Death By A HoneyBee (A Josiah Reynolds Mystery) Page 4

“Perhaps. She was young, pretty and full of spit and vinegar. She certainly was testing the waters to see how far she could push him. Maybe by this time, she tired of him and wanted to spread her wings a little bit, started lookin’ ’round. The one thing I do know for sure is that one day while reading the paper, I came across an article stating that Agnes had been arrested for the attempted murder of Richard. Said she tried to stab him.”

  “What happened?” I was writing furiously on my legal pad.

  “Apparently charges were dropped. Richard never spoke of it. Agnes stopped coming around the Market. Never heard another thing about it except to read about the final divorce decree in the paper. Richard was always very secretive about his life. Several years later, Tellie was introduced as the new wife.”

  “And lots younger than Richard. Fits the male mid-life crises pattern.”

  “Sure do. Thought you might want to know.”

  “Thanks, Irene. It fills in some holes. Do you know what happened to Agnes?”

  “You betcha. She owns her own company that does PR work for the horse industry and has a house in the gated area of Heartland subdivision.”

  “You know, I might want to talk with her. Does she go by Pidgeon?”

  “Thought you might want to chew the fat with her. She took back her maiden name.”

  “Do you know the name of her company?”

  “I think it is just listed under her name. Very dignified. Very discreet. I don’t think she even hangs out a sign. Just word of mouth.”

  “Wow. Thanks, Irene. I’ll see what I can find out.” I hung up and formulated a plan. I would have a better chance of speaking with Agnes Bledsoe at work, so I called my buddies who worked in the Thoroughbred industry and asked around. It seemed that Agnes had become a high muckety-muck in the marketing world of horses. I learned that she was very good and even respected overseas. She was also very expensive and so exclusive that her phone number was not even listed. I was impressed. How many businesses go out of their way to hide themselves? Agnes had bought a historical building downtown, refurnished it and located her office there many years ago. I had always thought the building was a private residence but it was really the busy factory of Agnes Bledsoe, making her filthy rich.

  I called but was told that I could not have an appointment with her. I don’t know upon what basis the snotty jerk of a receptionist made that decision. Maybe she had a phone ID that gave people’s bank account amount when calling. Seeing Miss Agnes was going to call for some ingenuity, so I decided to become creative. Getting transferred to Agnes’s secretary, I made an appointment for the next day by telling the young woman that I was working on a story for Southern Living. I was surprised she believed me. I’m usually a terrible liar, but since my fanny was put in a iron skillet with the fire turned on high, I guess my skill had improved.

  7

  Arriving early at the immaculate grounds of Agnes Bledsoe’s business address, I was made to wait just a few minutes before being shown into a dark, paneled office with a splendid view of the old Grecian-styled Carnegie library. The office reeked of cigar smoke, bourbon whiskey, and Lemon Pledge – my favorite smells – so go figure. Silver trophies and plaques graced polished shelves as oil paintings of famous horse champions hung on the walnut paneled walls.

  Agnes Bledsoe was everything I expected. Even in her mid-sixties, Agnes was quite a looker with her Native American heritage much in evidence – high cheekbones, ruddy skin tones, and beautiful dark hair that I was sure had never seen a dye bottle. As she rose from her desk, she buttoned her Ann Taylor navy jacket that had a tease of a peach silk camisole peeking out. Her gold jewelry was modest but expensive. I noticed she still wore a wristwatch. Most people don’t now because of cell phones.

  I glanced haplessly at my out-of-date wool skirt sporting a healthy crop of lint balls. Mud was caked on the heels of my ankle boots. Fearing that I was going to leave dirt on her Persian carpet, I inwardly groaned.

  Agnes shook my hand with a crisp grip while telling her secretary to bring us tea.

  As soon the door closed, I blurted out my confession. “Ms. Bledsoe, I am so sorry, but I am here under a pretext,” I babbled. “I didn’t know if you would see me knowing the real reason for my visit.”

  “You’re not one of those PETA people are you?” asked Agnes, alarmed.

