Death by Haunting Read online

  “Let’s switch the hive bodies. You pull the top hive body off while I pull off the bottom hive body,” I instructed.

  The bees had glued the two boxes together with propolis, which is glue they make from tree sap and beeswax.

  I worked the boxes free of the propolis with my hive tool. “I think I got them free. On the count of three. One two three.”

  Tyrone pulled the heavy top hive body off and placed it on an outer cover. That way we wouldn’t lose the Queen in the grass.

  I smoked the bottom hive body and pulled out some frames. As expected, the cells were empty of eggs or capped brood. All the bees had moved into the top hive body. I pulled off the empty hive body.

  Tyrone placed the top hive body full of bees on the bottom board.

  I then poured powdered sugar onto the frames and all the bees that came up to investigate. Using powdered sugar was controversial but I had found it effective to use against mites. While combing the powder from their fur, parasitic mites would fall to the bottom and out of the hive through the bottom screen.

  After I powdered the bees, Tyrone lifted the empty hive body on top of the loaded hive box. Got that? We just switched hive boxes. Put the bee heavy top body on the bottom and the empty hive body on top.

  I then put pollen patties on the top frames and shut the hive by replacing the inner and outer covers.

  More beekeepers lose bees from starvation in the spring than from any other cause, which is why I put pollen patties in the hive for the bees to eat.

  Grabbing some duct tape out of my kit, I wrapped it around the seams of the two hive bodies so predators couldn’t get to the food we had just placed inside.

  The bees would now have the calories they needed to hunt for nectar and fresh pollen while raising new baby bees.

  I needed at least 100,000 bees in each hive to get a good harvest.

  Bees usually make around 400 to 500 pounds of honey per year, but they eat most of it. And I left 100 pounds of honey in the hives to get them through winter. That gave me about 50 pounds of honey to harvest.

  Satisfied that the hive was healthy and the Queen was active, I went on to the next hive. We repeated the same steps with each hive until I came to one that smelled like moldy yeast.

  “Do you think it’s American Foulbrood?” asked Tyrone.

  Foulbrood was the hoof-and-mouth disease of the bee world. Usually the hive had to be destroyed before it infected the other hives.

  I took a toothpick and picked at one of the brood cells. “No, it’s not ropy. The hive sure smells funny though.” I sniffed again. “I think some of the honey is last year’s aster honey. Let’s just treat them like normal. Perhaps the extra energy from the pollen patties will help them clean out their hive and get them on a normal path. We’ll check again in a few days and see if the smelly honey is gone. If not, then we’ll go from there.”

  “How do you like being free?” asked Tyrone, changing the topic. “We’re out here working the bees. You haven’t jumped once. Not looking over your shoulder. You don’t have to worry about O’nan anymore.”

  I smiled bitterly. “At times I feel nothing but sorrow over the past events and other times I feel like doing a jig ’cause that mother is dead. You know, the usual conflicting emotions anyone would have . . . regret, relief and rhapsody.” I shrugged my shoulders. “How do you feel? It affected you too.”

  “I just would have shot him. Bang. Just like that. You’re dead.”

  “Well, that’s what finally happened. Someone got fed up with his threats and shot O’nan.”

  “Was it you? Come on. You can tell me. You’re part of my posse. I won’t tell.”

  “Tyrone, you’re the max,” I replied, looking at his innocent face. “You know I didn’t do it.”

  Tyrone sidled up to me. “Was it Asa? Did you have Asa ice him for you?”

  “She was out of the country when it happened. She has witnesses.”

  Looking at Tyrone’s crestfallen demeanor, I chuckled, “I always thought you were the one who did the evil deed.”

  The young man returned a beaming smile. “I thought about it. Dreamed about it. Me and my posse . . .”

  “That being your brother and cousins?”

  “We talked about it, but Grandpa said no. He threatened to disinherit us so we stopped . . . well, at least where he could hear.”

  “And he was so right,” I laughed, wishing I was so enthusiastic about something again. Why is youth wasted on the young?

