Death By A HoneyBee (11 page)

   
“I am surprised that a homegirl would recognize a George Nakashima,” murmured Matt, thumbing through some old correspondence.
 

   
Shaneika grimaced.
 
“Well, I’m sure you would know – a stylista like yourself,” she responded with a lisp and a limp wrist.

   
“Speaking of being a stylista, how’s that Billy Idol haircut working out for you?” asked Matt.

   
“Bite me,” retorted Shaneika.

   
“I found it!” I cried.
 
“I knew I had seen our buddy O’nan somewhere before.”
 
Matt scooted closer so he could read off my lap as Shaneika grabbed a chair.
 

   
“In 1989, O’nan took one of my classes with several of his jock buddies.
 
An easy A or so he thought.
 
He was on a baseball scholarship.
 
Well, the class was harder than he had anticipated.
 
I caught O’nan and his baseball pals cheating on a test.
 
Here is the letter about it to the dean, his coach, and his scholarship sponsor.”

   
Shaneika’s eyes brightened.
 
“I can do a lot with this,” she said, perusing the letters.
 
“Especially with what I found out today.”
 
She beamed triumphantly.
 
“It seems that Pidgeon’s heart attack was possibly caused by too much adrenaline pumped into his system.
 
They found two weird-looking puncture points on his neck but can’t positively say they weren’t bee stings.
 
The working theory is that someone injected the adrenaline rush, and then used the bee stings to cover up the wounds.”

   
“Adrenaline like from an epinephrine injector or pen,” nodded Matt.

   
“But because of all the bee stings they really can’t identify a point of entry, not so that it will legally stand up in a court of law.”

   
“So they have no weapon, no vehicle, no point of entry of the adrenaline into the body,” I said.

   
“In other words, they have a theory, but no case.
 
No real evidence.
 
They can’t legally say it was murder.
 
They can’t find any weapon with your fingerprints on it.
 
They don’t even know how he got there,” said Matt.

   
I thought for a moment.
 
“Let’s say they did find an adi pen with both Richard’s and my fingerprints on it.
 
Could they prove it was murder?
 
Maybe he and I were there, and he was getting stung and having a reaction.
 
How can they prove that I didn’t give him the injection in order to save him?”
 
I thought some more.
 
“If he were subject to multiple bee stings, wouldn’t his body produce more adrenaline anyway?
 
How can they prove the adrenaline was from an injection and not produced by his own body?”
  

   
Shaneika looked baffled.
 
“That better not be what happened, Miss Josiah, because that means you lied to me.
 
If for some reason, the DA wanted to push this case that would be our defense if they could ever tie one of your pens to Pidgeon.
 
We would probably plead it down to manslaughter.”
  

  
“I didn’t lie,” I assured Shaneika.
 
“I’m just thinking out loud.
 
Looking at all the possibilities.
 
I am fearful of what O’nan might try in order to convince the DA.
 
At this point, he could twist the facts into anything he liked.
 
Besides, it seems that the point of Pidgeon showing up in my yard was to place blame on me specifically. Or else why wouldn’t the killer do it in Pidgeon’s own beeyard where it would look like a simple accident.”

  
“Perhaps the murderer, and I say this with reservation as I don’t really believe a murder took place, wasn’t sure that the bees would sting Richard enough to cover point of adrenaline entry.
 
Having his death in your beeyard gave the police someone specific to look at in case the medical examiner could pinpoint cause of death,” countered Shaneika, reaching over to pet my mastiff.
 
She casually wiped Baby’s slobber on Matt’s pants leg.

  
“Can you get O’nan thrown off the case?” asked Matt, smearing the slobber from his pants onto Baby’s fur.
 
“It is clear that the police have nothing concrete, but O’nan is using this incident to get back at Josiah.”

  
“It looks pretty obvious that O’nan is using Pidgeon’s death to make your life a living hell.
 
Yeah, I can get him thrown off, and also request a review of how the case was handled,” mused Shaneika.
 
“But it will only antagonize him more.”

  
“My experience has been that backing down from bullies only compounds the problem.
 
No, let’s hit back.
 
I don’t like him thinking I am defenseless,” I said.

  
“Did O’nan end up losing his scholarship?” asked Matt.

  
“I don’t know.
 
After I kicked him out of my class, I didn’t keep up with him,” I said.
 
“It didn’t concern me anymore.”

  
“Until now,” said Matt.

  
“Until now,” I concurred.

  
“I think we should have a victory dinner,” stated Shaneika.
 
“Just a few more nips and tucks, but basically, this nasty business is over.
 
Miss Josiah, you are elected to cook, and then after dinner, show me around this
crazzzy
house of yours.”
                                                                                                                                

  
“I will do the cooking, if you please,” corrected Matt.
 
“Trust me, you don’t want to eat hers.”
 

  
I frowned.
 
Matt seemed to be showing off for Shaneika.
 
“You sure seem to eat a lot of my
bad
cooking.”