  “No. I’m here about Richard Pidgeon.”

  Agnes took in a sharp breath. “You look familiar. I know who you are. You’re Josiah Reynolds, the UK art professor. I heard one of your lectures at the Newman Center on traditional symbolism in religious paintings during the Dark Ages.”

  “I no longer work for UK, but thank you for remembering me.”

  “Nothing to thank me about. I thought you were perfectly dreadful. Didn’t understand a damn thing you said.”

  Okay – if this is the way she wants to play. A soft knock on the door kept me from responding. Her secretary brought in an ancient tea service and set it down on the coffee table. Agnes gestured to the surrounding chairs. I plopped down immediately.

  Agnes settled in a moss green camelback settee and began serving tea with perfect aplomb. I nervously rested the nineteenth century china cup on an end table, fearful that I might splatter tea on her antique furniture. As I had already lied to the woman, I certainly didn’t want to leave a water spot on her Duncan Phyfe. Agnes watched me the way a cat watches a fluttering bird. “I must say you have my curiosity. Why here about Richard? I divorced him years ago.”

  “If you know who I am, then you must know that Richard died on my property . . .”

  Agnes gaped at me with genuine shock and her hand faltered. I quickly grabbed her tilting teacup. She sputtered something unintelligible. Seeing a bottle of water on her desk, I fetched it for her. I was about to call her secretary when she regained her composure. Mopping her forehead with a tea towel, she said, “My, my! Aren’t you the jack-in-the-box of bad news. First you lie to get into my office and now you bring death to my door. How else may I be of help to you, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “Are you telling me that you didn’t know that Richard had died?”

  “Richard and I don’t have mutual friends. I don’t read the paper unless it is the racing news. No, I didn’t know. How did he . . . pass away?”

  I briefly told her the circumstances of his death.

  “I still don’t see why you are here.”

  “There are some questions about his death. Since he died on my property, I am seeking information that might answer them.”

  Agnes Bledsoe was a sharp woman. “So there are some questions about his death and now you are here trying to find something that could pin Richard’s death on me. Aren’t you a plum!”

  My face blushed. With my flyaway red hair and freckles, I knew I must have looked most unattractive and guilty.

  “I haven’t been married to Richard for over two decades but I keep …” She stopped talking to wipe her running nose “I kept tabs on him from time to time through a private detective. I couldn’t risk personal contact with him, but I

  wanted to know how he was doing. You see, I loved Richard Pidgeon and never stopped.”

  Talk about being hit over the head. I was stunned. How could this beautiful, accomplished woman love a piece of manure like Richard Pidgeon?

  “I can see by your face that you didn’t expect this. When I met Richard in college, he was handsome, witty and lots of fun. We fell in love, got married and moved to Lexington. Everything was fine. I even overlooked his little obsessions about routine and cleanliness.”

  “What do you mean by ‘his little obsessions’?”

  “At first, I thought it was just his prissy nature. It wasn’t terribly noticeable, just odd things here and there. The yard had to be just right. He wouldn’t wear shirts that weren’t starched . . . things like that. We had a good first five years together. Then the car accident happened. It was on a Saturday night, and we were going to the Holiday Inn to hear

  JD Crow
e. A drunk hit us, pretty badly. Totaled the car. Richard was in severe pain for a long time.”

  Agnes glanced down at her perfect manicure. “It was then that his compulsiveness began to surface. He was restless, impatient with any imperfection whether it be at work or just having his handkerchiefs not being ironed to his specifications. People began to annoy him more and more.

  “We both thought it was his pain medication, so we had the doctor fiddle with the dosage. That didn’t work. Richard was becoming as concerned as I was, but couldn’t seem to control his moods. He became more and more explosive. Finally, we resorted to seeing a therapist. Richard was diagnosed with OCD.”

  “Obsessive compulsive disorder,” I stated.

