Death By A HoneyBee (15 page)

    
I suddenly felt energized, returning to my office at the house.
 
I was meticulous when it came to records.
 
I found my phone bills and began searching for Pidgeon’s number after checking it in the local beekeeping association’s list of beekeeper’s numbers, which are given to members.
 
Richard’s number was indeed listed on my bill.
 
The call was made in late August, just days before Richard’s death.
 
Well, I’ll be!

13

  
  
Matt came home only to find me in the kitchen making a shrimp grits casserole.
 
I was dressed in good clothes, and my hair was brushed for once.
 
“Hey Josiah, what’s for dinner?”

    
I pushed him away from the steaming plate.
 
“I am going to visit a sick friend, and taking this with me.
 
I’m sorry, but I am going to miss movie night.
 
Just can’t be helped.”

   
 
He looked disappointed.
 
Every week for several years, Matt and I watched an old movie together.
 

   
 
“Look in the fridge for something to eat,” I said.
 
“Besides, I thought you said I couldn’t cook.”

     
“Just teasing you, Babe.
 
You’re a great cook.”
 
Matt brightened.
 
“The mutt and I will take a swim first, then I’ll make dinner.”
 

   
 
“Clean up when you’re finished,” I requested as I headed out the door. “Oh, by the way the heater . . . ”
 

    
“What?”

    
“Nothing.
 
Have a good swim.”

    
Matt grunted.
 
His head was already stuck in my fridge.
 
He wasn’t paying any attention to me.

    
I opened and shut the front door, hiding in the foyer.
 
Matt headed for the pool.
 
Thinking that I was gone, I knew Matt would strip and jump into the deep end of the pool.
 
I stood at the front door waiting.
 

    
Splash.
 

    
“Oh gawwd!
 
Damn, it’s cold!” I heard Matt yell.

    
Revenge is one of life’s little pleasures.
 
I couldn’t help but smile.
 
I headed for my van.

    
Forty minutes later, I pulled up in front of Tellie Pidgeon’s house.
 
Instead of heading for her front door, I knocked on her neighbor’s.
 
A few minutes later, an elderly man cautiously opened it with hands gnarled with arthritis.

    
“Excuse me for bothering you but I’ve come to see Tellie Pidgeon, but no one seems to be at home.
 
I don’t want to leave this casserole dish on the front porch.
 
Dogs, you know, might get in it.”
 
I waited for a response.

    
“Well, no one is home.
 
Mrs. Pidgeon works second shift and won’t be home until midnight.”

    
“Oh dear,” I moaned.
 
“What am I going to do with my casserole?”
 
I looked point-blank at the man.
 

    
He cleared his throat.
 
“I suppose I could take it.”

    
“That would be great.”

    
He reached for it, but I held on to the casserole.
 
“You know, this is awfully hot.
 
Just show me where to put it.”
 
I gave him my biggest smile.
 

    
Mr. Haggard – that was his name – showed me into the kitchen where I asked for a drink of water because I was “so parched.”
 
He obliged and invited me to sit at the kitchen table.
 
I guess he was a widower, as I did not see a Mrs. Haggard or a woman’s handiwork about the house.
 

    
“Isn’t it awful about Mr. Pidgeon?” I inquired.

    
Mr. Haggard didn’t respond.
 

    
“Did you know him very well?”

    
“Well enough.”

    
My plan was not going to work if this old codger didn’t open up.
 
“How is Miss Tellie holding up?”

    
Mr. Haggard snorted.
 
“I think she’s doing better than average.”

    
“Why is that?”

    
Mr. Haggard didn’t respond.
      

    
This was hard work.
 
What was it going to take to get him to spill his guts?
 
“My name is Mrs. Reynolds and I worked with Richard at the Farmers’ Market.”
 
I leaned forward and whispered in a confidential voice.
 
“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but some of his colleagues had problems with Richard.
 
Didn’t like his attitude.”

    
Mr. Haggard seemed to warm up to this information.
 
“Like he was uppity?”
 

    
“Yes,” I nodded.
 
“Hard to get along with.
 
But I bet he was a good neighbor.”

    
“The worst!” confided Mr. Haggard, who handed me a beer, forgetting that I had requested water.
 

     
I accepted even though I don’t like beer.
 
“Really?”
 

     
He pulled a padded chair out from a battered red aluminum kitchenette set and slowly bent into it.
 
