by Abigail Keam
He shook his head. “Josiah, I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes if you don’t talk to them, it makes the police think you have something to hide. And then, if you do talk to them, you can stumble and say something stupid that really puts them on your scent. It’s fifty-fifty,” countered Matt.
I realize that a death in my beeyard was not something from which I was going to walk away. I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. I nodded slightly.
My newly appointed lawyer motioned to Matt. “Do tell
those very nice policemen who are watching us behind the mirror to come into the room. We are ready to proceed – that is, if it is convenient for them.” She pasted on a phony smile. I was surprised her teeth weren’t pointed like a shark’s.
O’nan switched on the video camera.
“How official is this?” asked my lawyer whose name I learned was Shaneika Mary Todd.
“Let’s just say we are concerned and have some questions. This is just an informal talk,” O’nan replied.
“Yeah, right,” muttered Matt.
“We are entitled to a copy of the tape you are making,” Ms. Todd demanded.
“Oh sure,” replied O’nan as he leaned forward, unbuttoning his jacket. I sensed he was lying.
Ms. Todd pulled a tape recorder from her briefcase. She pushed a button. “Just in case your video gets lost.”
A faint smile appeared on Detective Goetz’s face before vanishing like a magician’s coin.
O’nan proceeded. “Your full name, please?” he asked pushing a microphone towards me.
“Josiah Louise Reynolds.”
“Address?”
“Route 169, Lexington, Kentucky.”
“Occupation?”
“Beekeeper.”
O’nan looked over his notes at me. “You are a professor at the University of Kentucky.”
“Yes, ummm no, both my husband and I were professors. I was a professor of art history, specializing in religious art. My husband was a professor of architecture. Brannon, my husband, also had his own architectural firm. He is deceased.”
Ms. Todd broke in. “Just answer what they ask,” she warned me.
I nodded. “I retired three years ago after his death.”
Ms. Todd pressed me under the table.
“I am sorry,” I said to no one in particular. “I guess I’m nervous.”
“Why is my client here?” interrupted Ms. Todd. “Isn’t this just a simple accident? A tragedy I’m sure, but my client is not responsible for some misbehavior on a vandal’s part.”
Detective O’nan leaned back in his chair. “Well, here’s the problem. The coroner’s preliminary report came back yesterday, and there are some unanswered questions. It seems that Mr. Pidgeon died from a heart attack.”
“There you go,” I blurted confidently.
“More tests are being done. But what we want to know is what was he doing on your property around your hives?”
I shrugged.
O’nan opened a manila folder taking out some official-looking documents. “It seems that you and Mr. Pidgeon knew each other.”
“He was a fellow beekeeper,” I replied coldly.
“He was a very strong competitor of yours. We have reports that you two disliked each other. It even got to the point that you and he would not speak to each other,” stated O’nan.
I kept quiet as Shaneika pressed her hand against my thigh.
O’nan continued, “We find it curious that someone you disliked, even hated, would be on your property, messing with your hives without a protective suit on and end up dead.”
My answer tumbled out. “He is a charmer.”
“Please?” said Goetz.
“He is . . . was a bee charmer.” I looked at their stunned faces. “Like a horse whisperer – you know – a bee charmer. He never wore suits or any protective clothing. He didn’t need to. Bees never stung him.”
“Your bees stung him 176 times. Don’t you think that is odd, Mrs. Reynolds, a bee charmer who never got stung has a heart attack in your beeyard and is stung 176 times?”
“Excuse me, but has the body been transferred to the medical examiner’s office in Frankfort?” asked Ms. Todd.
O’nan ignored her while keeping his menacing gaze fixed directly on me.
Goetz joined in. “Also, where was his car?”
“Don’t know,” I replied.
“How did he get there?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I stammered, my voice high with strain.
O’nan fiddled in his jacket pocket as though searching for a pack of cigarettes and then, apparently remembering he had stopped smoking, returned his attention to me. “I have several witnesses who stated that the two of you had a very public argument at the Kentucky State Fair where you threatened him only a month ago.”
Matt jumped in. “I was there and she did no such thing. He threatened her!”
O’nan shot a look of annoyance at Matt and then referred to his notes again. “Didn’t you say that you would hurt him?”
“It was the other way around.” My chest tightened. “He cheated. He switched his tags with my jars and won the blue ribbon.”
“And this blue ribbon is of some importance?” asked O’nan.
“It is the holy grail of beekeeping,” I replied.
“How did he have the correct claim tag numbers then?”
“I had left them in an open cardboard box on the judges’ table while I arranged my jars in the cabinet. Later, he must have just switched the tags on the jars and substituted the claim numbers with mine from the box when no one was looking.”
