Death By A HoneyBee (7 page)

    
Matt called after each workday.
 
I think he needed to be reassured himself.
 
Matt seemed perturbed especially after the
Herald-Leader
published the story.
 
Luckily, it just mentioned my name in connection with the location, and said that determination of death was still to be determined.
 
No mention of foul play.
 

     
I received several calls from my fellow beekeepers trying to worm out details, but I played dumb.
 
I did welcome one interesting call from Irene Meckler, who sold sunflowers at the Farmers’ Market.
 
She had been a member for twenty-five years and knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak.

 
   
“Josiah, honey, I’m sorry to bother you but I didn’t know if I would be seeing you soon at the Market.”

 
   
“What can I do you for?” I asked, a little guardedly.

    
“I don’t need to know what happened at your place . . .”

    
“Nothing that I had a hand in, Irene, I assure you.”

    
“Well, this has been preying on my mind.
 
Thought you should know.
 
About twelve years back, I found Tellie in a tearful tizzy sitting in her car at the Market.
 
Richard had gone to wet his whistle with several other farmers and left Tellie alone to tear down the booth.
 
Isn’t that just like Richard to let Tellie, all by herself, tear down that stuff . . .”
  

 
   
“Why was she crying?” I interrupted.

     
“That’s what I am trying to get at.
 
How do I say this nicely?
 
You know Taffy, their daughter, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, God bless her heart.”

     
“Yeah.”
 
I wished Irene would get to the point.

     
“Taffy was only seven then and was not doing well in school.
 
Tellie had her . . . what you call it . . . evaluated that

week.
 
Honey, the test results were not good.
 
Oh, I don’t mean she has the IQ of an idiot but Tellie is so smart, she thought Taffy would be too.”
 

 
   
I wondered where this was going.

     
“Tellie blamed Richard.
 
Said he hit her when she was pregnant and she believed that incident caused some problem with Taffy.”

  
  
“Goodness!
 
So, is Taffy . . . slow?
 
I though she just had learning disabilities.”

     
“Naw, she gets letters backwards when she reads and has very little common sense just like most of humanity, but that’s all. I think mostly Taffy just would not apply herself.
 
I always thought Tellie expected too much of her.
 
Not everyone can exceed like Tellie did at schoolwork.
 
But Richard hitting a pregnant woman – that’s
 
just lowdown dirty. Yes, indeedy, I told Tellie that she should have tried to kill the old coot like his first wife did.”

 
   
“Richard had a first wife?”

     
“Agnes Bledsoe from Pike County.
 
Her people are hill folk and have a fierce reputation, even up in the hollers.
  
They’re known to carry pistols, even the women.”

 
    
“Still?”

     
“You betcha.”

 
    
“Tell me all the details.
 
I am riveted.”
 

 
    
“Agnes is a dark-headed woman with Cherokee blood.
 
They met at Morehead College and came back to Lexington after they were hitched.
 
He was crazy in love with Agnes. Things seemed good for them.
 
They went to the same church as I did, which is how I first knew them. Richard had a job with IBM making good money, plus his bees, while Agnes stayed home waiting to get pregnant.
 
The only hitch was that Agnes loved to dance. Every Saturday, she and Richard would go out.
 
That is where the trouble started, I reckon.
 
Agnes’ good looks invited comments from other men, making Richard crazy.
 
He would get in a fight, spoiling Agnes’ fun - then they’d fight. It really put a strain on their marriage.”

     
“Did she egg Richard’s fighting on?”

 
    
“Perhaps.
 
She was young, pretty and full of spit and vinegar.
 
She certainly was testing the waters to see how far she could push him.
 
Maybe by this time, she tired of him and wanted to spread her wings a little bit, started lookin’ ’round.
 
The one thing I do know for sure is that one day while reading the paper, I came across an article stating that Agnes had been arrested for the attempted murder of Richard.
 
Said she tried to stab him.”

 
   
“What happened?”
  
I was writing furiously on my legal pad.
    

    
“Apparently charges were dropped.
 
Richard never spoke of it.
 
Agnes stopped coming around the Market.
 
Never heard another thing about it except to read about the final divorce decree in the paper.
 
Richard was always very secretive about his life.
 
Several years later, Tellie was introduced as the new wife.”
   

    
“And lots younger than Richard.
 
Fits the male mid-life crises pattern.”

    
“Sure do.
 
Thought you might want to know.”

    
“Thanks, Irene.
 
It fills in some holes.
 
Do you know what happened to Agnes?”

    
“You betcha.
 
