Death By A HoneyBee (18 page)

 
    
“Someone told them about the fight at the State Fair.”

 
    
“It wasn’t me that fingered you.
 
You might want to look Tellie’s way.”

 
   
“Speaking of Tellie, have you seen her since this happened?”

  
  
“She has been awful quiet.
 
I went over to her house twice, but no one answered the door.
 
I knew she was at home because her Suburban was in the driveway.
 
Seems like she wants nothing to do with beekeepers.”

 
    
“Maybe it’s you,” I teased.

 
    
“Naw, dames love me.
 
I had a condolence check for her from the Beekeepers Association and just put it in the mailbox.”

 
    
“Cashed?”

 
   
“Not yet.”

 
    
Larry removed his Red’s ball cap and scratched his bald head.
 
“The thing for you to do is keep active, make sure you make the next bee meeting.
 
If anyone asks about Richard, just say it’s a mystery to you.
 
No wisecracks.
 
No bringing up the past.
 
Keep it simple.”
 
                                                                                    

    
“So I look guilty?”

     
“You look anxious.
 
I guess the police are turning the screws.
 
They don’t like unanswered questions.
 
Neither do I.”

 
   
“It’s been officially ruled as a heart attack.”

 
    
“Tell people that, but distance yourself from his death as much as possible.”

     
“Do you think I had something to do with his death?”
 

     
“Naw, but someone sure-fire did.
 
No bee would have stung Richard alive or dead without cause.
 
Be careful.
 
Watch your back, because someone gave those bees the meanies.”

 
    
“I am just wondering.
 
Why do you think that I had nothing to do with Richard’s death?”

 
    
“You’re no crab apple annie.
 
You’re too square.
 
Dig?
 
This was the work of a sneaky cat.”
 

 
   
With that said, Brenda, Larry’s wife, pulled into the driveway.
 
Without blinking, Larry took the basket and martini pitcher, placing them under an empty box.
 
He fished out some breath mints and took one.
 
“Get me on the Ameche if you need something.
 
I’ll get the basket back to you at the next bee meeting,” he said over his shoulder while going to greet his woman.
 
I trotted along thinking about what he had said.
 
I guess he knew something about sneaky people.

     
I ran errands and returned home to mow around the house.
 
By dusk, I was feeling exhausted.
 
I dressed in a ratty nightgown and climbed into bed early with Baby – not that I slept much, tossing, as my mind was restless again.
 
I could see how people, when in a jam, panicked and ran.
 
I was frightened.
 
I was confused.
 
For the first time in years, I wished Brannon were alive to tell me what to do. If things turned sour for me, I would have to start over in another town.
 
At my age, I didn’t think I had the strength to do so.
 

    
It was around 11:30 a.m. before I got up and fed Baby.
 
It was time for the mail.
 
I drove up the gravel driveway to the mailbox.
 
I usually walked the distance, but it was misting.
 
The mail consisted of the usual bills and invitations to church revivals.

   
An envelope with an old-fashioned typed address fell to the ground.
 
I picked it up and opened it.
 
Typed in big letters – “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”

   
I turned the envelope over.
 
No return address. The person who sent the letter had used a manual typewriter.
 
It was just like the letters sent to the police as described by Officer Kelly.
  
Now the same person was sending hateful letters to me.
 

   
Many of the members of the Farmers’ Market loathed technology and did not use computers.
 
They still recorded their sales in handwritten ledgers.
 
Could it be one of them?
 

   
When returning home, I put the letter on the dining room table.
  
The next day, I wore latex gloves when getting the mail.
 
Another letter.
 
“MURDERESS!”

   
Carefully placing the letter in a baggie, I took it home.
 
A magnifying glass showed that both letters were from the same typewriter as the D was missing its very top.
 

   
I suspected that a woman had sent it.
 
Recalling an article I had read, women punctuate when writing threatening notes.
 
A woman would use an exclamation mark to denote emotion.
 
Men wouldn’t bother.
 
Also, it seemed to me that a man would use the word murder or murderer.
 
Men always think in the male gender.
     

   
Matt came right over after I called him.
 
