Death By A HoneyBee (35 page)

   
“Good evening,” I said, walking towards the guests before I had the chance to identify them.
 
I extended my hand only to find Larry Bingham sipping a brandy and staring back at me.
 
“Larry, what the hell are you doing here?” I asked startled.
 
“Hello Brenda,” I said as an afterthought to his wife.

   
Larry shrugged.
 
“I’ve know June for a long, long time from a case I worked years back.”

  
“Really?”

  
“Yep,” he replied, looking steadily at me.
 
“I’ve never have had the time to accept an invitation before with my work schedule, but now that I am retired, Brenda insisted that we attend.”

  
“I have never seen the house and wanted to,” cooed Brenda, looking smug.

  
“I’ve never seen Larry in a suit and without his cap,” I said.
 
“Oh, I’m sorry.
 
What an ass I am.”
 
I started laughing.

  
“That’s okay.
 
I know it is a shock, but then I’ve never seen you duded up either, Josiah.”

  
“Touché.”

  
“My name is Matthew Garth,” interrupted Matt.
 
“Just call me Matt.”
    

  
“I have really forgotten my manners,” I said, feeling off balance.
 
Everyone thought Larry was a humble beekeeper, but I knew Larry used to be a star agent in the FBI.
 
Working on sensational murder cases before he retired, his presence at a dinner party with a famous mystery writer did not bode well for me.
 
I smelled a rat.

   
“And I am Reverend Humble and this is my wife, Ruth,” said a tall older man, rising from his chair.
 

   
My mind flashed “as in humble pie,” but I resisted saying it.

   
“Of course you are,” laughed Matt.
 
“I have never read an Agatha Christie story where the local vicar was not invited to the auspicious dinner party.
 
What we need now is a thunderstorm to make the evening complete.”

   
“I am not a vicar,” corrected Reverend Humble.

   
“It was just a figure of speech,” rejoined Matt.
 
He turned to me and lifted an eyebrow.
 
Matt thought people who took everything literally were impossibly boorish.

   
“Oh,” replied Reverend Humble.

   
“What do you mean by ‘making the evening complete’?” asked Brenda, warming to Matt.

   
Matt eased down beside her on a heavily brocaded couch.
 
“Well, we have the village shaman, the constable, a knight of the law – that’s me.”

   
“No,” interrupted Brenda, her eyes shining.
 
“You are the rogue, the adventurer.”
     

   
“If you like,” smiled Matt.
 
“Our hostess is a peer of the realm, her guest of honor is the detective.”

   
“What am I?” asked Brenda.
      

   
Matt grinned at her and Mrs. Humble mischievously.
 
“You and Miss Ruth are the beautiful court ladies that will be rescued from any sign of danger by a dashing young man.”

   
“I like the sound of that,” laughed Ruth.
  
“I’ve always wanted to be rescued so I could swoon into some handsome man’s arms.”

   
“What rubbish,” murmured Reverend Humble.

   
Larry fixed his gaze at me.
 
“What about Josiah?
 
What is she?”

   
Matt strode over to me and rested his hands on my shoulders.
 
“Josiah is the sacrificial lamb.
 
The innocent led to slaughter . . . that is until we catch the real murderer.”

   
I shrugged off Matt’s hands.
 
They felt hot and heavy.
 
“You are quite right, Mr. Humble – rubbish indeed.”

  
“Reverend,” he corrected me.

  
“Whatever,” I replied, pouring myself a neat scotch.

  
“What we are missing is a doctor, someone who can tell us the manner of the victim’s death,” interjected Larry.

  
“Not necessary.
 
Since CSI, the lay person can pretty well assess cause of death,” replied Matt.

  
Larry scratched his ear.
 
“I disagree, but this is your party.”

  
“No, daaarlings, it is my party!”

  
We all turned to stare at a diamond-laden June tottering into the room with the aid of a cane.
 
I stifled a laugh when I saw she was wearing a tiara.
 
A much younger woman with streaked blond hair stood beside June wearing a simple blue chiffon gown with only a simple gold chain adorning her tanned cleavage.
 
She was prettier that her jacket photo portrayed her.
  

   
“I see everyone has introduced themselves,” commented June.
 
I went up to June and air-kissed her on the cheek whispering in her ear, “What are you up to, you old bag?”

