Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “I had a sandwich a few minutes before you called,” Ruthie said.

  Spying what looked like lumps of nuts on the top of the brownies, I fibbed, “I’m allergic to nuts.”

  “Bummer,” Guthrie mumbled. “Well, can’t let them go to waste.” He held out his hand and took a third. “If things get dull, I brought my tape of Alice’s Restaurant. It’s in the knapsack.”

  “Whoopee,” Penny Sue muttered, unzipping the canvas bag.

  “You have a VCR, don’t you?”

  “It’s broken,” Penny Sue replied languidly, reaching in the satchel. She came out with a well-viewed videotape and a large baggie stuffed with a handgun and ammunition. “Wow, is this a Glock forty-five?”

  “Yeah, the compact model. There’s a smaller one, but I thought it looked wussy. Man, if you’re going to carry a gun, you want something that makes a statement.”

  Penny Sue smirked at me. “My sentiments, exactly.”

  Brother, I wish he hadn’t said that. Penny Sue’s .38 was bad enough, with a little encouragement she’d probably buy an M16.

  Penny Sue finished unloading the knapsack of its frozen contents and stowed them in the freezer.

  “Flip to Channel 9,” Guthrie instructed. “They have a man in Punta Gorda. Charley’s coming ashore at Fort Myers.”

  Ruthie changed the channel. “Hotel rooms in Central Florida are booked with people fleeing Tampa Bay. With the unexpected turn in the storm, there’s no place for southern residents to go except shelters,” the anchorwoman said. The picture flashed to boats pitching and crashing in a marina. A reporter in Punta Gorda came on by telephone from the hallway of a hotel. He’d barely begun his story when there was a loud ripping sound. “The hotel’s roof just peeled away!” the reporter shouted.

  “Don’t panic, Ruthie. The storm will blow out before it gets here,” Penny Sue said.

  “Yeah, we’re only expected to get Category 1 or tropical force winds,” Guthrie added.

  “But the eye is supposed to pass over Daytona Beach at eleven tonight. That’s only thirty miles north,” Ruthie whined.

  “Yes, and six hours for the storm to change course.” Penny Sue popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and put out a plate of caviar and crackers. “I’ve never thrown a hurricane party before. Come on, let’s get on with it.”

  We spent the evening eating, channel surfing between the Weather Channel and local stations, and answering the phone. News of the storm’s path through Daytona Beach spread fast. Our fathers, my son, Ruthie’s daughter, and assorted friends called to check our status. “Don’t worry,” we told them bravely. “Winds will die down before Charley reaches us.”

  I hoped our bravery didn’t turn out to be stupidity.

  By nine o’clock the storm had reached Orlando with high winds, torrential rains, and power outages. We’d finished the champagne, caviar, and a large tray of Stouffer’s chicken lasagna. Guthrie had polished off the brownies by eight and taken to teaching Pete, the toy Parrot, to talk. “One,” he said. The toy squawked, “On-ne.”

  “Two.” The bird croaked, “Two-o.”

  “Three.” Guthrie kept going to ten.

  The three of us sat at the kitchen counter, one eye on the TV, the other on our hippie friend with chopped meat bandaged to his leg.

  Penny Sue said, “Hide the Furby.”

  I covered my mouth and whispered. “He thinks the bird is really learning. I’d say that proves the brownies were spiked with something.”

  “He ate the whole tray,” Ruthie exclaimed.

  “He’ll probably pass out any minute.” Wrong.

  “I’ve taught Pete to count,” Guthrie called happily. “Show them, Pete.”

  “Show them, Pete,” the bird aped.

  We bit our lips.

  “One, two, three-e,” Guthrie prompted.

  “One, two, three-e.”

  “And?” Guthrie leaned forward, his face within inches of the bird. “Four, five, six,” he whispered.

  “Four, five, six,” the bird said softly.

  Penny Sue sputtered, unable to control herself any longer. Pete cackled like Penny Sue.

  “His name is Pete the Repeat Parrot,” I said. “He only mimics what you say. He doesn’t remember any of it.”

  Guthrie folded his arms, eyes narrowed. “Man, that was a waste of time.” He reached for his knee. “I need to change the bandage. My meat’s thawed and started to drip. There should be a bag of succotash in the freezer.”