  
“Feel sorry for you, that’s all.”
 
He started towards the kitchen.
 
Baby loped after him. “Also, will be staying here . . . until this is officially over.
 
I’ll be bedding down in the old caretaker’s cabana.”

  
I started to protest but Shaneika cut me off.
 
“I think this is for the best.
 
O’nan apparently has a vendetta against you.
 
Anytime someone believes you ruined his life and carries a gun, you should take every precaution.
 
O’nan is a very real danger until this mess is sorted out.”

   
I nodded in agreement.
 
She was right.
 
It just unnerved me that two younger people were making better decisions than I.
 
It made me feel old.
 

  
“I want some wine with dinner, honey child,” she called after Matt. “And you, Josiah, are going to tell me how you lost all your money, but manage to still live like a rich
 
woman,” she said, training her eyes on me.
 

  
“What makes you think that I have lost my money?”

  
“You don’t get your hair professionally done.”

  
“Maybe I’m eccentric.”
                                                                                                                  

  
“Not it.
 
Women your age always get their hair done.
 
And this house needs a lot of work,” Shaneika said, looking around. “You drive a thirty-plus-year-old beater, and you are really worried about my fees – not that I cost you anything.
 
Like I said, I owe your daughter a favor.”

   
“Want to tell me about that favor?”
    

   
“Quit changing the subject.
 
What happened to your money?”
 

   
“It’s a long story,” I replied.

   
“I’ve got all night.
 
No court tomorrow.
 
Since I saw that heated pool out back, I will be spending lots of time out here.
 
I love to swim.
 
You got any problems with that?”

   
Laughing, I held up my hands in surrender.
 
“No, it will be fun having the house filled with young people again.”
 

   
“I saw some horses when I came in.”

   
“I rescued a couple that were starving.
 
Sometimes when friends go out of town, I’ll watch their horses for them.
 
I don’t board them as a rule.”

   
“I like horses.”

   
“Doesn’t everyone?”
 
I opened a carved limestone box and held it out to my lawyer.
 
Shaneika carefully selected a cigar.
 
We settled into our chairs to watch the sun settle over the infinity pool that blended into the Kentucky River while Matt fussed in the kitchen.
 
Baby followed his every move, padding after him on his oversize paws, hoping that Matt would drop a morsel or two.
 
The world was settling into night.
 
I could hear a hoot owl combine calls with a screech owl’s high-pitched ones across the river.
 
It was peaceful, but my mind whirled up possible scenarios waiting for me.
 
As well intended as Matt and Shaneika were, I knew this was something I had to fix . . . and fast.

    
After Shaneika left, Matt ensconced himself in the cabana.
 
Knowing that Matt would be preoccupied with exploring his digs, I dressed in black, pulled my hair up into a dark hat and left the house quietly.
 
I didn’t want Matt to know where I was going.
 
After forty minutes of driving to the north side of town, I found myself in front of Richard Pidgeon’s house.
 
There was only one light on inside.
 
I drove past a second time to see if anyone was walking a dog or jogging at this late hour.
 
Driving past a third time, I stopped the car.
  
I quietly transferred all the Pidgeons’ garbage from the garbage can to the back of my vehicle.
 
I looked around again and then sped away.
 

   
When I got home, I hid the garbage bags in the tool shed.
 
I would go through them after Matt went to work.
 
I knew if I got caught going through the Pidgeons’ garbage, it would look bad.
 
I could only hope the garbage man came early each collection day, and Tellie and Taffy would never know that someone was stealing their garbage . . . and hopefully their secrets.
 
Most people are too lazy to burn documents that could implicate them.
 
They simply throw them away, thinking that the local dump will hide their sins.
 
I knew better.

  
I showered and went gratefully to bed, sleeping soundly.
 

  
Awaking before noon, I found Baby in his crate where Matt had placed him.
 
He had turned his water bowl over, and what appeared to be remnants of his breakfast stained his blanket.
 
I let him outside, keeping a watchful eye until he tinkled.
 
With water features surrounding the house including a deep pool, I needed to make sure that the clumsy puppy didn’t fall into one of them.
 
Baby was still learning how to walk on his oversized paws and could easily stumble on his long ears.
 
Since he didn’t want to come back inside the house, I decided that now was as good as time as any to go through the Pidgeons’ garbage.
 
Dressed in ratty cotton pj’s and shoes with holes in them, I padded to the shed with Baby following.
 
I hadn’t even combed my hair yet.
  
But it didn’t matter, going through garbage.
 
I sat in the grass with piles of rotting food and limp paper about me as Baby tried to roll in it.
 
Finally, I had to put Baby in the tool shed so I could have some peace.
 
I was irritated that I had forgotten gloves.
 
After twenty-five minutes of going through nasty, stinking trash, I found nothing.
 
Not wanting to be discovered in my theft, I burned all the paper and put the organic stuff in the compost pile, hiding it deep within.