Death By A HoneyBee Page 8

  Leaning in closer to look at the Lincoln signature, I said, “I didn’t know you were a Civil War buff.”

  “I’m not. Those are family heirlooms.”

  I shot a quick look at Shaneika.

  Shaneika was wearing a beige Chanel suit with black piping. As far as I could tell, it was the real thing. It looked vintage. I wondered if it was a family heirloom too.

  She spied the painting in my hands. “What’s that?” she asked curiously.

  I turned the painting over.

  Shaneika gasped. “It’s an Ellis Wilson!”

  I smiled. “I noticed when you came to the farm that you seemed to be interested in the horses. I thought you might like this.”

  She clasped her well-manicured hands on the desk. “What’s the catch?”

  “As you know, I’ve no money to speak of.” She started to interrupt, but I held up my hand. “I’m cash poor. I want to give this painting to you as a retainer. I am sure if you have it appraised, you will find it worth more than enough to compensate for your services.”

  “I don’t get it. Your problems are over. Your bill has been paid. I told you that I owed your daughter a favor. Why do you need to keep me on retainer?”

  “Because it is not over. I think Pidgeon’s death was murder, and I was set up. I’m going to find out who did it and why.”

  “You are asking for trouble. Let this thing go. Get on with your life.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. How can I get on with my life with this thing always hanging over my head like Damocles’ sword? I can’t. Will you accept the painting as payment for being on retainer?”

  She looked lovingly at the painting. “I never knew he painted horses.”

  “He was from Kentucky, after all.”

  She strode over to the painting and caressed the carved wooden frame. “Where did you get it?”

  “I found it in a flea market and bought it for seventy-five dollars.”

  “Lucky bitch,” Shaneika said, appraising me with a newfound respect.

  “There’s another matter. I wish to sell ten acres of my property for two hundred thousand dollars. I will not negotiate the price. I want you to find me a buyer and

  handle all the details. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that I want this on the QT. Here’s a sketch of the parcel I am selling.”

  Shaneika took the drawing that I had crudely drawn on notepaper and looked at it with interest. “This is not good enough. A surveyor is going to have to come out there. I’ll arrange for one. Is water available?”

  “Yes, there is a city water pump installed and a small stream goes through. However, the stream dries up in the late summer for about a month, but the pump is in good working condition. There is also road frontage and the pasture is good for livestock.”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars is a bit steep, even for your property.”

  “God is not making any more Bluegrass.”

  “Any buildings on the property?”

  “Just a run-down pony shed.”

  “If I remember correctly, this parcel is still in good fescue.”

  “I use the hay for my animals, so I’ve kept it up.”

  “You have a tractor?” asked Shaneika, sitting down and making notes on a legal pad.

  “It runs, but it is kept together with a piece of baling wire and a prayer. Anyone nearby can be hired to mow the pasture.”

  “Okay, I will accept the painting after it has been appraised.”

  “That must come out of your retainer. I can’t afford the cost of an appraisal.”

  “Why are you selling? I know you don’t have any outstanding debt.”

  “My business - and quit checking up on me.”

  “Land and water are the two most precious things in the Bluegrass. People are stupid to sell. They can never buy back such prized land again. Once you sell out, you’re out for good.”

  I held firm and said nothing. I knew it was a sacrifice, but I had no choice.

  Shaneika gave me a hard look. Finally, she shrugged. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.” She called in her secretary and instructed her to prepare an invoice describing the painting. Then she stood. “I’ll get back to you.”

  After my dismissal, I waited in the reception area while her assistant worked on a letter describing the painting. She popped her gum as she typed away. Handing me the finished letter and a receipt, she sent me on my way without a further glance.

  I hurried home as I once again had garbage duty. As before, I dropped the Pidgeons’ trash on the floor of the shed. I went through it quickly until I turned over a wet piece of paper encrusted with tomato seeds. The letter was confirming that a check of $750,000 had been sent to Tellie’s current address. “Thank you, Jesus,” I muttered, drying the paper with my shirt. At long last, my sifting through Tellie’s garbage had produced results. I thought three-quarters of a million dollars was a good motive for murder. People had been killed for a lot less.

  I suddenly felt energized, returning to my office at the house. I was meticulous when it came to records. I found my phone bills and began searching for Pidgeon’s number after checking it in the local beekeeping association’s list of beekeeper’s numbers, which are given to members. Richard’s number was indeed listed on my bill. The call was made in late August, just days before Richard’s death. Well, I’ll be!

  13

  Matt came home only to find me in the kitchen making a shrimp grits casserole. I was dressed in good clothes, and my hair was brushed for once. “Hey Josiah, what’s for dinner?”