His wrinkled neck had a slight rash, which was probably poison ivy.
 
“He was always complaining about my yard, said my tree limbs hung over his property and left leaves.
 
He actually wanted me to cut down a hundred-year-old hickory tree because of the fall leaves,” said Mr. Haggard.
 
“Well, I’d rather cut off my right arm than do that.
 
It’s a sin to cut down a good tree, my way of thinking.”

    
“What happened?”

    
“I paid for someone to rake up the leaves in his yard.”

    
“No!
 
I can’t believe that.”

    
“It’s true.”
 
Mr. Haggard shook his head in disgust.
 
“You know that man actually measured his grass?”

    
“Huh?”
 
I was trying hard to picture that.

    
“Yep.
 
That crazy hoss would mow his yard, and then get out a tape and measure the grass in the northwest corner.
 
Then he would measure how tall the grass was in the southeastern part.”
 

    
“Mr. Haggard, I think this is a tall tale,” I said smiling.

    
The old man held up his hand.
 
“Lord strike me down dead if I’m not telling you the awful truth.
 
The man was just a plain nut.
 
He used to drive my late missus to tears with his complaints about hanging her wash in the backyard.
 
Said she had to move her clothesline, as he didn’t like the wind blowing our clothes over the fence line of his property. He was always complaining about this or that . . . and poor Mrs. Pidgeon.”

    
I leaned towards Mr. Haggard.
 
“Yes?”

    
“Well,” he took a swig of his beer, “let’s just say she always had bruises on her arms.”
   

  
  
BINGO!
  
“You don’t think he hit her, do you?”

 
   
“I never actually saw him do anything, but she had a lot of bruises.
 
I don’t think any woman can be that clumsy.”

  
  
I stayed with Mr. Haggard for another twenty minutes before I found the way to my car.
 
I gave him the grits, telling him that it would ruin before Tellie got home.
 
I would make her another one.
 
He seemed grateful at having a hot meal.
 
He promised to return my dish to the Market.
      

     
On the way home, I left a message on Shaneika’s answering machine that I wanted her to obtain copies of any emergency room reports on either Tellie or Taffy Pidgeon from the major hospitals in town.
   

    
She returned my call the next day and began complaining.
 
“You know that is illegal.
 
Medical records are confidential.”

     
I laughed.
 
“Quit being a drama queen.
 
Take some of that money from my painting and bribe someone in the records department.”

   
 
“Are you nuts?” she yelled into the phone.
 
“I could lose my license.”

     
“Just do it.”
 
I hung up before she could have the last word.

 
    
I didn’t hear from Shaneika for over a week until a courier delivered a large envelope to my gate.
 
It contained the Ellis Wilson appraisal.
 
“Jumpin’ Jehosophat!” I cried when seeing the painting’s worth.
 
Shaneika would be my lawyer until my death and then some.

    
Next, I pulled out four copies of emergency room medical reports for Tellie Pidgeon from several hospitals over a ten-year period.
 
Cuts, bruises and a hairline fracture gave me what I needed.
 
Each time, she said that she had been in a minor car accident or a mishap at home.
 
Also included were Tellie’s college records, work records and current financial status, which had been dire until she received Richard’s life insurance check.
 
It had been deposited but then she had had a cashier’s check made out to her for $600,000.
 
That was odd.
 
All creditors had been paid except for the mortgage on the house, which was in the early stages of foreclosure.
 
Strange, I thought.
 
Why didn’t she pay the house off?
 
That would have been the first thing I would do.

   
Even some of Richard’s medical records were included.
 
It seemed that he had a weak heart and was being treated for high blood pressure, high cholesterol and OCD thrown in for good measure.
   

   
I laid Tellie’s medical files, the insurance letter, college records, work records on my Nakashima table and began making notes on my yellow legal pad.
 
Tellie had two motives – revenge and money.
 
From her college transcripts, she had majored in pre-med and then dropped out.
 
Her IQ was high.

   
Logically, a sleuth should always start looking at the person who has a possible motive closest to the victim and then move outward.
 
Tellie was capable of planning an intricate murder.
 
Where was she on the morning of Richard’s death?
 
I had motive but I needed to break her alibi.
 
But then Agnes might have done it.
 
If she still loved Richard, maybe she finally snapped because she couldn’t have him.
 
Or maybe there was some psycho killer roaming the countryside picking off beekeepers.