Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

“Glock, like a gun?” Penny Sue asked.

  He nodded and sucked down more scotch. “I got my Glock, ran to the porch, and tripped over the front door mat. I fell down the first flight of steps and landed hard on this knee. It’s horribly bruised and swollen. Want to see?” He started fumbling with the Ace bandage.

  I held up both hands. “Not necessary—we believe you.”

  “Did you figure out what the noise was?” Ruthie asked.

  He shook his head. “No, it was all I could do to crawl up the stairs to my condo. Anyway, the noise stopped as soon as I fell. I guess I scared them away.” He took another gulp of liquor. “The pain was excruciating. So, I iced my knee down and called Timothy, my friend. I thought he’d rush over to help me.” Guthrie wiped his eyes. “No such luck. Timothy’s sister couldn’t stay with their mother, so he had to bring Mother,” Guthrie virtually spate the word, “to his house for the storm.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked. “We’d have helped.”

  “I couldn’t find your number. Leigh Stratton isn’t listed.”

  Right. I was using the judge’s phone and had never made the effort to have my name listed. I scribbled our number on a Post-It note. Here, call us next time.”

  “Thank you.” He rotated the chicken and gave us a pitiful look. “The last day has been so trying. I can’t face the hurricane alone.”

  Ruthie, Ms. Sensitive Pisces, stroked his back. “Don’t worry, you’re welcome here. In times like these, we have to stick together.”

  Penny Sue closed her eyes and bumped her forehead against the kitchen cabinet. Thankfully, that was all. I could tell she wanted to vault over the counter and strangle Ruthie. I wasn’t jumping with joy at the prospect of Guthrie sleeping on the sofa, but he seemed nice enough and definitely needed our help.

  “I won’t be any trouble,” Guthrie said. “I have a sleeping bag. You’ll never know I’m here. I’ll bring dinner. I’m making a hobo stew out of all of these,” he motioned to the chicken, “frozen foods.”

  Penny Sue gave me the squinty eye. “What else have you used on your knee?”

  “Green beans, corn, the usual.” Guthrie held his glass up for a refill.

  “Peas,” she said, her eyes still slits.

  “Huh?”

  “Frozen peas. That’s what they recommend for women after boob jobs.” Penny Sue refilled his glass. “They’re cold and flexible. I guess corn is about the same.”

  “Mine was on the cob. Don’t worry, I cut off the kernels for the stew. I’m really a good cook. I made brownies before I hurt my knee.”

  Brownies. Yep, Arlo Guthrie. I still wondered if the brownies contained anything other than the usual chocolate, flour and sugar.

  Penny Sue slid his drink across the counter. “What did you mean, the Russians were coming?”

  “A Russian realtor showed up right before the scratching started. He came by early this morning, asking if I wanted to sell my condo. I explained I didn’t own it. I guess I mentioned that Mrs. King had a heart attack. I was so upset. I babble when I get upset. If I start to babble, stop me. I won’t be offended. Really. Anyway, the same Russian stopped by this afternoon asking if I knew Mrs. King’s family.”

  A money-grubber, just as I thought. I smirked at Penny Sue.

  “I said no and he left. Within an hour, the scraping started.”

  “Can you be more specific about the sound?” Penny Sue asked, arms folded across her chest.

  “A metal on metal sound.”

  “Which side of your building did it come from?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “I think we should check it out,” Penny Sue said in her Jessica Fletcher Murder She Wrote tone. “But I’m certain Yuri had nothing to do with it.”

  Guthrie downed his drink and eased his leg to the floor. “Okay. Can I stay here tonight? I promise not to get in the way.”

  Ruthie helped him stand up. “Of course, we’d love to have you.”

  Penny Sue curled her lip.

  With a shoulder under each armpit, Ruthie and I helped Guthrie up the hill to his condo. Penny Sue led the way with our new halogen lantern, a crow bar from the utility room, and her .38 stuffed in the pocket of her capris. She thought she’d hidden it from us, but the bulge was unmistakable. Under normal circumstances, I would have been annoyed—her darned gun had gotten us in a lot of trouble. I didn’t care this time. I was fairly certain we wouldn’t find anything. Why would a burglar come back in broad daylight?

