Death By A HoneyBee (4 page)

     
He frowned. I could tell he was a man who didn’t like to be corrected.
 
                                 

     
The hairy fat man leaned forward.
 
“You’re not from around here?
 
Your accent.”

     
“And you are again?”
 
I finally sat as my legs were giving out.

     
He smiled, a lovely smile with dimples.
 
“I’m sorry.
 
I am Detective Goetz.
 
I noticed that your accent is Midwestern.
 
I just wondered.”

    
“I am from northern Kentucky.”
 

    
“Where about?”

    
“Boone and Kenton counties.”

    
“That explains it.” Goetz smiled again and sat on the corner of the table.
 
“Do you still say ‘please’ for ‘excuse me?’
  
Dead giveaway for someone from up around the Cincinnati area.”

    
“Yes, I still do.
 
Are you from up there?”

    
“Went to Holmes High School.”

    
“No kidding.
 
I used to date a boy from Holmes.”

    
“Josiah is an unusual name for a woman,” Goetz commented.

    
“My grandmother thought if it was good enough for a Judean king, it was good enough for me.”

    
“As I remember, Josiah was a righteous king who destroyed prostitution in the Temple.”

    
“Male prostitution, actually.”

    
“Really?”

    
“And you do what now?” interjected O’nan.
 
He must be the “bad” cop in this scenario,
I thought.

     
“I’m a beekeeper.”

     
Goetz shifted in his seat.
 
“Really, that must be interesting.
 
Where do you sell your honey?”

 
    
“At the Farmers’ Market a couple days a week.
 
I have a small apiary.”

     
“Any other beekeepers in the market?” asked O’nan.

     
“Yes.
 
There is a Mrs. Simons who specializes in honey body care products and a Rick Niles who sells varietal honey, but he also does beeswax items like candles.
 
I only sell honey.”

     
Goetz shot O’nan a look.
 
“Anyone else?”

 
    
I coughed.
 
“No one that I would like to discuss.”
 
I felt my chest begin to tighten.

    
“Isn’t there another beekeeper who is a member of the Market?”

     
Before I could answer, O’nan cleared his throat.
 
“Mrs. Reynolds, do you know the victim?”

    
“Not that I am aware of.”

    
“Are you sure?”

    
“I didn’t recognize the clothing except that it looked masculine.
  
I’m sure that it was a man – right?”

    
O’nan nodded.

    
“None of my neighbors have turned up missing so I don’t know this man.”
 
I looked at both of them.
 
“I swear I didn’t recognize the man.
 
Aren’t you going to tell me who he is . . . or was?”

    
“Do you know a Richard Pidgeon?” asked O’nan while writing in his notebook.

 
    
I slumped back into the chair, clamping my lips together.

    
The detectives exchanged glances.

    
“Yes, I know him.
 
What has he got to do with this?”

    
“Isn’t he a member of the Market?” inquired Goetz.

    
“Yes,” I said grudgingly.

    
“He is the man stung to death by your bees.”

 
    
I surveyed the depressing gray walls in order to avoid eye contact with them. “I think I’d better call a lawyer.”

    
The deep lines in Detective Goetz’s face sagged.
 
“Perhaps you had better.”
 
                        

    
I pulled my cell phone out of my work apron and dialed.
 
Matt answered on the second ring. “Matt, get me a good criminal lawyer quick or else get your ass over here to the police station pronto.
 
It was Richard Pidgeon dead in my hive.”
 
I snapped the phone shut.
 
Closing my eyes, I announced,
 
“I haven’t anything else to say until my lawyer gets here.”
  
The detectives snatched up their files and exited, leaving me alone in the dingy room.
 

     
I knew I was in trouble.
 
That little bell, which should have gone off earlier, was now clanging loud and clear.

5

     
Matt strode into the interrogation room an hour and ten minutes later accompanied by a black woman with a platinum blonde crew cut.
 
The woman never looked at me, but placed her Vuitton leather briefcase on the battered, nicked wooden desk.

