The Beekeeper's Secret

by Sally Fernandez

  Prince noticed the students shuffling their feet as they huddled even closer together, so he sped up his delivery of information. He rattled off a list of specific crops, vital to the food supply, noting that besides fruit trees, berry bushes, and vegetables, the bees also pollinate seeds, such as alfalfa, clover, and dandelion. He then cited statistics from the American Beekeeping Federation. “For example, California has more than one million acres devoted to almond production and provides eighty percent of the almonds worldwide. Each acre depends on pollination. It takes one-point-eight million colonies to pollinate that many acres. This is the largest single honey-bee pollination event in the world. And our honey bees are the best at gettin’ the job done!” His statement was definitive, exerting enormous pride. “Now, who can tell me when the pollination cycle begins?” Prince asked, attempting to bring the students into the conversation.

  One, standing in front of the group, shot out the answer. “In the spring, of course.”

  Prince nodded his head. “Actually, it depends on where the honey flows. Our motto is ‘follow the bloom.’ For almonds, the bees will pollinate in February and March, while other crops along the East and West Coasts may take place in March or April. So, y’all see it’s vital to get the bees to the crops. But we must take care,” he cautioned, “when transporting the hives for pollination, especially during the hot season.” Prince explained that often the truck drivers would have to stop and hose down the hives to keep them cool. “It was not without risk. Sometimes a queen will pop out of the hive for a breath of fresh air and wander into another hive, risking her life as an alien invader. It’s a rare occurrence because our beekeepers and truck drivers know how to haul the bees safely with the lowest impact on the health of the bees. And that’s why we have plentiful crops and will be producin’ the surplus honey between June and October. From November to January we concentrate on providin’ nutrition to our bees endin’ the cycle—questions, anyone?”

  “How’s the honey produced?” asked the same student.

  “It’s one of the miracles of nature.” Even Prince, after years of being a beekeeper, marveled at one of God’s gifts to mankind. He took pride and explained the process in a measured tempo. “When the honey bee pollinates the plants, the bee is rewarded by the flower’s nectar. The little buzzer extends its tongue to do the job. Not a tongue like yours or mine. It’s got three parts that wrap around to form a tube, like drinkin’ straw. Then this li’l pump like device in its head turns on and sucks up the sweet juices into its ‘honey sac,’ which is separate from its regular stomach. It’s like a li’l storage container.” He looked around at the group to make sure he had garnered their attention. “Listen here: when that bee fills its stomach plumb full, it returns to the hive with its precious load of nectar. Then it reverses the li’l pump in its head to empty the honey sac. Droplets leaving the bee’s mouth are passed on to mouths of the hive bees…”

  “Yah, like kissing!” uttered one student. Spontaneous laughter broke out among his classmates as embarrassment washed across the young lad’s face.

  Prince winked at the student making the faux pas and then waited a moment for the group to settle down. “As I was sayin’, when the nectar is transferred, it produces an enzyme called invertase.” Slowly, he described how the enzyme helps to break down the nectar into two simpler sugars: glucose and fructose, before the hive bees spread the nectar throughout the honeycomb. “Then their fun begins,” he said. “They start flappin’ their li’l wings to fan the liquid causin’ any water in the nectar to evaporate, leaving a thick syrup coatin’ the comb. They’re smart little critters because this becomes their source of food durin’ the winter months. Ain’t it amazin’ what one’ll do to stay alive?”

  “But if they eat the honey, then where does your honey come from?” another student asked, a bit confused.

  “Surprisin’ enough, most hives produce a surplus of honey. That’s what’s harvested by the beekeeper and then processed for consumption. Remember, I sed we only produce thirty percent, with most of our honey bein’ imported.”

  “You haven’t mentioned the birds and the bees, or should I say queens and drones,” stated a brazen student standing up front and center. He had yet to contribute, but now he appeared ready to step to the fore.

  “Why don’t you share with the group what you know?” Prince smiled at his attempt to tamp down the young lad’s bluster.

  “Ahem.”

  The other students giggled softly as the precocious one cleared his throat. They thought it was an obvious stalling tactic to prepare his answer, but were willing to wait.

  Once composed, the student looked head on at Prince. “The drone only exists to mate with the queen bee to produce little worker bees. The queen has the tough job of giving birth to tens of thousands of these worker bees. And because she can live in the hive for one year or so, she’ll be getting it on with many drones. After all, her job is to replenish the supply of worker bees, who literally work until they die. Poor little ladies only last a few weeks.”

  “Hmm, well done. But what happens to the drone once he mates?” Prince goaded.

  “Poor guy dies soon after the fun,” he replied offhandedly.

  Prince opted to continue the repartee. “And why?”

  Without hesitation, the student responded, “Because he left his penis in the queen. Clearly, why would he want to live?!”

  The audacious student had his classmates doubling over, with Prince laughing in unison.

