Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “I didn’t think aluminum rusted,” I said.

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Can you fix it? I’ll pay,” Penny Sue offered. “Mrs. King’s in the hospital with a heart attack—she doesn’t need to be bothered with this.”

  “No time soon. I wouldn’t know where to buy this stuff. Best I can do is leave the water main turned off and make a few phone calls. A permit should have been filed with the city and that will give me the contractor’s name. I can’t find out anything until Monday, at the earliest, though.”

  Penny Sue turned to me. “Good thing Mrs. King’s still at Bert Fish. We should check on her. If we find her contractor, maybe we can have it fixed before she gets home.”

  Good ole Penny Sue. She didn’t even know Mrs. King. ’Course, Penny Sue also had money to burn.

  “I’ll call you on Monday,” Sonny said, gathering his tools. He stood, tugged up his pants, and headed for his truck. “Right now I need to deal with a big, old live oak that smashed my garage.”

  Penny Sue followed him to the truck and slipped him a couple of hundred dollar bills. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming.”

  He tried to give the cash back, but she stepped away. “You’ll need that for your garage.”

  He nodded his thanks and left.

  Penny Sue was such a generous—and complicated—person, the exchange brought a tear to my eye. Thankfully, Ruthie came from the side of our condo before I tuned-up, as Grammy Martin called crying. “I guess we’d better check on the rest of the damage,” I said.

  “The judge lost some shingles on the roof facing the beach, and the metal chimney blew off,” Ruthie reported. “The condo’s coated in sand, otherwise in good shape. Your neighbors didn’t fare as well. He lost all the outside light fixtures and most of the shingles facing the ocean. The tarpaper even ripped off, exposing a lot of wood. I’ll bet the wallboard inside is soaked.”

  “Did you check on Guthrie?”

  “Sound asleep on the sofa.”

  “We’d better take a look at his place.” Penny Sue pointed to the broken window. “Ruthie, would you get his key? I want to know what’s what before we drag him up this hill.”

  I stooped to examine Guthrie’s hurricane shutters that had fallen. Roll down shutters, they were constructed of horizontal aluminum slats. Aside from a few chips in the paint, the window covers seemed sturdy, yet both had sheared off in approximately the same place. I studied the sheared edge. It was wavy, but smooth. No jagged edges or creases for that matter. “Penny Sue, take at look at this.”

  She dropped to her knees beside me.

  “Do you notice anything unusual about this shutter?”

  She ran her finger along the torn edge. “The side is slick. And look.” She held up her finger, covered in a rust-colored powder, just like Mrs. King’s wire. “Like you said, aluminum doesn’t rust. Something very fishy is going on here.” Her forehead creased with thought. “Guthrie heard a scraping sound. Metal on metal, he said.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The windows are only about six feet off the ground. Suppose a person took something sharp, like a rake, and scratched off the paint on the shutters.”

  “Okay …?”

  She cocked her head. “The paint protects the aluminum, and now the metal’s exposed to salt air.”

  I shook my head. “No cigar. It’s impossible for aluminum to corrode that fast.”

  “Maybe the corrosion started, weakening the slat, and then Charley—”

  I gave her a thumb-down. “The edge would be ripped, not smooth.”

  Penny Sue’s lips tightened. “Well, maybe someone threw acid on it and that ate through the exposed metal.”

  “Too dangerous. It might splash on the saboteur.”

  “He wore a raincoat and hat. And he didn’t throw it on, he swabbed the scratch with an acid-soaked sponge.”

  That might work. Besides, it was obvious she wasn’t going to give up. “I’ll allow that theory.”

  She grinned sanctimoniously.

  “What acid eats aluminum?”

  Penny Sue tilted her chin regally. “I’m not an encyclopedia. You can’t expect me to know everything.”

  I closed my eyes and thought of my dear, departed Grandma Martin. Grab patience and might, she used to say in situations like this. “Help me, Grammy,” I pleaded silently. “I need a passel of patience for Penny Sue.”