  I pushed him away from the steaming plate. “I am going to visit a sick friend, and taking this with me. I’m sorry, but I am going to miss movie night. Just can’t be helped.”

  He looked disappointed. Every week for several years, Matt and I watched an old movie together.

  “Look in the fridge for something to eat,” I said. “Besides, I thought you said I couldn’t cook.”

  “Just teasing you, Babe. You’re a great cook.” Matt brightened. “The mutt and I will take a swim first, then I’ll make dinner.”

  “Clean up when you’re finished,” I requested as I headed out the door. “Oh, by the way the heater . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Have a good swim.”

  Matt grunted. His head was already stuck in my fridge. He wasn’t paying any attention to me.

  I opened and shut the front door, hiding in the foyer. Matt headed for the pool. Thinking that I was gone, I knew Matt would strip and jump into the deep end of the pool. I stood at the front door waiting.

  Splash.

  “Oh gawwd! Damn, it’s cold!” I heard Matt yell.

  Revenge is one of life’s little pleasures. I couldn’t help but smile. I headed for my van.

  Forty minutes later, I pulled up in front of Tellie Pidgeon’s house. Instead of heading for her front door, I knocked on her neighbor’s. A few minutes later, an elderly man cautiously opened it with hands gnarled with arthritis.

  “Excuse me for bothering you but I’ve come to see Tellie Pidgeon, but no one seems to be at home. I don’t want to leave this casserole dish on the front porch. Dogs, you know, might get in it.” I waited for a response.

  “Well, no one is home. Mrs. Pidgeon works second shift and won’t be home until midnight.”

  “Oh dear,” I moaned. “What am I going to do with my casserole?” I looked point-blank at the man.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose I could take it.”

  “That would be great.”

  He reached for it, but I held on to the casserole. “You know, this is awfully hot. Just show me where to put it.” I gave him my biggest smile.

  Mr. Haggard – that was his name – showed me into the kitchen where I asked for a drink of water because I was “so parched.” He obliged and invited me to sit at the kitchen table. I guess he was a widower, as I did not see a Mrs. Haggard or a woman’s handiwork about the house.

  “Isn’
t it awful about Mr. Pidgeon?” I inquired.

  Mr. Haggard didn’t respond.

  “Did you know him very well?”

  “Well enough.”

  My plan was not going to work if this old codger didn’t open up. “How is Miss Tellie holding up?”

  Mr. Haggard snorted. “I think she’s doing better than average.”

  “Why is that?”

  Mr. Haggard didn’t respond.

  This was hard work. What was it going to take to get him to spill his guts? “My name is Mrs. Reynolds and I worked with Richard at the Farmers’ Market.” I leaned forward and whispered in a confidential voice. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but some of his colleagues had problems with Richard. Didn’t like his attitude.”

  Mr. Haggard seemed to warm up to this information. “Like he was uppity?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “Hard to get along with. But I bet he was a good neighbor.”

  “The worst!” confided Mr. Haggard, who handed me a beer, forgetting that I had requested water.

  I accepted even though I don’t like beer. “Really?”

  He pulled a padded chair out from a battered red aluminum kitchenette set and slowly bent into it. His wrinkled neck had a slight rash, which was probably poison ivy. “He was always complaining about my yard, said my tree limbs hung over his property and left leaves. He actually wanted me to cut down a hundred-year-old hickory tree because of the fall leaves,” said Mr. Haggard. “Well, I’d rather cut off my right arm than do that. It’s a sin to cut down a good tree, my way of thinking.”

  “What happened?”

  “I paid for someone to rake up the leaves in his yard.”

  “No! I can’t believe that.”

  “It’s true.” Mr. Haggard shook his head in disgust. “You know that man actually measured his grass?”

  “Huh?” I was trying hard to picture that.

  “Yep. That crazy hoss would mow his yard, and then get out a tape and measure the grass in the northwest corner. Then he would measure how tall the grass was in the southeastern part.”

  “Mr. Haggard, I think this is a tall tale,” I said smiling.

  The old man held up his hand. “Lord strike me down dead if I’m not telling you the awful truth. The man was just a plain nut. He used to drive my late missus to tears with his complaints about hanging her wash in the backyard. Said she had to move her clothesline, as he didn’t like the wind blowing our clothes over the fence line of his property. He was always complaining about this or that . . . and poor Mrs. Pidgeon.”

  I leaned towards Mr. Haggard. “Yes?”

  “Well,” he took a swig of his beer, “let’s just say she always had bruises on her arms.”

  BINGO! “You don’t think he hit her, do you?”

  “I never actually saw him do anything, but she had a lot of bruises. I don’t think any woman can be that clumsy.”