  “You’re correct,” he snickered, “and for that reason most queen breeders allow their queens to ‘open mate’ naturally in the air, with drones, which in most cases, are of a desired genetic stock. As these breeders flood their mating areas with drones from selected colonies, it helps to ensure the quality of their mated queens.”

  “Brilliant concept!” chimed in another brave soul.

  Prince assumed he was not referring to the bees and so did the other students. “Okay, class. Y’all had your fun; now let’s go back in where it’s warm.”

  With the wind picking up, there was no resistance from any of the students. But once inside the toasty corridor, another student pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “What’s in that room?” he asked nosily.

  “Ah, just an old storeroom of empty containers.” Prince appeared to vacillate, and then provided a fast retort. “Waitin’ to be filled with delicious honey!” He turned and veered to his left, leading the students into another corridor. Unexpectedly, a vibration emanated from his pocket. Prince held up his hand to halt the group. “Excuse me a moment.”

  Moving off to the side, he answered the phone. “What you want, Miss Ellie? I’m still here with the students.”

  “There’s a gentleman here to see you. He says he’s from the Federation. He don’t have an appointment. Just sed he needs a few minutes of your time.”

  Prince checked his watch and noted it was ten minutes to the hour, almost quitting time. “Give me ten.”

  “Sorry for the intrusion,” he said, returning his attention to the group. “Well, by now y’all shudda had a glimpse of the life of a beekeeper. Given the late hour, I’d be set to entertain a few more questions?”

  The students appeared restless and were likewise ready to stop for the day. They each replied, not with a question, but with a various assortment of thank-yous.

  “It wuz my pleasure,” Prince replied. “And good luck with y’all’s studies,” he added, before shaking the hands of each of the students as they filed out of the facility. When the last one departed, Prince saw a man heading in his direction. He assumed it was the man without an appointment.

  “Mr. Prince, I have information I need to discuss with you. It will only take a few minutes of your time. May I step inside?”

  “Please, but make it quick. It’s been a long day, and I promised the missus I’d be home for supper.”

&nbs
p; “Not a problem. I’ll promise to make it very quick.”

  Chapter 6

  Services Rendered

  Max’s head worked its way out of the bourbon-induced fog with help from a mighty strong caffeine brew. Once ready to leap into the day, she wandered downstairs and into her office to check her messages. Disappointment set in; there were none. She needed a diversion. She needed to keep busy. “Perpetual motion” was her byword. And while she was itching to dig her teeth into the next juicy case, she hoped it would not be wayward wives and senatorial scandals. She noted the time on the clock. It was just edging toward that hour, the hour she expected to receive a morning call from Noble. And even though it had been barely two months since his death, it was a call she still anticipated. Eerie, she thought as the phone rang. It gave her a sudden chill until she saw the caller ID.

  “Hey, doll, how’s your day going?”

  From the sound of his voice, the call appeared innocent, but she suspected he was checking up on her. Agent Jake Stanton, once her lover, now played the invaluable role of a dear friend—something she needed greatly. He promised not to push. She took him at his word.

  “It’s only eight o’clock. And so far, it sucks.”

  “What’s wrong, Max?”

  “Jeff Lance is dead.”

  “I caught a quick mention on the news, but no real details. What happened?”

  In a slow and disbelieving tone, Max explained that his body had been found in a hotel room in Brazil, dead of an apparent heart attack. The State Department was flying his body back to Washington that evening. “Once the coroner conducts an autopsy, we’ll know more.”

  “It’s tragic. How’s his wife taking it?”

  “She’s devastated. I’m driving her to the airport tonight to meet the plane—the one bringing back her husband’s corpse.” Max wanted to get off the subject; she had dwelled on it long enough. “What did you want to talk about?”

  Stanton rattled on for several minutes with trivial talk because his real mission was to check in on her. But from the absence of any usual retort, it was obvious her mind had drifted off in another direction. He made no headway. “Earth to Max.”

  “Stanton, you know that omniscient gut of mine?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, afraid of the answer he was about to hear.

  “Right now, it’s telling me this may be my next case.”

  “You mean the senator? Wait a minute—you already suspect foul play? You said it was a heart attack.”

  “I said an apparent heart attack! But I’ll wait to hear the coroner’s findings.”

  “That’s unlikely,” he uttered.

  “What?”

  “How about dinner tomorrow night? You could use some cheering up.”

  “You know, Stanton—what I could really use is some help.”

  “I thought you were going to wait for the coroner?”

  “This is a just prelim—dipping my toe in to see if it gets wet.”

  “Sure it is,” he chuckled. “Spit it out. What do you want me to do?”

  “Jeff had an aide named Stefanie. She’s a real knockout, so you probably know her already.”

  “Nice, Max.”

  “Use your charm. Find out why Jeff was in Brazil? Allison said he had been traveling a lot, but if you can get Stefanie to give you a printout of his calendar—say, for this year—that would be great!”

