Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “I’ll see,” Ruthie murmured, rolling her eyes at me. I tried not to grin.

  We sat quietly, enjoying the sun, for all of five minutes.

  “Damn,” Penny Sue said suddenly.

  “What? What?” Ruthie jumped, nearly tipping over her chair.

  “I can’t rest for worrying about the little turtles. With all of this garbage, they’ll never make it to the ocean.” Penny Sue pointed at a jagged, brown piece of glass—an obvious remnant of a beer bottle. She struggled up from her low-slung sand chair and angrily snatched the glass. “What kind of heathen would leave a glass bottle on the beach? The turtles could be shredded by this, not to mention children.”

  “Children?” I said. “What about adults? I walk this beach barefooted all the time.”

  Hand on her hip, Penny Sue set her jaw.

  Uh oh. “What do you want to do?” I asked, afraid of the answer. I’d hoped for an hour or two of peace and quiet.

  “Do you remember where those nests are?”

  “Generally.”

  “Do we still have some of those big garbage bags?”

  I knew where she was going. So much for relaxation. “Yes, I think we have a few.”

  “We’re going to pick up all of this garbage and clear a path to the sea for the turtles. What do you say?”

  Ruthie was already standing and folding her chair. Penny Sue was in the schoolmarm mode. Argument was pointless.

  While Penny Sue went to the condo for the garbage bags, I marked off the approximate spots of the turtle nests with a piece of driftwood. Ruthie dragged our chairs to the walkover and watched. I also noticed our friendly fisherman peering over the top of his newspaper.

  Penny Sue returned a few minutes later. “We only have two.” She handed me the brown, plastic bags. “Y’all get started, and I’ll run up to Food Lion for more.” She stomped off, not waiting for an answer. Ruthie and I exchanged a puzzled look.

  I waved my bag. “What’s wrong with this picture? She wants to pick up trash, and here we are doing it.”

  Ruthie dropped a shard of wood into her bag. “It’s Penny Sue—what do you expect?”

  In a huff, I plopped on the bottom step of the walkway. “For once, I am not going to do Her Highness’ bidding. It was her idea, and I’m willing to help, but I’ll be darned if I’ll break my back while she rides up and down the road. I’ll start working when she does.”

  Ruthie sat beside me. “Good point. I’ll wait, too.” She started to bite her fingernail. “You know, Penny Sue was born bossy. She’s a Leo. It’s her natural way.”

  “I know, you’ve said all that before. I’m not a Leo, darn it. I get tired of being bossed around. I had my fill of being a doormat when I was married to Zack. I’m not mad at Penny Sue, I’m just not going to jump when she says jump any longer.”

  “You’re right.”

  A half hour later, Penny Sue flounced down the boardwalk with a big yellow box of lawn bags. We stood when we saw her coming. She punched open the box, pulled out a bag that she snapped open in the wind, and said, “All right, let’s get going.”

  She didn’t seem to notice that we hadn’t already been working. Hmm, maybe I took her commands too seriously. Or, maybe she forgot the orders as soon as she gave them. Whatever, we worked almost two hours—with several soda breaks—and filled ten large bags with trash. One by one, we lugged the bags to the front of the condo for transport to the dumpster—our dumpster, not the Russian one.

  “Whew,” Penny Sue sighed when the last bag was deposited next to her car. “Let’s take it to the dumpster later. I bought a four pack of those little bottles of Chardonnay when I was at Food Lion. They’re in the icebox, chilling. Come on, let’s go admire our handiwork.”

  She breezed through the condo, plucked the carton of mini-bottles from the refrigerator, and led us to the beach. We walked to the edge of the water and surveyed our handiwork. Penny Sue passed out the wine and turned one up. The moment she took a drink, it must have dawned on her that the bottles were glass. “Don’t you dare drop those twist caps or bottles,” she admonished us.

  “Honey, we’re not stupid. We picked up enough of this stuff to know better.” I gazed at the litter-free sand. “We did good, didn’t we?”