  A gust of wind rocked the patio door. Rain pounded the building like shrapnel.

  “Man, I’m suddenly really hungry.” He spied the candy piled on the kitchen counter. “Those Hershey Kisses look mighty good.”

  I got the succotash as Ruthie poured the candy into a bowl. He handed me the thawed, bloody sirloin that had leaked and wrapped the vegetables on his knee with the soiled Ace bandage. I put the meat down the garbage disposal. Yuck!

  We spent the rest of the evening eating—we even cracked a couple of cans of Vienna sausages—and watched the storm’s progress. We had electricity, though there were several ominous brownouts. Fortunately, our stove was natural gas, so we could cook even if the electricity failed.

  The wind was howling as eleven o’clock drew near, but except for occasional hits by palm fronds and debris, there didn’t seem to be major damage. Still, Ruthie insisted we all go into the closet at ten-thirty. I gave my chair to Guthrie, who propped his leg on the cooler. I sat cross-legged on the floor. We left the TV on in the living room, volume maxed, so we could track the hurricane’s progress. At eleven o’clock there was a report of looting in Orange County.

  Penny Sue took her .38 from her pocket, slipped it out of the holster and placed it on a shelf in easy reach. “Can’t be too careful,” was all she said. “Where’s your Glock?” she asked Guthrie.

  “On the coffee table. It’s loaded. If you hear anything, one of you run get it.”

  About eleven fifteen, the storm passed off the coast of Daytona Beach and we ventured from the closet. Though the wind still raged, blowing rain in horizontal sheets, Charley was kind to us. We seemed no worse for the wear. At least there were no leaks or outward signs of damage.

  Penny Sue cracked the second bottle of champagne to toast our good fortune, and we all proceeded to turn in for the night. I helped Guthrie unroll his sleeping bag and blow up the air mattress rolled inside. I rewrapped his knee with a Birds Eye Teriyaki stir-fry and zipped him in the sleeping bag.

  “Snug as a bug in a rug,” he muttered, either very sleepy or completely stoned. Whichever, he seemed content for the rest of the night.

  Wrong.

  “Help! I’m drowning!”

  I was in the middle of a dream where I was shopping at Beall’s department store. I was standing in a mob at the jewelry counter, eyeing a humongous bottle of Joy perfume. It was hot, and I was sweating. The people around me smelled of perspiration, and I wished I could douse them all in the cologne. No sooner did I have the thought when the bottle burst. The Joy perfume ran down the counter and filled the store up to my chin. There was a mad rush as customers swam out—

  “Help! I’m stuck. I’m drowning!”

  This call, louder and more urgent than the first, woke me up. Drenched in sweat, I blinked at the early morning sun shining through the window and tried to separate dream from reality.

  A moment later a loud “Damn!” came from the hallway—unmistakably Penny Sue. “The electricity is off and the place is filled with water.”

  Ruthie and I, in the guest room’s twin beds, bolted upright.

  Ruthie swung her feet to the floor. “Heavens!” she cried.

  I stood up in ankle deep water. “The place is flooded.” Then I remembered Guthrie on his air mattress, zipped up in a sleeping bag. Lord, he really could be drowning. I slogged to the spot where I’d left him; he wasn’t there.

  “Over here,” he yelled. “Help me.”

  Lying on the air mattress, he’d floated t
o the far side of the room, behind the sofa. I splashed through the water, unzipped the sleeping bag, and pulled him to his feet.

  “Thanks, man. You saved my life. I was trapped like a big, soggy burrito. I’m indebted to you for life.”

  “Forget it. You would have done the same for me.”

  “Yeah, man, but I’m still indebted—your slave for life. If you need anything, just ask.” He rubbed his leg. “After this knee heals.”

  A slave, just what I needed. My own life was tough enough to handle. Managing Guthrie’s life was too heavy to contemplate.

  By now everyone was in the living room. “Where the hell did all this water come from?” Penny Sue asked, scanning the room with the halogen lantern.

  “Storm surge,” Ruthie said forcefully. “I warned y’all.”