She owns her own company that does PR work for the horse industry and has a house in the gated area of Heartland subdivision.”

    
“You know, I might want to talk with her. Does she go by Pidgeon?”

    
“Thought you might want to chew the fat with her.
 
She took back her maiden name.”
          

    
“Do you know the name of her company?”

    
“I think it is just listed under her name.
 
Very dignified.
 
Very discreet.
 
I don’t think she even hangs out a sign.
 
Just word of mouth.”

    
“Wow.
 
Thanks, Irene.
 
I’ll see what I can find out.”
 
I hung up and formulated a plan.
 
I would have a better chance of speaking with Agnes Bledsoe at work, so I called my buddies who worked in the Thoroughbred industry and asked around.
 
It seemed that Agnes had become a high muckety-muck in the marketing world of horses.
 
I learned that she was very good and even respected overseas.
 
She was also very expensive and so exclusive that her phone number was not even listed.
 
I was impressed.
 
How many businesses go out of their way to hide themselves?
 
Agnes had bought a historical building downtown, refurnished it and located her office there many years ago.
 
I had always thought the building was a private residence but it was really the busy factory of Agnes Bledsoe, making her filthy rich.
 

     
I called but was told that I could not have an appointment with her.
 
I don’t know upon what basis the snotty jerk of a receptionist made that decision.
 
Maybe she had a phone ID that gave people’s bank account amount when calling.
 
Seeing Miss Agnes was going to call for some ingenuity, so I decided to become creative.
 
Getting transferred to Agnes’s secretary, I made an appointment for the next day by telling the young woman that I was working on a story for
Southern Living.
 
I was surprised she believed me.
  
I’m usually a terrible liar, but since my fanny was put in a iron skillet with the fire turned on high, I guess my skill had improved.
 

7

     
Arriving early at the immaculate grounds of Agnes Bledsoe’s business address, I was made to wait just a few minutes before being shown into a dark, paneled office with a splendid view of the old Grecian-styled Carnegie library.
 
The office reeked of cigar smoke, bourbon whiskey, and Lemon Pledge – my favorite smells – so go figure.
 
Silver trophies and plaques graced polished shelves as oil paintings of famous horse champions hung on the walnut paneled walls.

 
    
Agnes Bledsoe was everything I expected.
 
Even in her mid-sixties, Agnes was quite a looker with her Native American heritage much in evidence – high cheekbones, ruddy skin tones, and beautiful dark hair that I was sure had never seen a dye bottle.
  
As she rose from her desk, she buttoned her Ann Taylor navy jacket that had a tease of a peach silk camisole peeking out.
 
Her gold jewelry was modest but expensive.
 
I noticed she still wore a wristwatch.
 
Most people don’t now because of cell phones.

 
    
I glanced haplessly at my out-of-date wool skirt sporting a healthy crop of lint balls.
 
Mud was caked on the heels of my ankle boots.
 
Fearing that I was going to leave dirt on her Persian carpet, I inwardly groaned.

 
   
Agnes shook my hand with a crisp grip while telling her secretary to bring us tea.
 

 
   
As soon the door closed, I blurted out my confession.
 
“Ms. Bledsoe, I am so sorry, but I am here under a pretext,” I babbled.
 
“I didn’t know if you would see me knowing the real reason for my visit.”

     
“You’re not one of those PETA people are you?” asked Agnes, alarmed.

 
    
“No.
 
I’m here about Richard Pidgeon.”

 
    
Agnes took in a sharp breath.
 
“You look familiar.
 
I know who you are. You’re Josiah Reynolds, the UK art professor.
 
I heard one of your lectures at the Newman Center on traditional symbolism in religious paintings during the Dark Ages.”

 
    
“I no longer work for UK, but thank you for remembering me.”

  
  
“Nothing to thank me about.
 
I thought you were perfectly dreadful.
 
Didn’t understand a damn thing you said.”

 
   
Okay – if this is the way she wants to play
.
 
A soft knock on the door kept me from responding.
 
Her secretary brought in an ancient tea service and set it down on the coffee table.
 
Agnes gestured to the surrounding chairs.
 
I plopped down immediately.
 

 
   
Agnes settled in a moss green camelback settee and began serving tea with perfect aplomb.
  
I nervously rested the nineteenth century china cup on an end table, fearful that I might splatter tea on her antique furniture.
 
As I had already lied to the woman, I certainly didn’t want to leave a water spot on her Duncan Phyfe.
 
Agnes watched me the way a cat watches a fluttering bird.
 
“I must say you have my curiosity. Why here about Richard?
 
I divorced him years ago.”