    
Lady Elsmere ignored me and introduced Meriah Caldwell to her guests.
 
Meriah shook hands with everyone and pleasantly remarked on the weather.
 
“I hear we are going to have a storm later tonight.”

    
Matt choked on his drink and started coughing.
 
Ruth patted him on the back.
 
The rest of us grinned.

    
Meriah looked around.
 
“Did I say something funny?”

    
“It was just before you came in that Matt was stating all that was missing was a dark and stormy night,” I answered.

    
Meriah flashed some seriously whitened teeth.
  
“I see. Yes, that is funny.”

    
For several uncomfortable moments, people stared at their drinks.
 

    
At last, June interrupted the silence.
 
“I hope ya’ll goin’ to be more chatty at supper.
 
We’re havin’ seven courses.”

   
“I love that accent, Lady Elsmere.
 
Where did you acquire it?” I teased.

   
“Your claws are out earlier than usual, Josiah.
 
I am from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, and proud of it.
 
You won’t find me ashamed of my humble beginnings.”
 
She nudged Matt.
 
“I have wonderful pictures of me when I was young.
 
I was quite the looker in my day.”

   
“I would be pleased to see anything you wish to show me, Lady Elsmere,” Matt replied with a wicked smile.
    

    
June guffawed and gave Matt a playful nudge.
 
“Josiah, Matt is a treat.
 
Nowadays, men don’t practice the art of flirting.
 
They are such boors.”

    
Brenda shot a look at Larry.
  
“See, I was right.
 
He is the adventurer.”
 
Larry nodded in concurrence.

    
Suddenly, an explosion of thunder shook the room and the lights flickered.
 
We exchanged looks and broke into laughter.
 
Charles, stone-faced, appeared at the door and announced, “Dinner is served, Madam.”

   
June grasped Matt’s arm and proceeded out the door.
 
The Humbles and the Binghams followed.
 
I looked at Meriah and shrugged.
 
“I guess I’m your escort,” I said placing her hand on my arm.

   
“Delighted,” the mystery writer replied.
  

   
Dinner was a sumptuous affair.
 
June informed us that the menu had been borrowed from a dinner that Henry Clay had given at his home, Ashland, in honor of the French ambassador in 1849.
 
The wine flowed, followed by champagne.
 
I was a good little girl.
 
I ate everything on my plate.
 
I noticed that Meriah barely touched her food.
 
Maybe that was the secret of how she kept so thin.
 
She kept stealing glances at me from under her long dark eyelashes.
 
It didn’t stop me from grazing on everything in sight.

   
 
“Josiah, you seem to approve of my new cook,” June acknowledged.

   
 
“June, I have rarely had a dinner so fine or companionship so . . . well . . . so companionable.”
 
I looked around.
 
“Is that even a word?” I giggled.

   
 
“Someone has had a little too much to drink,” complained the Reverend.

   
 
I wanted to retort – but kept my mouth shut – for once.

   
 
“I’m feeling a little lightheaded myself,” stated Larry, coming to my rescue.
 
“I’m like Josiah.
 
I have eaten to the full of this most delectable food.
 
I don’t think I have ever had a better meal, even in Paris – that’s France, not Kentucky.
 
If I were in baser company, I would unbuckle my belt.”

   
 
Brenda shushed him.

 
   
Pleased, June stood.
 
“We will have port and dessert in the parlor.
 
Charles, show my guests the parlor, please.”

   
 
“Yes, Madam.”
  

   
 
The guests rose as one and waddled behind Charles as he escorted us to the parlor.

    
Meriah brushed up against me.
 
“Excuse me,” she said.
 
“I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

   
 
“If it is about Mr. Pidgeon’s death, I can’t help you.”

   
 
“I know you think this is forward but I am looking for a hook for my next novel, and when June told me about what happened to you, I was fascinated.
 
I know you have been through some exasperating trials since then, but I thought you might offer some insights.”

     
“All I know is that I found a dead guy in one of my beehives and since then, my life has been a living hell.
 
Look, you’re the mystery writer – if you wanted to kill someone how would you have done it?”

  
  
The two of us walked into the parlor.
 
Everyone stopped talking to listen to our conversation.
 

   
 
“Well, the bee stings alone could have killed anyone.”

  
  
I interrupted, “Mr. Pidgeon died of a heart attack.”