  After considerable huffing, puffing, and a few stops, we got Guthrie up the hill to his unit. I noticed he had hurricane shutters, which were already rolled down. Hmmm, maybe we should stay with him. He has shutters and was on higher ground. I’d broach the subject to Penny Sue later. Not now, not with the gun in her pocket. (Penny Sue’s hormones weren’t completely out of kilter; still, no sense taking chances.)

  “Which unit is Mrs. King’s?” Penny Sue asked, sounding like a feminine Perry Mason.

  Guthrie pointed straight ahead. Penny Sue did a walk around, while Ruthie and I eased Guthrie to the staircase of his condo. Penny Sue returned with tight lips. Something was wrong.

  “Someone’s been in the crawl space under Mrs. King’s condo. There are scuff marks in the sand, and the crawl space door has been opened.”

  Penny Sue pointed at Guthrie sternly. He cringed. I didn’t blame him, this personality reminded me of The Terminator.

  “The door to your crawl space is coated with sand and cobwebs, meaning no one’s been in it for a long time. No cobwebs at Mrs. King’s.”

  “Did you look inside?”

  Penny Sue handed the lantern to Ruthie. “No, I think Ruthie would be a better fit. The doorway’s pretty small.”

  Ruthie shoved the lantern back at Penny Sue. “Forget it. You know I’m claustrophobic.”

  They both stared at me, the lantern hanging limply from Penny Sue’s fingers. I stifled the urge to smack it away. Why me? Why did I have to do everything? Because I was a big dope. But, I wasn’t going to give in this time.

  Guthrie broke the impasse. “It was probably the pesticide guy spraying for bugs. I’ll bet that’s why the door’s been opened.”

  I frowned. “Spraying on a day when everything is closed for a hurricane?”

  “Maybe he was already in the neighborhood.”

  “What about the grinding sound? Was that bug spraying?”

  Guthrie studied his chicken. “No,” he said quietly. He motioned to his knee. “I’d do it, but—”

  I snatched the lantern from Penny Sue and stifled a heavy sigh. “Quit! You big bunch of scaredy cats, I’ll look!” I stomped around back, Ruthie and Penny Sue following on my heels. I dropped to my knees and examined the door. It was brown wood to match the building and about two feet wide and three feet tall. I snuck a glance at Penny Sue’s rear end. Yep, definitely a tight fit.

  She caught my look. “I know what you’re thinking. I haven’t put on that much weight.”

  I chuckled and went to work on the slide-bolt lock. After a lot of grunting and a few curses from me, the lock gave. Lantern held high in front of me, I gingerly crawled in as far as my head and shoulders. The bottom of the area was concrete slab, while pipes and plastic conduit crisscrossed above my head.

  Penny Sue’s chin rested on my shoulder. “What do you see?”

  I shrugged, bumping Penny Sue’s chin. “Give me some room. I see the underbelly of a house, what do you think?” And something skittering in the distance! I jerked backward, sending Penny Sue sprawling. “Something’s moving in there.”

  Penny Sue scrambled to her feet and pulled out her .38. “A snake?” she shrieked. “There are rattlers around here, you know.”

  I slammed the door and locked it. “I don’t know what it was, and I’m not going to find out. Besides, I didn’t see any evidence of tampering. Concrete and pipes, nothing else.” I brushed myself off.

  “What do you suppose Guthrie heard?” Ruthie asked.


  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Heck, it was probably someone rolling down a hurricane shutter. That would make a scraping noise. I’ll bet most of these shutters haven’t been moved in years.”

  Penny Sue’s eyes brightened. “You’re right, I’ll bet it was a hurricane shutter. That would explain the scraping sound.”

  “And, maybe he’d been tasting his brownies,” I said with a wink.

  Penny Sue chuckled, but Ruthie gave me a dumb look.

  “Come on, Ruthie, you remember Alice’s Restaurant. What did Alice put in the brownies?”

  Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh-h!”

  “Are you sure that was Alice’s Restaurant?” Penny Sue shoved the revolver back in her pocket.

  Now that she mentioned it, I wasn’t sure. “Not one hundred percent.” I brushed hair out of my face, the wind was picking up.

  “We’d better be careful how many we eat tonight.”

  Ruthie’s mouth dropped. “You’d eat them?”

