the commotion.
 
My friend whispered conspiratorially, “Guess who was pulling into the parking lot as I was coming up the steps?”

 
    
“Haven’t a clue.”

 
    
“Agnes Bledsoe.”

 
    
“This ought to be interesting.”

     
Irene and I both settled in to watch the show.
 
Other farmers, seeing us, sat nearby, providing a cocoon of solidarity.
 
Apparently, they decided to give me a show of support.
 
I was glad.
 
They also provided a screen from which I could observe unobtrusively.
  
While nodding and giving appropriate responses to comments flying my way, I watched Agnes Bledsoe make her way up to the altar and intently scrutinize pictures of Richard on display.
 
Occasionally pausing before a particular picture, she studied it, sometimes touching it gently with her fingertips.

     
Agnes had told me that she and Tellie had never met, so I watched with great interest as Agnes greeted Tellie.
 
They spoke for a moment and then Agnes moved back to the pictures.
 
Tellie gave no sign of recognition as she moved to receive other guests.
 
I wondered what name Agnes had given her.
 
To my great astonishment, Agnes pilfered one of the pictures, cupped it in her hand against her suit skirt, and walked out of the church.

     
Taffy and Tellie, unaware of the picture theft, continued talking.
 
There went one of my theories that Tellie and Agnes were in on it together.

 
    
“Well,” I said to Irene.
 
“Agnes told at least one truth.
 
She and Tellie had never met.
 
Tellie didn’t know who Agnes was.”
  

     
“Agnes sure left in a hurry.
 
I guess so nobody from the old days might pepper her with questions,” replied Irene.
 
“She shouldn’t have taken that picture.
 
She should have asked Tellie for it.”

   
 
I should have known that nothing missed Irene’s hawk-like eyes.
 
“Agnes told me that she was leaving her estate to Taffy.”
 
I left out the bit about Agnes’ cancer.

   
 
Irene was thoughtful for a moment.
 
“I guess there’s justice in that.
 
God knows, she and Tellie will need it eventually.
 
I think Richard was about to go belly-up . . . financially, I mean.”

   
 
“There’s no money in bees,” I confirmed.
 
“It’s labor intensive, and the profit margin is too low to make any money.”

   
 
“It would just seem that Richard would have kept the first dollar he ever made.”

   
 
“Maybe he spent it all on cleaning products,” I said sarcastically.

    
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Larry Bingham make his way up the aisle to Tellie.
 
I watched keenly as they talked.
 
Tellie shook her head after Larry thrust an envelope into her hand.
 
Without waiting, he turned, leaving the church by the side door.
 
Larry had looked relieved, as though he had just executed a solemn duty and was now free from its burden.
 
He didn’t notice me huddled in my little nest of farmers and I made no effort to let him know that I was present.
 
Didn’t he tell me that he had left the beekeepers’ check in Tellie’s mailbox?
 
What was in the envelope?
 

    
Feeling a little like Hercule Poirot, I was mentally checking off suspects in my private drama.
 
So far everyone had acted true to his or her nature.
 
Agnes, aloof and proud, stole a picture of Richard, leaving without saying a word to anyone.
 
Otto, who disliked Richard, took his anger out on the widow by subtly pawing her at the dead man’s memorial service.
 
Taffy, the not-too-bright daughter, was dressed in mourning black to be sure, but in a circus freak sort of way.
 
Her companion Nancy, in a bid to control an already dysfunctional relationship, was barking orders.
 
Only Tellie, the long-suffering wife, usually meek and quiet, seemed confident and composed.
  
Yes, it was only Tellie who seemed out of character.
 

    
The organ started playing, jolting me out of my fugue.
 
We all stood, grabbing hymnals and searching for the designated hymn.
 
No one ever liked singing hymns at funerals.
 
They were usually dreary.
 
I crossed my fingers, hoping that we would not have to sing
Amazing Grace
.
 
I wearied of it as much as I did of
The Old Rugged Cross
.
 
Instead, we sang about the tides of sin being washed up from the raging sea upon the calm shore of forgiveness.
 
What the sea had to do with Richard, I could not guess.

    
True to most Baptist funerals, the preacher talked about Richard finding salvation after being baptized in water – a very big deal for us Baptists.
 
Now that he had been reborn in the blood of the Lamb, Richard rested in the bosom of Jesus, no matter how much of a jerk he was in life.
 
