Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “Yuri’s a realtor. He stopped by to see if you wanted to sell the condo,” I said, hefting ice into the large ice chest that would serve as our coffee table in the closet. Only three bags fit, so I put one in the freezer and the rest in the sink, hoping Ruthie would return soon with a Styrofoam cooler. “I told him your dad’s not interested. You don’t mind, do you? If the judge decides to sell, I hope he’ll give me first dibs.”

  Penny Sue shoved two bottles of champagne into the refrigerator. “He’s not going to sell any time soon. He’s started talking about coming down after he retires for surf fishing. Besides, Momma loved this place. He’d keep it for sentimental reasons if nothing else. And,” she grinned smugly, “I want it.”

  She unloaded a brown bag of assorted chips as I stacked the toilet paper on the floor beside the credenza. There was no other place to put it, because I’d already filled most of the condo’s free space with the pitiful remnants of my marriage.

  Next came a bag of jars and cans. I reached in and came up with a small jar. “Red Salmon Caviar?”

  Penny Sue handed me a package of water crackers. “Don’t worry, there’s some white in there, too.”

  I shot her the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glare. “Champagne? Caviar?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Haven’t you heard of a hurricane party? Laa, if we’re going to be stuck in a closet, we might as well have fun.” She dropped a large bag of Hershey Kisses on the counter. “I love chocolate with champagne, don’t you?” She plopped a sack of miniature Snickers atop the Kisses, which jostled the counter and Ruthie’s Furby. The toy awoke jabbering, “Big sleep. Hungry, very hungry.”

  Penny Sue snatched the fur ball. “This is Ruthie’s Furby. I was so busy unpacking the groceries, I didn’t notice it. And, Repeat Parrot,” she took the bird with her other hand. “Where did you find them?”

  “On the bottom shelf, at the back of the closet.”

  “I gave the parrot to Daddy for his birthday years ago.” Penny Sue cradled the Furby in the crook of her arm and stuck her pinky finger in its mouth. A string of Furby yum, yum, very good, very hungrys spewed forth. “The parrot’s a stitch. Pete repeats everything you say and is activated by noise. Daddy put him in the guest bathroom and programmed him to say, ‘Boy, you have a big behind.’” She chuckled. “He thought it was hysterical. Momma didn’t, which is how it ended up in the closet. I’ll have to take that home with me. Ten bucks says he puts it in the guest bathroom again.”

  The Furby’s lunch was cut short by Ruthie’s arrival. Chairs, cooler, a first aid kit, and a red box.

  “Boy, are we lucky,” Ruthie said, holding up the red box. “I found a weather radio! A lady was returning it when I walked in the door. I snatched it immediately.” Her eyes caught the Furby. “Little May May. Where—?”

  “The closet,” I said.

  Penny Sue surveyed the items Ruthie’d stacked on the floor. “No battery-operated television?”

  “Too late. They sold out days ago.”

  “Darn, I told you there’d be a rush on necessities. I guess the boom box radio will have to do. It can pick up local television stations, but no Weather Channel.”

  “Exactly why I bought this radio. It airs NOAA weather alerts. All we have to do is put in our zip code. When there’s a warning for our area, it sounds an alarm and broadcasts the details.”

  I took the box from Ruthie and read the label. “This is very cool. It works like an alarm clock—only goes off if there’s a weather warning for the area. Great to have in case a storm hits in the middle of the night.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Ruthie said. “You should keep this in your bedroom.”

  It took a little over an hour for us to arrange the closet and program the weather radio. The three chairs fit nicely around the ice chest, while our supplies—chips, crackers, boom box, flashlights, and batteries—were stored within easy reach on the lowest remaining shelf.

  Penny Sue surveyed our handiwork with satisfaction. “We’re ready for Charley. Bring it on.”

  “Where is Charley?” Ruthie asked anxiously. She checked the clock over the credenza. “Eleven-forty-eight. It’s time for the hurricane update.” She dove for the TV remote and punched buttons like a crazy woman. Thankfully, the set was tuned to the station. Dr. Steve, the hurricane expert, had just come on.

  The state of Florida appeared on the screen, an ominous yellow cone extending from a red pinwheel in the Gulf of Mexico and fanning out over the central part of the state.

