Telling the Bees by Peggy Hesketh Page A

just enough to calm his nerves. “Most of my guard bees are already bedded down, and any of the workers who aren’t inside producing honey are most likely occupied tending their brood. I doubt there’s a single bee still up and about that would pay the least bit of attention to your socks.”
    I motioned once again for him to approach, and this time he did so very slowly, casting his eyes right and left and right again as he crossed the yard to stand warily by my side. He reached for the clasp on the envelope he carried, but I held up my hand for him to stop.
    “Listen,” I said, bracing my hand on the hive stand and crouching low. I leaned my head toward the hive’s bottom super and paused. “In the summer months, when bees are hardest at work, they beat their wings approximately two hundred fifty times per second. Musicians say that the note the bees’ wings produce at this accelerated rate is C-sharp, below middle C, which interestingly enough is the same key in which whales, wolves, and dolphins also communicate. By contrast, the June bug, whose wings beat just forty-six times per second, produces the sound of F-sharp, three octaves below middle C.”
    “For the love of God, Mr. Honig, I just need to ask you a couple of quick questions,” Detective Grayson said, his eyes scanning a tight arc around his head.
    “It is for the love of all God’s creatures that guides me,” I said, and to his credit, the detective appeared at least slightly chastened by my words, and so I continued. “Quick answers are not always the same as the right ones. I find that the truth I seek is most often apparent to me when I take the time to listen.”
    The detective’s ire seemed to deflate, if only a bit, as I spoke. For a long moment, the only sound between us was the dull roar of the hive.
    “I wish I had your kind of time,” Detective Grayson said at last, ducking suddenly as a moth flitted by his face. “But I’ve got a murder investigation here, and the longer it stays on the books, the colder the trail gets.”
    Again I leaned my ear into the hive and motioned for him to do the same.
    “Jesus H. . . .” the detective muttered, his hazel eyes widening slightly. Then he shook his woolly head, slipped the manila envelope under his arm, and placed his hands on his knees. Exhaling audibly, he bent his stocky frame and stretched his neck toward the hive, though not quite near enough for his ear to touch the bottom level. We crouched there a moment, face-to-face, his left ear and my right poised mere inches from the hive’s lowest level.
    “Listen now,” I urged. “What do you hear?”
    “Please, Mr. Honig . . .” he said. But he did not move away from the hive. Nor did I. After a long pause, he exhaled loudly again. “Okay, it sounds like some kind of an engine, I guess.”
    “Now bring your head up a few inches,” I instructed. “What do you hear?”
    I heard the detective’s knees creak. And I heard him exhale heavily again, this time through his nose.
    “I don’t know, Mr. Honig. Sounds pretty much like the same thing to me. Louder, maybe. Maybe a little louder,” he conceded, this time moving just a tiny bit closer as he raised his head higher.
    “Listen now. Right here. It’s almost like a jet engine racing,” I said, and then I motioned for him to bring his head even with the top super.
    “What do you hear now?”
    “It’s not as loud,” he said with what I perceived to be the first hint of wonder in his voice. “It’s more of a whine than a roar. Like the engine’s sputtering out or something.”
    I considered then for the first time that I might have misjudged the good detective. Though his manner could be abrupt, he certainly demonstrated better-than-average powers of observation and a concurrent ability to adjust to the dictates of a given situation. I began to consider the possibility that he might have a natural ear—just as Claire once had—for the delicate voices, slight