Queen Bee (Lowcountry Tales #12)(85)

“Of course,” I said and looked outside to be sure he wasn’t being followed by television cameras. The coast was clear. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Prolly not a bad idea,” he said. “Oh, hell, Holly. I’m a widower again!”

I began walking toward the kitchen.

“Yes, and you know you have my condolences, Archie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I know you didn’t think much of Sharon.”

“It doesn’t matter what I thought of her,” I said.

I filled a filter with ground beans and the well of the coffeemaker with water and flipped the switch.

“Of course it matters!” he said. “It matters what you think and it matters what my boys think. And I didn’t listen to anybody. And now she’s dead. I must be some kind of a bad luck charm.”

“That’s crazy talk.”

When the coffee was done, I filled a mug and sat down at the table with Archie.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Drink up,” I said. “So, is there a plan in place for a funeral?”

“Yeah, her family is planning it. They don’t want any input from me.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I know what that’s like.”

“Right? Holly, I’ve treated you awfully bad, and my boys, and I’m sorry.”

“Who’s watching the boys?”

“That woman Maureen has them both at her house. She’s got that kid Matt?”

“Are they spending the night there?”

“Yes.”

That was good. His sons didn’t need to see him as drunk as a dog.

“I’ll call her. I think you should be getting on home now. Tomorrow’s probably going to be a tough day, okay?”

“Okay. You’ll call Maureen?”

“Yes, I’ll call Maureen.” I stood up, a message that this visit was ending. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Thanks. Thanks for the coffee. You’re a nice girl, Holly. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Thank you, and yes, I think you’ve said it before. Now let’s get you up.”

“Okay, I’m going.”

Somehow, by God’s grace, he got to the front door and left. I called Maureen.

“Maureen? Hey! It’s me, Holly. Y’all okay?”

“Yes, and what a terrible thing. I mean, nobody liked her, that’s for sure. But, damn! Death from a thousand bee stings? How awful!”

“Is that the story going around? Well, here’s something we don’t know. Maybe it was the bees, maybe it wasn’t, but I can’t imagine that many bees would sacrifice their lives to get rid of her. And if it was bees, and she was allergic, it would only take one. The queen is the only honey bee without a barb on her stinger. She might have done it, but I doubt it, because she doesn’t ever leave the hive except to swarm. Swarming season ended months ago. So I guess we’ll see when the autopsy comes back. And when they examine the findings in my yard. If it was my bees, there’ll be carcasses all over the place.”

“Are you pissed about something?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I’m just waiting for the morning papers. Give me a shout if you need me.”

I was sort of pissed that my bees would take the blame when, if her death was the result of bee stings, they were probably only defending their hives. That finding, blaming my bees, could lead to passing laws against beekeeping in residential areas, which would be a terrible thing.

“You do the same,” she said.

I went back out to the front of the house to lock up for the night and noticed that my hammock appeared to have an occupant. It was Archie. He’d made it past my front door but not down the steps. It was a warm night. I took a picture of him with my iPhone and sent it to Mark. I just left him there. Hopefully, by the time I got up in the morning, he’d be gone.

I had a moment then to reflect on how many nights I’d gone to sleep wishing I was in his arms, and I thought I wasn’t so sure about that dream anymore. I wasn’t so sure about anything.





Chapter Twenty-Nine



Strut Yo Stuff, Sugah

I was waiting for Char to come out of the bedroom, where she was trying on Momma’s latest creation. It was sensational in muslin, which was phase one to making a custom gown as complicated as the one Momma and Charlie had designed. The entire gown was first constructed in muslin, an inexpensive fabric, to be sure it draped properly. So if it looked good in cheap muslin, I could only imagine what it would look like in celery green metallic lamé.

I was so surprised by what Holly said, and I knew I didn’t respond with the right amount of concern. She must think I’m a coldhearted bitch. I wouldn’t blame her. Sometimes I was one and I knew it. I don’t know why she irked me so. Okay, yes, I know why she irks the ever-loving hell out of me, and when I tell you why, you can add petty and judgmental to the long list of my poor qualities.

My little sister was a martyr. I don’t know why she always acts like she’s being persecuted, but she does. She doesn’t want to stay home with Momma? Well, Momma ain’t home, so honey, go on, go over the causeway and go get that life you’re always mumbling about not having. And even if Momma does come home, there’s no one keeping you locked in, is there? Well, to hear her tell it, she was going to be blamed for Sharon’s death, which was absurd.