  “It’s a Category 2,” Ruthie murmured, “and we’re in the strike zone.”

  “Don’t start panicking,” Penny Sue chided. “It’s supposed to hit the west coast and move east across the state. Hurricanes always lose strength over land. And, look, we’re still close to the bottom of the danger zone—meaning the weak side of the storm. Tropical force winds are probably the worse we’ll get.”

  Ruthie pulled at her lip, not speaking until Dr. Steve finished and a commercial began. “It has the potential to become a Category 3. I think we should evacuate. I’m going to call inland hotels.”

  “Go ahead, if it will make you feel better. But Charley’s going to blow out, and we’ll have a fun party,” Penny Sue said matter-of-factly.

  “What about Frannie May?” Ruthie turned to me.

  Frannie May, a.k.a. Fran Annina, was my co-worker at the Marine Conservation Center. A wealthy, Italian widow in her sixties, Frannie had taken me under her wing and become a good friend to us all. She was also feisty, á la Penny Sue. She showed her stuff in our pursuit of renegade bikers by kicking the butt of a man a foot and a half taller. No kidding, she literally kicked his butt. I did a mental chuckle at the memory of Frannie hanging from the guy’s neck, her legs flailing for all she was worth.

  “Frannie?” Ruthie repeated.

  “She’s in Boston. Her sister’s in the hospital.”

  “What about Carl?” Ruthie continued.

  Carl was Frannie’s genius son. He was also a Star Trek fan who engaged in role playing games with his MIT-educated buddies. Carl played a Klingon, other friends played Romulans. They kept reenacting something called the Battle of Khitomer. This battle was apparently a big deal in alien circles. I’d intended to get old Star Trek tapes and look it up, but never found the time. I had tried to fix my daughter up with Carl, but it didn’t work. She wasn’t a Trekkie. A shame. A good-looking millionaire, who was kind to his mother, Carl Annina was a catch by almost anyone’s standards. Anyone except my Ann, who wasn’t drawn to the Trekkie stuff. Oh, well, Ann Annina was a tongue twister. “I know he’s working on a project, but he may be in town. Why do you ask?”

  Ruthie began to pace. “I’d like to think there’s someone around if we need help.”

  “How about Deputy Ted?” Penny Sue said brightly.

  Ted Moore was a very nice guy who worked for the Volusia County Sheriff’s office. Recently divorced, like me, we’d struck up a friendship that was beginning to develop. Beginning was as far as it got, however. A front page newspaper photo of Ted and me holding hands at an art fair was enough to get his ex-wife’s back up. Suddenly, she needed to confer with him daily on their sons’ welfare. The boys were sassing her, hanging out with the wrong crowd, might be doing drugs, and on and on ad nauseum. Her manipulation was crystal clear to me, but not to Ted. When he canceled the third date for a kid catastrophe, I called it quits, telling him to call me when he got his life sorted out. I was having enough trouble sorting out my own life; proof being the huge stack of mismatched sheets piled in the utility room.

  I cleared my throat. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

  “You’re not?” Penny Sue called, fanny up, head buried in the refrigerator. She came out with three cellophane-wrapped sandwiches. “How about a Cuban? I’m starving. All we’ve had was toast, and we ended up throwing most of it on the floor.” She snickered.

  Ruthie and I nodded. My stomach was feeling hollow. Besides, eating might divert th
eir attention from Ted. No such luck.

  “What became of Ted?” Penny Sue pulled out a skillet and started to grill the sandwiches.

  I sat at the counter as Ruthie arranged placemats and napkins. “There’s not much to tell. In a nutshell, his life is complicated—young kids and a possessive ex-wife.”

  “Hmph,” Penny Sue grunted as she forcefully mashed the sandwiches with a spatula. “I’ll bet his wife wanted the divorce until she found out someone else was interested in Ted. Happens all the time. Once she’s sure y’all are finished, she’ll dump him again. You watch.” She slid a sandwich onto a plate and passed it to Ruthie, who added a handful of chips. “Let’s hope he’s smart enough to go that route only once. I dated a jerk that did the number three times. Mind you, one time was enough for me. I hear his next girlfriend has already been around that track twice.” She scooped out the last two sandwiches and took the stool beside me. “Would you take Ted back?” she asked, biting into the sandwich. “Mm-m, these things are good. They don’t do much for the waistline,” she patted a newly acquired perimenopausal paunch, “but do wonders for my mood. If we’re going to wrestle a hurricane, we’ll need our strength.”