  “Who do you suspect?”

  “I haven’t the faintest, but you know what? I just don’t give a damn. I’m glad that someone finally had the guts to put that rabid dog down. Too many have suffered due to him.”

  “Think that you’re ever gonna find out?” asked Tyrone, putting bee equipment into my old golf cart.

  I shook my head. “I hope not, dear boy. I hope not.”

  “My Grandma says secrets never stay hidden in Kentucky . . . that either the water or the dirt just spits secrets back up to God.”

  I shivered at his words.

  “You cold?”

  “No. It felt like someone just walked over my grave.”

  We both looked at the deep woods surrounding the bee yard. It was quiet except for the leaves gently rustling in the afternoon breeze.

  Too quiet.

  No birds calling. No cows bellowing in the distance. No tractors working the land. No airplanes going overhead. Not even the bees could be heard buzzing.

  Suddenly spooked, we both jumped into the golf cart and raced out of the field.

  To my surprise, I found myself looking fearfully over my shoulder.

  Oh, snap!

  10

  I was spooked.

  Before checking the security systems, I let in Baby’s pets . . . the Kitty Kaboodle Gang as I call the clowder of barn cats. I was going to call them Pussies Galore after the character in the James Bond Goldfinger movie until Franklin kept asking if he could kiss my pussies.

  Ah, Franklin. What a rake.

  Going into the kitchen, I realized that I was hungry. I went into the walk-in freezer and pulled out a wrapped Bybee dish.

  I peeked under the wrapper. Yum. Homemade meatloaf with mashed potatoes and creamed corn. I nuked it with hearty glee.

  The buzzer of the microwave chirped and I took the steaming dish with a glass of water into my office. As I walked along the wide corridor, shadows seemed to dance across the slate and concrete floor.

  I heard Baby pad down the hallway after smelling the meatloaf. I had left him in the kitchen struggling to keep the cats out of his food bowl. It seemed that his buddies had taken a liking to dog food . . . Baby’s food, and with his inability to deny his friends anything, Baby always came up short. Now he was on the prowl looking for other sustenance.

  Rather than listen to Baby whine, I gave him a piece of meatloaf. “Careful,” I cautioned. “It’s still hot.”

  Baby gulped the meatloaf down only to lick my ketchup-covered fingers. I wiped my hand on my pants.

  Except for Baby’s gulping and slurping, the Butterfly was quiet. Too quiet. It was unnerving.

  I realized that I was alone. Really alone in the world.

  After Brannon had left, Matt came into my life and filled the void of a male companion. Then I met Franklin, who was all sparkle and fun. Then I fell in love with Jake.

  Now they were gone.

  Asa was in London. Besides June and Eunice or an occasional social invitation, I didn’t see anyone. There was no one to confide in or talk over the highs and lows of the day’s experiences.

  I was lonely. I was afraid of growing old alone. I was fearful that my luck would run out.

  Suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore. Bending over, I placed the Bybee dish on the floor.

  Baby dived in happily.

  I watched him eat with relish and joy.

  The Kitty Kaboodle Gang, in their desire for mischief, bounced into the office and began climbing everything they coul
d get their claws into, plus scattering paper off my desk and reclining on my keyboard.

  Finished with dinner, Baby wiped his mashed potato crusty face on my pants and then stuck his snout in my crouch so I could scratch his ears.

  I suddenly felt ashamed. If Baby, after three bullet wounds, could love and live his life with relish, who was I to sit on my pity-pot.

  Pity-pot. That reminded me of another pity-pot. My grandmother who used to say, “Either you–know-what or get off the pot.”

  “You’re a good friend, Baby,” I cooed as I scratched his ears. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”

  Baby responded by thumping his tail loudly against the desk.

  “You’re a good example of how to live one’s life.”

  When Baby looked up at me, I swear he was smiling.

  “You live in the moment. You suffer no regrets. You forget about the past. I wish I could be more like you. If you stumble, you put the other paw in front and keep on trotting. You’re my inspiration.”

