Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “Sorry, Leigh, I didn’t mean to drag up dirty linen.” She smirked, pleased with her witticism.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What if it’s a Category 2 storm?” Ruthie asked anxiously, having missed the whole conversation about Zack. “We won’t stay then, will we? There would probably be storm surge; we could be flooded.”

  Penny Sue huffed. “There are two big dunes between us and the beach, for crissakes. If it makes you feel better, we’ll evacuate for a Category 2. Of course, that means we’ll have to go to a school and sit in a hallway with a bunch of screaming kids.”

  “School?” Ruthie repeated, biting her fingernail. “I figured we’d go to one of the hotels in Orlando or St. Augustine.”

  “If we can get a room. This is tourist season—everything’s already booked.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Ruthie replied.

  Our sensitive friend was working herself into a tizzy. Ruthie had run her hands through her hair so many times her bangs were standing straight up. I patted her knee reassuringly. “Don’t worry—the storm won’t hit us. It’s south of Cuba and headed for the Gulf. We’ll lay in supplies as a precaution. New Smyrna has never taken a direct hit.”

  “Everyone keeps saying that. Did you ever think that we might be overdue? Besides, a glancing blow from a Category 2 storm is nothing to sneeze at. Winds can be as high as 110 mph.” Her voice was up an octave. “Imagine driving a car at 110 mph and sticking your arm out of the window. Think how that would feel!”

  Ouch! I’d never thought in those terms. My stomach suddenly knotted. “Maybe we should try to find a hotel.”

  “Y’all are worrywarts,” Penny Sue said, eyeing the clock. “Only a few minutes left of my birthday, and you’re whining about something that may never happen.” She sashayed to the kitchen and poured herself a Bailey’s on the rocks. “Come on, let’s party!” She held her drink up.

  Ruthie and I shook our heads. One liquor-laced coffee was enough.

  “I know what you need.” Penny Sue pushed the CD for Midlife Crisis into the boom box and turned the volume to high. The musical’s spoof of “Heat Wave” bounced from the vaulted ceiling.

  Glass held high, Penny Sue twirled to the driving rhythm. Suddenly, she planted her feet. Snapping her fingers like the dance scene in West Side Story, she gyrated toward us, stopped within inches of our faces and crooned, “It’s a hot flash burning up my spine. … A hot flash that makes my forehead shine.” She snapped her fingers. “Come on,” she chided, “don’t be sticks in the mud.”

  The energy was infectious. I glanced at Ruthie, who shrugged and giggled. “What the hell?”

  Next thing I knew, Ruthie and I were gulping wine, shaking our booties, and singing three-part harmony.

  The heck with Charley! Tomorrow was another day. Now, we were going to party for the last few minutes of Penny Sue’s birthday.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  August 13, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  Rinn-ng, rinn-ng. BAM, BAM, BAM. “Halt, who goes there?” Lu Nee 2’s mechanical voice squawked.

  I rolled to my side and checked the clock. Eight AM. What dimwit would come calling at eight in the morning? Then I realized it was Friday the thirteenth. Fitting. I hoped this wasn’t an omen for the rest of the day. I snatched my robe from the end of the bed and headed down the hall followed by Ruthie. Penny Sue was already at the door, eye pressed against the peephole, hands holding her head. It looked like she’d slightly over-celebrated with the Bailey’s Irish Cream.

  Penny Sue was a sight, as my mother says, with her hair standing on end and mascara streaking her cheeks. The only saving grace was a spiffy, pink print kimono.

  “It’s a tall, skinny guy with salt and pepper hair,” she whispered.

  I nudged her aside and took a look. “That’s Guthrie.”

  Penny Sue regarded me like I’d dropped in from outer space. “Guthrie? Who the heck,” she paused to massage her temples, “is Guthrie? What kind of name is that?”

  “He’s staying in the two-story unit on the far left. His name is Guthrie Fribble.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Guthrie Fribble? You’ve got to be kidding.” She turned on her heel. “It’s barely light, for godsakes! I’m not in the mood for Fribble’s dribble.” She stomped past me to the master suite and slammed the door.

  BAM, BAM, BAM. Whether Guthrie heard Penny Sue’s comment, I don’t know, but he was not giving up. “Leigh, it’s me, Guthrie. Something’s happened! Something bad,” he shouted.

