Death By A HoneyBee (36 page)

   
 
“Perhaps from the fear of bees.”

 
   
Matt stood by the window cradling a glass of port in his hands.
 
“Mr. Pidgeon was an experienced beekeeper and a charmer to boot.
 
Bees never stung him.”
 

     
Meriah sat down.
 
“That’s the mysterious part.
  
Why would bees sting a charmer?
 
Because someone made them sting him, which brought on the heart attack.
 
It could still be murder after all.”

 
    
I accepted a plate with chocolate bourbon cake.
 
“Those are my thoughts exactly.”

  
  
Reverend Humble thought for a moment. “It still could have been something more simple. The grass was wet with dew.
 
He could have stumbled and fallen into the hive. Your bees, not knowing him, stung him from fright and caused him to have a heart attack.”

 
   
“But what was he doing there in the first place?” asked Brenda.

 
   
“That is the sixty-four thousand dollar question, my dear,” replied Larry.

  
  
“What do you think, Special Agent Bingham?” asked Meriah.
 
“Was it foul play or just an accident?”

   
 
“I’m retired now.
 
Just plain old Larry will do.”
 
Larry looked at me.
 
“Don’t have enough evidence to decide, but I know our girl here didn’t have anything to do with it.”

 
   
“Why is that?” asked Meriah.

  
  
“Josiah is just too damned obvious.”

  
  
“Besides,” Reverend Humbled observed, “the butler always does it.”

  
  
“You would be surprised at how often the employee is the killer of his employer,” stated Meriah.
 
“I have done lots of research on that subject.”

     
“And I think in two of your books, the personal assistant is the murderer,” chimed in Brenda.

     
Meriah bowed her head.
 
“Thank you for reading my books.”

     
“Do you hear that, Charles?” asked Lady Elsmere.
 
“You might do me in yet.”

     
For the first time that evening, Charles grinned.
    

     
While the others were discussing Richard’s death, I sidled up to Larry.
 
“What did you give Tellie at Richard’s funeral?”

  
  
“I gave her a check from the Beekeepers Association.”

   
 
“You told me that you left that check in her mailbox,” I accused.

     
Larry broke into a smile.
 
“This is why I know you didn’t have anything to do with Richard’s death.
 
You asked all the right questions.”

     
“You are not going to tell me, are you?”

   
 
“No, I’m not.”

   
 
“Why?”

   
 
“Because it’s none of your business,” he said quietly.

     
I thought for a moment.
 
“You said that Goetz and O’nan came to see you.”

     
Larry nodded.

     
“I bet they shared confidences with you that they would not share with anyone else as you are retired FBI.
 
You know, buddy-buddy stuff.
 
I bet they told you that they suspected adrenaline poisoning had been used on Richard,” I said, looking closely at Larry.

     
His face remained that of a poker champ but his eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
 
“I didn’t dime on you,” he said evenly under his breath while scanning the room around the room.

     
“No, you didn’t, but you dimed on them.
 
You figured out what had happened from what they told you, and you warned Tellie.
 
You came to the memorial service and handed her a note to leave town.”

     
Larry smiled at his wife, Brenda, who glanced at him while talking to Matt.
 
She was flushed and seemingly happy with his attention.
 
“You’re one for the cuckoo’s nest.”
 
                                                     

    
I smiled at Brenda too.
 
Matt was apparently ratcheting up the charm dial.
 
“I don’t think so.
 
She knew too much about how to disappear.
 
Even someone as smart as Tellie would need help with that.”
 
I paused.
 
“Was Richard an FBI informant?”

    
Larry leaned down his face and kissed me on the cheek.
 
“This conversation is at an end.
 
Read something other than mysteries.
 
It’s affecting your mind.”

    
“Kiss my big, white fanny, Larry.”

    
He laughed.
 
“If I wasn’t in mothballs, I’d take you up on that.”
 
He walked over to his wife, who was rubbing Matt’s arm much too often.
 

    
Now seated in the parlor around the fireplace, the others carried on a lively conversation about murder for almost an hour.
 
I sat in a sulk next to Larry, who steered our conversation every which way except to the topic I wanted to talk about.
 