  Penny Sue drank her wine quickly. “Do we have a rake in the utility room?”

  “You’re not proposing that we rake the beach, are you?” My back was already killing me from so much bending. Raking sand was out of the question.

  She shot me the old hooded-eye, pitiful look. “Remember how the little turtle kept getting stuck in the holes? I thought we should smooth out the beach.”

  “Penny Sue, it will be smoothed,” I said with a sigh. “It’s called high tide. Tomorrow morning this beach will be completely flat. It will also be filled with trash again.”

  Her hooded eyes widened. “Darn, I never thought of that!”

  The idea of cleaning the beach every day proved too much for Penny Sue. She’d downed the last bottle of the four-pack by the time we got back to the condo. Thankfully, the phone was ringing, diverting her attention. It was Chris, calling about the benefit race. Penny Sue answered, and then pushed the speaker button on the phone so we could all hear.

  “I spoke with Mr. Hart, the owner of the New Smyrna Speedway. He said he’d make arrangements for us to practice, but we have to make an appointment. The other teams want to practice, as well. So, when are you free?” Chris asked.

  We all shrugged. “Tomorrow,” Penny Sue said. “Is that too soon?”

  “Perfect. I have tomorrow off. How about one? I hate to get up early on my day off.”

  “One it is,” Penny Sue replied. “Should we wear something special?”

  “Shorts, jeans, clothes you wouldn’t mind getting dirty.”

  “Wait,” Ruthie said nervously. “Is there anyone to train us? I don’t know a thing about races.”

  “Mr. Hart said he or his promoters would give us some pointers, but they can’t show favoritism. It’s a benefit race. We’re on our own. By the way,” Chris said, “I’ve heard you speak—none too fondly—of the local prosecutor. Woody? I heard today he’s fielding a squad. Seems Woody learned there was a DAFFODILS team and decided to join in the fun.”

  I saw Penny Sue’s jaw muscles flex. “No problem. I welcome the competition,” she drawled. “It is for charity, after all.”

  “Yes, it is. See you tomorrow.” Chris clicked off.

  Penny Sue turned on us like a crazed woman. “Who do we know who knows anything about racing?”

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  August 24, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  Ring, ring. Bam, bam, bam. We heard the front door open. “Hey guys, it’s me, Guthrie and Tim. Are you decent?”

  “Yes,” Ruthie called. “Come on in.”

  Guthrie hobbled in on his crutches followed by Timothy who carried a VCR and a pan of brownies. “With all the stuff going on around here, we thought we should have a party. We can send out for pizza and watch Alice’s Restaurant.” Our hippie friend cocked his thumb at the brownies. “I made dessert, since you didn’t get any last time. What do you say?”

  It was only five PM, a little early for dinner, but we knew we’d have to see the dang movie sometime, and now was as good a time as any. Ruthie and I looked to Penny Sue. She sighed. There was no way we could refuse.

  “Sure, that will be a lot of fun,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

  Timothy set up the VCR while we filled them in on the benefit race and our practice session scheduled for the next day.

  “Man, I wish I could race.” Guthrie slapped his bandaged knee disgustedly. “I’ll be the water boy for your pit crew. I should be walking by then. I’ll make refreshments. Every pit crew needs refreshments.”

  “You really don’t have to—” Penny Sue started.

  He grinned and held up a hand. “No argument, I want to do it. You’ve done so much for me.”

  The pizza arrived a
nd we settled down to watch Alice’s Restaurant. Guthrie sat on the edge of his seat. Timothy rested his head on the back of the loveseat, stoically staring down his nose at the screen. His body language spoke volumes—like, he’d seen the movie a million times and hated every minute of it.

  About half an hour into the showing and pizza, we all, except Guthrie, shared Timothy’s opinion. The film was one of the slowest, dumbest movies ever made. Guthrie’s continuous interruptions and comments—“Listen to this!”, “Isn’t that wild?”, “Alice is such a nice person.”—actually added to the show.