     
“Anything you want to tell me?” she said with a faint British clip
 
as she fiddled with her beige silk jacket, still not looking at me.
 

     
Matt discreetly motioned to me to be cooperative.
 
“I don’t know how that man got there.
 
I had nothing to do with it.”
 
I stole a confused look at Matt.

     
“What have you told the police?” she inquired, finally training her eyes on me.
 
They burned with an intensity that I have witnessed only in saints, great artists and a few of the homeless wandering around downtown Phoenix Park.

     
“Nothing.
 
As soon as they told me it was Richard Pidgeon, I called Matt.
 
I didn’t say another word.”

     
“Have you touched anything like a glass or mug?
 
Have you asked for anything to drink?”
   

    
“Noooooo.”

     
“Good.
 
Then they don’t have anything with your fingerprints on it.”
 
Still, she didn’t look convinced.
 
“Matt has filled me in on the particulars.
 
We need to find out what they want with you, but I really don’t advise my clients to talk to the police.
 
You should never have set foot in the police station.
 
Have you ever heard of Richard Jewell?”

     
“No,” I replied.

     
“He found a bomb at the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, saving many lives.
 
You know how he was repaid?
 
The law tried to set him up as the bomber, using his cooperation in the case as evidence against him.
 
Jewell’s life was ruined until he started fighting back with lawsuits.
 
Eventually another man, Eric Robert Rudolph, confessed.
  

     
“You never cooperate with the police, Mrs. Reynolds.
 
JonBenet Ramsey’s family knew that.
 
Same thing. A case was built against them while the media tried them in public.
 
Years later it was released that the DNA evidence was not from any of the family members, but that was little comfort to the family.
 
By then, Mrs. Ramsey was dead.”

     
“I just want to clear this matter up,” I replied.
 
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

     
“It seems like plain vandalism gone bad to me.”
 
The criminal lawyer swung her hazel eyes towards Matt.
 

  
  
Matt held up his hands in defeat.
 
“Don’t confer with me.
 
I just passed my bar exam six months ago.
 
I don’t know what they want of Mrs. Reynolds.”

     
“I would think that if anything occurred it would be a civil lawsuit from the man’s family asking for damages.”
 
She paused, lost in thought.
 
“It seems odd to me that they have you in an interrogation room.”
 
She leaned to scratch her leg framed in expensive but conservative black leather pumps.
 

    
Wi
th that platinum hair, why bother trying to be conservative,
I thought.
 
                                             

    
“My problem is your daughter wants to know what this is about, and I am to call her in an hour.
 
Let’s see what they want but don’t answer anything until I nod.
 
Okay?”
 
Leaning over me, she said in a very low voice.
 
“I’m doing this as a favor for your daughter.
 
You jack me around, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

 
    
I swung around glaring accusingly at Matt.
 

    
“I had to call.
 
She knows the lawyer to get for this.
 
For God’s sakes, I’m a tax lawyer, babe,” Matt replied, loosening his tie.

    
“Are you the best?” I asked the woman.

    
“You bet.”

    
“Then I can’t afford you.”

    
She glared at me as if I had just piddled on her expensive shoes.
 
“I thought I had made myself clear.
 
Your daughter has made certain arrangements with me.
 
As your daughter is a silent partner of your farm, she is entitled to have anything concerning the farm legally represented by me.”

 
    
“What total bull!” I sputtered.
   

     
She capped her Mont Blanc pen.
 
“What’s it going to be?
 
We can see what they want, only if you listen to me before answering.
 
Or we can walk.”

    
“Matt?”
 
I pleaded.
 

     
He shook his head.
 
“Josiah, I don’t know what to tell you.
 
Sometimes if you don’t talk to them, it makes the police think you have something to hide.
 
And then, if you do talk to them, you can stumble and say something stupid that really puts them on your scent.
 
It’s fifty-fifty,” countered Matt.

     
I realize that a death in my beeyard was not something from which I was going to walk away.
  
I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.
 
I nodded slightly.