Death By A HoneyBee by Abigail Keam Read Free Book Online Page B

mentally justify the fact that I had lied and caused pain to another person.   It was obvious to me that Agnes Bledsoe had once deeply loved Richard and still did.   Still, whether from my stubbornness or anger at her thinly veiled insults, I wrote her name down as a possible suspect.   Someone drove Richard to my house.   Could it have been Agnes?
     
     
          Arriving home before dusk, I checked on my various grazing pets such as rescued racehorses that freely wandered my 139 acres. I tossed apples along the winding gravel road for the goats.   Coming to my beeyard, I parked the van.
         Honeybees flitted through the open windows of the van, some of them lighting on my arms so they could groom or collect pollen from their bodies.   It was a shame that the furry insects would not allow themselves to be petted.   People would like them better if they could stroke the bees’ downy little heads.   Sitting in my rusty van, I watched the bees until twilight passed - thinking, thinking, thinking.
     
     
     
     
    8
          The following Saturday, I went to work at the Farmers’ Market, putting on a brave front.   The morning went by quickly.   Before I knew it, I had sold out all of my award-winning Locust Honey.   It seemed that people had read the article about the incident and were interested in checking me out.   That was fine with me as long as they purchased something.   I was handing a customer her order of Wildflower Honey when Detective Goetz materialized at my booth.   His sudden appearance startled me.   He was decked out in a blue T-shirt that sported “WILDCAT COUNTRY” and a pair of out-of-season, black plaid Bermuda shorts.   A small patch of a pale, hairy paunch peeped from beneath his shirt.   Thank goodness he knew enough not to wear socks with his sandals.
         “Detective, I am afraid I am not allowed to talk to you without Ms. Todd,” I said peevishly.   I was irritated that he would bother me at work.  
         Responding with a sheepish grin, he said, “Thought I’d come down and see what you did.”   Goetz whistled appreciatively.   “Look at all this honey.   I love honey, you know.   Big fan.”   He tapped his chest. “Good for your heart.”
         I relaxed somewhat.   “I have some Wildflower Honey left, or perhaps you would like a honey with lemon oil added to it.   Great for putting in your tea.”
        Goetz laid his bag of heirloom tomatoes on my table and perused all my different honeys.   “How come the honey is different colors?”
        “Well, the color, texture and taste depend of the plant nectar the bee has harvested.   Plant nectar can produce honey that is different in taste and color.   For example, the white Dutch clover plant will produce a mild yellow honey we know as clover while the buckwheat plant will produce a honey that is almost black and tastes like molasses.”
         “I had no idea,” he said, holding up various bottles to the sun.  
         “Yes, customers are always surprised to learn that the United States produces over 300 different varieties of honey while Kentucky produces over thirty.”
         “Which honey is the best?”
         “There is no best.   It’s all personal preference.   Some people like mild honeys while others like very strong tasting honeys.”  
         “I’m afraid of bees,” he confessed.
         “Most people are,” I replied.   I understand since I am afraid of wasps myself.
         “So . . . you actually make a living from doing this?”   Goetz asked.  
         I acted as though I didn’t hear him.  
         Goetz finally got the message.   “Right,” he said to himself.   “Can I ask you something?”
         “Ask away,” I answered while applying labels to bottles of honey.  
        “You get stung much?”
         I put down my bottle and gave Goetz my best look of annoyance.   “Of course I do.   I am a