Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “We should call Fran’s son, Carl,” I said. “I know he’s throwing a big party, but he has the contacts to solve this. For goshsakes, people are dropping dead all around us. If we don’t do something, we may be next!”

  “I wish we still had that liquid taser, we could use it now.” Penny Sue eyed Ruthie. “Do you think your dad can get us another one? It’s better than my shooting people with the .38. I wouldn’t try to kill them, if I could avoid it. Still …”

  Ruthie picked up the phone. “I’ll try.”

  Ruthie’s father was J.T. Edwards, a retired railroad executive who lived in a restored mansion in Buckhead, a very classy suburb of Atlanta. J.T. had inherited money and made a lot on his own, giving him the means to invest in a number of start-up companies. Taser Technologies was one of his investments.

  Whereas normal tasers had to touch a person or shoot darts attached to wires in order to deliver an electric shock, Taser Technologies’ liquid taser shot an electrified stream of saline solution. That was a huge breakthrough, because it mean one could shoot multiple people with the same weapon. It was still in the development phase, awaiting approvals and licenses, but J.T. had obtained a prototype for Ruthie that proved invaluable in our previous scrapes.

  After a short conversation with Mr. Wong, J.T.’s valet who’d been with the family so long he was considered part of the fold, Ruthie spoke with her dad. Sadly, J.T. had lost his mental edge, but not his nerve. He promised to have a new taser to us by Tuesday.

  Teary-eyed, Ruthie hung up the phone. “Poppa’s fading. I can’t bear the thought of losing him.”

  “It’s hard, honey, I know.” Penny Sue patted her hand. “I didn’t think I’d ever get over losing Mama. Of course, your mother went younger than mine. It’s stinking, but I know we’re not really losing them; they’re going to a better place. I feel Mama’s presence a lot. In fact, she was with me when I was pumping Clyde’s chest.” Penny Sue sighed deeply.

  I knew she was holding something back. “Did your mother tell you anything?”

  Penny Sue’s expression was grim. “Mama said it was hopeless. He’d already passed over. Still, I had to try.” Tears started to flow.

  Next thing I knew, we were hugging each other and bawling like babies. Death was a rough thing to face, even when you hardly knew the person. We were still moaning and whimpering when there was a knock on the damned door. Honestly, I felt like we lived in Grand Central Station.

  “Man, are you all right? We heard the news.”

  Guthrie—not what we needed. I wiped my eyes and headed for the door.

  “Wow, Leigh, you look awful. We heard about the Holdens. Man, that was really brave.”

  Looking contrite, Timothy stood behind Guthrie. “You’re wonderful people. Guthrie’s fortunate to have neighbors like you.” He stared at Penny Sue. “We heard what you did. May I?” he asked, extending his arms. Penny Sue stepped out on the stoop and fell against his chest. She was in hog heaven and would have wet her pants if she’d seen Timothy’s biceps during the clinch.

  “Come in.” I smiled at Timothy. “We need your help.”

  Penny Sue poured miniature Snickers into a bowl (I noticed she hid most of them in the pantry) and placed the candy on the coffee table. Big concession on her part! Then drinks—Penny Sue tried to show off Lu Nee 2 for Timothy, but the robot’s charge had run down. So, I gave Timothy mineral water while Guthrie took a scotch.

  We sat in the living room. Noticing Guthrie was stuffing down Snickers and Timothy only sipped water, Ruthie piped in, “Timothy, can we offer you some vitamins or something?”

  He chuckled. “No. How can I help you?” Timothy was a man of action and few words.

  I folded my hands in my lap and didn’t mince words. “You’re a chemist. Something weird is happening in this complex. Two units in our cluster have aluminum rusting, which isn’t supposed to happen. Now, a neighbor in the next cluster—and his dog—drop dead after ‘glitter’ is found on the floor.”

  “Glitter?” Timothy repeated skeptically.

