Decker fanned himself with the back of his hand and said, “None of us are used to working around bees. We have to get the bees off the bodies—”

“And wasps,” Byron corrected. “Some are bees, but there’re wasps too…they eat…bite…meat…I gotta sit down.”

“Sure.” Decker steered him to the unmarked, placed him down in the backseat. Decker and Marge sat on either side of the beekeeper, not too close but close enough to let Byron know what was expected of him.

Decker said, “Not feeling so hot?”

Byron shook his head. “I gotta get back to my own farm. Darlene’s gonna get fiery for me being out this long.”

“Not once she hears the reason,” Marge said.

“No, sir, Miss Detective. You don’t know Darlene.”

“Mr. Howard—” Decker said.

“You might as well call me Byron. This ain’t no time to get formal.”

“Byron, we need help,” Decker said. “How do we get rid of those bees…wasps?”

“Smoke ’em, I reckon. Smoke confuses bees, makes them easy to handle. A few may still have a ornery disposition, but most you’ll be able to brush aside, into a box or some supers. The wasps…smoke sometimes doesn’t work. But it don’t hurt to try.”

“You have special suits for handling bees?” Marge asked. “Something our lab men can maybe borrow?”

“I’ve got some veils and gloves back at my farm. Take what you need. Then do me a favor and get out of my life.” He shook his head again, this time with a “Dear God” escaping from his lips.

Marge said, “I’ll drive you to your place. We’ll pick up the veils, gloves, and the smokers, you show us how to use everything.”

Byron didn’t answer right away, but Decker pressed him, and the beekeeper eventually agreed. He added, “Darlene’s gonna want to come.”

“Let me handle your wife,” Marge said. “You just handle the bees…and the identification of the bodies, Byron.”

“The bodies first,” Decker said. “I hate to do this to you, Byron, but…well, to put it bluntly, I don’t want any further decomposition.” Decker got out of the car, grasped Byron’s shoulder, and gently led him in the direction of the house. “I know this is hard for you, but you can do it.”

Byron wiped a thin sheen of perspiration off his nude scalp with his shirtsleeve. He coughed up a phlegm ball and spat. Great, Decker thought. Something else to confuse Forensics. He’d remember to point it out to the lab boys later.

The beekeeper’s steps toward the house were tentative, his breath sour and shallow. Decker felt sorry for him—he was shaking—but also reserved judgment on his guilt or innocence. He’d seen too many murderers crying bitterly at the sight of their victims floating in blood.