  “It couldn’t be storm surge. The water would have come in through the glass doors.” I pointed to the sliding doors, where dawn was beginning to break. “In that case, Guthrie would have floated down the hall and been jammed against the front door.”

  Penny Sue dipped her hand in the ankle deep water and tasted it. “It’s not salty. This is fresh water.”

  “Rain,” Ruthie said sharply. “It ran down the hill from the other condos.”

  “Well, open the patio doors,” Penny Sue instructed, zinging into her Martha Stewart mode. “If it’s coming downhill, we have to let the water drain out. And stuff towels under the front door so no more gets in.”

  I opened the sliding glass doors. The water rushed to the deck, leaving us big toe versus ankle deep.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “There were torrential rains all night—which would have drained down here—and the hall was dry as an old bone when we went to bed.”

  Penny Sue squinted at me. I could tell she was flipping into Jessica Fletcher or Sherlock Holmes. “You’re right. With all the rain, we’d have flooded hours ago if that’s the source.” She glanced at her watch, six AM. “When the sun comes up, we should go out and investigate. This flood doesn’t make sense.” Penny Sue poured spring water into a teakettle, and put it on the gas stovetop. “What we need is a cup of strong coffee.”

  “Coffee? The electricity’s off.”

  Penny Sue smiled smugly, holding up a red box. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. These are coffee bags, like tea bags. Let them steep in hot water, and voilà, fresh brewed coffee.”

  Guthrie, who’d made his way to the sofa, raised his hand like a first-grader. “Far out. I’ll like some. Sugar, if you have it.”

  “How much?” Penny Sue asked, pulling mugs from the cabinet.

  “Three tablespoons.”

  We all did a double take. “Tablespoons?” Ruthie asked.

  “I’ve already eaten all the brownies.”

  O-okay, I wasn’t sure what that meant. Was he addicted to sugar or something else? One thing I did know, the tile floor was wet and slippery. If we didn’t mop it up fast, one of us was going to break her neck—and with my luck it would be me. Or worse, Guthrie. I had a momentary image of the three of us waiting on him for life. Unh uh!

  I headed to the utility room for a broom, bucket, and mop. I held up the broom and mop to Ruthie. “Would you rather sweep water out the back door, or mop up afterward?”

  She took the broom. The floor wasn’t level, and the water pooled in the back corner of the dining area. I pushed the water out of the corner with the sponge mop, and Ruthie swept it out the door. By the time our coffee was ready, we’d made a good dent in the mess. While we rested and sipped our java, Penny Sue took over with the mop.

  “Like another cup?” Penny Sue asked, an obvious cue for Ruthie and me to get back to work.

  I took back the mop. “How about a bagel with jelly?”

  Penny Sue shook her head. “The oven’s electric. Momma didn’t like cooking with gas, said it made sponge cakes taste like chemicals.”

  “Do it the old-fashioned way. Use the iron skillet,” I said. “Grammy Martin made toast like that on the stovetop. Like Ruth Gordon said in Harold and Maude, ‘Try something new every day.’”

  By now, we’d disposed of most of the water, yet the floor remained slick. I was also tired of squeezing the sponge mop. ‘Try something new every day.’ Old Maude was right. I went to the utility room and returned with a stack of my half sets of sheets. I dropped one on the floor and shuffled around.

  “What are you doing?” Ruthie asked, in shock.

  “Drying the floor.” I tossed her a folded sheet.

  “These are the linens you’re saving.”

  “Yeah, well, times change.”

  We finished about the same time as the bagels. Considering the electricity was out, we had a pretty good breakfast. Hot coffee, toasted bagels with jelly, and oatmeal. Sure, it was a tad heavy in the carb department, but after a dinner of caviar and Vienna sausages, what difference did it make? We’d clean up our diet next week, when the dust settled, or rather, the floor dried.

  Penny Sue drained her mug, clicked it down on the counter, and stood. “We have to stop the water.”

  Right. We were running out of sopping material for the front door and I’d already donated my remaining sheets to the cause. The sun was up, so it was time to go into action, even if we had to dig a moat around the front stoop.

  Ruthie wrapped her arms around her body as if she had a sudden chill. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  “This what?” I asked.

  “The water.”

