Death By A HoneyBee (14 page)

   
“You could have me over to dinner.”

   
“That I can do.”

   
“By the way, what happened to Goetz?”

   
“He has a new partner.
 
Seems happier now.”
 
Kelly winked at me.
 
“I think he’s sweet on you.”
 

   
“Really?”

   
“Ask him to go out with you.
 
He’ll jump at it.”

   
I laughed.
 
If I were going to be dating anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be Goetz.
 
I threw a twenty on the table and left Kelly with a reminder not to talk with his mouth full.
 
He just grunted and kept chewing.
 

   
That night, I felt out of sorts.
 
I restlessly paced the house.
 
Matt was staying in town with his new boyfriend.
 
Baby was in a spiteful mood, chewing on my glasses, which I had to pry from his slobbery mouth.
 
He fought as I tried to clean his face with a washcloth.
  
To wash the dog gunk off my hands and arms, I took a dip in the pool, noticing that the water was cool.
 
I guess the heater was going out and I lacked the money to replace it.
 
Was this going to be my life now?
 
More and more things would fall into complete disrepair until I would become one of the shabby, faded gentry.
 
The house would become a mockery of what it once was.

  
I had $7000 in my checking account and a $16,000 CD emergency fund.
 
The rest of my money, which was not much, was tied up in retirement funds that would not be available for another twelve years when I turned 62.
 

  
When Brannon died, I collected his life insurance policy, which paid off the farm.
 
I earn just enough money with the bees to pay the property taxes, gas, utilities and food.
 
There was not any extra money for luxuries such as vacations, nice clothes, repairing fences or getting my hair done.
 
I didn’t even have health insurance.
 
On paper I was a millionaire but in reality I was dead broke.

  
I was spiraling downward.
 
If I didn’t take action soon, I would stand to lose everything I had managed to keep after Brannon’s death.
 
Except for Matt, I felt isolated and depressed.
 
I had to change my circumstances.
 
I simply had to.
 
Falling into the bed, Baby spooned me.
 
My dreams were dreary, cloudy snippets of Brannon admonishing me; sleep was no comfort to me.
 
Baby nestled his muzzle next to my neck, effectively taking away my pillow.
 
His steady snorts of deep, contented slumber finally persuaded my whirling mind

to push deeper until a numbing sleep claimed me.

12

  
On Monday morning I made an appointment with Shaneika’s secretary.
 
I put on a thick dose of mascara and dressed in an expensive but tightly fitted dress.
 
I was going to have to lose weight, but like Scarlett, I’d think about that later.
 
With resigned determination, I lifted a painting off my concrete wall and wrapping it in an old comforter, placed it carefully in the back of my van. The traffic was awful as usual downtown, but I was able to find a parking space near the remodeled nineteenth-century bank building where her office was located.
 
I was only a few minutes late for my appointment, but Miss Shaneika made me wait for twenty more.
 
She could be petty like Matt.
 
I doubted whether either one would ever tell me if I had spinach in my teeth.

  
Finally, I was let into a well-appointed nineteenth-century corner office with a restored mosaic floor that contained detailed Mason symbols.
 
The room had glorious views of both Main and Short streets with their quaint buildings buffered by the old courthouse and glass skyscrapers.
 
The furniture was mahogany, massive and expensive.
 
Shaneika’s desk had stacks of files on it as well as a silver-framed picture of a handsome young man smiling.
 
I assumed he was her boyfriend.
 
There were oil paintings of Kentucky Derby winners such as Aristides, Ben Brush, and Man O’ War on the walls.
 

   
Also hanging was a Confederate officer’s sword, a tintype of African-American women on wash day at Camp Nelson, and several letters, one of which was from Abraham Lincoln congratulating his brother-in-law, George Rodgers Clark Todd, upon his graduation as a doctor from Transylvania University.

   
Leaning in closer to look at the Lincoln signature, I said, “I didn’t know you were a Civil War buff.”

   
“I’m not.
 
Those are family heirlooms.”

   
I shot a quick look at Shaneika.
 

   
Shaneika was wearing a beige Chanel suit with black piping.
 
As far as I could tell, it was the real thing.
 
It looked vintage.
 
I wondered if it was a family heirloom too.

   
She spied the painting in my hands.
 
“What’s that?” she asked curiously.

   
I turned the painting over.