  Penny Sue dipped her chin and grinned. “I’ll try one. He’s a guest, after all. We can’t be rude.” She started up the hill toward Guthrie’s stairs. “You invited him, Ruthie, so you must try one, too.”

  Ruthie canted her head defiantly. “Not if I’m allergic to chocolate or on a diet.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Penny Sue shot back.

  “Peace of mind is more important than diarrhea,” Ruthie fairly shouted.

  That stopped Penny Sue in her tracks. She turned around and gave Ruthie a slow, long look over. “What in the crap—excuse my French—does that mean?”

  Ruthie put her hands on her hips. “A quote from Hugh Prather. Surely, you remember Hugh Prather. Notes to Myself and Notes on Courage. The man is a legend.”

  Penny Sue put her fist on her hip, thankfully the hip without the gun. “I missed that legend.” She started back around the building. “What does diarrhea have to do with peace of mind?” she called over her shoulder.

  Ruthie and I huffed after her. I could tell Ruthie was winding up for one of her spiritual lectures. We rounded the corner and found Penny Sue sitting next to Guthrie on the bottom step.

  “Hugh Prather’s one of my favorite authors,” Guthrie gushed. “Hugh was saying that we should be as vigilant with our peace of mind as we are with diarrhea. You know, like, if you have diarrhea—”

  “’Nuf said!” Penny Sue raised her face to the heavens. “Two of ’em, heaven help us.”

  Penny Sue left abruptly, claiming an urgent problem with her peace of mind. Ruthie and I helped Guthrie up the stairs to his condo—no small feat, since the chicken had thawed and kept slithering down his leg. After two attempts to tie it back in place, we gave up and left it around his ankle. It was time for him to move on to pork chops, anyway. We told Guthrie to call for help when he was ready to come over and then left. The phone was ringing when we arrived. It was Frannie May calling from Boston.

  “I’m not sure you should stay there on the beach,” she started. “Carl’s home, and you’re welcome to weather the storm at my house. It’s a cinderblock house that’s built to hurricane codes. You’ll be safe there.”

  Penny Sue sauntered in from the deck sipping a martini.

  “Frannie May,” I mouthed.

  She shook her head and whispered, “We’ll be fine here.”

  I thanked Fran and promised to call Carl if things got dicey.

  I stared at Penny Sue’s martini. “You said you were having acute peace of mind problems.”

  She held up the drink as Ruthie came in from our bedroom. “I was. This is the cure.”

  “We thought you had diarrhea and were being polite with the peace of mind stuff,” Ruthie said.

  Penny Sue squared her shoulders. “If I’d listened to you and Guthrie much longer, I would have had a terrible case of the runs. The way you two went on, I’m convinced there is a link between peace of mind and gastric distress.” She took a sip. “Want one? It’ll cure what ails ya.”

  Ruthie and I gave each other the she-is-awful look, then nodded.

  “Make mine dirty,” Ruthie said loudly.

  I nearly fell through the floor. Ruthie rarely drank, except in our company, and usually she’d sip a single glass of wine for an entire evening. (Yes, we were a bad influence.) For her to pipe up wanting a dirty martini was on par with the Dalai Lama asking to see an X-rated movie. Okay, maybe not X-rated, but at least PG-13.

  “Dirty it is.” Penny Sue pulled out gin and a big jar of olives.

  As she prepared the drinks, the phone rang again. It was our friend Chris, the former proprietor of a local New Age shop, now owner of a store in St. Augustine. She was worried that I might be staying alone on the beach. We were all welcome at her house—or if things looked bad there, her store. I assured her we were well prepared, and would call if the situation went downhill.

  Penny Sue handed Ruthie a martini with a toothpick skewering at least six olives. Mine only had one.

  “Dirty means you add olive juice. The extra olives were my idea,” Penny Sue explained.

  Shoot, wish I’d known that, I’d have gone for a dirty drink, too.

  We took our cocktails into the living room and tuned to the Weather Channel. Charley had taken a turn for the worse; it was now a Category 4 storm. Translation: You’d better write your social security number on your arm in permanent ink, along with the name and phone number of your next of kin. You’d also better have your affairs in order, unless you happen to live in a bomb shelter. Hurricane Andrew was a strong Category 4, and it blew away everything in its path, except the strongest bank vaults. A problem if your bank went for the lowest bid. In that case, your safe deposit box’s contents were strewn across Mexico.

