Death By A HoneyBee (3 page)

     
Three years ago, I was a guest at a Kentucky Derby party when I heard Matt arguing with another man about the commands to the robot.
 
Apparently they had a bet on it.

     
“Klaatu barada nikto,” I whispered into Matt’s ear. “The robot’s name was Gort and the actress was Patricia Neal.”
 

     
 
Matt turned around with surprised eyes and said, “Well hello, Gorgeous!”

     
“Barbra Streisand as Fannie Brice in
Funny Girl
,” I replied.
 

     
“Marry me,” Matt quipped as he collected his money.
 
After talking into the wee hours of the night, it seemed that we both were batty about movies.
 
In fact, he came with me to watch
Double Indemnity
that night only to fall asleep in my car on the way home.
 
I awoke the next morning to find Matt leaning on my car drinking coffee while watching a flock of wild turkeys skirt around the house.
 
He really hadn’t left my side since then.
 
I believed his devotion has been due to my collection of four hundred and seventy-two videos and DVDs.
 
We watched a movie every week.
 
It was a standing date.

     
Pushing those fond memories away, I responded to Matt’s assessment of the current situation.
 
“Oh,” I said, scanning the fields.
 
Great response, huh.

     
“Something for you to study on,” Matt said, firmly snapping away. “The question of this poor slob’s transportation.”

     
I snorted – but then again, Matt had recently passed his bar exam and now worked at a prestigious corporate law firm.
 
He helped me only during his days off, calling beekeeping his therapy from the overachievers, backstabbers and just plain scum.
 
He was referring to his colleagues – not his clients.
               
 

     
“Sure.
 
Go ahead and take all the pictures you want.
 
I am going back to the house.
 
I have a whale of a headache,” I said while watching the police put yellow caution tape around my hives.

     
“Take a breathing treatment,” he called after me.
 
“You’re wheezing.”
  

     
I put my hand on my chest.
 
Indeed I was.

3

     
A sharp knock woke me from a dream of my late husband.
 
It was just as well.
 
I surely didn’t want to waste my time with him now that he’s dead.
 
I got up from my
 
comfortable retro couch, groggy from a late afternoon nap.
 
My medicine sometimes made me sleepy.

     
“Just a moment,” I called as I ambled to the steel front double door straightening my shirt.
 
I led a plain-clothes policeman through the welcoming shade of my bamboo and water alcove, and into the great room with its walls of gray concrete and bold abstract paintings of jarring color.
   

     
“I am Detective O’nan.
 
I’m primary on this investigation.
 
We’re finished for now,” O’nan said, scanning the room and my things.
 
He showed me his police ID.
 
His first name was Fred.
 
I was surprised I didn’t see a badge like cops flash on TV.
 
“I just need to take a preliminary statement.
 
We can take a more formal statement later if something turns up.”

    
“Turns up?”
 

    
“Just routine,” Detective O’nan assured, taking out a notebook. “In case you remember something else. I already talked
 
with your assistant, Matt,” he said looking at his notes.
 

     
 
O’nan looked to be in his late-thirties.
 
He was wearing an expensive dark suit that emphasized his powerful, wide shoulders and narrow waist.
 
His stylish haircut played down his thinning blond hair.
 
I noticed his nails were professionally manicured.
 
He reminded me of Tab Hunter.
 
Standing ramrod straight, O’nan towered over me.
 
His metallic blue eyes never seemed to leave my face. They betrayed a hardness that I suspected didn’t have anything to do with working homicide cases.

     
“I got up, dressed, went to work in the beeyard and found . . . what you saw.
 
I called – you came.
 
End of story.”
 
I gaped curiously at O’nan.
 
His youthful face seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him.
 

    
“Unhuh,” he said, taking notes.
 
“Anything unusual happen that you noticed before you found the body – sounds?
 
Anything?”

    
“Nothing.”
 
I shook my head.
 
“It has been quite a shock.”

    
“I’m sure.”
 
His eyes narrowed.

    
I stared at the floor.
 
Finally, I said, “There is nothing else to tell.”

    
“Okay.” He flipped out a business card and handed it to me.
 
As O’nan turned to go, he saw Matt walk through the door.
 
“If you think of anything, give me a call.”

    
I glanced at the card.
 
“All right.”
 
