Gasping For Air 2 (Last Chance Romance Series) (11 page)
My chest tightened. Hoping to stave off an asthma attack, I reached in my pocket for my albuterol spray, but realized my veil would stop me from getting the medicine to my mouth. I breathed more slowly. I inhaled the musky odor of the bees along with the heavy, cloying scent of honeysuckle hedges behind their hives. Somewhere in the distance I heard the growl of a tractor cutting sweet hay. I flinched at the sudden piercing call of a redwing blackbird.
I scanned the field for further danger. Other than a person sticking his naked head into one of my hives with eighty thousand bees dive-bombing him and me, nothing appeared different. The rest of the hives waited in line like sailors standing at attention in their white uniforms. Bullets of reflected light darted back and forth from openings in the bottom hive boxes so quickly the human eye could barely register the tiny insects. Freshly mowed grass manicured the ground around the hives. Their water tank, full of hyacinths and duckweed, stood unmolested.
The intruder did not stir. Grasping a fallen branch from the ground along with my belching hive smoker thrust before me, I moved closer. “Mister.” I cried, “MISTER!” I assumed it was a he . . . a heavy-set man with pale skin wearing tan corduroy pants and laced-up boots. I called again. Still, he did not budge.
My initial shock overcome, I realized he didn’t seem to be breathing.
Not a good sign
. The bees covered him, pulling and biting at his neck, stinging his scalp and his back, furiously trying to evict him from their home. I inched closer. He looked stiff. I poked him with my branch. He didn’t shift. I jabbed him again with the tree branch. Nothing.
Leaning over the body, I carefully swatted away the bees. “Girls, girls, don’t sting him. It’s over. Don’t waste yourselves,” I whispered. Still the bees stung him and, by doing so, condemned themselves to death too. The man’s neck swelled against his checkered shirt. I took off my glove to feel for a pulse, but the bees swamped my hand, stinging furiously. I pulled away quickly. “Merde!” I exclaimed. I cradled my badly stung hand.
I walked away from the hives, yanking off my beekeeper’s hat and veil. I fumbled in my suit for my cell phone. My hands were shaking as I dialed 911. “Police? You better come. I have a dead man in my beehive. Yes, that is correct.
He is lying face down in a beehive.” I gave the police my name and address, clicked the phone shut and sat on the meadow grass waiting for the wail of the police siren. It seemed like a long time before they came.
Jan Hammer –
Miami Vice Theme Song
“IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole –
Somewhere Over The Rainbow
Hi. I’m Abigail Keam. I write the best-selling
Josiah Reynolds Mystery series.
I also write the
Princess Maura Tales
(Epic Fantasy).
Last Chance Motel
is my first romantic novel.
Born and bred in Kentucky, I began writing at an early age. My first short story written while still in grade school was
Bobby Bobo Got Baptized At The Big Bone Baptist Church
. Say that fast five times. I am also a professional beekeeper and have won sixteen awards from the Kentucky State Fair. That’s a big deal in the beekeeping world.
I live in a metal house with my husband and various critters on a cliff overlooking the Kentucky River.
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Josiah Reynolds Mysteries
