Death By A HoneyBee (5 page)

    
My newly appointed lawyer motioned to Matt.
 
“Do tell

those very nice policemen who are watching us behind the mirror to come into the room.
 
We are ready to proceed – that is, if it is convenient for them.”
 
She pasted on a phony smile.
 
I was surprised her teeth weren’t pointed like a shark’s.
 

    
O’nan switched on the video camera.
 

    
“How official is this?” asked my lawyer whose name I learned was Shaneika Mary Todd.
 
     

    
“Let’s just say we are concerned and have some questions. This is just an informal talk,” O’nan replied.

    
“Yeah, right,” muttered Matt.

    
“We are entitled to a copy of the tape you are making,” Ms. Todd demanded.

    
“Oh sure,” replied O’nan as he leaned forward, unbuttoning his jacket.
 
I sensed he was lying.

     
Ms. Todd pulled a tape recorder from her briefcase.
 
She pushed a button.
 
“Just in case your video gets lost.”

     
A faint smile appeared on Detective Goetz’s face before vanishing like a magician’s coin.

    
O’nan proceeded.
 
“Your full name, please?” he asked pushing a microphone towards me.

     
“Josiah Louise Reynolds.”

     
“Address?”

     
“Route 169, Lexington, Kentucky.”

     
“Occupation?”

     
“Beekeeper.”

    
O’nan looked over his notes at me.
 
“You are a professor at the University of Kentucky.”

     
“Yes, ummm no, both my husband and I were professors.
 
I was a professor of art history, specializing in religious art.
 
My husband was a professor of architecture.
 
Brannon, my husband, also had his own architectural firm. He is deceased.”

     
Ms. Todd broke in.
 
“Just answer what they ask,” she warned me.

     
I nodded.
 
“I retired three years ago after his death.”

 
   
Ms. Todd pressed me under the table.
 

     
“I am sorry,” I said to no one in particular.
 
“I guess I’m nervous.”

     
“Why is my client here?” interrupted Ms. Todd.
 
“Isn’t this just a simple accident?
 
A tragedy I’m sure, but my client is not responsible for some misbehavior on a vandal’s part.”

     
Detective O’nan leaned back in his chair. “Well, here’s the problem.
 
The coroner’s preliminary report came back yesterday, and there are some unanswered questions.
 
It seems that Mr. Pidgeon died from a heart attack.”

     
“There you go,” I blurted confidently.
 

     
“More tests are being done.
 
But what we want to know is what was he doing on your property around your hives?”

     
I shrugged.
   

     
O’nan opened a manila folder taking out some official-looking documents.
 
“It seems that you and Mr. Pidgeon knew each other.”

     
“He was a fellow beekeeper,” I replied coldly.

 
    
“He
was
a very strong competitor of yours.
 
We have reports that you two disliked each other.
 
It even got to the point that you and he would not speak to each other,” stated O’nan.

 
   
I kept quiet as Shaneika pressed her hand against my thigh.
                                                     

    
O’nan continued, “We find it curious that someone you disliked, even hated, would be on your property, messing with your hives without a protective suit on and end up dead.”

 
    
My answer tumbled out.
 
“He is a charmer.”

     
“Please?” said Goetz.

     
“He is . . . was a bee charmer.”
 
I looked at their stunned faces.
 
“Like a horse whisperer – you know – a bee charmer.
 
He never wore suits or any protective clothing.
 
He didn’t need to.
 
Bees never stung him.”

     
“Your bees stung him 176 times.
 
Don’t you think that is odd, Mrs. Reynolds, a bee charmer who never got stung has a heart attack in your beeyard and is stung 176 times?”

 
    
“Excuse me, but has the body been transferred to the medical examiner’s office in Frankfort?” asked Ms. Todd.

     
O’nan ignored her while keeping his menacing gaze fixed directly on me.

     
Goetz joined in.
 
“Also, where was his car?”

     
“Don’t know,” I replied.
 

     
“How did he get there?”

     
“I . . . I don’t know,” I stammered, my voice high with strain.
 