  “Not good, how?” Penny Sue waved at Ruthie as if trying to draw out more information.

  “Not good, like evil.”

  Penny Sue, Ruthie, and I went to find the source of the water. Guthrie’s knee was still swollen and horribly bruised. It was painful to even look at. I thought we should take him to the hospital, but he refused, saying he hated doctors. Geez. I brought out the battery-powered radio for his amusement and wrapped a bag of Ore-Ida frozen fries around his leg. Before we left, he insisted I give him the Glock and ammo in case there were looters. I wasn’t in the mood to argue, but asked him to call out to us before he pulled the trigger.

  Ruthie and Penny Sue, with gun drawn, waited for me at the front door.

  “I wish you’d put that thing away,” I said, nodding at Penny Sue’s gun.

  “Heck no. You heard about the looting in Orlando last night.”

  “Those were stores. Who would loot condos?”

  She put her hands on her hips; thankfully the .38’s barrel was aimed at the wall and not me. “Crooks know most of these condos were evacuated. TVs, computers, DVDs—that’s what they want. Smash and grab. It takes an experienced crook ten seconds to break in. Even with an alarm, they’re long gone before the police arrive, especially after a storm. Ted would tell you that.”

  “Thanks, Penny Sue, that makes me feel real good. I felt secure with the alarm system until now.”

  “You should get a gun, Leigh, and take some lessons. A lone female on the beach—you’re a sitting duck.”

  Boy, she was on a roll, that made me feel even worse. “For crissakes, Penny Sue, I’ve got enough stress already. Let’s deal with the present situation, and I’ll deal with my future another time—like in the future. Maybe I’ll go into a convent, ashram, or something. Then, I won’t need a gun.”

  Penny Sue opened the door and stalked out. “That would never work—all they’d give you is gruel and sacramental wine. No ice cream, for sure.”

  She was hitting below the belt. Mint chocolate chip ice cream was my one—okay, one of several—indulgences. No mint chocolate chip? I’d have to re-think the religious commune angle.

  Penny Sue led the way with her gun at ready. I followed close behind, while Ruthie trailed by a good three yards. I hoped Ruthie was lagging because she was getting info from her spirit guides—like we should turn back. Guess not, because she didn’t say anything.

  “Look!” Penny Sue pointed at the roll-down hurricane shutters on the ocean side of Guthri
e’s condo. They had been sheered off at the top and were lying on the ground. One of the unprotected windows had blown in. She stopped to examine the closest shutter. “This is really strange. It broke off in a straight line. It’s like someone sliced it off.”

  “Don’t look now, but I see where the water’s coming from.” I pointed at the small door to the crawl space of Mrs. King’s condo that we’d inspected the previous day.

  “She must have a water main break,” Penny Sue said. “We need to find the master switch for the water to her house. Do you think Guthrie knows?”

  I gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression. After all, this was the guy who’d spent the previous evening eating brownies laced with who-knew-what and trying to teach a toy parrot to count. “Remember the parrot?”

  She got my drift. “I’d better call a plumber. I know one that Daddy helped with a legal crisis. If he’s still in business, I’m sure he’ll come. ”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Ruthie. She was staring straight ahead with her arms wrapped around her body. “What do you make of this?” I asked.

  “Evil. Evil all around us.”

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  August 14, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  “I’ve never seen anything like this.” Sonny Mallard was a prince of a guy who had left his own damaged house to help us with Mrs. King’s plumbing. He quickly found the main cut-off, solving our water problem, and had moved on to fixing the busted pipe.

  Penny Sue knelt in the doorway to the underbelly of Mrs. King’s house and watched. I peered over her shoulder.

  “This is a new plastic/aluminum composite pipe. I’ve heard about these, but never seen one before,” Sonny said. “Basically, it’s three layers. The inner and outer parts are plastic, while the middle is aluminum. Somebody stripped the outside plastic layer. Best I can tell, the aluminum disintegrated. The plastic tube in the middle couldn’t take the water pressure and popped like a balloon.”

  “The aluminum disintegrated?” Penny Sue asked.

  He peeled back an inch of the outer plastic and peered inside. “Damnest thing I’ve ever seen. I guess this was once aluminum, now it looks like rust.”