  I filled him in on the details, including Mattie Holden’s personality change. I told him I couldn’t believe that aluminum would rust and a person would die from glitter in the span of three days. He agreed that mathematical probabilities said the incidents were related, and considering Guthrie’s shutters were targeted, Guthrie might be in danger himself. None of us had thought of that—a chill ran up my spine. Timothy had the day off Monday, since NASA, and almost everything else, was closed because of Charley. He promised to look into the problem.

  “Man, I’m not afraid,” Guthrie bragged, chewing a Snickers. “Anyone throws glitter my way will get a .45 bullet up their butt.”

  Timothy rolled his eyes, and I smiled. It was the look of a parent who’d tried, but had no success with his wayward offspring.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  August 16, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  The next morning we all rose early. A first. The condo was cool, but despite that, none of us had slept a wink. Penny Sue and I remained haunted by images of Clyde and Scooter. Ruthie was so sensitive, our bad vibes kept her awake. We congregated at the kitchen counter and sipped coffee—as if we needed the caffeine.

  “I can’t stand staying here another minute,” Penny Sue said suddenly. “I’m stir-crazy. Let’s go to Orlando.”

  “Orlando, isn’t the place to go,” Ruthie said, glancing at the TV. “Damage there is worse than it is here.”

  Penny Sue waved her arms. “Well, we have to go somewhere. I can’t stand this condo anymore.”

  I crossed my arms on the counter and laid my head down. “I’ve had it, too. But, we have a dozen things to do today. Sonny’s supposed to find out about Mrs. King’s contractor. We need to call that federal assistant about the depositions, and I should check on the center.”

  The Marine Conservation Center was a nonprofit organization dedicated to education and the preservation of the Indian River Lagoon, North America’s most diverse estuary. I didn’t have a clue what estuary meant when I started work there, but soon learned the term referred to the part of a river where it met the ocean, which in New Smyrna’s case, was the inland waterway. I loved my job as part-time bookkeeper and all of my coworkers—a great group who cared as much about each other as they did the environment.

  I checked the clock, eight-thirty. Sandra, the center’s office manager, would be up. I snatched the portable phone at the end of the counter and dialed her home number.

  “No telling when we’ll open again,” Sandra said wearily. “Our pontoon boat was badly damaged. Bobby”—the boat’s captain and a character in his own right—“says it could take as long as a month to get it repaired.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Fortunately, the building didn’t get much damage, so there’s nothing to do there. Your friends are visiting, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then enjoy your time together—as much as you can in this heat. I’ll call if I need you.”

  “You don’t have electricity?” I asked, remembering Sandra lived on a picturesque street lined with huge live oaks.

  “No. Trees are down everywhere. One squashed my carport. Thank goodness it missed the house.”

  “Would you like to stay with us? Our power’s back on.”

  “Thanks, dear, I’ll be okay. My sister owns a farm in Samsula. She lent me a generator that will power the refrigerator, fan, and a few lights. Electric crews are working the street now, so I hope I’ll have electricity by tomorrow.”

  I hung up thinking that I had a month’s vacation. Initially elated, I soon realized it also meant a month of no income. A month with nothing to do. I glanced at Penny Sue whose mouth was screwed up like a prune. Uh oh, I hope it didn’t mean a month with my Leo friend. As much as I loved her, a little Penny Sue went a long way. After all, she’d been here less than a week, and there’d been a hurricane and three deaths, counting Scooter.
r />   “We should check on Mrs. Holden. Would you hand me the telephone book?” I asked Penny Sue.

  She pulled the directory from the junk drawer. “Here it is, Bert Fish, patient information.”

  I dialed the number and was connected to her room. Mattie’s daughter, Priscilla, answered. We’d never met, but I’d heard Mattie mention her many times. I led off with condolences for her father, and then asked about her mother’s condition.

  “Sleeping now,” Priscilla said tearfully. “They’ve run blood tests, and I’m waiting for the results. The doctors have ruled out a stroke. They think my parents may have been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?!” I knew there was something strange about that ‘glitter,’ but poison? My friends stared at me, wide eyes demanding details. “Do they know what kind?”