  Penny Sue must have been listening from her bedroom. The “something bad” apparently got her attention. She barreled from her room and opened the front door.

  The three of us must have been an eye full, because Guthrie went mute.

  “What happened?” Penny Sue demanded.

  Guthrie, barefooted and dressed in baggy jeans with a very faded Arlo Guthrie tee shirt, backed away.

  I patted the air soothingly. “Sorry, you woke us up.” Guthrie was an old hippie—about 50, I guessed—who might have done a few too many drugs in his youth. Still, he was a neighbor who’d been staying in his aunt and uncle’s place for the last few months. My intuition said he was gay, though it really didn’t make any difference. He’d always been nice to me and was a good guy as far as I could tell. “What happened?”

  “Little Mrs. King’s in the hospital. Someone tried to break into her condo, and she had a heart attack.”

  My hand went to my mouth. I had no idea who he was talking about. “Mrs. King?” I asked sheepishly.

  “My next door neighbor.”

  Oh, that lady. She was a quiet, sweet widow approaching 80, whom I knew as Nana.

  “Someone broke into her house?” Penny Sue asked.

  “They tried to pry open the window in the garage and set off the burglar alarm. The alarm must have scared Nana and caused the heart attack. She had a weak heart, you know.”

  “I didn’t know about her heart,” I confessed, feeling like a dirty dog for not taking more interest in my neighbor.

  Guthrie’s hand went to his heart. “And now Hurricane Charley …”

  “What about Charley?” Ruthie snapped, eyes widening.

  I pushed open the screen door, the rusty spring stretching with a loud twang. “Let’s talk about this over coffee.”

  Guthrie took the stool at the corner of the L-shaped bar. Ruthie flicked on the television that was still tuned to the Weather Channel from the night before. While I scooped Columbian grounds into Mr. Coffee, Penny Sue made toast.

  “There, see?” Guthrie exclaimed, pointing at the television and a jumble of colored lines fanning out from Charley’s location. “Those are computer forecasts of the storm’s path. Check out Mr. Yellow.”

  Ruthie sank onto the sofa, her expression grim. “It goes right through Central Florida and could become a Category 3.”

  Penny Sue slid a basket of toast, knives, jelly, and stack of napkins on the counter. “A hurricane box is our first priority.” She glanced at the clock. “The stores are probably packed already.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I passed Guthrie a mug of coffee. “How is Nana?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Her alarm woke me. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it. Luckily, she wore one of those medical emergency necklaces. Like the ones in the commercial where the lady falls and can’t get up. Nana had the strength to push the button, so it couldn’t have been a massive heart attack. The police and ambulance arrived at about the same time.”

  “The burglars didn’t get in?”

  “No, I guess the alarm scared them away. The police are dusting for fingerprints now. Ten bucks says it was some kids looking for quick cash. Dummies. That window had an alarm sticker on it.”

  Penny Sue washed down two ibuprofens with her coffee. “Those warnings don’t make much difference. So many people put up stickers who don’t have alarms, they’re not much of a deterrent anymore.”

  Guthrie nodded. “She does
n’t have an outside bell, so the kids probably thought the sticker was a fake. Nana told me the outside bell kept rusting in the salt air, and she was tired of replacing it. She had an extra loud alarm installed inside, figuring that noise would scare away thieves. Seems it worked. Only, it nearly scared her away,” he glanced at the ceiling, “like, permanently.”

  Ruthie sat next to Guthrie and snagged a piece of toast. “If Charley comes this way, will you stay?”

  “I guess,” he said, waving at the radar image on the TV. “Where would I go that’s not in the line of fire?”

  “What about storm surge?” Ruthie asked.

  “That doesn’t worry me, unless it’s a direct hit. Flooding isn’t likely.” He dipped his head and grinned devilishly. “Not more than a foot or two, at most.”

  Ruthie gritted her teeth.

  Penny Sue jumped in before Ruthie could say anything. Staring at his Arlo Guthrie shirt, Penny Sue asked coyly, “Is Guthrie a family name?”

  Our neighbor finished his coffee and stood. “No. I just have very fond memories of the movie, Alice’s Restaurant.” He flashed the devilish grin again.

  Why the grin? Was that the movie where hippies baked marijuana brownies? I wasn’t sure.

