"Hardly ever."
"Then you saw a bee."
"What did you see?"
"A not-bee."
"Is that anything like a knothole?"
"I will not answer your riddle because it has no answer," Chiun said elliptically.
"Suit yourself. I'm going to catnap. It's a long way to L.A."
"With you snoring at my side, an eternity," Chiun sniffed.
But Remo dropped off to sleep anyway.
He dreamed of stewardesses dressed in bumblebee uniforms. They kept trying to sting him with their fingernails.
Chapter 11
Los Angeles County Deputy Coroner Gideon Krombold was certain of his diagnosis.
"Dr. Nozoki succumbed to anaphylactic shock," he was saying.
"I concur," said his visitor. He was long of body, with the pinched, inquisitive face of a locust. His features twitched. Dr. Krombold thought Helwig X. Wurmlinger was twitchy because he was used to dissecting insects, not humans. But as his dark eyes lifted from a cursory examination of Dr. Nozoki's undraped body, his face continued to twitch. The man clearly suffered from a nervous tick.
"The cyanosis, facial mottling, constricted windpipe and other symptoms all point to toxic systemic shock induced by hypersensitivity to a bee's sting. In other words, death by anaphylaxis."
"Did you discover the ovipositor?"
"No. There is a puncture wound. But no stinger."
"Show me," said Helwig X. Wurmlinger, his left eye twitching to the right. His mouth twitched in the opposite direction. He wore glasses whose lenses were as thick as ice pried off a midwinter sidewalk.
They distorted his tea-colored eyes into the swimmy orbs of a frog.
Dr. Krombold lifted a dead gray arm and turned it so the elbow was visible beneath the overhead fluorescents.
"Here."
Wurmlinger took off his glasses, and his eyes jumped back to normal size with a speed that was unnerving.
He used one lens like a magnifying glass to inspect the dead man's elbow.
"I see a puncture wound consistent with a bee's sting, but there is no barb."
"Maybe he scraped it out," Dr. Krombold suggested.
"It is possible. That is the recommended procedure. But typically, those who are allergic to the toxins of Apis fall into respiratory distress very quickly. He would have to have had great presence of mind to have removed the stinger before collapsing." Wurmlinger replaced his glasses and regarded Dr. Krombold with his froggy orbs. "Was there any evidence of a tool in his hand when he was found?"
"No."
"Any sign of disarray?"
"No. In fact, he was found seated in his chair."
"Wearing long or short sleeves?"
"Long."
"Odd. A lone bee rarely stings though clothing."
"But one could, am I not correct?"
"It is possible. The bee in question might have entered via a sleeve by accident and, becoming trapped, grew enraged. Was a bee found?"
"No."
"Peculiar. No sting and no dead bee. Bees die after they sting, for the barbs prevent the stinger from being withdrawn from human flesh. The effort required for the bee to disassociate itself from its victim literally disembowels it. There should be a dead bee. It is inescapable."
"I had Dr. Nozoki's office vacuumed. No dead bee was found."
Dr. Wurmlinger's face twitched in every direction conceivable. "Peculiar. Most peculiar," he murmured.
"Maybe it flew away and died under something," Krombold offered.
Wurmlinger shook his head firmly. "Upon losing its sting, the bee suffers immediate distress. It cannot fly and can barely crawl. This is much the same as losing a leg. It could not have gotten far."
"Well," Krombold said helplessly, "there was no bee."
"There was no bee found," Wurmlinger corrected.
"True." Dr. Krombold cleared his throat. He was becoming uncomfortable with this pedantic entomologist. "Would you like to see the other victims?"
"No. I would prefer to see the contents of their thoraxes."
"You mean stomachs."
"Yes, yes. Of course."
"This way, Dr. Wurmlinger."
In a laboratory, Dr. Krombold sorted through several blackish green piles of organic matter-the partially-digested stomach contents of Perry Noto, his wife, Heather, and their chef, Remy.
Wurmlinger was as methodically creepy as a night crawler, Krombold thought after watching him pick through the stomach contents and take tiny bits of insect matter to a waiting microscope for study.
Krombold had to leave in the middle of it, but Wurmlinger seemed as happy as a dung beetle in shit.
"I'll wait for you in my office," the deputy coroner said, closing the door after himself.
Wurmlinger nodded absently.
Dr. Krombold wasn't in his office very long when a blond woman with the energy of a hyperactive Ritalin candidate stormed in.
"Are you the coroner who died?"
"Obviously not. That was Dr. Nozoki. I'm Dr. Krombold. Gideon Krombold. Who are you?"
"Tamara Terrill, Fox News." She called over her shoulder. "Joe, get in here!"
"The name's Fred," said a man with a minicam for a face-or so it seemed to Krombold on first impression.
"Has Dr. Wurmlinger got here yet?" Tammy Terrill demanded.
"Yes. But he's busy."
Tammy showed him her portable mike. "I'll talk to you first. Tell me everything."
"You have to be more specific than that."
"No time. Just spill your guts, and we'll edit them in the studio."
Dr. Krombold blinked.
"I'm talking about the killer bees. I know they're out here," Tammy prodded.
"Nonsense. Dr. Nozoki succumbed to an ordinary bee sting. The others-"
"Tell me about the others," Tammy interjected.
"I haven't yet finished telling you about Dr. Nozoki."
"This is TV. We can't dwell on stuff. People lose interest. Especially our audience."
"You know," Dr. Krombold said, picking up his desk telephone, "I think it would be best if you two left the building. I have not consented to an interview."
"Too late. Once you're on tape, the only way not to look bad is to go with the flow."
Dr. Krombold jumped from his seat and pointed an angry finger at the minicam lens that was recording his complexion going from florid to brick red.
"Turn that thing off!" he blazed.
It was spoken in anger. Krombold probably never expected an instant response, never mind compliance. But he got both.
The cameraman let out a strident yell, screamed and the minicam hit the yellowed linoleum with a bang. The light fizzled out.
Tammy shouted down at the man, "What the hell are you doing, you clumsy-!"
The cameraman was on his back, going into convulsions. He gasped, the gasping turning to a wheezing with his face becoming as mottled as wine sprinkled on satin.
"What's wrong?" Tammy demanded.
"B-b-b-b-bee!" he managed to say.
And up from between where his fingers were clutching his belly crawled a fat, fuzzy black-and-yellow insect. With a nasty ziii, it took to the air.
"Killer bee!" Tammy screeched, picking up a chair. "It's a killer bee. Damn, and it's not on tape."
"Don't become excited!" Dr. Krombold said. "Please calm down. It has stung your cameraman. It's only a matter of moments before it dies a natural death."
"I'm not letting it sting me," Tammy shrieked.
"Be still. Don't attract its attention," Krombold urged, coming around from behind his desk. "It will die soon. And it can't sting again. It has lost its sting."
"Tell that to the damn bee," said Tammy, trying to whack it with the chair.
The bee didn't die. It buzzed around but Tammy kept it at bay with her chair.
Finally, it took up a position atop a file cabinet and turned around completely once, then sat there looking at them with its many-faceted eyes.
"Grab a rolled-up newspaper," Tammy hissed, holding the chair between her and the intent bee. She knew that chairs were the best defense against knives. She figured a bee was just a tiny blade with wings.