After seeing Matt slip June his business card, I rose and announced our departure.
  

    
Meriah extended her hand towards mine.
 
“It was a pleasure to meet you.
 
I hope someday soon you will give me a tour of the famous Butterfly House.”

    
“You’re staying?”

    
“Yes, if June will put me up.
 
I want to write my next book about murder in Kentucky.
 
I shall have to be here to do extensive research,” she said, looking playfully at me.

    
“Oh, boy,” I murmured. “Matt, take me home.”

    
Matt gave June a peck on the cheek and made our excuses.
 
I was tipsy, I admit, but that didn’t keep my mind from wondering what Larry had given Tellie at the funeral.

26

     
I wanted the death of Richard Pidgeon behind me and forgotten.
 
I surely did not want a famous mystery writer poking around.
 
This weighed heavily on my mind as Matt let me off at the front door while he parked the van.
 
If I hadn’t been half drunk I might have noticed that the front door wasn’t locked.
 
If I hadn’t been immersed in Meriah Caldwell’s remarks, I would have picked up sooner that something was amiss.
 
In the distance, I heard Baby howling from somewhere in the house.
 
That alone should have caused me to wait for Matt, but I didn’t.
 
I walked right into the living room, where Franklin was seated with his hands nicely folded in his lap with his lips tightly pursed.
 

 
   
“Why is Baby in the pantry?” I asked, pretty pissed off.
 
It was then I noticed my cache of hidden tasers piled in the middle of the living room floor along with their batteries.
 
It was only then that I turned to run when something cold and hard poked in my back.

 
   
“Too late now,” said a flat, but familiar voice.

     
I suddenly became quite sober.
 
“What’s this all about, O’nan?”

 
   
“We’re going to have a little party – you, me and this funny boy here.
  
Are you alone?”

  
  
“Yes.
 
Left Matt off at the cabana.
 
I am supposed to send Franklin to him,” I lied.

     
“Good, now I want you to sit next to your boyfriend there.
 
Nice and easy.
 
We are going to have a little chat.”

    
On wobbly legs, I walked over to the couch and sat next to Franklin, who was slightly trembling – or was that me.
 
Once seated, I ventured a look at O’nan.
 
He was dressed in a dirty T-shirt and jeans with the knees worn out.
 
On his feet were flip-flops.
 
His eyes were bloodshot, and his handsome face looked dirty from beard stubble.
 
It didn’t look sexy on him.
 
O’nan held a black Glock nine mm and carelessly scratched his face with its barrel.
 
I knew what kind of gun it was as my daughter carried one just like it.
 
O’nan looked edgy.

    
“What do you want?”

    
“An accounting of sorts.
 
We are going to discuss how many times you’ve screwed with me.”

    
“Let Franklin go,” I demanded.
 
“If he doesn’t go show up, Matt will come looking for him.”

    
O’nan sneered. “Good, let him come.” O’nan brandished his gun.
 
“I’ve got something for that queer too.”

Upon hearing my voice, Baby increased his howling and

scratched frantically on the pantry door.

    
“Can’t you shut that dog up?” complained O’nan.
 

   
 
I stood.
 
“Let me put Baby outside.
 
Then you can’t hear him.”

    
O’nan grinned.
 
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
 
Opening the door so you could sic that monster on me.”

    
“No, you got it wrong,” I pleaded.
 
“Let me put Baby out so we can talk.
 
Baby, shut up!” I yelled.

    
O’nan waved me back.
 
“I’m gonna take care of this.
 
Now you both just sit still cause I can see you from the kitchen.”
 
O’nan moved towards the pantry.

    
Franklin grabbed my hands looking at me wide-eyed.
 
“What’s he going to do?
 
Where is Matt?”

    
Before I could answer, O’nan yelled at the pantry door.
 
“Hey, shut up in there.
 
Shut up, you stupid mutt!”
 
O’nan kicked the pantry door, causing Baby to throw himself against it, trying desperately to get out.

    
“O’nan, your beef is with me,” I yelled over the dog’s antics.
 
“Let Franklin take him out.”
 

    
“Sit down.
 
I’ll take care of this O’nan style.”
 
He raised his gun.