Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “Something very strange is going on. Do you have a forensics division like the one on TV, you know, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation?” I asked as we left the building. “That’s what we need. Experts, computers, and scientists. People who can explain how aluminum rusted.”

  Heather shook her head. “We’re a small city. The county doesn’t have those kinds of resources. Besides, this railing broke because of rotten wood. Whatever happened to Mrs. King or Guthrie is another matter. There’s no evidence of a crime in either case, so there’s no reason for us to get involved.”

  I understood. Guess we’d have to find our own expert if we wanted to pursue it.

  Heather thanked us for our cooperation and headed for Guthrie’s condo. We found Ruthie and headed home.

  “I love that show,” Penny Sue said.

  Huh? Penny Sue had a grasshopper mind, but this transition stumped me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Crime Scene Investigation. Gil Grissom, the leader of the team, is really sexy. A shame the electricity is off, I think it’s on TV tonight.”

  “If it’s a network show, we could listen to it on the radio,” Ruthie offered.

  “Wouldn’t be the same if you can’t see the wounds and autopsies. Do you know a forensics expert, Leigh?”

  “Not exactly.” I was thinking of Carl Aninna, Fran’s son. With all of his contacts at MIT, if Carl doesn’t know the answer, I’ll bet he can find someone who does.

  “The aluminum rusted, so what?” Ruthie said.

  “If we knew how it rusted, we might get a clue about the person who tried to break into Mrs. King’s condo.”

  Ruthie waved off my comment. “I have no intention of playing detective. This is a police matter, they’ll handle it.”

  “Not if Woody’s in charge.” Penny Sue stopped short and put her hands on her hips. “That weasel called us girls. And, what about him saying he’d instructed the police to call him whenever I’m involved in anything. Harassment, if you ask me. I’m not a criminal.” She grinned mischievously. “I’d like to solve this case just to shove it in his face. He is such a jerk. Besides, it gives us something to do while we wait for the depositions. We can’t go to any plays or movies without electricity. So many buildings are damaged, it’ll be a while before things get back to normal.”

  Ruthie grimaced. “We could read a book or play cards. Even work on our tan, once the sky clears.”

  Penny Sue curled her lip. “Bor-ing!”

  “You sound like my Furby.”

  Uh oh, they were getting testy. I turned the corner to our driveway and stopped. A black Jaguar was parked on the side of the lot. “Isn’t that Igor’s car?” I asked Penny Sue.

  “His name is Yuri.” She looked around. “I wonder where he is. I’d love to find out if he sent the pink rose.”

  I tugged her arm. “Come on, you don’t want to chase after him like a shameless hussy.”

  “Maybe he left a note on our door,” Ruthie said.

  Penny Sue grinned. “Yeah. He probably stopped by to make sure we were okay.”

  “More likely checking on Mrs. King,” I said under my breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “I need to call the hospital and check on Mrs. King.”

  “Yes, you really should.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  August 14, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  There was no note on the front door from Yuri, the hospital was short-staffed and couldn’t release patient information except to immediate family, and the condo was as hot as Hades. None of this made for good humor, especially for Penny Sue. Rubbing a coveted piece of ice on her neck and forehead, she moseyed to the front door every few minutes to check on Yuri’s car. Disgustingly thin Ruthie, immune to the heat, happily listened to the news on the boom box. As long as our batteries held out, she would be fine. I was somewhere in the middle—hot, borderline cranky, and slightly bored. I snagged one of the few remaining Snickers, which made me feel a lot better momentarily.

  “Darn,” Penny Sue muttered, stomping down the hall. “Yuri’s gone and he didn’t even come by to say ‘Hello.’” She stopped and watched me. “What are you eating?”

  I pointed to the coffee table. She snatched the cellophane bag and held it up to the light. “Three measly bars, that’s all that’s left? Guthrie ate a whole pan of brownies, all the Hershey Kisses, and most of my Snickers. Some nerve. That, after we were kind enough to let him stay with us.”

  I swallowed the last bit of candy. “He offered us some brownies.”

  “Yes, but you freaked us out with that marijuana, Alice’s Restaurant stuff. The stupid brownies were probably fine. He ate the whole pan and didn’t act much different.”