  Just then, Ruthie returned with the key and we headed up the stairs to Guthrie’s condo.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Happy as a clam. He’s stretched out on the sofa listening to the local stations. He’s a veritable font of knowledge on all the damage, looting, you name it. Of course, I had to tend to his knee. We were pretty much out of his frozen foods, and I couldn’t tell which was ours and which was his. So, I took some ice from the cooler.”

  Penny Sue frowned. “We have no idea how long the power will be off. We may need that ice for drinks.”

  “His knee really looks bad. When we finish here, we should insist on taking him to the emergency room. His leg should be X-rayed—he may have broken something.”

  “I agree. We can check in on Nana while we’re there.”

  The spirits, as Ruthie would say, were obviously looking after Guthrie. The broken window was to his utility room—a washer, dryer, and concrete floor. Granted, the room was filled with water, sand, leaves, and a poor, dead seagull, but nothing that couldn’t be cleaned.

  Ruthie found a purple towel in the dryer and gently wrapped it around the seagull. We stood in a circle while Ruthie said a prayer. She blessed the gull for all its selfless contributions to our plane (translation: Earth) and commended his spirit to the great gull attractor field in another dimension, where he would never feel pain again.

  As a consummate New Ager, Ruthie’s service didn’t surprise me, except for the attractor field part. That was a new tangent for her. I made a mental note to ask about it later.

  Ruthie sat on the porch, lovingly cradling the towel-wrapped gull, while Penny Sue and I finished the inspection. We found no major damage, except for a possible leak in the vent fan in the master bathroom.

  “Rain probably blew down the roof vent,” Penny Sue said.

  I agreed quickly, anxious to leave Guthrie’s personal space. Aside from a ten-by-fourteen headshot of a very handsome man, whom I assumed was his friend Timothy, the room was unremarkable except for the incredible clutter. In my experience, gay men’s housekeeping put Martha Stewart to shame. Guthrie was clearly the exception. Of course, he might not be gay. Plus, none of it was my business, I told myself wryly.

  Guthrie had polished off all the Hershey Kisses and half the Snickers by the time we returned. The electricity was still off, so he was listening to local TV on our boom box. “Man, there’s another one out there.”

  “Another what?” Penny Sue asked sharply, probably peeved he’d helped himself to her candy bars.

  “A hurricane. Man, we can’t get a break.” He noticed the purple towel Ruthie was carrying. “You brought my laundry?”

  Ruthie gave him the most hateful look—or as close to hateful as she gets, which is a long shot from most people, like Penny Sue and me—I’d ever seen. “The window in your utility room broke and a poor seagull blew in and died. We need to bury him.”

  Guthrie bolted upright as if spring-loaded. “Man, that’s awful. I’m sorry I was flip.” He struggled to his feet. “Absolutely, we need to give him or her a decent burial. I could make a headstone. But we don’t know his name, do we? Guthrie Gull. That fits, don’t you think?” He paused. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry, I babble when I get nervous—”

  I patted the air, indicating he should sit back down. He complied meekly. I turned to Ruthie. “Where do you think we should bury him?”

  “In the sand dune,” she said without hesitation. “Ashes to ashes—”

  “Sand to sand,” Guthrie piped in. “Should we call, like, a priest or something?
”

  “We said a prayer when we found him,” Penny Sue said, still eyeing the half-full bag of Snickers on the coffee table. “Now, we need to lay him to rest respectfully.”

  “Right. You’re absolutely right.”

  I went to help Guthrie. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Ruthie led the way, Penny Sue followed, and I brought up the rear supporting our hobbling neighbor. Halfway across the deck, Penny Sue relented (apparently deciding to let eaten Snickers lie) and dropped back to help me with Guthrie.

  The burial was short and solemn, partly because we’d already commended the gull’s soul to the great attractor field, and partly because it started to rain and we didn’t have an umbrella. Apparently, Charley wasn’t finished with us yet.

  We’d only been inside a couple of seconds when someone knocked frantically on the front door. Penny Sue hurried to answer it. “My, my.” We heard her exclaim. A moment later, much to Penny Sue’s chagrin, it became clear that the visitor was Timothy, the good-looking guy whose picture was displayed on Guthrie’s bedroom wall.

  “Is he here?” our visitor demanded, obviously assuming we knew who he was.