  Priscilla sniffled. “Not yet. They’re doing an autopsy on Daddy—” She broke down, sobbing. It took her a moment to compose herself. “I heard what you and your friends did, and I’m very grateful.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I’d do if I’d lost Mom, too.”

  “The doctors think she’ll be all right?” I pressed.

  “Yes, they’re planning to do some sort of cleansing procedure as soon as they can find the right physician. They suspect the poison was airborne.”

  “Airborne,” I repeated.

  Ruthie’s face twisted with horror as she mouthed, “Anthrax.”

  I waved her off. “Priscilla, I don’t mean to intrude, but we need to know the cause of your parents’ illness. There have been a number of strange incidents in the neighborhood, which may be connected to your parents. Would you call me as soon as you find out the cause? It could be very important to a number of other people.”

  Priscilla choked out, “Certainly, let me find a pen. What’s your phone number?”

  I gave her my cell number in case we decided to go out. This was one call I did not want to miss. I expressed our condolences again and offered help if she needed anything.

  “My brother’s coming from Houston.” She sniffled.

  “Take care of yourself,” I said softly.

  “Airborne? We need to buy some masks.” Ruthie started to pace nervously. “Maybe it’s anthrax. Do we have any rubber gloves? We should buy gloves, like the ones doctors wear, in case something else happens.” Suddenly, Ruthie stiffened as if she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. “Did you breathe while you were in their condo?”

  Penny Sue and I both gave her the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.

  “Breathe?” Penny Sue belted. “I didn’t breathe, I heaved my brains out!” She turned to me. “An airborne poison— they don’t know what it is?”

  I nodded.

  “We should all go to the hospital for tests,” Ruthie exclaimed.

  “Us and everyone else in the room. All the paramedics, firemen, police … and Woody,” I added.

  Penny Sue lowered her eyes. “Let’s not tell Woody.”

  “You’re awful, you know that? Just awful,” Ruthie said.

  “I was kidding. Ruthie, you’ve got to loosen up.” Penny Sue poured a dollop of Bailey’s in her coffee.

  Ruthie pointed at the liquor bottle. “Loosen up like that? Drinking before noon?”

  Penny Sue rolled her eyes and took a sip of her spiked coffee. “Sugar, it’s this or a tranquilizer. After all, I’m the one who was puffing and blowing in that poisoned bedroom, inches from Clyde’s face.”

  Ruthie’s face softened. “You’re right. All I did was sit outside with Mattie Holden. You did the real work. I’m sorry—”

  Ruthie didn’t get to finish; the telephone rang. It was the legal assistant with the Federal Court. Due to the hurricane, our depositions had been put off for at least a week. The assistant would call when the court reopened. I relayed the message, yet before anyone could say a single word—I could tell Ruthie was thinking of flying home—the phone jangled again.

  It was Chris from St. Augustine. “How’s it going?” she asked cheerily.

  Penny Sue shrugged a “who is that?”

  I mouthed, “Chris.”

  She mouthed back, “sleeping bags and air mattresses.”

  I nodded, remembering Penny Sue’s idea about what we needed to buy if we went to Chris’ store for another hurricane. Penny Sue pointed at the speaker button on the phone.

  “We’re all here,” I said. “You’re on speakerphone. As to your question, we’re not doing so good.”

  “What?” Chris asked with concern.

  “Two more deaths. A man and a dog,” Penny Sue blurted.

  “What’s going on over there? You need to sage the whole neighborhood,” Chris said.

  “Heck no, the way our luck’s running, we’d be arrested for air pollution,” I responded.

  “What happened?”

  “Too long a story. Don’t worry, we didn’t kill anyone,” Penny Sue shouted.

  Chris gave us a big hmph. “I assumed that.”

  “Let’s skip the gruesome details. Are we still invited to your place if there’s another hurricane?” Ruthie asked.

  “Of course, I’m counting on it. By the way, no one’s allergic to cats, are they? I have a store cat, Angel.”

  “No problem with that. Why are you calling, besides the fact that you think we’re wonderful?” Penny Sue asked.

  Chris chuckled. “Wonderful? Get a grip!” A New York to Florida transplant, Chris still had the sharp, Northern humor. “Under the circumstances, this may not be the right time to discuss it.”