  “Who can tell? He acts spacey most of the time,” I said.

  “Well, I wish I’d tried one now. ’Course, then he’d probably have eaten all the Snickers.” Penny Sue grabbed a candy, ripped the wrapper viciously, and popped the whole thing in her mouth. “Ne-e-ew,” she started, then covered her mouth and motioned for me to wait. Finally, she swallowed, ran her tongue over her teeth—behind closed lips, of course—and spoke. “What are we going to do? I’m sure all the stores are closed.”

  “They are,” Ruthie confirmed absently.

  “Do about what? Snickers?”

  “Candy,” Penny Sue snarled with a crazed look in her eye. “We’re out, and who knows how long it will be until we can get some more!” She went to the cooler for another piece of ice that she rubbed on her neck.

  Geez, this hormone thing had hit her hard. “We have chips and dip,” I offered.

  She put her hand up her shirt and the ice cube between her boobs. She sighed with relief. “That might work.”

  Magawd! A menopausal woman with no AC, fans, or anything. What were we going to do tonight? The condo was one floor. Should we leave the windows open for air, or close them for security? Looting was not a joke, and I had no doubt our condos were good targets for crooks who knew that alarm system batteries were dead by now and most of the units were unoccupied to boot.

  “How about a glass of Chardonnay with ice?” I suggested. “We can go out on the deck—there’s probably a breeze.”

  She mopped her brow. “Wine. That would be nice.” She snatched the bag with the two remaining candy bars and headed outside.

  I popped a bottle of Chardonnay and found the Styrofoam cups. “Want some wine, Ruthie?”

  Her ear was to the speaker of the boom box. “No, I’m fine for now. I think the batteries are low.”

  “Extras are in the closet.”

  I dropped three cubes of ice into each cup, poured the wine, and stashed the bottle in the cooler. I debated whether that was a good idea. Would the wine defrost the ice? Or was it better to chill the wine so we’d use less ice? I sighed. Lordy, these were decisions I’d never faced before.

  In Atlanta we had only lost power a few times because of ice storms. Keeping things cool was never an issue. Our house had a fireplace in the den, lots of blankets, and we cooked with propane. I sat on the cooler, still holding the two glasses of wine. When I thought about it, storms in Atlanta were actually kind of fun. We ate off paper plates and snuggled around the fireplace wrapped in sleeping bags and quilts. Zack told ghost stories to pass the time—at least when the kids were young and fell for his outrageous tales. It changed when they grew up. Zack, Jr. was into soccer and girls. Ann was into the dance team and boys. Storms weren’t frequent, and we still huddled around the fireplace, yet it wasn’t the same.

  I wiped a tear from my eye. They grow up too fast.

  “Anyone home?” a male voice said. In the interest of ventilation, we’d left the front door open with the screen door latched.

  Still misty-eyed, I sat for a minute, hoping Ruthie would answer the door. She did. It was Timothy, who’d come to pick up Guthrie’s things. Penny Sue shuffled in from the deck to see what was going on. I handed her the cup of wine.

  Penny Sue raised her S
tyrofoam cup. “Can we get you something to drink? Wine, a soda?”

  Timothy held up his hands. “No thanks, I don’t drink. Gotta stay in shape.” He patted his washboard abdomen.

  Interesting. Guthrie wasn’t shy about alcohol and might even enjoy herbs and other pharmaceuticals, on occasion.

  “How is Guthrie?” I asked.

  “Nothing’s broken, thank God, but he does have a very bad bruise. He’ll have to stay off his leg and will be on crutches for at least a couple of weeks.”

  “Do you think he can manage alone?”

  “I’ll stay with him for a few days. I have a new house built to hurricane codes, so I didn’t get any damage. Others in my neighborhood weren’t so lucky. Trees are down, power’s out, and lots of roofs are ripped up.” He spied Guthrie’s knapsack, bedroll, and brownie pan stacked on the loveseat. “I see he brought his famous brownies. I won’t touch them myself.” He patted his nonexistent stomach again.

  “Are you a personal trainer?” Penny Sue asked, sauntering up to him and brazenly giving him the once over.