“Apparently, when you lost, you accused him but couldn’t prove it. There was an argument and you pushed him,” stated Goetz, lazily leaning against the wall.
“No, he pushed me. I just pushed back. It . . . was like a reflex, you know – instinctive.”
“Wasn’t it your fault that Pidgeon fell into a glass display case, shattering it?”
“I was only defending myself. He didn’t bring charges because he pushed me first . . . and he didn’t get hurt from the broken glass.”
“Why didn’t you press charges then, if he assaulted you first as you claim?”
“Because I felt like a fool . . . and I didn’t want this incident to get into the papers.”
“Would that have anything to do with your daughter?”
My back stiffened. “My daughter has nothing to do with this nor any knowledge of it,” I lied.
“All right boys, where are you going with this?” interjected Ms. Todd. “So my client and Mr. Pidgeon didn’t like each other. They loathed each other – so what? He wanted revenge so he came to sabotage Mrs. Reynolds’ hives. All hopped up with excitement and glee, he has a heart attack and dies.”
“That is one possible scenario. But there is still the puzzle of the missing vehicle,” interrupted O’nan.
It was Goetz’s turn. “You could have picked him up and brought him out to your place. That would explain why he had no car.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Perhaps you called and said you wanted to make amends. Wanted to talk with him and then lured him out to the beeyard.”
I stood up. “That is ridiculous. Why would I even contact him?”
O’nan looked at me evenly. “We have your cell phone records, and his number is listed. You made a call to him three days before his death.”
“That’s a lie. I never called Richard Pidgeon. Ever!”
Goetz interjected, “Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?”
“Sure, anything to clear this up,” I responded. My chest felt tight.
Ms. Todd put her hand on my arm and gently pulled me back into my seat as she leaned in toward the detectives. “Mrs. Reynolds will not be taking any lie-detector test, hand-writing analysis or DNA test unless through a court order. You are not to interview my client without moi being present,” she said pointing to herself. She turned to me. “Don’t you
see what they are doing? The police don’t ask for lie detector tests in accidental deaths.”
I felt like an animal helplessly caught in a trap. My breathing became heavier.
Matt handed me an extra asthma inhaler he always carried around with him.
“Are you . . . are you suggesting murder?” I sputtered. To even say the word tasted bitter.
“Do you have any proof that my client killed Mr. Pidgeon . . . or even that this is a murder?” questioned Ms. Todd.
“I never uttered the word murder.” O’nan turned to Goetz. “Did you ever say this was a murder?”
“Nope. Just a friendly inquiry.”
Ms. Todd threw her legal pad into her briefcase and slapped it shut. “You guys are just on a fishing trip. Either tell us something concrete or we’re walking.” She stared at them.
They both returned her scathing look but were mum.
“Just as I thought,” she retorted. She abruptly stood, grabbing her briefcase and me, propelling us both towards the door. “Gentlemen, we are done here.”
Matt trotted after us along the scuffed yellow floor line pointing the way out of the building. It wasn’t until we were several blocks away from the police station that Ms. Todd turned her fury upon me. “You are not to have any contact with anyone in law enforcement. I mean it. You should have told me that you came to blows with Richard Pidgeon! I went in there blind. Didn’t I tell you not to play me?”
I wasn’t brought up with such a jaded attitude. Innocent people were . . . well, innocent. I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I did hear Ms. Todd say to Matt, “Take her home and make sure that she doesn’t talk to them again without me. I will make some calls. See what’s going on.”
And with that, Shaneika Mary Todd was gone.
Matt returned me to my booth space only to discover that my van had been towed. I broke into tears.
I got a call from my daughter about eleven that night.
“I hear it has been a hard day for you,” she said. Her smoky voice sounded strained and tired.
“Shaneika Mary Todd, I suppose,” I replied.
“Yes.” A long pause. “I’ve placed her on retainer. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“I am sorry about this. It hasn’t been in the papers yet, but . . .”
“I know,” she said, cutting me off. “Don’t worry about me. I have had worse press.”
“You know, Ms. Todd is too subtle for this case. I think we need to get someone more aggressive.”
My daughter laughed. “She’s quite the barracuda.”
“Apparently, Ms. Todd thinks the interview was a disaster. She chewed me up pretty good.”
“I don’t think it’s as bad as that. Shaneika just wanted to scare you away from cooperating with the police. I think she made it sound worse than it really is.”
“I hope you are right.”
“That’s why she’s the best in town. If we need more fire power, we will branch out nationally, but I doubt we will need it.”
“What’s the deal with the British accent?”
“She was raised in Bermuda but her family is from Lexington.”
Before I could comment, there was a clicking on the line. I knew our time was up.
