Queen Bee (Lowcountry Tales #12)(90)

Holly took a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator and filled four glasses with ice. Mark sat in Momma’s usual chair and she harrumphed loudly. Instinctively, Mark got up and sat in another chair.

“Tea, Momma?”

“Thank you,” Momma said. “Now, would one of you like to tell me what’s going on or should I watch the six o’clock news?”

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of, Mrs. Jensen,” Mark said. “I’ve been a lawyer for over thirty years.”

“Can you cut to the chase, please?” Momma said. The queen was not amused.

“Yes. The parents of Sharon MacLean told our chief of police that they’re filing a civil suit against Holly blaming her for the wrongful death of their daughter. They are seeking damages of one hundred million dollars.”

“Good luck with that,” Momma said. “This child doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, pardon my language.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Next they’ll file a suit against you for harboring a criminal and for keeping a public nuisance, namely the beehives. That is, if they can find a lawyer to take the case.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

Holly said, “It is the craziest, most over-the-top bunch of bull I’ve ever heard.”

“No lawyer will represent them and no judge in Charleston will hear the case,” Mark said. “It’s going to get thrown out of court. Watch. You’ll see.”

“And where does Mr. Archie stand on all of this?” Momma asked.

“Behind his curtains,” Holly said.

“Probably sucking his thumb,” I said.

“He’s radio silent,” Mark said. “Not a word. But that doesn’t matter. I’m just waiting to see the CSI report and the autopsy. We should have that any day.”

“He probably doesn’t know what to think,” I said. “What about the boys?”

“Well, it’s another transition for them,” Holly said. “They’ve been waving at me from next door with smiles as big as Texas.”





Tyler said, “Do bees have friends?”

“No, they work together as a team. But in many ways, human beekeepers are their friends, because we keep their hives free of mites and beetles.”

“It’s a good idea to have someone watch out for you,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “it surely is.”


Chapter Thirty-One



Stop and Smell the Roses

Leslie took Momma to see her doctors and I stayed home to work in the yard, which had become a veritable horticultural miracle. I knew the bees were so relieved to be rid of Sharon that they were cross-pollinating like madwomen, hopping from one flower to the next, waggling and leaping in joy, bringing about an insane profusion of blooms. Those dahlias that I didn’t think would thrive were flourishing as though I had fertilized them with unicorn droppings and irrigated them with the tears of saints. Cars stopped to take pictures, and I gave away armfuls of flowers every day. It seemed that the more flowers I cut, the more flowers bloomed. I finally put a sign in the yard that said, Help yourself to a few.

I was just handing a large bouquet to a carful of curious members of the Sullivan’s Island Garden Club when Mark pulled into our driveway. He got out of the car sporting a broad smile, which had to mean the investigation had gone our way.

“Hi!” I said. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“I have some very good news for you,” he said.

“Should we go inside?” I said. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

“Why not?”

It was a hot August afternoon and let me tell you, August on Sullivan’s Island was like the seventh circle of hell.

We went inside. He followed me to the kitchen, where I pulled a cold pitcher of tea from the fridge and filled two glasses.

I pushed the sugar bowl and a dish of lemon slices across the table to him.

“I have a friend who works at the county morgue. It always pays to have a friend in places like that. Anyway, she said Sharon died of a heart attack. Natural causes. There was no evidence of a single bee sting, not a drop of venom in her blood. They’ve released the body to the funeral home.”

It wasn’t my bees!

“Hallelujah! My bees are innocent.”

“Right.”

“No kidding! Wow! But why would someone her age have a heart attack? She wasn’t even old! She was like forty-one or -two.”

“Well, she may have had that thing Tim Russert had. The widow-maker, except hers would’ve been the widower-maker. Anyway, don’t matter. It wasn’t the bees that did her in.”

“Then why was she in my yard?”

“Because she was trying to kill the bees.”

“She was? Why? Why in the world would she do that?”

“Who knows? The crime scene guys found a power spray gun she must’ve thrown into the oleanders. It was filled with a mixture of soapy water and a neonicotinoid like Ortho Bug B Gon, which is what people use to kill bees.”

“That awful . . . well, she was awful! Sorry.”

“If I had to guess, I’d venture that she came over here with the intention of wiping out the bees, she sprayed the hives, the bees got crazy and started coming after her. Then she started running and had a heart attack and boom, dead body in the backyard. But we will most likely never know the truth.”