  “Yes.” Agnes nodded. “At that time, there were few medications for his problem and what was available made him sick. We tried talk therapy but it did little good. The therapist felt that Richard had a genetic predisposition to OCD, and the car accident had made it worse. It could have been from either a chemical change in his brain or chronic fear the accident had instilled in him. It didn’t matter. For three years we went from one treatment to the next. Nothing worked, and we were running out of options as Richard became more controlling and abusive.”

  “By abusive, do you mean violent?”

  “He slapped me twice. On the third slap, I took a fire poker to his head.”

  I handed Agnes the newspaper article about her arrest from what was then the Lexington Herald, which I had copied at the library. She read the copy with detachment.

  Agnes cleared her throat. “This is wrong. I didn’t try to stab him. I hit him with a poker. The charges were dropped. Richard came to jail to collect me, but I wouldn’t go with him. My mind was already made up. I told Richard I was going to divorce him. As much as I loved him, I loved myself more. I told him that we would eventually ruin each other. He would hit me again one day and, on that day, I would kill him. It was best that we part.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Hard, very hard.” She glared at me with barely concealed contempt. “I know what Richard had become, but deep down he was a decent man, a good man. He didn’t ask for what happened to him. It was something out of his control. At one time Richard was a young man full of promise. If that drunk hadn’t hit us, maybe Richard would never have become an irritable, selfish man. Who are you to judge him?”

  I didn’t want to cause Agnes Bledsoe any more pain, so I mumbled a thank you and left with my hat in my hand, so to speak. I sat in my van near Gratz Park scribbling notes about our conversation on my legal pad. I tried to mentally justify the fact that I had lied and caused pain to another person. It was obvious to me that Agnes Bledsoe had once deeply loved Richard and still did. Still, whether from my stubbornness or anger at her thinly veiled insults, I wrote her name down as a possible suspect. Someone drove Richard to my house. Could it have been Agnes?

  Arriving home before dusk, I checked on my various grazing pets such as rescued racehorses that freely wandered my 139 acres. I tossed apples along the winding gravel road for the goats. Coming to my beeyard, I parked the van.

  Honeybees flitted through the open windows of the van, some of them lighting on my arms so they could groom or collect pollen from their bodies. It was a shame that the furry insects would not allow themselves to be petted. People would like them better if they could stroke the bees’ downy little heads. Sitting in my rusty van, I watched the bees until twilight passed - thinking, thinking, thinking.

  8

  The following Saturday, I went to work at the Farmers’ Market, putting on a brave front. The morning went by quickly. Before I knew it, I had sold out all of my award-winning Locust Honey. It seemed that people had read the article about the incident and were interested in checking me out. That was fine with me as long as they purchased something. I was handing a customer her order of Wildflower Honey when Detective Goetz materialized at my booth. His sudden appearance startled me. He was decked out in a blue T-shirt that sported “WILDCAT COUNTRY” and a pair of out-of-season, black plaid Bermuda shorts. A small patch of a pale, hairy paunch peeped from beneath his shirt. Thank goodness he knew enough not to wear socks with his sandals.

  “Detective, I am afraid I am not allowed to talk to you without Ms. Todd,” I said peevishly. I was irritated that he would bother me at work.

  Responding with a sheepish grin, he said, “Thought I’d come down and see what you did.” Goetz whistled appreciatively. “Look at all this honey. I love honey, you know. Big fan.” He tapped his chest. “Good for your heart.”

  I relaxed somewhat. “I have some Wildflower Honey left, or perhaps you would like a honey with lemon oil added to it. Great for putting in your tea.”

  Goetz laid his bag of heirloom tomatoes on my table and perused all my different honeys. “How come the honey is different colors?”

  “Well, the color, texture and taste depend of the plant nectar the bee has harvested. Plant nectar can produce honey that is different in taste and color. For example, the white Dutch clover plant will produce a mild yellow honey we know as clover while the buckwheat plant will produce a honey that is almost black and tastes like molasses.”

  “I had no idea,” he said, holding up various bottles to the sun.

  “Yes, customers are always surprised to learn that the United States produces over 300 different varieties of honey while Kentucky produces over thirty.”

  “Which honey is the best?”