“I’ll be keeping an eye on this. Don’t worry,” she said before hanging up the phone.
I turned over in the bed, pulling the covers around me. It was quite some time before I fell asleep.
6
I spent the next few days holed up in my home cleaning and cooking, which is what I do when feeling wounded. I washed the bulletproof windows, cleaned my comfort toilets and steamed the Italian-made tile floors. The house was designed to blend in with the elements of earth, wind, fire and water. Built in the eighties, it had been a state-of-the-art environmental house girdled by solar panels, moats, water collection and cisterns. Intended to act as a living organism within nature, it created a new style of a cradle-to-the-grave house. Even as the inconvenience of aging accumulated, one could live hassle free. Other than having a child, it was my supreme contribution to the world. One that I hoped would live long after me.
There are four iconic twentieth-century homes in the U.S. that are works of art. There’s the Farnsworth House on Fox River in Illinois, Phillip Johnson’s Glass House in New Canaan, Connecticut, and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater House in Bear Run Nature Preserve, Pennsylvania. The other is mine – the Butterfly.
I tenderly patted the limestone wall of my home. Its four major building components – local limestone, Kentucky walnut and oak, reinforced concrete, and walls of bulletproof glass – shield me from drunken poachers shooting across the river. The house still has a futuristic look, even by today’s standards.
The most distinctive feature – a second roof – consists of two distinct etched metal wings that meet at a copper gutter that cascades rainwater. As the second roof is not attached to the house-proper except by pipes, it stands on steel legs, giving it extra height. The purpose of the extra shield is two-fold: to collect rainwater and create a stunning water feature. Every minute of the day, a steady stream of water thunders twenty feet off the roof via the gutter into a rock basin surrounded by ferns. The water is gathered again and pushed upwards by an ancient corroded pump that acts as a heartbeat to the house. Budda-bump. Budda-bump. Budda-bump.
The collected water feeds not only the heated pool, but also other water features such as a fish-filled moat surrounding the house. As the pool and moat fill, rainwater spills into three cisterns that are the source of water for the house via an antique chlorine purifying system. During droughts, I simply borrow water from the pool. .
Solar panels, still blanketing the side yard, provide some electricity, but they have become worn with age. As backup, a generator did supplement the house’s electrical needs but only Brannon knew how to maintain it. After he left, I reluctantly connected with the city’s power company.
For whimsy, I had a local artist weld two large metal antennae to the top of the roofline. From a distance, the house seems to be taking flight like a giant moth. Brannon thought it made the house look ridiculous. Looking back
now, I wish I hadn’t done it. It caused a breach between Brannon and me.
Unfortunately, my dwelling has begun to acquire a run-down appearance. I no longer let people see her in her present condition. Oh yes, it is a she - most definitively.
While still impressive with her roof waterfall, freestanding swivel closets, and kitchen space with dramatic clean minimal lines, the house looked shabby. I had no idea how I was going to get the lady back on her feet.
And now people were coming by uninvited. Fired up to get better security, I dipped into my meager retirement fund and installed monitors in my beeyard plus a new security system throughout the house. A new electronic gate guards my property’s entrance. It was something I should have done a long time ago, but I had always felt safe as I was tucked away on the steep palisades of the Kentucky River.
As an added precaution, I secreted tasers throughout the house. I own a handgun, which my daughter purchased for me, but its cold metal frightens me. The use of a gun is so final, while the taser brings on only a very bad headache and a lawsuit. I’d rather deal with a lawsuit than a dead person, so it is my weapon of choice.
I was now forty thousand dollars poorer. That amount did not include the purchase of a fawn-colored English mastiff puppy named Baby or the cost of his future guard training . . . or the vast amounts of food he chows down . . . or my fifties era couch I would have to replace after he finished gnawing it to bits. Other than that, things were going just swell.
After pushing all the little buttons I needed to arm the security system, I took my glass filled with bourbon onto the limestone terrace shiny from wear, and fell back into an oversized chair. I sipped the golden liquid while listening to the birds. The view from this spot never failed to grab my heart. This is my house. My husband built it, but it was designed to my specifications and desires. Ev
erything I knew about art, style and nature was poured into these walls. The Butterfly was his greatest triumph, but Brannon never liked it. He preferred his ante-bellum houses. After a while, he did not live at the Butterfly even though we were never officially separated.
I pushed that thought from my mind, as it was ancient history. I needed to concentrate on the present. The new puppy was asleep at my feet. Some puppy. He was only ten weeks old but already weighed twenty-five pounds, and his paws were the size of my hands. His breathing showed the pattern of deep, contented sleep while his potbelly went up and down like a water-pump handle. I rubbed his soft tan fur with my big toe while reaching for a legal pad and pencil.