by Mary Clay
“Yeah, man, I explained all of that to her. She’s going to stay with her granddaughter for a while. Also, there are some contractors working the neighborhood, offering to do repairs. Timothy’s sure they’re unlicensed. If they show up at your place, don’t listen to them.”
I chuckled. “They’ve already been here. Penny Sue scared them away with her .38.”
“Cool, man. Why didn’t I think of that? If Penny Sue’s little gun scared them, think what my Glock would have done. Of course, I didn’t go to the door because I’m still on crutches, and Timothy doesn’t like guns. He got rid of them, anyway.”
Yep, I wouldn’t argue with Timothy if he took to flexing his biceps.
“By the way, you left your Alice tape here. I’ll bring it back if you’d like.”
“I don’t need it right now. Keep it, man, and watch it. It’s a great show.”
“Sure, when we get the VCR fixed.”
“You can borrow mine. I’ll ask Timothy to drop it by this week.”
Oh, goody! I thanked him, trying hard to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
The next call was from dainty, little Mattie Holden. “Clyde’s beside himself. The estimate to fix our house is over $100,000. We don’t have that kind of money—we’re on a fixed income.”
“You didn’t sign anything, did you? We’re sure those contractors are fakes.”
“Clyde thought the same thing. He wanted to shoot them.”
Great, another Penny Sue. I sighed.
“Now he’s not feeling well. I think he has the flu.”
“Do you have enough to eat? Do you need anything?”
“No, there’s enough food. We have a lot of soup.”
“Good. In case you haven’t heard, Mrs. King is out of the hospital. Her heart attack was mild.”
“Too bad the old bitch didn’t die.”
My mouth fell open. “Pardon?”
“I said it’s too bad the old bitch didn’t die.”
This was sweet, polite Mattie Holden? “I thought you were friends.”
“Nana gets on my nerves. Always bragging about her wonderful kids. She’s a pain in the ass.”
Better change the subject. “Were you able to get up the glitter?”
“Yeah, Clyde vacuumed.”
“If there’s anything you need, let us know. Good-bye.” She hung up in my ear.
“What’s wrong?” Ruthie asked, noticing my expression.
“That was the most bizarre conversation. Mrs. Holden, who’s always been prim and proper, called Nana King a bitch. She said it was a shame Nana didn’t die.”
“You’re joking,” Penny Sue said.
“No. I’ve never heard Mrs. Holden talk like that.”
“Maybe she had a stroke,” Ruthie suggested. “Maybe it’s a reaction to all of this stress.”
“Or Alzheimer’s. At her age the old arteries might have hardened.”
I shook my head. “I’m stunned. That’s completely out of character for her.”
So much for our nap, we were all bummed out after the phone calls.
“I’m not sleepy any more. Let’s go for a ride,” Penny Sue said after a while. “I’m stir crazy. Besides, maybe there’s a store open that sells candy.”
We piled into her Mercedes and took a right on A1A. Palm fronds and assorted debris, primarily shingles, littered the road, yet it was passable. Utility trucks with bucket lifts were everywhere.
“Utility crews have come from all over the country, some as far away as New York. The news said crews are working twelve hour days.” Ruthie opened her backseat window and peered out. “Think how hot they must be, and they probably don’t have AC to go home to, either.”
“Yes, it’s awful. We owe them a huge debt of gratitude, but please put your window up,” Penny Sue said over her shoulder. “I’m roasting.”
Our first stop was Publix Supermarket. “They must be open, look at all the cars in the lot,” Penny Sue exclaimed. She drove to the front and found a spot close to the door. “The spirits are with us, Ruthie. Snickers must be in our future. Maybe some ice cream. Wouldn’t that be good?”
Lord, yes. Edy’s Mint Chocolate Chip with a little whipped cream—pure heaven. We headed into the store and stopped, dumbfounded. The reason for all the cars was immediately evident. Every aisle that contained frozen or refrigerated food was roped off by yellow tape. Dozens of Publix personnel worked each section—one group stripping the shelves of compromised merchandise, another restocking the shelves.