The minister didn’t utter those exact words, but his meaning was clear.
 
Then the Twenty-third Psalm was read as it has been read at every funeral I have ever attended.
 

    
Years ago, I made my daughter promise that Psalm Twenty-three would never be read at my funeral.
 
It’s not that God doesn’t watch over us.
 
It just seems he is very picky as to whom he will help.
 
Benjamin Franklin was right when he espoused that God helps those who help themselves – in other words, don’t sit waiting for heavenly help.
 
It might not come.
  

    
Straining my neck, I tried to see Tellie.
 
She sat serenely in the front pew along with Taffy, who sobbed quietly into her handkerchief.
 
Still as a sphinx, Tellie sat beside her grieving daughter, staring at the preacher. I wondered if she was holding Taffy’s hand. Thank goodness Nancy had chosen to sit in a back pew.
 

  
  
I wondered how I would have acted at Brannon’s funeral.
 
My daughter and I will never know since we didn’t have one.
 
Devastated by the lack of regard for us in his will, I just collected his ashes, storing them in my closet.
 
I didn’t even purchase an urn.
 
He’s in a cardboard box.
 
His girlfriend had a service for him.
 

   
My daughter and I had left town that week to avoid the gossip and hard questions that would have surely come our way.
 
Maybe that was why I had been so depressed for the past three years.
 
I never had closure with Brannon.
 
Never gone through the rituals that officially would put the past behind me.
 
Brannon Sr. was sitting in my closet – waiting, waiting.
  
                                                                                                                              

   
Besotted by love, Brannon had turned his back on his wife and first-born.
 
Besotted by love, I abandoned Brannon in death.
 
I felt it had been an even trade.

   
I wondered how Tellie felt.
 
Did she regret her marriage to Richard or was she just sad about how things had turned out – mean and trivial?
 

   
The invitation was given for those who wished to give testimony about Richard’s life.
 
Embarrassingly, no one came forward until two members from the Beekeepers Association stepped up and gave a glowing report of how Richard was a rare bee charmer who tended his hives well, which was ironic to everyone since Richard had died while being stung by countless bees.
 
After they sat down, an uncomfortable silence filled the sanctuary.
     

    
Irene chuckled softly.
 
While Irene was most sympathetic to Tellie and Taffy, she had no use for the man who used to tell Market customers that her flowers were nothing more than weeds.
  
She poked me with her elbow and gave me a knowing look that said, “You reap what you sow.”
                                                       

   
Bored, I glanced about the church only to discover Detective O’nan sitting several pews behind Tellie on the opposite side.
 
Instinctively, I sank in the pew.
 
Realizing that I was acting like a fool, I raised my head.
 
O’nan was turned in his seat glaring at me.
 
I swallowed hard while averting my eyes.
 
I tried to not let O’nan intimidate me . . . but he did.
 
I was afraid of him.
 
I wished I was a brave swashbuckler like Errol Flynn freeing his chained mates to freedom in
The Sea Hawk.
 
But the truth was that I was a middle-aged, overweight woman with asthma, no fighting skills and no protector.
 
I had only my wits to shelter me from an increasingly hostile world.
 
I wrestled with the notion of calling Matt but decided against it.
 
I had bothered Matt enough.
 
I didn’t want to become a burden.
 

   
Sensing my apprehension, Irene asked, “Who’s that guy looking at you?”

   
“He was the cop in charge of Richard’s case.”

   
“Was?”

   
“Well, the death has been listed as a heart attack.”

   
Miriam, the peach lady, eavesdropping, leaned forward from the pew behind us and asked, “What was Richard doing at your place?
 
Everybody’s wondering.”

   
“I honestly don’t know,” I replied, happy that I could truthfully answer.
 
Before I could be asked another question, I excused myself to use the restroom.
 
I really did have to use the bathroom.
 
Finding them near the Sunday school rooms in the basement, I did my business, washed my hands and freshened up my lipstick, although the fresh coat managed to look drab under the fluorescent lights.

   
I didn’t anticipate finding O’nan leaning against the opposite wall with his arms folded when I came out.
 
I hissed like a scalded cat.
  
“You are under orders not to have contact with me,” I said quickly.
 

  
“Don’t know what you are talking about.
 
Just wanted to use the washroom.
 
How was I to know that you were coming out of the only one?”