  I looked sidelong at Ruthie, who’d stopped chewing. Darn, I wish Penny Sue hadn’t said wrestle. “Don’t worry, Ruthie, Guthrie will be here if we need anything. He’s a nice man.”

  Ruthie stared back at me. She wasn’t buying a word of it.

  It was after one when we finished lunch. Penny Sue retired to her boudoir to select an outfit for the hurricane. (Lord knows which personality said that line, probably Scarlett O’Hara. If Penny Sue came out wrapped in curtains, I’d know for sure.) Ruthie—on pins and needles as she waited for the two o’clock storm update—took her cell phone to the deck and started calling hotels. I made my bed, took a quick shower to knock off the closet dust and called Bert Fish, the local hospital, to check on Mrs. King. She was resting quietly. I tried to wheedle information about her family—like, had they been notified? Had anyone arrived to sit with her?—but the ward nurse was too professional to spill any beans. Next, I called New Smyrna Beach Florist. They were closing early for the hurricane, but I was in luck. The van hadn’t left, and they had a nice, cheery arrangement in stock. I put it on my charge card. I guess we had a bad connection, because the storekeeper couldn’t seem to get our address right, and made me repeat it twice.

  Exactly at one forty-five we all rushed, like trained monkeys, to the living room and the next tropical report. Ruthie watched the broadcast, hands touching her lips prayerfully. I sat on the edge of the loveseat, and I noticed that Penny Sue, normally nonchalant, gripped her diet soda tensely.

  A meteorologist I didn’t recognize came on and announced that Charley’s eye wall showed the storm was gaining strength. If that wasn’t enough, the storm was moving faster. Several models predicted it would make landfall around Tampa. New Smyrna was on the lower edge of the strike zone.

  Penny Sue took a big gulp of soda. “See, Ruthie? Worse we’ll get are tropical force winds. We’re home free.”

  Ruthie shot Penny Sue a cynical look. “If it hits, we’ll be on the right—STRONG—side of the storm.”

  Penny Sue downed the rest of her cola. “For a New Ager, you’re awfully fearful. Can’t you contact your spirit guides to confirm the storm’s path?”

  Ruthie folded her arms defensively. “I’m not bothering my guides with earthly matters.”

  “Enough said.” Penny Sue sashayed toward the kitchen, exaggerating the fanny action. “If earthly matters are not worthy of the spirits’ time, they’re not worth ours. We are spiritual beings, right? Ruthie, you need to put your actions where your mouth is.”

  I glanced at Ruthie whose face was beet red. Penny Sue had lobbed a real zinger!

  Thankfully, the doorbell rang at that moment, proof that spirits were looking after Ruthie.

  Penny Sue virtually ran to get the door, obviously realizing she’d stepped way over the line. My stomach seized, fearful it was Guthrie with news of Mrs. King. I heard the twang of the screen door, a slight yelp, and the front door clicked shut.

  “What?” I called, dreading the answer.

  Penny Sue emerged from the hall holding a single pink rose. “Look.” She held out the flower with a New Smyrna Beach Florist card attached. The card was addressed to Penny Sue and simply said, “You haven’t been out of my mind since I first saw you.”

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  August 13, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  “I wonder who sent this?” Penny Sue mused, placing the rose in a bud vase. She turned the card over—no other inscription. “The florist must know.” She dialed the number on the card and waited a long time. “Darn, they’ve closed early for the hurricane.”

  Ruthie sniffed the rose. “I’ll bet it was Rich.”

  “Rich?” Penny Sue shot back, irritability masking her sorrow. “How could Rich know I was here? He’s in the witness protection program, probably sequestered in Timbuktu.”

  Rich Wheeler was a man Penny Sue fell in love with on our last trip. Unfortunately, Rich got mixed up with some very rough bikers who were engaged in scary activities. They nearly killed Rich, so the Feds shuttled him away for his own safety. How long that would last, no one knew; but Rich vowed he’d return to Penny Sue one day.