He had been in the cabana trysting with his new love, Franklin.
 
I could smell sex on him.
 
For a moment, the smell brought back a longing I had forgotten.
 
Hastily, I turned my mind over to the letters.
 

    
“The canceled stamps say Richmond.”

    
“Doesn’t mean anything,” I replied.
 
“Someone could have been just passing through.
 
It’s only twenty miles away.”

    
“On two consecutive days?
 
I think the person either lives there or drives through Richmond for work.”

    
“Could be right.”

    
“Let’s start with me taking these to the lab my firm uses.
 
See if we can find anything on it.”

    
“How much is that going to cost?”
 
I was down to counting change for gas money.

    
“This is not the time to be penny-wise and pound foolish.”

    
“Matt, no more than a thousand dollars.
 
I mean it.
 
I really can’t afford that much.”

    
“I’ll do what I can.
 
I’ll also find out where Taffy works, and that is for free.”
 
He squeezed my shoulder.
 
Matt then hurried back to his friend.
 
He had forgotten the letters.
 

    
I sealed the letters in zip-lock bags.
 
Walking to Matt’s car, I put the bags on his dashboard.
 
The lights of the cabana were turned off.
 
I left in silence.

    
For a while, things were quiet.
 
I went to work at the Market, making some good money.
 
I didn’t see anything of O’nan or Goetz.
 
I started to relax, letting my guard down.
 
Matt brought his new boyfriend home and invited me to dinner several nights.
 
Grateful for company, I joined them at the cabana.
 
It was lovely having the two of them cook while listening to their happy banter.
 
Sometimes after dinner, they would take a quick swim while I curled up with Baby and a good book.
 
I’d hear their squeals of play in the pool from my bedroom.
 
Seeing their happiness had a positive effect on me.

    
I was never one for being resentful of other people’s success.
 
I wished them well.
 

   
Days later, the trees were in glorious fall foliage as I returned home from the Farmers’ Market.
 
Last spring’s foals were prancing in well-mowed fields as I drove past horse farms on Tates Creek Road.
 
A shy pileated woodpecker, winging through the sky, was a rare sight.
 
I followed her flight until she was out of sight.
 

  
Turning into my rutted driveway, I stopped at the mailbox only to find another one of those dreadful letters, again from Richmond.
 
I carefully opened the envelope, quickly reading it.
  
I gasped.
 
Feeling lightheaded, I struggled to open the van door.
 
The slick paper slipped through my fingers, the world became a wall of darkness . . . and I slid into it.
 

16

     
I opened my eyes to see Matt looming above my face.
 
His severe expression caused me to squeak like a mouse. “Where am I?” I croaked, struggling to sit up.
 
My voice was hoarse.

     
“You’re at the Medical Center.
 
Josiah, you scared the bejeebies out of me.
 
I thought you were . . .”

     
“Dead?”
 

     
“Yes, dead.
 
You were lying in such an awkward position, half out of the van.
 
It was still running.”
 
Matt ran his hand through his thick dark hair.
 
“I was just plain scared.”

   
 
I felt around my body to make sure all my fingers and toes were still intact.
 
“Did I have a heart attack?”
 

   
 
“The doctor says it was asthma.
 
It must have been a lightning-quick attack.
 
I found an adrenaline shot in your purse, then put you in the van and drove like Old Scratch to get here.”
 

  
  
I reached down and felt for my legs.
 
My left thigh was very sore where Matt had jabbed me with the autoinjector.

 
    
“I didn’t even know if you were breathing when they put you on the gurney.
 
I am surprised I didn’t run over anyone getting here.”

   
 
“The letter?”
 
I wanted to go back to sleep but struggled to stay focused.
 
I was only half taking in what Matt was saying.
 
Before drifting back to sleep, I heard Matt say something about staying the night for observation.
 

   
 
The next morning, I awoke in a semi-private room.
 
I groaned, not because I felt ill, but because I had no health insurance.
  
How was I going to pay for this hospital stay?
 

Calling the nurse, I had her pull out the IV and got a gruff answer about when the doctor would be in.