  “There is no best. It’s all personal preference. Some people like mild honeys while others like very strong tasting honeys.”

  “I’m afraid of bees,” he confessed.

  “Most people are,” I replied. I understand since I am afraid of wasps myself.

  “So . . . you actually make a living from doing this?” Goetz asked.

  I acted as though I didn’t hear him.

  Goetz finally got the message. “Right,” he said to himself. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ask away,” I answered while applying labels to bottles of honey.

  “You get stung much?”

  I put down my bottle and gave Goetz my best look of annoyance. “Of course I do. I am a beekeeper. Mr. Goetz, why are you here?”

  “Detective,” he insisted as he rubbed his chin. Just as Goetz started to speak again, Matt popped up from behind my booth.

  “Hello,” he said looking between Detective Goetz and me. “If it isn’t the esteemed Detective Goetz.”

  Goetz gathered his tomatoes. “Nice to see you both again.” He shambled off.

  Matt watched him intently as the detective disappeared into the crowd. “What was that about?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Ooooh, Josiah, maybe he thinks he can win your trust and make you confess over some rum cocktails,” Matt teased.

  “Confess what?” I replied in a voice that was a little too loud.

  Matt laughed heartily as he leaned over and pinched my arm. His black hair shimmered in the sunlight. “The murder, old girl, the murder. I put my money on you knocking off the old buzzard out of pure spite.”

  “Well, aren’t you very cheeky today.” I lowered my voice as I leaned closer to Matt. “I know that I am supposed to be sad, but the truth is I am glad Pidgeon is dead.”

  Matt’s handsome face suddenly crumbled as though he remembered that he had forgotten to turn off the stove. Motioning me to be quiet, he went around the front of the table and felt under the yellow plastic tablecloth. He yanked a small black plastic microphone from the bottom of the table and held it up. We both looked at each other in astonishment.

  I had just damned myself. Snatching the device from Matt’s hand, I rushed into the crowd. Frantically scanning for Goetz, I spotted him a block down tasting goat’s cheese samples. I caught up with him, grabbed his massive arm and swung him around. His craggy face registered surprise, then embarrassment as I brandished the microphone. He pulled an earphone out of his ear.

  I waved
the device in his face. “This is over the top, and you know it. You better have a warrant for this.”

  He reached out for the microphone, but I quickly thrust it between my ample bosoms. “Oh no. My lawyer gets this first. So you want to know why I hated Pidgeon?”

  Detective Goetz was quick to recover. “Yeah, I would like to know why a respectable, hardworking woman would show so much emotion about a man she supposedly wasn’t involved with.”

  “Involved with?” I laughed bitterly. “You guys are barking up the wrong tree. Besides being a liar and a cheat, Pidgeon was a woman beater. Check the local hospitals’ ER records and then talk to his wife. If anyone had a motive to kill Pidgeon, it was Tellie, his wife.”

  “You know this first hand? You’ve seen Mrs. Pidgeon being hit or she told you about it?”

  “I know this from my own observation. Something you and your partner should try a little more of. She often showed up at the Market with bruises.”

  “Miss Josiah,” he said, “it has been my life experience that observation often means little or nothing without corroboration. Things are never quite what they seem from the outside looking in. As far as you know, she could be just clumsy or be in the first stages of MS or have inner ear problems. You just have a theory without proof.” He looked away. “Are you done?” Goetz seemed offended and wanted to be shed of me.

  “What do you think you have on me? You have no physical evidence to tie me with Pidgeon’s death, yet you keep hounding me. I had nothing to do with that man’s demise.” We stood facing each other like wary catamounts. Finally, fearing that I would be blamed for tampering with police equipment, I handed Goetz his listening device. He at least had the good manners to blush. The bug was really over the top and he knew it. This wasn’t the crime of the century.

  I shifted my weight. The arthritis was starting to burn in my legs. “Yes we are done, I hope for good.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, you believe me and will leave me alone?”

  “Okay in meaning that I got your message.” His features slackened. “I’m not the enemy.”