  “Hey, doll, hold on. There’s no official investigation yet.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you’re the head of the president’s Secret Service detail—make one up!”

  “I know this hit you hard but calm down! Remember, I’m still on leave and have no official capacity.”

  “Sorry, Stanton, but this whole thing with Jeff’s death is making me squirmy. C’mon, you still have access to the White House. Just pay her a visit, please.”

  He knew the senator was well respected and a close friend of Max. He also knew Max’s instincts were usually spot on. But when she resorted to pleading, it was serious. He wondered himself: Could the senator have been a victim of foul play?

  “Please!”

  There’s that word again. “Remember the knife just missed my heart, so I still have one.” Stanton relented. “I’ll see what I can find out.” And with Max’s hound dog scent, he thought it needed repeating, “Don’t sniff around until I get back to you. We’ll talk about it over dinner tomorrow. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight sharp.”

  “Thanks, Stanton. You’re the best.” Max hung up the phone, basking in her triumph.

  Chapter 7

  A Stinging Revelation

  The trip to and from the airport was somber. Max used every ounce of resolve to keep it together while trying to console Allison. Allison’s refusal to let Max stay the night did not make it less painful, forcing her to go home to dwell on her own tragic loss. After a day that seemed endless, Max stirred restlessly during what remained of a night’s sleep. But by morning, she rose to the fore, revved up her spirits, and spun into motion. She was determined to find out what happened to Senator Jeffrey Lance.

  “Stanton will be furious, but what choice do I have?” she said aloud, as though seeking confirmation from any source. Disregarding any potential answer, she grabbed her phone.

  “Hey, Doc, have you conducted the autopsy on Senator Lance yet?”

  “Good to hear from you too, Max. Funny you should call; I wrapped it up a few hours ago.”

  “Pulling an all-nighter?”

  “Comes with the job description. And this one was a real bugger.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Max—are you officially on this case?” he asked, more than curious. Then he realized the absurdity of the question, given the person on the other end of the line. What the heck, he thought. “C’mon over and see for yourself.”

  “Give me an hour!” she blurted out and then hung up the phone before the coroner had time to reconsider.

  The Carmel Car Service swerved through traffic and pulled up to the curb in front of the Washington, DC, Medical Examiner’s Building in no time flat. Max hopped out of the car and moved as skillfully as the driver, making her way to the coroner’s office next to the morgue. A place that had become all too familiar.

  “Morning, Doc.”

  “Rough night?” he asked.

  Max smirked. She had hastily thrown herself together and it must have been obvious that her shuteye had been limited. “Now, how did the senator die?” She was eager to know his findings.

  “Well, as I said, this was a real bugger. From the condition of the blood vessels throughout the entire body, it suggests that he had an anaphylactic response, a traumatic allergic reaction. The blood vessels were unusually expanded, which caused the blood pressure to drop suddenly. An inadequate flow of blood to the body’s organs can likely trigger a severe attack of this sort, including a heart attack.”

  “So, what’s he allergic to?”

  “I questioned the same thing. I ran a complete tox screen.”

  “And?” Max’s impatience started to peek through her armor.

  “A bee sting!”

  “Excuse me, how do you die from a bee sting?”

  “Max, I just explained. But this was not your average bee sting. In this case, it was an extremely high dose of apitoxin—you know, bee venom. Normally, a bee can inject point-one milligrams of venom, but the toxicology report showed the dose of apitoxin was two thousand times more poisonous. Sure, a normal sting could cause inflammation, but at this level anaphylaxis kicked into high gear.”

  “You’re telling me that the senator died from a severe allergic reaction due to a bee on steroids?!”

  “Look: a lethal dose of apitoxin is about eight to ten stings per pound of body weight. Our corpse is one hundred and forty pounds. H
e would have had to have been stung fourteen hundred times, injecting one hundred and forty milligrams. The toxicology report shows two hundred milligrams.”

  “Thanks for the math.”

  “Hold on. I sent a copy of the tox report to the Center for Disease Control. They got right back to me and reported that there were no known strains that powerful and ruled out an epidemic. They plugged the info into their computer database and said they’d notify me if they hear of any similar cases.”

  “Great! No epidemic. But that doesn’t help.”

  “Max, here’s the conundrum. I found no evidence of a stinger—anywhere on the body. You’d think if there were over a thousand stings, I’d find one. And most bees don’t have the capacity to remove the stinger. It’s literally ripped from their abdomen, often leaving part of that behind as well.”

  “So, if a bee stung the senator, there must be an injection site. Don’t look where you think he might have been stung; look where it’d be less likely. Doc, it must be there. Search again!”

  “Smart girl. Follow me.”

  Max flinched and took a deep breath as she walked with the coroner to the massive steel wall of drawers, the temporary holding pen for unfortunate souls.

  The doctor noticed Max’s discomfort. “So, what’s your interest in this case?”

  “Friend.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. You sure?”