  “Guthrie’s not your real name?” Penny Sue continued.

  He swallowed the last bit of his toast. “An old nickname that stuck.” He rubbed his arms vigorously. “You ladies keep this place as cold as a refrigerator. Man, I don’t have on shoes; my toes are turning blue. I need to go home and thaw out.”

  Yes, I thought, rubbing my own arms. I’d been freezing ever since Penny Sue arrived. Her hot flashes were out of control, and gods knew what the electric bill would be.

  “What’s your real name?”

  He started for the door. “Fred,” he said over his shoulder. The front door clicked shut.

  Penny Sue reached under the counter and pulled out the Bailey’s. She dumped a large dollop in her coffee and took a swig. “Fred Fribble. His name is Fred Fribble!” She started to giggle and, thankfully, had the good sense to cover her mouth. Otherwise, Bailey’s would have sprayed all over the kitchen. “Lord, it sounds like something from a Flintstones cartoon.”

  Ruthie tittered. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  Penny Sue choked down a chortle. “Leigh, this place is a hoot. Bodies, burglaries, Guthrie ‘Fred’ Fribble.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “None of this ever happens in Atlanta. It must be you.”

  I reared back at the suggestion. “Me!? Nothing happens unless you’re around. You’re the one who draws trouble.”

  She stroked my shoulder soothingly, and then cackled, spraying coffee all over me.

  “Gross!” I threw my toast at her. It bounced off her prodigious chest and fell to the floor.

  “It is you!” Ruthie agreed, heaving her toast at Penny Sue. It went wide. “There was a hurricane the first time we came after Leigh’s divorce, and you started that ruckus with your gun. You draw trouble.”

  Penny Sue reached into the breadbasket and grabbed the remaining toast with both hands. Laughing hysterically, she pelted us both. “Y’all are old fogeys. If it weren’t for me, you’d have no excitement in your life. You need me. Admit it, I spice things up.”

  Ruthie and I exchanged eye rolls. Geez, now a Spice Girl. Hmmm, which spice? Red pepper? Chinese mustard? Tabasco!

  By ten we’d showered, dressed and were ready to whip through our assigned tasks. (Two guesses who did the assigning.) Penny Sue raced to Publix, frantic the store had already sold out of water and toilet paper. Ruthie took my car and headed to Wal-Mart for flashlights, a battery-powered TV, a first aid kit, and molded plastic chairs that would fit in the closet and still accommodate Penny Sue’s butt. I was relegated the chore of cleaning out the closet, since most of the stuff was mine.

  The iron and ironing board were the first to go, followed by my half-sets of linens, beach chairs, and other assorted household implements and supplies. Sorting the wheat from the chaff was easy until I reached the wire mesh shelves at the back of the storeroom. I decided the lower two shelves would have to go to make room for our chairs. Easy enough—the wire planks merely snapped into plastic brackets on the wall. Finding a place for their contents presented the problem. The utility room was packed with my belongings—I couldn’t bring myself to toss the sheets—and the credenza in the great room was already full. If I was lucky, there was nothing on the shelves but outdated canned goods that could be thrown away.

  I reached down with both hands and came up with several half-filled bottles of suntan lotion. No dates, they were likely a decade old. I tossed them into the garbage can outside the closet door. Next, corroded, swollen canned goods. Botulism for sure. They hit the wastebasket with a loud thud. I squatted with a grunt and stretched to the back of the shelf. My fingertips skimmed the wall, and then hit something furry. Mouse was all I could think. I fell backward as a tuft of red feathers fell forward and a round furry thing hurled toward me. I scrambled to get out of the way.

  “Dum, da da, dum! Dum, da da, dum! Big sleep. Hungry, very hungry,” the furry vermin chirped. Lord, it was Ruthie’s Furby, May May, and a … a toy bird! I’d forgotten about the Furbies Ruthie and Penny Sue purchased on our first visit. Penny Sue’s Furby was named Lu Nee, an incredible twist of fate, considering Penny Sue’s personality. Yep, that little guy was a real chip off the old block. Sadly, Lu Nee met an untimely end at the hand of a humorless thug. So, Penny Sue’s new remote controlled robot, and purported security guard, was named in honor of her first “child.” Lu Nee 2—the perfect sidekick for Penny Sue.