   
Shaneika gasped.
 
“It’s an Ellis Wilson!”
 
                                                                                    

   
I smiled.
 
“I noticed when you came to the farm that you seemed to be interested in the horses.
 
I thought you might like this.”

   
She clasped her well-manicured hands on the desk.
 
“What’s the catch?”

   
“As you know, I’ve no money to speak of.”
 
She started to interrupt, but I held up my hand.
 
“I’m cash poor.
 
I want to give this painting to you as a retainer.
 
I am sure if you have it appraised, you will find it worth more than enough to compensate for your services.”

   
“I don’t get it.
 
Your problems are over.
 
Your bill has been paid.
 
I told you that I owed your daughter a favor.
 
Why do you need to keep me on retainer?”

   
“Because it is not over.
 
I think Pidgeon’s death was murder, and I was set up. I’m going to find out who did it and why.”

   
“You are asking for trouble.
 
Let this thing go.
 
Get on with your life.”

   
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.
 
How can I get on with my life with this thing always hanging over my head like Damocles’ sword?
 
I can’t.
 
Will you accept the painting as payment for being on retainer?”

   
She looked lovingly at the painting.
 
“I never knew he painted horses.”

   
“He was from Kentucky, after all.”

   
She strode over to the painting and caressed the carved wooden frame.
 
“Where did you get it?”

   
“I found it in a flea market and bought it for seventy-five dollars.”

   
“Lucky bitch,” Shaneika said, appraising me with a newfound respect.

   
“There’s another matter. I wish to sell ten acres of my property for two hundred thousand dollars.
 
I will not negotiate the price.
 
I want you to find me a buyer and

handle all the details.
 
Of course, I don’t have to tell you that I want this on the QT.
 
Here’s a sketch of the parcel I am selling.”

  
  
Shaneika took the drawing that I had crudely drawn on notepaper and looked at it with interest.
 
“This is not good enough.
 
A surveyor is going to have to come out there.
 
I’ll arrange for one.
 
Is water available?”

 
    
“Yes, there is a city water pump installed and a small stream goes through.
 
However, the stream dries up in the late summer for about a month, but the pump is in good working condition.
 
There is also road frontage and the pasture is good for livestock.”

  
  
“Two hundred thousand dollars is a bit steep, even for your property.”

  
  
“God is not making any more Bluegrass.”

   
 
“Any buildings on the property?”

   
 
“Just a run-down pony shed.”

   
 
“If I remember correctly, this parcel is still in good fescue.”

   
 
“I use the hay for my animals, so I’ve kept it up.”

 
  
 
“You have a tractor?” asked Shaneika, sitting down and making notes on a legal pad.

 
   
“It runs, but it is kept together with a piece of baling wire and a prayer.
 
Anyone nearby can be hired to mow the pasture.”
     

   
 
“Okay, I will accept the painting after it has been appraised.”

   
 
“That must come out of your retainer.
 
I can’t afford the cost of an appraisal.”

     
“Why are you selling?
 
I know you don’t have any outstanding debt.”

     
“My business - and quit checking up on me.”
 

     
“Land and water are the two most precious things in the Bluegrass.
 
People are stupid to sell.
 
They can never buy back such prized land again. Once you sell out, you’re out for good.”

     
I held firm and said nothing.
 
I knew it was a sacrifice, but I had no choice.

   
 
Shaneika gave me a hard look.
 
Finally, she shrugged.
 
“Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
 
She called in her secretary and instructed her to prepare an invoice describing the painting.
 
Then she stood.
 
“I’ll get back to you.”
 

   
 
After my dismissal, I waited in the reception area while her assistant worked on a letter describing the painting.
 
She popped her gum as she typed away.
 
Handing me the finished letter and a receipt, she sent me on my way without a further glance.

    
I hurried home as I once again had garbage duty.
 
As before, I dropped the Pidgeons’ trash on the floor of the shed.
 
I went through it quickly until I turned over a wet piece of paper encrusted with tomato seeds. The letter was confirming that a check of $750,000 had been sent to Tellie’s current address.
 
“Thank you, Jesus,” I muttered, drying the paper with my shirt.
 
At long last, my sifting through Tellie’s garbage had produced results.
 
I thought three-quarters of a million dollars was a good motive for murder.
 
People had been killed for a lot less.