Death By A HoneyBee Read Free Page B

vanity, he also treasured knocking it down.   He had a touch of sadist in him and only told me about the knot after twenty people had seen it and I wondered aloud why people were staring at me.   It was just enough tension to keep me from falling in love with Matt.   Maybe that is why he did it.    He liked our relationship just the way it was. Rumors about us were one thing.   Reality was another.
     
     
     
    4
         I was getting dressed for the Farmers’ Market a week later when I received a telephone call from Detective O’nan.   Would I be so kind as to stop by the police station after the Market?   They just had a few more questions to tie up before they closed the case.   Sure – why not.   I never suspected a thing, when a little bell should have been ringing in my head.
         The station is only blocks from the Market so I left my rusty but durable VW van at my booth location, with a note on the van’s windshield that I would be returning by four p.m.   Each vendor has his/her own 10x10 spot where they park under a tree-lined canopy and sell to the public.   There were still some farmers conducting business.   During the summer peak, there could be as many as seventy farmers working the Market, which was considered one of the finest in the country.   The sales paid my basic bills plus food, and I enjoyed serving my loyal customers who were always pleased to see me.   It made me feel needed.
          I swept back my red hair while asking for Detective O’nan at the front desk of the police station, housed in a renovated department store.   I lifted my work apron to wipe the grime off my face.  
          Minutes later, Detective O’nan and an overweight man with hairy arms stepped into the waiting room.
          I shuddered.   I always dislike the look of men who appear part simian. It was a big turnoff for me.   Then I felt ashamed of my hypocrisy, as I could probably braid the hair on my legs.   Thank goodness I had worn pants.
         Both men shook my hand before asking me to accompany them.   That warning bell should have gone off then, but it didn’t.   They ushered me into a dull gray room with one table and four chairs.   There was no window but a mirror that I suspected was a two-way.    The room smelled of Lysol sprayed over the odor of perspiration created by fear.   Cigarette burns patterned the desk beside carved obscene words.   There were several swastikas tattooed in ink. Lovely. I was afraid to look underneath to see the collection of old gum and crusts of bodily fluids deposited there.   Two chairs repaired with duct tape waited at the table.   Even though my knees were burning from arthritis, I stood after O’nan motioned me to sit in a chair.  
         “Can’t you take a statement at your desk?” I asked, scrutinizing the dismal area. “This looks like an interrogation room.”   I chuckled at the suggestion, trying to lighten the mood, but both cops remained stone-faced.
         “Something rather unusual has come up, Josiah,” said Detective O’nan.   He sat down and tossed several files on the table.   “This will give us some privacy to get to the bottom.”
         “The bottom of what, Fred?”
         “Detective O’nan,” he corrected.
         “Okay, then it is Mrs. Reynolds,” I shot back.                                                                             
          He frowned. I could tell he was a man who didn’t like to be corrected.                                    
          The hairy fat man leaned forward.   “You’re not from around here?   Your accent.”
          “And you are again?”   I finally sat as my legs were giving out.
          He smiled, a lovely smile with dimples.   “I’m sorry.   I am Detective Goetz.   I noticed that your accent is