  Penny Sue stepped aside and motioned to the sofa. Timothy rushed past her and knelt on the tile floor beside Guthrie.

  “Timmy!”

  “Guthrie!”

  Geez, it was like a scene from a bad B-movie.

  “I came as soon as I got Mother home and settled. She was lucky—her house had no damage and the electricity was on.” Timothy gingerly touched Guthrie’s bandaged knee, grimacing at the filthy, sirloin-blood-stained Ace bandage.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Timothy.” I held out my hand. Timothy stood to his full six-plus feet of hard-packed muscle. Guthrie’s picture didn’t do him justice—this guy was truly awesome. “Guthrie’s mentioned you several times.” I nodded at our friend on the sofa. “We think he should go to the hospital and have his knee X-rayed, but he won’t listen to us.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not giving him a choice.” Slipping one arm under Guthrie’s shoulders and the other under his legs, Timothy lifted Guthrie like a doll.

  “Holy shit,” Penny Sue muttered, eyes bulging like Timothy’s biceps, triceps, and other ’ceps we’d probably never heard of.

  Guthrie tittered, wrapping one arm around Timothy’s neck and waving to us with the other. “Like, I guess I’m going to the hospital. Thanks ladies, it’s been real.”

  I ran ahead to get the front door. Timothy raised his chin toward a baby blue BMW. I got the hint and opened the passenger-side door. He placed Guthrie on the seat as gently as a feather.

  “I’ll stop by later to pick up Guthrie’s things. I can’t thank you enough for looking after him.” With that Timmy peeled off to the hospital.

  Penny Sue was standing in the doorway when I returned. “What an Adonis! Laa, he’s about the best built man I’ve ever seen. And he’s in love with Guthrie! What a loss for womanhood.”

  “Opposites attract,” I said, heading down the hall, Snickers on my mind.

  “C’est la vie.” Ruthie turned on her heel and followed me.

  “Yeah,” Penny Sue said loudly, but it’s a real pisser. She fanned herself, chomping on a candy bar. “It’s getting hot in here.” She peered out the window. “It’s stopped raining. Let’s walk around the complex and check the damage.” She glanced at Ruthie. “What about the beach?”

  “Half of the first dune is gone.”

  “Could have been worse. One and a half is better than none.” Penny Sue snagged ice from the cooler and poured a diet cola.

  We went out the sliding glass door to the deck and followed the public boardwalk for the complex. From that angle, we had a better view of the condos’ roofs, many of which were missing large swaths of shingles.

  Ruthie pointed to the three-story unit on the far side of Guthrie’s duplex. A man sat in the corner of the second story balcony. “Someone else braved the storm. Do you know him?”

  I squinted in his direction. “That’s one of the condos that recently sold. I wonder if he’s the new owner.”

  The man stood, raising his arm. “Seems friendly, he’s waving to us.” Penny Sue waved back.

  Then, we heard a muffled pop. The man lurched against the handrail, the railing collapsed, and he crashed to the ground.

  “Magawd,” I croaked, my hand fluttering to my heart. Ruthie froze, eyes the size of saucers.

  Bless her heart, Penny Sue hailed from heartier stock. Probably the result of all the firearm, Tae Kwon Do, and terrorist avoidance driving courses she’d taken. In any event, this was one time I was happy for Penny Sue to take control. “Ruthie, run get a cell phone. Call 9-1-1. Leigh, you’re with me.”

  Huh? I wasn’t good with mangled bodies. She grabbed my arm and yanked, I had no choice.

  The man had landed face down in the sand, with one leg folded under his abdomen and one hand bent backward. Penny Sue felt his neck for a pulse and grimaced. “Help me roll him over. I’ll try CPR.”

  One look at his contorted hand and my mouth filled with the taste of Snickers. I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard. “You can do this,” I told myself. “You have to do this!”

  I placed my hands on his torso, and rolled him to his back. Poised on her knees ready to administer CPR, Penny Sue gagged at the sight of the bullet hole in the middle of his chest and sat down hard. A handgun that looked a lot like Guthrie’s Glock was under the body. Blood oozed from the hole in the man’s chest. CPR forgotten, Penny Sue and I scrambled away from the corpse. At that moment, Ruthie barreled up with her cell phone. She took one look, whirled around, and vomited. Penny Sue and I held our noses and crawled to the side of the building.