  In a nutshell, Alice was a good cook, had a restaurant, and invited a bunch of hippies to her house for Thanksgiving dinner. After the big feast, Arlo Guthrie loaded up a VW minivan with trash and set out for the county dump. Being a holiday, the dump was closed. (Yep, this guy was a bubble short of plumb.)

  Lo and behold, Arlo happened upon a mound of trash on the side of the road. Figuring a little more garbage won’t make any difference; he dumped his trash on top. Predictably, upstanding citizens observed the nefarious deed and reported him to the police. So, Arlo was arrested for littering.

  Truly, the story was dull, dull, mundane stuff. The only interesting twist came from the fact that the littering conviction—a criminal record!—kept Arlo from being drafted for the Vietnam war.

  Penny Sue’s eyes closed after her third piece of pizza. Ruthie and Timothy seemed to be in a meditative (or perhaps catatonic) state. The only thing that kept me awake was Guthrie’s exuberance and my determination to see if Alice ever baked marijuana-laced brownies. There was a lot of marijuana smoking in the movie but, not once, did Alice contaminate baked goods. Hmmm, maybe Guthrie’s brownies were fine after all.

  As the closing credits played, Guthrie shouted, “Brownies for everyone!” which sent our snoozing companions halfway to the ceiling.

  I fetched the pan and Guthrie downed a cake immediately. Timothy demurred, patting his stomach. (Pizza was enough pollution for his bodily temple, I suspected.) I took one and nibbled a corner cautiously. Chewing slowly, I searched for any hint of a grassy ingredient. Nope, they tasted like regular old Duncan Hines—probably the double fudge mix I used to bake for the kids.

  Penny Sue arched a brow at me, an obvious question if the dessert was safe to eat. I nodded and took a big bite. That’s all she needed, Penny Sue dove in like a starving orphan. I swear she ate at least four. Even Ruthie finally relented and had one. She seemed pleasantly surprised.

  Guthrie was down to pressing his forefinger on the crumbs and licking it when the doorbell rang. I instinctively checked the clock. Seven-thirty, still light. My spine stiffened. Please, not another emergency.

  Penny Sue glanced at us apprehensively as she headed for the door. A moment later she returned with a wide smile. She was holding a yellow rose.

  “Another rose,” Ruthie exclaimed. “What does the card say?”

  Penny Sue sashayed to the kitchen and arranged the yellow rose in the vase with the now withering pink one. Playing the scene for all it was worth—honestly, it was worse than the melodrama of Alice’s Restaurant—she slowly opened the envelope, read the card, and grinned like the Cheshire cat in another Alice story.

  “What does it say?” Ruthie pressed.

  Penny Sue tittered. “I’m still thinking about you,” she read. “What does yellow mean?” she asked Ruthie.

  “Joy and freedom. The roses are obviously related, do you still think it’s from Yuri?”

  Penny Sue toyed with her emerald necklace, an heirloom from her mother. “I don’t know. Joy and freedom sorta sounds like Rich, doesn’t it?”

  “Yuri?” Guthrie bellowed before Ruthie could respond. “Are you talking about that Russian, criminal realtor who keeps asking me about Nana King?”

  Penny Sue shot Guthrie the evil eye. “We don’t know he’s a criminal.” She glared at me. “That’s mere speculation.”

  Timothy was as smart as he was good looking. In a flash he was on his feet and unplugging the VCR. “I have an early meeting tomorrow. We really must be leaving.” He slung the recorder under his arm and snatched the brownie pan. Guthrie took the hint and struggled up on his crutches. “We appreciate your hospitality, …” Timothy said loudly, “and patience,” he whispered to Ruthie and me.

  “Yeah, man, it’s been a blast. Isn’t Alice cool? I’m happy you finally tasted my brownies. I’ll bake a giant batch for the race.” Guthrie glanced at me. “I left out the nuts so you could have some.”