  “Sorry, Rich was my first thought. Pink roses stand for admiration.”

  “Admiration? I’ll bet it was Yuri,” I said.

  “Who’s Yuri?” Ruthie asked.

  “A sleazy realtor who wants to buy up the complex. He’s trying to butter you up,” I said to Penny Sue.

  “Sleazy? I thought he was a nice guy. Not bad looking, either.” Penny Sue studied the rose smugly. “He helped us bring in the groceries.” She paused again, the wheels in her head whirring. “Admiration. What stands for love?”

  “Red roses.”

  Penny Sue grinned. “I’ll bet it was Yuri. Rich would have sent a red rose.”

  “Does that mean Rich is history?” I asked.

  “No,” she snapped, her brows knitting. “Even though I love Rich, it doesn’t mean I have to check into a nunnery. Nothing wrong with an occasional date until he gets home. After all, we’re not married.”

  True, she wasn’t married or even officially engaged. Besides, flirting to Penny Sue was akin to breathing, an involuntary biological process. I was certain she’d been faithful to all three of her husbands—even the two who didn’t return the favor—still, she’d always been a flirt. The thrill of victory, I supposed, to see how many men she could attract. And lord knows, that was a lot.

  A loud horn blared, and Penny Sue’s romances were instantly forgotten. Lu Nee 2 whirled in circles, demanding, “Halt! Who goes there?” The Furby woke up too, moaning, “Big sound, scare me!”

  Ruthie, Penny Sue, and I stood like slack-jawed fools, trying to figure out where the sound came from. Then, a loud male voice boomed, “At two forty-five, Volusia County issued a mandatory evacuation for all mobile and manufactured homes.”

  The weather radio! We rushed to the closet.

  “Shelters will open at four PM and close to new entrants between eight and nine PM. Tropical force winds are expected by ten PM. Bridges from the beach to the mainland will close when winds reach 38 mph. All Daytona Beach International Airport flights have been cancelled.”

  Ruthie sank into one of the plastic chairs. “A mandatory evacuation! The airport’s closed and there are no hotel rooms to be found. We’re stuck.”

  Ring, ring. Bam, Bam, Bam. The Furby screeched, “Whoa-a-a!” Lu Nee 2 exclaimed, “Where did that come from?”

  Penny Sue put her hands over her ears, stomped down the hall, and flung the door open with a thud. There was a long pause then she started to laugh. “Come here, you’ve got to see this!”

  Ruthie and I turned off the weather radio and double-timed it to the door.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Guthrie was on the stoop dressed in his Arlo Guthrie
tee shirt, baggy madras shorts (circa 1972) with a chicken tied around his knee. Yep, you heard right, a chicken! A whole, frozen, Purdue roaster.

  “Leigh,” he began, pitifully, “I’ve hurt myself, Charley’s coming, and I’m all alone. Can I stay with you?”

  Penny Sue’s eyes were glued to the chicken. “What’s with the poultry?” she asked.

  “Publix sold out of ice. My freezer’s turned to high, but it can’t make ice fast enough for drinks and my knee. The chicken is frozen—as good as ice.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I’m so upset. My friend isn’t going to come—he has to stay with his mother. I can’t go to his place, because Mother doesn’t approve of our relationship. With Mrs. King in the hospital, I’m all by myself. On top of that, the Russians are coming. Can I stay with you? Or will you come to my place?”

  Penny Sue opened the screen door and waved him in. Once again, he took the seat at the corner of the bar, propping his leg up to rearrange the Ace bandage and rotate his chicken.

  “Can I get you something?” Penny Sue asked. “Like a stiff drink?”

  His eyes shifted from Ruthie to me. “A scotch would be nice. Neat.”

  Penny Sue poured four fingers of scotch in a glass with a few cubes of ice. “I suppose we’d better conserve our own ice.” She handed Guthrie the drink. “How did you hurt your knee?”

  “I was upstairs making brownies—”

  Marijuana brownies? I wondered. Wasn’t that a scene in Alice’s Restaurant?

  “—when I heard a scraping noise coming from the back of our duplex. Low, like maybe the crawl space.” He took a good swallow of his scotch. “I listened for a while, and started to think someone was trying to break into Mrs. King’s house again. So, I got my Glock—”