  I picked up a red-feathered parrot and the Furby. It sang, “Fun. Party. Dance. Dance.”

  “That was last night,” I told the fuzzy munchkin.

  I levered to my feet and placed the toys on the kitchen counter, then pulled out the bottom shelves. Hot and grimy, I’d just poured a diet Coke when the doorbell rang. My stomach clenched at the thought it might be Guthrie, this time with really bad news about Mrs. King. I took a deep breath for courage before looking through the peephole. Instead of a grubby tee shirt, I saw a suit-clad, barrel chest, and the lower half of a square jaw. Definitely not Guthrie. I fluffed my hair, smoothed my shirt, and opened the door to reveal a stocky man about six feet tall with thick brown hair and a ruddy complexion.

  He flashed a wide smile. “Good morning, I’m with Westside Realty.” He held out a business card.

  I opened the screen door and took it. Yuri Raykov, Broker/Agent. I ran my finger over the paper. Embossed print, nice.

  “I have a client who wants to buy a condo in this development. Are you the owner?”

  “No, this belongs to a friend.” I studied him. Was this the guy who’d snatched up the other two condos before I could get the owners on the phone? He certainly was aggressive, going door-to-door. His client must be a big spender. “I know the owner’s not interested in selling. I tried to buy the place myself,” I added for good measure. Not true, but I was sure the judge would give me first dibs if he ever decided to sell.

  “Ah, the owner is your friend. That always helps.” He started to leave, then stopped abruptly. “I hear an elderly lady over there,” he pointed in the direction of Nana’s unit, “is in the hospital. Do you know if she has family?”

  Boy, this guy had no scruples. Mrs. King’s hospital bed was barely warm, and he’d all but written her off as dead. “She has a minor problem, nothing to worry about.”

  He gave me smarmy grin. “That’s good. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.”

  “Sure.”

  I watched him walk up the hard-packed sand drive to a shiny, black Jaguar parked on the side of the hill. He gave me a finger wave, swung into the driver’s seat, and started to back up. Penny Sue’s yellow Mercedes popped the hill at that moment, coming within inches of Yuri’s car. She steered hard right, sending a plume of sand over the formerly pristine Jag, and skidded to a stop in a palmetto. Her door flew open and a Steel Magnolia eme
rged—mad as a hornet, loaded for bear. She stalked to the middle of the driveway and planted her feet. I instinctively checked her hands for weapons. None. Good! I breathed a sigh of relief. Two near misses within twelve hours. What’s the probability of that?

  “What tha’?” she started.

  Yuri was at her side in a millisecond. “I am so sorry, Madame. My fault. It was stupid to park on the side of the hill.” He took her arm and nudged her toward the Mercedes. “Are you hurt? Perhaps you should sit down.”

  She didn’t budge, though her shoulders relaxed. She’d shifted out of attack mode.

  The real estate agent held his hands up apologetically. “If there’s any damage, I will pay for it. We should check your car.” He strode to the Benz, which was idling, and peered at the front end. Futile since it was embedded in palmetto fronds. “May I back it out?” he asked softly.

  She smiled demurely. “I’ll do it,” Penny Sue all but purred.

  Oh, boy, I’d heard the tone before. The scent of a man, it got her every time.

  She backed the car out and parked in front of the condo. We huddled around the front end, checking for damage. At least, I was checking for damage. Yuri and Penny Sue, eyes locked, were checking out each other.

  I got bad vibes from Yuri, making this was one eye-lock I wanted to break. “Wow, a miracle! No damage. Not so much as a scratch.” I looked from Penny Sue to Yuri. They were still gazing at each other like dumb goats. “Well, I guess we’d better get the groceries in the house before the ice cream melts,” I added.

  Yuri took Penny Sue’s hand. “Please, let me help with your packages, it’s the least I can do.”

  “That’s very kind,” she said in her best Georgia Peach, Scarlet O’Hara voice.

  Sheesh. It was all I could do to keep from sticking a finger down my throat. A gag and vomit was the only appropriate response to his come-on and her syrupy reply. At least he helped bring in the groceries before he stroked her hand one last time and left. Penny Sue had purchased four-twelve packs of toilet paper, six big bags of crushed ice, and enough food to feed a platoon on weekend maneuvers.