Read Telling the Bees for Free Online Page A

during peak honeyflow season, when the hardworking field bees labor so strenuously that they live only a short four to six weeks. If they chance to die in the hive, some hive bees take it upon themselves to carry the deceased worker out into the yard where they drop her to the ground. As soon as she is abandoned, the ants rush in, seemingly from nowhere, to strip the carcass of all edible flesh. This natural arrangement works well, unless a nest of ants grows so greedy as to overstep its bounds and attempt to avail itself of the honey cached within the hives. This is when the prudent beekeeper must intervene.”
    Detective Grayson, who had meanwhile taken a seat at the kitchen table, began to sweep a clutter of errant toast crumbs into a tiny pile and then off the tabletop into his cupped palm.
    “My father first hit upon the idea of making moats out of pie tins to repel the invading forces,” I told the detective as I held out my hand. He brushed the crumbs into it, and I rinsed them off into the sink.
    “You were saying?” he said.
    “The moats are made by sawing off all four hive stands’ legs midway up their length and nailing pie tins to the top of the separated leg segments and then reattaching each one to its mated stub with the pie tin between.
    “The tins are filled with motor oil. Oil is more difficult for ants to cross than plain water, and if one is careful to keep the pans filled to capacity at all times, and free of leaves and twigs, which ants are clever enough to use as natural bridges, such an arrangement is usually successful in keeping both populations separated.”
    I explained all this as I collected two clean glasses from the kitchen cabinet and a pitcher of lemonade from my icebox.
    “Let’s go into the other room, shall we?”
    Detective Grayson nodded and stood, wiping his palms on his pant legs, and I led him into the dining room, where he eased his heavy frame into a seat at the polished mahogany table facing the front window.
    “Just half a glass, Mr. Honig,” he said, running his hand through his robust thatch of curls and unbuttoning his jacket—a rumpled gray one every bit as formless as the brown jacket he’d worn the day before. His crisp, paisley-patterned tie seemed once again almost dapper by contrast. The detective fidgeted in his chair as if to find a spot of comfort that was by nature beyond his reach.
    Pouring a half glass for him and a full glass for myself, I waited for Detective Grayson to disclose the reason for his visit, as clearly, by his growing agitation, he had some business to which he wished to attend.
    “We got the coroner’s preliminary report this morning,” he said finally, taking a small sip of lemonade and nodding appreciatively. “It appears your neighbors were dead at least forty-eight hours before you found them. The coroner says they essentially suffocated. Whoever put that tape over their mouths didn’t leave much room for them to breathe.”
    I did not want to know this. I did not want to imagine the rising terror that Claire and Hilda must have felt as they watched each other’s chests heave and struggle in vain to fill their lungs with air. I closed my eyes but could not erase the memory of their glassy stares.
    “Mr. Honig?”
    I opened my eyes to find the detective leaning forward, his narrowed eyes staring directly into mine.
    “I know you told me you didn’t see anything suspicious yesterday, but I wonder whether you might have noticed anything out of the ordinary on Friday?”
    I thought for a moment about what I had been doing just three days earlier.
    “Nothing that I can recall,” I said after some consideration. I explained to the detective that I had observed a week earlier the telltale signs of several large cells being constructed to prepare for the birth of a new queen bee and so my attention had been thus preoccupied.
    “This is all very interesting, Mr. Honig . . .”
    “Indeed it is,” I agreed. “This wondrous