“Wow!” Penny Sue shook her head. “Sorry, no ice cream, but the candy aisle’s open.” She literally ran to that section. The stock was low. Almost everything had been sold before the hurricane, and refrigerated food obviously took precedence. Penny Sue dropped to her knees, reached to the back of the shelf, and pulled out a lone bag of Snickers. She cradled it her arms like a baby. “That darned Guthrie. I knew I should have bought more.” She gave us a crazed look. “Help me. Who knows when they’ll get another shipment?”
Ruthie and I grabbed mints, candy bars, virtually anything containing chocolate. As I was loading my arms, it suddenly hit me that chocolate was an aphrodisiac. Could that explain Penny Sue’s attraction to men? Her sweet tooth was to blame? Naw, her sweet tooth had to be a hormonal phase. She’d always been attracted to men and only recently developed an addiction to chocolate.
We paid our bill and dumped the candy in the car. The first thing Penny Sue did was open the bag of Snickers. She chomped one of the snack-sized bars with a sigh of satisfaction. Honestly, her reaction was almost obscene. She took another and had the courtesy to offer one to us. I ate mine in small bites, knowing I’d probably not get another.
Fortified with chocolate, Penny Sue was ready to explore. She took a left out of the parking lot and headed for Peninsula Avenue. The main beachside street paralleling the Intracoastal Waterway, Peninsula was lined with very large houses and stately live oaks. It was also the street that Fran lived on. We hadn’t gone far when we realized our mistake. The stately oaks did not get along with Charley. Huge branches blocked the road and had fallen on houses. Workers wielding chainsaws struggled to carve a path for utility crews. We were definitely in the way and turned around and went home.
“That’s why the police asked everyone to stay off the roads. Tree limbs and downed lines—it’s very dangerous,” Ruthie said sternly.
“Please, no lectures,” Penny Sue said as she ripped open another Snickers. “You’re right. It also shows how lucky we are—only palm trees on the beach. Those poor people may not get power for weeks.”
“Carl,” I blurted. “I wonder if he’s without electricity?” I took the car phone from its cradle and dialed. He answered on the third ring. There was a lot of commotion in the background, like a party. “Carl, it’s Leigh Stratton. Do you have electricity? If not, you’re welcome to stay with us. Our power came on last night.”
I could almost see him waving frantically at his friends. The background noise suddenly stopped. “I’m fine. We have a natural gas, whole house generator, so I have lights and air conditioning. There was a slight problem at first, but it’s fixed now. Mom called. Is there anything you need?”
“We’re okay.” I thought I detected a sigh of relief on the other end. Ten bucks said there was a big keg party going on around Fran’s pool.
“Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”
“You, too.” I replaced the receiver. “I think we’re missing one heck of a party. I’ll bet all the area Trekkies are staying with Carl.”
“I feel sorry for the neighbors,” Ruthie said. “I hope Carl and his buddies don’t start all those Klingon battle cries. They’re liable to get arrested.”
“I suspect Klingons are low on the list of police priorities today,” Penny Sue said. She wheeled into our driveway then hit the brakes hard. Mattie Holden jumped from the scrub under the public boardwalk and waved frantically. Her hair wild, her eyes crazed, she looked like she’d been through hell.
“Help! Help! Scooter and Clyde are dead!”
* * *
Chapter 9
August 15, New Smyrna Beach, FL
I leapt from the car and grasped Mattie by her shoulders. “Did you call an ambulance?”
Her head bobbled like a toy dog in the back window of a ’57 Chevy. “No.”
“Where is he?” Penny Sue shouted.
Mattie’s eyes were glazed. I shook her, trying to jog a response.
“On the floor of our bedroom, next to Scooter.” Mattie started to cry. Scooter was their Pekinese. “I thought Clyde had the flu. I didn’t know anything was wrong with Scooter. He curled up under the bed and went to sleep. He does that all the time. But when Scooter didn’t come down for his dinner, Clyde went to check. Next thing I know, Clyde threw up and keeled over.”
Penny Sue snatched her phone, dialed 9-1-1, and explained the situation. “They’re on their way. Come on, I can give him CPR. Hurry!”
I pushed Mattie into the front passenger side of the car and dove in the backseat. Penny Sue was moving before I had my door closed. The front door to Mattie’s condo was open when we arrived.
“Where’s your bedroom?” Penny Sue cried, jamming the car into park.