  “Toss me the cell phone,” Penny Sue called to Ruthie. “We’ll take care of this. Go back to the condo and clean yourself up.”

  Ruthie threw the phone and made a half-hearted attempt to kick sand over the vomit while Penny Sue dialed 9-1-1. “You just got a call about an injured man. Yeah, that’s the one. Send the police. It’s a gunshot wound.”

  A patrol car and fire truck arrived simultaneously. A female officer bounded from the patrol car, gun drawn. She slowly turned in a circle, searching nearby balconies, while her male partner stooped beside the paramedic. The examination only took a minute. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that this man was dead as a doornail.

  Huddled against the side of the building, Penny Sue whispered, “His gun must have gone off when he fell. He might have survived the fall otherwise.”

  “What was he doing with a gun?”

  “Looters. After all, someone tried to break into Mrs. King’s condo. They would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for her burglar alarm. But alarms aren’t working now—even the backup batteries have run out of juice.”

  “I heard a pop, didn’t you?” I said.

  “The railing giving way. These condos are old, and the wood dries out and rots if it’s not properly maintained. That’s why so many people are switching to aluminum. A couple of years ago, a balcony down the beach collapsed and a whole family was injured.”

  The female officer, Heather Brooks, squatted beside us with a notebook and a big roll of yellow crime tape. “We need to rope off this area. Do you live in the complex?”

  I nodded. “At the end of the boardwalk, number forty-two.”

  Heather wrote it down. “Your name?”

  “Leigh Stratton. That’s L-e-i-g-h.”

  She tilted her head at Penny Sue. “You’re staying together?”

  “Yes, it’s my father’s condo.”

  “And you are?”

  “Penny Sue Parker.”

  The officer did a double take. “Sorry.” She grinned sheepishly. “Could you give me that again?”

  “Penny, P-e-n-n-y. Sue—”

  The officer held up her hand. “Got it.”

  “Parker.”

  Heather consulted the previous page of her notebook. “You made the second call. Ruthie Nichols made the f
irst call. Do you know her?”

  “She’s staying with us, too. We sent her back to the condo to clean up …” Penny Sue pointed at the pool of puke. “Ruthie isn’t good in a crisis.”

  Heather scrunched her nose. “I see. The three of you witnessed what happened?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The officer made a notation in her book, stood, and reached down to help us to our feet. I was grateful for her assistance; my knees were still a little wobbly.

  “Someone will be down to take your statements as soon as we secure the area. In the meantime, you should keep your doors locked.”

  Oh, boy. My right knee started to twitch.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  August 14, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  Ruthie sat at the kitchen counter cradling her head in her hands. She’d changed into a yellow cotton shirt with matching culottes. Un-ironed, since there was no electricity. Normally a fashion plate, ironing was clearly not high on Ruthie’s list at the present time.

  Penny Sue rubbed Ruthie’s shoulder. “You all right?”

  Ruthie shook her head no.

  “A cola will settle your stomach.” Penny Sue pulled three diet colas from the cooler in the closet and poured them into Styrofoam cups with a smidgen of ice. “Not much ice,” Penny Sue said, handing the cup to Ruthie. “Who knows how long the power will be out?”

  Ruthie spoke without lifting her head. “Electric feeder lines are down. New Smyrna Utilities has no idea when power will be restored. We have to conserve water. Almost all the pumping stations are running on generators. We should limit flushing toilets.”

  “Toilets aren’t a problem, because we can always use ocean water. There are some buckets in the utility room,” I said.

  “Right,” Penny Sue agreed brightly, trying to cheer up Ruthie. “Y’all made fun of me, but we have a ton of food and bottled water. Best of all, we can cook—we have gas!”

  Ruthie raised her head and stared at Penny Sue with red-rimmed eyes. “You are bad luck.”

  Penny Sue tilted her chin haughtily. “I most certainly am not! I had nothing to do with that man,” she turned on me, “did I, Leigh?”