  I stayed with Mr. Haggard for another twenty minutes before I found the way to my car. I gave him the grits, telling him that it would ruin before Tellie got home. I would make her another one. He seemed grateful at having a hot meal. He promised to return my dish to the Market.

  On the way home, I left a message on Shaneika’s answering machine that I wanted her to obtain copies of any emergency room reports on either Tellie or Taffy Pidgeon from the major hospitals in town.

  She returned my call the next day and began complaining. “You know that is illegal. Medical records are confidential.”

  I laughed. “Quit being a drama queen. Take some of that money from my painting and bribe someone in the records department.”

  “Are you nuts?” she yelled into the phone. “I could lose my license.”

  “Just do it.” I hung up before she could have the last word.

  I didn’t hear from Shaneika for over a week until a courier delivered a large envelope to my gate. It contained the Ellis Wilson appraisal. “Jumpin’ Jehosophat!” I cried when seeing the painting’s worth. Shaneika would be my lawyer until my death and then some.

  Next, I pulled out four copies of emergency room medical reports for Tellie Pidgeon from several hospitals over a ten-year period. Cuts, bruises and a hairline fracture gave me what I needed. Each time, she said that she had been in a minor car accident or a mishap at home. Also included were Tellie’s college records, work records and current financial status, which had been dire until she received Richard’s life insurance check. It had been deposited but then she had had a cashier’s check made out to her for $600,000. That was odd. All creditors had been paid except for the mortgage on the house, which was in the early stages of foreclosure. Strange, I thought. Why didn’t she pay the house off? That would have been the first thing I would do.

  Even some of Richard’s medical records were included. It seemed that he had a weak heart and was being treated for high blood pressure, high cholesterol and OCD thrown in for good measure.

  I laid Tellie’s medical files, the insurance letter, college records, work records on my Nakashima table and began making notes on my yellow legal pad. Tellie had two motives – revenge and money. From her college transcripts, she had majored in pre-med and then dropped out. Her IQ was high.

  Logically, a sleuth should always start looking at the person who has a possible motive closest to the victim and then move outward. Tellie was capable of planning an intricate murder. Where was she on the morning of Richard’s death? I had motive but I needed to break her alibi. But then Agnes might have done it. If she still loved Richard, maybe she finally snapped because she couldn’t have him. Or maybe there was some psycho killer roaming the countryside picking off beekeepers.

  I then reviewed everything I had about Richard. All information led to a man who was angry, frustrated and in declining health. He was a prime candidate for a major heart attack. Maybe Tellie didn’t want the additional burden of a physically disabled husband. Or maybe Taffy had learned of the insurance policy, and decided that her father stood in the way of her mother and herself living well. No, that couldn’t be. She had an alibi on the morning of his death, but so did Tellie. I’d bet my farm that one of them or both had something to do with Richard’s death.

  That night, my daughter called me. “Mother, what you’re doing is going to boomerang on you.”

  “Shaneika ratted me out, huh,” I said. “Isn’t my stuff with her supposed to be confidential?”

  “Don’t change the subject. What you are doing is irresponsible. You are going beyond badge work.”

  “Badges, badges? We ain’t got no badges. We don’t need no badges! I don’t have to show you my stinkin’ badge.”

  “The case is closed,” responded my daughter tersely. Apparently, she did not think I was funny quoting from the Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

  “There is no statute of limitation on murder. The police can reopen the case any time they like. Do you want someone to send the cops a little note causing them to reopen the case two years down the road? No, this needs to be settled now.”

  “What if your theory is wrong? Without substantial proof, Tellie can sue you for defamation of character if you go to the police with it.”

  “What if I’m not? I don’t think I am, but I need to check on some things first. I won’t do anything without talking with you.”

  “You can’t involve me! I can’t know anything. Understand? I am even going to cut off Shaneika.”

  “Yes.” I knew she must not be connected in any form. It would ruin her.

  There was silence on the phone. “All right, be careful,” she said. As if she had to tell me.

  14

  Knowing that Agnes would never receive me at her office again, I tried a different ploy. For several mornings, I camped out on the immense marble reception porch of the Carnegie Center waiting for Agnes to park her big Cadillac that Officer Kelly had so nicely described for me. But I tired of standing against a massive pillar as the public skirted around me going into the building while giving me the once-over. So I ret
reated to my van. The first couple mornings, I had missed her as her car was already parked in her parking spot. Other mornings, she didn’t show up at all. It seemed that she had a cushy job; she could come to work when she wanted. One morning, though, at 7:30, her Caddy rolled in. I slid down in my seat to prevent her from seeing me and calling the police.

  Agnes parked some distance from me, so I silently got out, hoping to intercept her before she entered the Kentucky limestone building that housed her business.