  “After the last seventy-two hours, nothing would surprise us. Shoot,” I said.

  “Well,” Chris started, “so many people were hurt by the hurricane—many uninsured—a group of us thought it would be fun to have a marathon race to benefit needy victims.”

  Penny Sue put her hands on her hips. “Race? Are you crazy? I’m not running around a dumb track.”

  “Not a running race, silly. You think I’d do that? An auto race. Only, not a boring old stock car competition—a marathon race with lots of different events.”

  “What kind of events?” Penny Sue asked skeptically.

  “I spoke with the owner of the New Smyrna Speedway, and he’s willing to host it. He suggested a three-part marathon for Labor Day Weekend. Mini-cup cars, school buses, and a bag race. It’s all for fun. You know, like the cancer walks where teams get pledges from people for each mile they walk. In this case, teams get pledges for their overall placement. All proceeds go to uninsured and unemployed victims. A few neighborhood associations and a group of NASA retirees have expressed interest so far.

  “An-nyway, I thought of a DAFFODILS team, since there are four of us and we’re all in that category. What do you think?”

  Ruthie’s brow furrowed. I thought it would be a hoot. Penny Sue grabbed the bottle of Bailey’s and took a gulp. “Hell, yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what we need, something to take our minds off of all of this trauma.”

  “But, but—” Ruthie started.

  Penny Sue waved off her objection. “Don’t worry, Ruthie, you can do the bag race. What you can’t see won’t hurt you.”

  “What’s a bag race?” she asked.

  Chris replied from the speakerphone. “The person driving the car wears a bag over her head and the person in the passenger seat directs ’em. With Ruthie’s intuition, she’s perfect for the job.”

  “You mean a bunch of blindfolded people speed around a race track?” Ruthie snapped.

  “Well,” Chris started, “since they all have bags, no one’s going very fast. If you hit something, it won’t cause much damage.”

  Ruthie wasn’t comforted. “Much? You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’ve been to the track a dozen times. No one gets hurt. For many years, the winner was a real blind man.”

  Ruthie’s expression said she didn’t know if that was good or bad. I didn’t either.

  “Count the DAFFODILS in. We’ll kick butt,” Penny Sue said.

  “Aw
fully sure of yourself, aren’t you? Against NASA retirees?” Ruthie argued.

  “You’re the one who harps on how our thoughts determine our reality. Hell yeah, we’re going to kick their butts; there’s no other way to think. Think otherwise and we’re doomed.”

  There was nothing Ruthie could say to that. She was in the bag race, and I had to admit this was a terrific diversion from the rotten stuff going on around us. Besides, we had Carl and his brilliant MIT buddies in the wings. I knew they’d help if we needed them.

  “We’ll have to practice. You’re sure you have the time? You can’t do a bag race or drive a school bus cold.”

  “We’ll make the time,” Penny Sue said grandly.

  We said our goodbyes and I hit the speaker button to end the call. The phone immediately rang, so fast I thought it was a mistake. It wasn’t. It was Guthrie.

  “Man, have you heard anything about anything?”

  “We’ve heard a lot, more than we want to know. Do you have something specific in mind?”

  “Yeah, like, what about Mrs. Holden or Mrs. King? Any news there? And what about the Holden’s little dog, Scooter? That was a cute dog. I kept treats just for him. Is there going to be a memorial service?”

  I rubbed my forehead. I liked Guthrie, but felt like I was talking to a three year old most of the time. I wanted to scream, “No service has been scheduled for Scooter! For godsakes, Clyde Holden’s funeral hasn’t been scheduled yet.” Of course, I didn’t say it.

  “I have no information on Scooter. They’re doing an autopsy on Clyde, and Mattie’s still being diagnosed. They may have been poisoned. Airborne. Is Timothy there? I think he could help us with this.”

  Guthrie yelled, “Timothy, an airborne poison killed the Holdens. Leigh needs your help, now!”

  I heard some mumbled conversation, and Timothy took the phone. “What’s this about poison?”