  Picking up a cat from my keyboard, I placed it on Baby’s back. “Now, go play with your friends. Mommy’s got to work.”

  Baby went to lie by the door, as Mastiffs were prone to do. They had been trained to guard the entrance to the castle keep for so many centuries, it was now in their blood.

  I opened a browser and keyed in “art thefts.”

  Art thieves seem to be of an incompetent nature, as they do such a bad job of disposing of the stolen works. Unless the paintings or objets d’art are for a private collector, the loot is usually too hot to sell. Invariably, paintings worth millions are stored in someone’s attic or placed in a yard sale. Or they are recycled to other museums. OOOPS!

  The J. B. Speed Museum in Louisville – that is pronounced “Louavul” – paid $38,000 to the Newhouse Galleries in New York in 1973 for a triptych depicting the Virgin Mary. It had been painted by Jacopo del Casentino who died in 1358.

  Unknown to them, the triptych had been stolen and was ultimately tracked down by an Italian scholar in 2011. It seemed word had gotten back to the owners of the triptych that their stolen property was being ogled by Kentucky swells on a daily basis. Gee – how embarrassing for the Speed Museum.

  The seventies seemed like the banner decade for stealing artwork. In 1973, two Rembrandt paintings, valued at two million dollars at the time, were lifted from the Taft Museum in Cincinnati, Ohio, a Midwestern town with Germanic heritage only two hours on I-75 north of the little Southern town of Lexington.

  A ransom of $200,000 was asked. Apparently, the thieves didn’t realize what they had, but of course, $200,000 in 1973 was a lot of money for a poor robber.

  Make that poor and stupid. Two days later, one of the Rembrandts was found in a barn and the second painting was discovered in a vacant house within the week. Very poor planning if you ask me.

  However, one of the most spectacular heists happened in my own little Bluegrass backyard. In 1994, a professional group of thieves stole one hundred and three bibelots and artwork worth $1.6 million dollars at the time.

  Well, that’s not much, you say.

  It was not what they stole, but from whom they stole.

  A gang known as the Waterford Rats crept into the Headley-Whitney Museum on July 17, thinking that this score would gain them entrance into the Mafia. What dumb asses!

  Who are the Headleys and the Whitneys, you may ask.

  The Headley-Whitney Museum was started by George Headley on his farm, La Belle. In the forties, Headley opened his own jewelry boutique at the Hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles, catering to the Hollywood elite like Judy Garland, Fannie Brice, Joan Crawford and Gary Cooper. Pining for home, Headley returned to La Belle and continued designing jewelry and bibelots. (Bibelots are decorative curios made of precious jewels and metals and are to be displayed rather than worn.)

  One spectacular bibelot was a platinum parachutist attached to a parachute of diamonds. How precious!

  In 1960, he married Barbara Whitney, daughter of sculptor Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney who founded the Whitney Museum of Art in New York City.

  Barbara Whitney’s brother was Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney III, an original investor in Pam Am Airlines and a financial backer for Gone With The Wind. He was very instrumental in getting the censors to allow Clark Gable to utter the famous line, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Damn was considered an unforgivable curse word in 1939.

  Just like his brother-in-law, George, Cornelius had his own little horse farm in Lexington – just around 1000 acres of the best dirt in the country, which raised 450 stakes winners.

  So you see that these people were movers and shakers . . . Bluegrass aristocracy who were lovers of art and beauty. One does not steal from the powerful and wealthy without paying a price.

  Still, no number of private detectives or law enforcement agents could break the case until a James P. Quinn was arrested on an unrelated burglary charge and in return for a plea deal, confessed to the theft. He was part of the Waterford Rats, who had stolen over ten millions dollars worth of goods in Kentucky, Ohio and Florida.

  I guess they worked Florida in the winter.

  What happened to George Headley’s precious collection?

  James Quinn said they couldn’t fence the collection, so they broke the bibelots apart and what they couldn’t break, they melted down and then sold . . . for a fraction of what the artwork was worth. I never said they were smart thieves.