  Honestly, she all but drooled on his biceps. She used to be more discreet. It seemed the demure Georgia Peach I used to know had evaporated with her estrogen. Between Penny Sue and Timothy, there was a palpable testosterone overload in the room. He definitely felt it and sidestepped toward the loveseat.

  “No, a chemist. I work at the Cape.”

  “Chemist?” I said too loudly.

  He quickly grabbed Guthrie’s things.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.” I smiled sheepishly. “We were just saying how we needed a chemist, weren’t we?”

  Penny Sue and Ruthie nodded.

  Timothy smiled and started backing down the hall, clearly thinking he was about to be rushed by crazed, horny women.

  “Something strange is going on,” I said, following him.

  “Yes, the murder and all,” Timothy replied quickly.

  “It’s more than that. Guthrie’s hurricane shutters didn’t blow off. We think they were sabotaged.”

  “Oh, my.” He opened the screen door with his butt and let it slam in my face. Safely on the other side, he seemed to calm down. “I’ll be sure to look at that and help Guthrie make arrangements for repairs.”

  “We’d like your opinion on his shutters. There’s rust on the edge where they broke away, and they’re made of aluminum.”

  He flashed a movie star smile—his teeth were blinding white. “I’ll look at it and get back to you. I’m sure Guthrie has your phone number, so I’ll give you a call. Thanks again for taking care of my buddy.” Timothy turned and hotfooted up the hill.

  I whirled around, hands on hips, my elbow accidentally brushing Penny Sue’s belly. She drew back, squinty-eyed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to poke you.”

  She relaxed.

  “Penny Sue, you scared the hell out of Timothy. You acted like a sex-starved floozy. I thought you were going to tackle him and lick his arms or something.”

  Her bottom lip jutted out as her eyes contracted to slits, like a snake. “I am not a sex-starved floozy. If anyone’s sex-starved, it’s you. I didn’t do anything,” she said, glaring at Ruthie. “Did I?”

  “Don’t drag me into this. I’m not taking sides.”

  Penny Sue put her hands on her hips. “What did I do?”

  “You all but drooled on the man.”

  “Ha ha,” she chuckled theatrically. “Who shouted, ‘chemist!?’ The poor guy nearly jumped out of his skin.”

  I sighed. She was right. I canted my head apologetically. “Guilty.”

  Penny Sue shrugged. “Let’s forget it. We’re all on edge. It’s been a helluva few days.”

  “You can say that again,” Ruthie exclaimed. “The vibes in the atmosphere are truly ominous. It makes my skin crawl.”

  Back in the living room, Penny Sue and I thumped our Styrofoam cups together as a final act of forgiveness.

  “There are more hurricanes brewing?” I asked, following up on Ruthie’s comment about bad vibes in the atmosphere.

  “Two—Danielle and Earl. Danielle’s still over by Africa, and Earl’s only a tropical storm. They don’t worry me. It’s more than that.” Ruthie glanced around, searching the kitchen. “Where’s the wine?”

  I went to the closet, retrieved the now chilled Chardonnay, and poured her a glass. We all toasted this time.

  Ruthie took a dainty sip. “It’s not only the hurricanes, there’s bad energy everywhere.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Penny Sue asked.

  I switched off the radio and herded them toward the living area. Penny Sue snatched the bottle of wine as she passed the kitchen counter. Ruthie perched on the loveseat, while Penny Sue and I plopped on the sofa. I held up my hands. “Ruthie, can you tune into the vibes if we’re quiet and all concentrate?”

  “Probably.”

  “Wait. Shouldn’t we burn some sage or something?” Penny Sue asked.

  Burning sage was an American Indian tradition for cleansing spaces of bad energy that we’d used several times before in tense situations. I’m not sure it did any good, though it surely didn’t hurt. We were still alive. The only drawback was that the stuff smelled awful, a lot like marijuana, which caused considerable trouble with our prosecutor acquaintance, the spiteful Woody Woodhead.