Mattie stared blankly.
“Probably on the second floor at the top of the stairs,” I answered, already out of the Mercedes and chasing Penny Sue. Ruthie stayed behind with Mrs. Holden.
We found Mr. Holden face down beside his bed in a pool of vomit. Scooter was sprawled beside him, obviously gone to the great dog heaven in the sky. Without missing a beat, Penny Sue slid her left arm under Clyde’s chest, raised his face off the floor, and pounded him hard between his shoulder blades. Next, she rolled him on his back, cleared his mouth with her fingers, and began pumping his chest.
I stood beside her, immobilized and awed. Penny Sue could be a hormonal flake, but she was amazing in an emergency.
Penny Sue compressed his chest quickly like a jackhammer. “One, two, three, …” she counted. “Twenty, one, two, three …” and kept going. She didn’t breathe into his mouth, which surprised me. That’s what they did on television. I almost said something, but had the good sense to keep my mouth shut. I was a wreck. Penny Sue had the moxie to kneel in puke and attempt to save the life of an old man she’d never met.
“Fifty, one, two, three …”
I heard a siren. Sweat dripped off Penny Sue onto Clyde’s face.
“Seventy, one, two, three …”
The sound of people running up the stairs and voices calling to us.
I dashed to the doorway. “In here!”
“Eighty, one, two, three …”
A slender paramedic nudged Penny Sue aside and took over.
Panting from the effort, she crawled over to me. I helped her to her feet and hugged her for all I was worth. “Penny Sue, you’re the best in my book,” I whispered.
By now the paramedics had produced paddles and given Clyde a couple of electric shocks to his chest. Two were enough. He was gone. The medic who’d taken over for Penny Sue shook his head and sighed. “Probably a massive heart attack,” he said.
A policeman and fireman ran through the doorway carrying a stretcher. The paramedic stood, an indication there wasn’t any hurry. He motioned us toward the corner of the room. I noticed his nametag—Anthony.
“How was he when you arrived?” Anthony asked.
“Face down in vomit,” I answered, since Penny Sue was still panting and not in any condition to talk. “Penny Sue did everything possible to save him. She cleared his mouth and pumped her heart out.”
Anthony regarded Penny Sue with admiration. “I heard you say ‘eighty’ when I arrived. You used that new technique, didn’t you?”
She blew out a long breath. “Learned it in an anti-terrorist training course I took in New Mexico.”
“Anti-terrorist? Are you Federal?” he asked, looking surprised.
Penny Sue still panted, perspiration streaming down her cheeks. “Her father’s a judge, so she’s in constant danger from criminals he’s locked up,” I answered for her. “She’s taken some defense courses as precautions.”
Anthony was obviously impressed. “Any idea how long he’d been out?”
“It had to be at least ten minutes,” I said. “His wife, Mattie, waved us down in the driveway. By the time we arrived, it was that long or longer. Mattie’s not acting right. I have no idea how long it took her to seek help.”
“They’re old. Like I said, he probably had a massive heart attack, and his wife’s in shock.”
I raised my hands. “Mattie was acting funny before this occurred. She wasn’t herself, something’s definitely wrong. I, we, thought maybe she’d had a stroke.”
Penny Sue locked eyes with Anthony. “Don’t write them off because they’re elderly. You should do an autopsy. Promise me you’ll insist on one.”
He winked.
Penny Sue nodded a “thanks,” then heaved, “Oh, crap.”
I followed her line of sight. Woody and Officer Heather Brooks stood in the doorway. Heather caught our eyes and shrugged.
“Amazing how you turn up whenever there’s a dead person in New Smyrna Beach,” Woody mouthed off as he strode our way. When he got within a couple of feet, Woody stopped abruptly and squinched his nose.
Penny Sue set her jaw and wagged her finger in Woody’s face. “Say one more word, and I’ll file a harassment complaint. I’m covered in puke, because I tried to save a man’s life.”
Anthony gave Woody the up and down, clearly concluding Woody was scum. “She did,” the young man said forcefully. “There aren’t many people who have her knowledge of CPR and are willing to use it on a stranger.”
