Death By A HoneyBee Page 14

  I mumbled my apologies. Silently asking God to forgive me, I went to sit in the back of the church. I was well aware that Tellie seemed to have a newfound confidence, which had never been displayed when Richard was alive. This interested me. What caused the mouse to turn into . . . at least, a lion cub?

  From the back pew, I had an ideal vantage point from which to study those who came to pay their respects. Gray-haired men, who looked like retirees from IBM, offered their condolences to Tellie. Afterwards, they stood chatting in little pods. I listened to several of the men compare war stories about their IBM careers. Ever so often, Richard’s name would be mentioned. A short silence always followed.

  Members of the Farmers’ Market began to make their appearances. Even Otto Brown, who had bothered to shave and put on his Sunday suit with a clean starched shirt, showed up, with Mrs. Brown, in a brightly colored caftan, following faithfully behind. I watched Otto pat Tellie’s hand a little too long while talking to her and wondered what Mrs. Brown thought of this. Tellie put her hand in her dress pocket.

  “No fool like an old fool, I always say.” I looked up to see Irene Meckler, my buddy from the Farmers’ Market, standing in the aisle. “Did you see old man Brown try to paw Tellie with his wife standing right there.” Irene shook her head. “Disgusting.”

  I scooted over for Irene to join me. “Hey Irene. Just get here?”

  Irene pushed her glasses up on her sharply pointed nose. “You don’t think I’d miss this, do you,” she guffawed. “I must say that Tellie is looking awfully smart.”

  “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?”

  “Because you followed me.” As I started past O’nan, he blocked my way and pressed against me. I felt his chest heavy against my breasts. Trying to free myself from his touch, I managed only to back up further in the dark hallway. “Stand away,” I managed to say firmly. “I’m warning you.” My heart was thumping hard against my rib cage.

  O’nan kept inching towards me. I backed up only to find myself trapped in a dead-end hallway. I fumbled for a light switch with no luck. Now both of us were in the shadows.

  O’nan pushed me against the wall, his hands fumbling at my dress buttons. Slapping his hands away caused O’nan to smile at my heightening distress. “I was surprised when you didn’t remember me, Professor Reynolds, but then why would you? My friends and I were nothing to you. You didn’t care that you might ruin our lives. I lost my scholarship and my chance at pro ball because of you.”

  “You made the decision to cheat. You got what your deserved.”

  He pressed his cheek against mine whispering into my ear. “You have never cheated? Aw come on – never? Never on your taxes . . . never fudged on an application form? Never took a pen that didn’t belong to you? Never cheated on your husband?” O’nan ran his tongue down my cheek.

  “Oh,” I cried. “Stop.”

  He nibbled my ear. I could feel his arousal through his clothes.

  “I’ll scream.”

  O’nan laughed. “I’m betting on it.”

  My eyes flew open. He was making no attempt to contain my hands. This was a trap, an attempt for me to hit him so he could charge me with assault.

  There would be no marks on me, but he would have some. It would be my word against his version of what had occurred – great copy for the newspapers.

  “I know your game,” I said turning my lips towards his. “You’re trying to get me to slap you. What were you going to say – that I slugged you coming out of the bathroom? That I took a poke at you? Nobody would believe the story that I was protecting myself from being molested. I mean – it sounds ludicrous. I look like a run-down clock. Why would a young buck try to accost an old bag like me? Well, baby, I’ve got news for you. It has been a long time since a man touched me – so you go right ahead. Do your worst. I won’t hit you. I won’t even scream.” I reached down and fumbled with his belt.

  O’nan pushed himself away from me. “You’re crazy!”

  “What I am is smart. I was smarter than you when I was your professor and I’m smarter than you now. Only a doofus would come up with such a ridiculous plan. I didn’t ruin your life, buddy boy; you did that all by yourself. Quit blaming me. How you ever made detective is beyond me. So if you are not going to screw me, then get out of my way.”

  “You’re scared of me. You’re trembling.”

  “More like shuddering. Your stupidity frightens me.”

  “I know you killed Richard Pidgeon, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “Haven’t you heard that the case is closed? Even if the case were still open, you have been dismissed. You’ll never get close to Richard’s case again.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “This from a man who can’t even tell an El Greco from a Dali,” I sneered, surging past O’nan. Please don’t have an asthma attack now, I said to myself as I walked towards the staircase. I could feel O’nan’s eyes scrutinizing me, wishing me to stumble, perhaps falling down and breaking my neck. I would never give that idiot the satisfaction.

  Re-entering the sanctuary, I saw Irene walking towards me. “I was getting concerned,” she said, peering over her glasses. “Thought maybe something was wrong.” She studied me. “You look awfully pale, Josiah.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Everyone is going home. How about we go for a drink?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll follow you in my van,” I replied. My skin felt clammy and my knees were weak. What I needed was Dutch courage before I faced my isolated house on the palisades. I hated funerals and made up my mind not to attend any more – including my own.

  21

  Working bees is sheer toil. They do not take kindly to someone opening their hives to steal the product of their hard work of collecting nectar. It takes the nectar from two million flowers just to make one pound of honey – so you can see their point of view concerning the honey harvesting issue. But if they are handled gently with lots of smoke, the collateral damage can be small – on both sides. I was on an exploratory expedition searching for disease or anything in the hives that was funky, trying to get them ready for winter.

  I pressed my knee against the back of the hive. If the hive remained stable, then it had enough honey for the winter. If the hive tilted forward, the bees would have to be fed.

  It was almost dusk when I came to the hive that Richard’s head had been stuffed into like a fat sardine. I checked it carefully as the bees were still skittish. They had never sufficiently recovered from the stress and damage of that day. I went to get a portable nuc, placing the frames with bees from the main hive into the smaller box. A nuc is a miniature hive. I poured a line of honey on each frame to distract the bees. After cramming the nuc with the Queen and thirty thousand worker bees, I put the top on.

  I checked the empty hive body for stragglers. Satisfied, I placed the nuc and the old hive into the van and proceede
d to the trash-burning area. I positioned the van close to the burn pile. After placing the empty hive boxes on the pile, I got the nuc out, placing it on the van hood so the bees could see out. I lit the old hive boxes on fire, while the bees and I watched the bad juju burn away. I patted the nuc. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a great new place for you tomorrow morning. ”

  The humming of the bees swelled and then lulled into a nice cooing.

  After banking the dying fire, I placed the nuc of bees back in the van. Tomorrow, I would take them to their new home in Madison County, where I had another beeyard on a friend’s farm. Since the blue moon was bright, I went back to where the compromised hive had been. Carefully, I poured salt on the ground, chanting a medieval prayer for bees. Then, using a large branch, I raked the salt into the soil. My smoker was still lit so I smudged the entire area. Satisfied that the yard had been cleansed of all bad energy, I lay in the tall grass listening to the night sounds and fell asleep studying the celestial canopy.