  Being a Category 4 was bad enough; worse, it was hitting south of Tampa and headed east—our way. At that news, Ruthie stripped all the olives from the toothpick and chugged the rest of her martini. “We have to get out of here,” she wailed.

  “Out, where?” Penny Sue bellowed. “Look at the strike zone, everything close by is in it.”

  “Maybe we should tape the windows with big Xs.”

  “Not necessary. Daddy had all the windows replaced with hurricane-rated jobs.”

  “Yeah, but what are they rated to? I think we should get out of here and go to Fran’s house,” Ruthie said.

  I had to intervene on that one. Since living in New Smyrna, I’d learned from old-timers that the Inland Waterway was a flood zone. The beach wasn’t. Screwy, I admit, but true. It had to do with water building up in inlets versus a straight coastline that allowed the storm surge to spread out horizontally, instead of vertically. “We’re probably as safe here as we would be at Fran’s.”

  Ruthie regarded me as if I’d lost my mind.

  “Really, I’ve checked it out. Fran’s house is in a worse flood plain than we are. Besides, it’s a compact storm and will surely lose steam as it moves over land. If we stay in the closet, I think we’ll be safe. This building has been here a long time and weathered a lot of storms.” I thought, but didn’t say, “I hope those storms didn’t weaken the structure.”

  Ruthie didn’t get a chance to argue. Guthrie called. He’d seen the same forecast on the Weather Channel, had given up on the hobo stew, and was ready to come over with his brownies and sleeping bag.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  August 13, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  It would take all three of us to get Guthrie down to our place. Rain was already falling thanks to Charley’s feeder bands, so we donned the yellow slickers that Penny Sue had purchased. When we arrived at his place, Guthrie was waiting by the door wearing an old Pith helmet and a dry cleaning bag in lieu of a raincoat. Once again, Ruthie and I supported him with a shoulder under each armpit. Penny Sue shrugged into his knapsack and carried a large pan of brownies and a tarp-wrapped sleeping bag. She was none too happy about it.

  “What do I look like, a pack mule?” she muttered under her breath as we trudged down the
slope to our unit.

  Don’t tempt me, I thought. Her load was a fraction of ours. While Guthrie was fairly slim, he weighed at least one-eighty, not counting the package of frozen sirloin tied to his knee.

  “What’s in this knapsack anyway?” she groused.

  “Frozen food for my knee,” he said haltingly as we hopped him down the hill. “And, some protection.”

  “The Glock?” I asked.

  “Looters are always a problem after storms.”

  The blood drained from Ruthie’s face. “Looters?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Penny Sue said, softening toward Guthrie. “Hmph, I need to make sure my gun is loaded.”

  I gritted my teeth. Not her damned .38, again. Penny Sue and guns spelled trouble.

  The light sprinkle turned to a torrential downpour by the time we reached the condo. Ruthie had the forethought to cover the floor with towels so we wouldn’t track water. Good thing, too, because we were soaked. We leaned Guthrie against the wall and ripped off his cleaner’s bag. Then we shed our slickers in a heap and hopped Guthrie to the living room. The television was already on. Clearly put out, Penny Sue trailed behind, dripping water. She dropped the sleeping bag in the dining room, and plopped the knapsack and brownies on the kitchen counter.

  “Are we having fun now?” she asked sarcastically, pulling off her raingear and stuffing it in the sink.

  “We will in a minute. Bring in the brownies,” Guthrie called, propping his bum leg on the coffee table. “My brownies are guaranteed to brighten your day. Brownies for everyone!”

  Ruthie, Penny Sue, and I exchanged wide-eyed glances. We’d never decided if it was Alice, of Alice’s Restaurant fame, who baked marijuana brownies. Somebody baked them in an old movie—we just couldn’t remember which one. In any event, Guthrie’s enthusiasm made us leery of his baked goods.

  Penny Sue handed Ruthie the pan, a knife, and a napkin. “Thanks, but I’m on a diet,” she said.

  Ruthie placed the pan on the coffee table and dished up a brownie. Guthrie ate it in two bites. She gave him another. He downed that one just as fast. “Come on, try one,” he said, still chewing.