  “Sage?” Ruthie said. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  I found some Spice Island sage in the kitchen, dumped it in a bowl on the coffee table, and lit it. The fine powder flamed for a moment, then smoldered. I fanned the stuff on all of us, including the living room, saying a silent prayer that Woody wouldn’t show up. All the doors and windows were open, since the electricity was still out. The air was hot and heavy with moisture, meaning the smoke hung in the room like stinky clouds.

  After a good cleansing with the sage—or as much as I could stand—I placed the bowl on the coffee table and let it burn out. I took my seat next to Penny Sue. Ruthie curled her legs under herself like a pretzel. Penny Sue and I glanced at each other, silently acknowledging that we couldn’t get in that position if our lives depended on it. Ruthie placed her hands, palms up, on her knees, thumb and forefinger lightly touching. Penny Sue and I mimicked the movement, though our feet were firmly planted on the floor. (Where they should be, as Grammy Martin would say.)

  Ruthie closed her eyes and we could tell she was centering. “Om-m-m-m,” she intoned.

  Penny Sue and I joined in. “Om-m-m-m.”

  Then silence—a profound silence one rarely experiences. Amazing how quiet things get without electricity. No hum of refrigerators or air conditioners. No televisions or radios playing in the distance. A quiet like people knew in the olden days, I suspected, before electricity and before we were bombarded with electromagnetic waves, continuous noise, and too much information. The quiet was unnerving. I wasn’t used to a feeling of such solitude. Finally, Ruthie spoke.

  “Chaotic energy. Mother Earth is rebalancing. There will be more storms. There are also hateful energies all around us.”

  No joke. Drug-crazed punks vandalized Mrs. King’s house and a guy just died, probably murdered. That’s pretty hateful in my book.

  “Can you pinpoint the people responsible?” Penny Sue whispered.

  I peeked at Penny Sue and saw her eyes were open and she was sipping wine.

  Ruthie thought a moment. “Greed. A rapacious craving for power. That is behind it. There are many greedy factions, all vying for the top spot.”

  “Can you tell who they are?” Penny Sue asked.

  “Only that they’re very dangerous.”

  “What should we do?” I asked.

  “There is another storm coming, much bigger than the last. Soon. We should not stay. We should go to the Old City, there is protection there.”

  “The Old City? What the heck does that mean?” Penny Sue asked.

  Ruthie opened her eyes and shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s all I got.”

  “Maybe it means the
mainland,” I said. “This island was originally named Coronado Beach. The mainland was New Smyrna. The two didn’t merge until 1947 and combined the names to New Smyrna Beach.”

  “Which is older?” Penny Sue asked.

  “I don’t know. They’re probably about the same age.”

  Penny Sue refilled her cup. “Great, that tells us a lot.”

  A knock on the screen door ended the discussion. My first thought was Woody. I sniffed the sage. Lord, please, not Woody.

  “Come on in,” Penny Sue called.

  We heard the twang of the spring on the screen door.

  “Cool, man, incense. Sage. Are y’all meditating? Can I join in?”

  Guthrie. What was he doing here? He sounded like he might have taken another pink pill. He hobbled in on crutches with Timothy walking behind him, supporting his waist. From the look on Guthrie’s face, Timothy was the only thing keeping that injured puppy on his feet. Ruthie scooted to the rattan chair and motioned for Guthrie to take the loveseat. He plopped down and put his bum leg on the coffee table.

  Timothy had changed into a tank top and running shorts. I had to admit that the man was a fine specimen of humanity. Penny Sue obviously agreed, since she was swigging wine with her eyes fixed on his muscular thighs. Considering the oppressive heat—the heat index had to be 103º—I was afraid she might burst into flames. I once saw a television program about strange phenomena that claimed spontaneous human combustion was a documented fact. Maybe we had the prerequisite combination—heat, humidity, a menopausal woman, and a very well built man.

  Guthrie patted the place beside him and Timothy sat down. Penny Sue groaned. Praise be, the spell was broken. I had no desire to be toasted by a flaming Penny Sue.

  Guthrie took a deep breath. “Man, I love sage. Terrific for putting you in touch with the Great Beyond. Lavender’s good, too. I use that a lot when I meditate. Anyway, I had to thank you for letting me hang out with y’all last night. You saved my life.”