Woody took a step back, surprised by the vehemence of Anthony’s tone. Woody, Mr. Big Stuff, was used to being in charge and having everyone kowtow to him. Paramedics, like Anthony, didn’t know or care about local prosecutors. Praise be, someone had perspective, I thought.
“Have you ever given CPR?” Anthony continued close to Woody’s face. “For that matter, did you ever sit in vomit to do it?”
Instantly the room went still. Firemen, paramedics, and police stopped whatever they were doing and focused on Woody. Their abhorrence was palpable and Woody felt it.
“I was fooling,” Woody said to the crowd. “Penny Sue and I are old friends.”
I was happy to see that no one thought it was funny. Woody had about as much credibility as Saddam Hussein, judging from the expressions on everyone’s faces. Woody started to back toward the door.
“Stop,” I said loudly. Woody, and everyone else—even Penny Sue—froze. “This may be a crime scene. Mattie Holden told us her front door was unlocked when they arrived home after the hurricane, and their bedroom floor was covered in glitter. Right after that, she started acting funny, and her husband got the flu. Then, her dog croaked and Clyde died close on Scooter’s heels.
“You need to go through this room with a fine-toothed comb to see if you can find this glitter.”
“Glitter?” Woody all but spat the word. “Leigh, you can’t be serious. You think they were killed by glitter?”
I steepled my hands in front of my chest, a defensive move according to my therapist in Atlanta. She was probably right, but who cared? I found out later she was screwed up herself. “Woody, these are old people whose eyesight was not good. What looked like glitter to them, might not be glitter at all. Check it, that’s all I ask.”
Woody rolled his eyes. “You’re a fan of that stupid forensic show, aren’t you? Conspiracies are everywhere. Get a grip, Leigh, the man was old.”
“What about the dog?” Penny Sue snapped. “He wasn’t old.”
Anthony glanced at Penny Sue. “I’ll do what I can to get an autopsy on Mr. Holden.”
“And, take Mattie, Mrs. Holden, to the hospital for observation. She’s not herself,” I added.
Woody shook his head. “You girls—” we all cringed, including H
eather—“make a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Me? Us?” Penny Sue growled. “I’ve had it with you. I’m filing a sexual harassment suit tomorrow.”
Woody scowled. “Sexual? Get serious. I’ve made no advances whatsoever.”
Penny Sue set her jaw. “Don’t worry—Daddy will think of something.”
Penny Sue went straight to the shower when we arrived at the condo, then ate four Snickers and drank a big glass of Jack Daniels on the rocks. Another time, I might have criticized her drinking. Today, by golly, she deserved it! I poured myself a small drink, too. Clyde was the second dead body I’d seen in two days time, and that unnerved me. I picked up my glass, the ice in it tingling from my trembling hand.
We were sitting around the kitchen counter, the Weather Channel playing in the background. At that moment hurricanes were the least of my worries, but Ruthie had to be informed. Besides, Jim Cantore was reporting.
“What about Mrs. Holden?” I asked Ruthie. “What did she say while we were upstairs?”
Ruthie took a sip of her sweet tea. “She was barely coherent. She said some mean things. I don’t know her, but she surprised the hell out of me.”
“She was like that on the telephone earlier—said it was a shame Mrs. King didn’t die. Called her a bitch.”
Ruthie downed her tea. “Honey, ‘bitch’ was the least of what she said to me. Seems she hated the dog, too. Scooter was Mr. Holden’s pet. Honestly, it was like she was possessed by a demon.”
Penny Sue mixed herself a Jack and Coke. Good, she was diluting the liquor. “You’re intuitive,” she said to Ruthie. “Was she really possessed in your opinion?”
She thought for a moment. “No, I didn’t sense another entity. She was under the influence of something, though.”
“Like what?” Penny Sue spread her hands wide. “Glitter?”
Ruthie shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe she has senile dementia. The paramedics said they’d get her in the psych ward, so maybe someone there will figure it out.”
“Psych ward?” I almost shouted. “She needs to have her blood checked. Some sort of toxin affected them all. Mattie acts like a nut, then Clyde and Scooter bite the dust. Come on, it must have something to do with the glitter. Think about it. Aluminum rusting that shouldn’t rust. Glitter on the floor, then a dog and a man die. There has to be a connection!