Thinking of my bees, I asked, “Hey, can I get back in the beeyard?
 
My bees need to be watered and powdered,” referring to the technique of dusting them with powdered sugar.
 
By grooming, they knock off parasites.
 
It was a holistic way of treating for mites.

     
“Yes, we are completely finished.
 
The crime tape is still up but you can go underneath it.”

     
“That’s good.”

     
Matt strode past me into the kitchen, pulled the refrigerator door open, and drank out of a milk carton.
 

     
O’nan gave him a quick once-over.
 
I don’t think he liked what he saw.
 
His left cheek quivered for just a moment before he glanced back at me.

     
“I can see myself out.”
 
He turned and was gone.
 

     
I faced Matt.
 
“He thinks you’re my fancy man.”

     
“How about taking your fancy man out to a late lunch?
 
I just can’t do any work with this happening.
 
Bad juju.
 
Besides, the bees need to calm down before I go back out.”

     
“Uptown or downtown?”

     
“Ramsey’s is fine.”

     
“How is my hair?”

     
Matt gave me a lascivious look.
 
“You always look sexy.”

     
I grinned and snapped my fingers.
 
“That is why you will always have a place at my table,” I replied.
 
I swept through the door he had opened for me.

     
He chuckled when he saw a tangled knot of hair protruding from the back of my head.
  
Matt loved playing pranks on me.
 
As much as Matt played to my vanity, he also treasured knocking it down.
 
He had a touch of sadist in him and only told me about the knot after twenty people had seen it and I wondered aloud why people were staring at me.
 
It was just enough tension to keep me from falling in love with Matt.
 
Maybe that is why he did it.
  
He liked our relationship just the way it was. Rumors about us were one thing.
 
Reality was another.

4

    
I was getting dressed for the Farmers’ Market a week later when I received a telephone call from Detective O’nan.
 
Would I be so kind as to stop by the police station after the Market?
 
They just had a few more questions to tie up before they closed the case.
 
Sure – why not.
 
I never suspected a thing, when a little bell should have been ringing in my head.

    
The station is only blocks from the Market so I left my rusty but durable VW van at my booth location, with a note on the van’s windshield that I would be returning by four p.m.
 
Each vendor has his/her own 10x10 spot where they park under a tree-lined canopy and sell to the public.
 
There were still some farmers conducting business.
 
During the summer peak, there could be as many as seventy farmers working the Market, which was considered one of the finest in the country.
 
The sales paid my basic bills plus food, and I enjoyed serving my loyal customers who were always pleased to see me.
 
It made me feel needed.

     
I swept back my red hair while asking for Detective O’nan at the front desk of the police station, housed in a renovated department store.
 
I lifted my work apron to wipe the grime off my face.
 

     
Minutes later, Detective O’nan and an overweight man with hairy arms stepped into the waiting room.

     
I shuddered.
 
I always dislike the look of men who appear part simian. It was a big turnoff for me.
 
Then I felt ashamed of my hypocrisy, as I could probably braid the hair on my legs.
 
Thank goodness I had worn pants.

    
Both men shook my hand before asking me to accompany them.
 
That warning bell should have gone off then, but it didn’t.
 
They ushered me into a dull gray room with one table and four chairs.
 
There was no window but a mirror that I suspected was a two-way.
  
The room smelled of Lysol sprayed over the odor of perspiration created by fear.
 
Cigarette burns patterned the desk beside carved obscene words.
 
There were several swastikas tattooed in ink.
Lovely.
I was afraid to look underneath to see the collection of old gum and crusts of bodily fluids deposited there.
 
Two chairs repaired with duct tape waited at the table.
 
Even though my knees were burning from arthritis, I stood after O’nan motioned me to sit in a chair.
 

    
“Can’t you take a statement at your desk?” I asked, scrutinizing the dismal area. “This looks like an interrogation room.”
 
I chuckled at the suggestion, trying to lighten the mood, but both cops remained stone-faced.

    
“Something rather unusual has come up, Josiah,” said Detective O’nan.
 
He sat down and tossed several files on the table.
 
“This will give us some privacy to get to the bottom.”

    
“The bottom of what, Fred?”

    
“Detective O’nan,” he corrected.

    
“Okay, then it is Mrs. Reynolds,” I shot back.