     
O’nan fiddled in his jacket pocket as though searching for a pack of cigarettes and then, apparently remembering he had stopped smoking, returned his attention to me.
 
“I have several witnesses who stated that the two of you had a very public argument at the Kentucky State Fair where you threatened him only a month ago.”

   
Matt jumped in.
 
“I was there and she did no such thing.
 
He
threatened
her
!”

   
O’nan shot a look of annoyance at Matt and then referred to his notes again.
 
“Didn’t you say that you would hurt him?”

   
“It was the other way around.”
 
My chest tightened.
 
“He cheated.
 
He switched his tags with my jars and won the blue ribbon.”
 

   
“And this blue ribbon is of some importance?” asked O’nan.

   
“It is the holy grail of beekeeping,” I replied.

   
“How did he have the correct claim tag numbers then?”

   
“I had left them in an open cardboard box on the judges’ table while I arranged my jars in the cabinet.
 
Later, he must have just switched the tags on the jars and substituted the claim numbers with mine from the box when no one was looking.”

   
“Apparently, when you lost, you accused him but couldn’t prove it.
 
There was an argument and you pushed him,” stated Goetz, lazily leaning against the wall.

   
“No, he pushed me.
 
I just pushed back.
 
It . . . was like a reflex, you know – instinctive.”

   
“Wasn’t it your fault that Pidgeon fell into a glass display case, shattering it?”

   
“I was only defending myself.
 
He didn’t bring charges because he pushed me first . . . and he didn’t get hurt from the broken glass.”

   
“Why didn’t you press charges then, if he assaulted you first as you claim?”

   
“Because I felt like a fool . . . and I didn’t want this incident to get into the papers.”

   
“Would that have anything to do with your daughter?”

    
My back stiffened.
 
“My daughter has nothing to do with this nor any knowledge of it,” I lied.

    
“All right boys, where are you going with this?” interjected Ms. Todd.
 
“So my client and Mr. Pidgeon didn’t like each other.
 
They loathed each other – so what?
 
He wanted revenge so he came to sabotage Mrs. Reynolds’ hives.
 
All hopped up with excitement and glee, he has a heart attack and dies.”

    
“That is one possible scenario.
 
But there is still the puzzle of the missing vehicle,” interrupted O’nan.

 
    
It was Goetz’s turn.
 
“You could have picked him up and brought him out to your place.
 
That would explain why he had no car.”

    
“Why would I do that?”

  
  
“Perhaps you called and said you wanted to make amends.
 
Wanted to talk with him and then lured him out to the beeyard.”

     
I stood up.
 
“That is ridiculous.
 
Why would I even contact him?”

     
O’nan looked at me evenly.
 
“We have your cell phone records, and his number is listed.
 
You made a call to him three days before his death.”

     
“That’s a lie.
 
I never called Richard Pidgeon.
 
Ever!”

 
   
Goetz interjected, “Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?”

 
   
“Sure, anything to clear this up,” I responded.
 
My chest felt tight.
       

 
    
Ms. Todd put her hand on my arm and gently pulled me back into my seat as she leaned in toward the detectives.
 
“Mrs. Reynolds will not be taking any lie-detector test, hand-writing analysis or DNA test unless through a court order.
  
You are not to interview my client without moi being present,” she said pointing to herself.
 
She turned to me.
 
“Don’t you see what they are doing?
 
The police don’t ask for lie detector tests in accidental deaths.”

     
I felt like an animal helplessly caught in a trap.
 
My breathing became heavier.

    
Matt handed me an extra asthma inhaler he always carried around with him.

    
“Are you . . . are you suggesting murder?” I sputtered. To even say the word tasted bitter.

    
“Do you have any proof that my client killed Mr. Pidgeon . . . or even that this is a murder?” questioned Ms. Todd.

    
“I never uttered the word murder.”
 
O’nan turned to Goetz.
 
“Did you ever say this was a murder?”

    
“Nope.
 
Just a friendly inquiry.”