  Hmmm. This was very fascinating and interesting but nothing seemed to fit the description of Jean Louis’ collection. The new canvas stitched onto the old canvas was a dead giveaway that something was not right with his collection.

  I checked the FBI list of stolen art objects.

  Oh dear. That was not going to work. The number of missing or stolen artworks was overwhelming. I was going to need specific information if I saw this through . . . and I was not even sure if his paintings were stolen. Jean Louis could be totally honest and legit.

  It was just that my nose was twitching.

  And then there was the visitation from his mother-in-law just before Terry’s untimely death.

  If you asked if I believed in ghosts, I would tell you no.

  If you asked if I had ever seen a ghost, I would say yes.

  Why the contradiction?

  I don’t really understand how a ghost could exist. When you’re dead, you’re dead.

  But I can tell you that I saw Brannon, my late husband, three times after my fall off the cliff. He spoke to me and I could even smell his aftershave.

  Terry saw his mother-in-law mother for three nights. In fact, I believe that his mother-in-law came from the great beyond to warn him.

  But I don’t believe in ghosts.

  Most people in Kentucky don’t believe in ghosts, but almost everyone has seen one.

  11

  I had just finished reading Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter when Baby rose from napping at my feet only to whine while pacing by the back windows.

  “What is it, boy?” I asked, going over to the windows.

  The treetops were swaying and the air had an odd yellowish glow about it. Uh oh! Not a good sign in Kentucky. A yellowish sky with green tints means tornadoes. Better turn on the radio.

  Before I could, there was strong protesting in the form of caterwauling. I opened the patio door and in rushed Mama and the Kitty Kaboodle Gang, which then hurried to Baby for comfort. After Baby nuzzled them in greeting, they turned to me as if to say, “Now what?”

  I went into the kitchen pantry where I kept pet carriers for emergencies. I put the protesting felines into the carriers and put a sturdy leash on Baby, wondering how I was going to manage him. He could be difficult when frightened and he was strong as a bull. Baby was just too much dog for me after my accident. I didn’t have the strength to control him, but what could I do?

  I loved him.

  The doorbell rang.

  Great! Who could that be?

  Amidst the cat m
eowing and hissing plus the dog barking and straining against the leash, in other words general commotion, I managed to look at the security monitors.

  Thank goodness.

  I opened the door. “I thought you hated me.”

  “I do, but I adore Baby. I guess it finally dawned on you that a tornado is coming this way, Dorothy Gale.”

  “Auntie Em you’re not, but I’m glad you didn’t call me the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “You should have heard me yesterday only I started the word witch with a ‘b’. What’s the game plan?”

  “I usually go to the Big House.”

  “Why not stay here?”

  “Because I don’t have a basement filled with gourmet food, champagne, sleeping accommodations and cable TV.”

  “See your point.” Franklin looked behind him at the trees waving wildly around the house. “The wind is really picking up. Shall we go?”

  “You take Baby and the cats and go on to the Big House. Just go in the back door. The stairway to the basement is in the butler’s pantry.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Franklin, looking anxiously at the sky.

  Thunder sounded in the distance.

  Baby began pulling at his leash and I was having difficulty holding onto him.

  “I’ve got to open up the pastures. Then I’ll help with June’s horses. Don’t worry. I’ll be safe, but you can really help if you take Baby now.”

  Franklin looked dubious.

  I handed him Baby’s leash and the cat carriers. Thunder sounded again which caused Baby to panic. It took both Franklin and me to get him into the Smart Car. Franklin threw the cats in the back and, giving me one last baleful look, took off to the Big House.

  I got into the golf cart and sped toward the barns and pastures.

  My farm is entirely closed in by fences with connecting gates. During tornadoes, I open each of the gates so the animals can run away from storms. Many take refuge in the woods where they feel safe.

  My thought is that leaving an animal locked in a barn during a tornado is a possible death sentence.

  I checked each barn and made sure no animal was trapped inside. After securing all the barn doors to be sure they stood open, I drove over to June’s stables.