  My face grew hot, remembering I’d fibbed about being allergic to nuts to avoid the first batch. “That was very thoughtful,” I mumbled. “I enjoyed the show.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Well, as Grammy Martin used to say, Let he who is without sin cast the first stone! Sorry, Grammy, I’m pulling a two stoner this time.

  Gushing Southern peace and light, Penny Sue followed the two men to the door. What returned was more akin to Attilla the Hun. “Yuri is not a crook,” she stated angrily, arms folded over her chest.

  I cackled. “Geez, you sound like Richard Nixon.”

  “I do not!” She flashed a mean look as she headed for the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. “Guthrie doesn’t know anything. That was the dumbest movie I’ve ever seen.”

  “Or didn’t see,” I snickered. “You snored through most of it.”

  “Snore?!” She chugged her wine indignantly.

  I tried to hide my grin. “Okay, breathed heavily; plus every now and then you choked and gurgled.”

  Penny Sue’s eyes turned to saucers. “Choke and gurgle?! I do not!”

  Ruthie dipped her chin. “Yes, you do.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said, horrified.

  I bit the inside of my lip to stop laughing. “You do snore … have for a long time. So what? If you didn’t snore, you’d be perfect, and who wants to be perfect? Perfect is boring.”

  She took the bottle of Chardonnay by the neck and refilled her glass. “I may have a minor flaw or two, but I know I don’t snore. Men snore!”

  “Women do, too,” Ruthie said. “It can be a sign of sleep apnea, especially the choking and gurgling. I was going to say something—”

  “What the hell is sleep apnea?” Penny Sue held up the wine bottle. Ruthie and I both gave her a thumbs-up. If ever there was a situation for wine among friends, this was it. Snoring was not a topic Southern women want to discuss.

  A Southern woman does not sweat, she glistens, glows—or in extreme cases—perspires. A Southern woman does not wear patent leather shoes after five PM or white (except winter white, which is really cream) after Labor Day. Lord knows, a Southern woman may breathe heavily—after all, it is hot in the South—but she does not snore! No question, not done. Period.

  Penny Sue handed us our drinks. “Is sleep apnea a disease, like malaria or something? What makes you such an expert, Ruthie?”

  Ruthie sipped her Chardonnay. “It’s not a disease; it’s a condition. Poppa’s housekeeper has it. Her snoring used to shake the walls—kept Poppa and Mr. Wong awake all night. Poppa finally mentioned it to his doctor, who told him she probably had an obstruction of the airway that occurs when people sleep on their backs. Poppa sent her for tests, and she tested positive, big time. Now she sleeps with a mask that keeps her windpipe open, so she doesn’t snore.”

  Penny Sue’s face contorted with horror, as if Ruthie has suggested a tracheotomy. “What kind of mask?”

  “It covers her nose and blows air down her windpipe.”

  “Oh gawd!” Penny Sue’s hand fluttered to her heart. “You don’t really think I have it, do you?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to be tested when you get home,” Ruthie said. “It can damage your heart.”

  “Lord have mercy!” Penny Sue started rubbing her chest. “Is there a cure other than the stupid mask? That would kinda screw up your love life. Who wants to sleep with Darth Vader?”

  Ruthie dipped her chin apologetically. “The condition seems to come on with age, excess weight, al
lergies, and alcohol.”

  Penny Sue’s eyes shot darts. “I am not old or fat!”

  I noticed she left out alcohol.

  “I didn’t say that,” Ruthie added hastily. “As we age, muscles, like the windpipe, naturally lose tone, and our metabolism slows down.”

  Penny Sue stalked to the refrigerator and returned with a large jar of olives. She dumped some in a bowl and popped one into her mouth. “Ruthie, you’re anorexic. You’re hardly one to talk about metabolism.”

  Ruthie grabbed a handful of olives and downed them all. “I am not anorexic. I’m blessed with a high metabolism. You saw me eat a brownie.”

  “Half!”

  “Whole!”

  Yikes, this was going nowhere! And I was not in the mood for bickering. Best to change the subject. “Who do you think sent the rose?” I asked Penny Sue.

  She sighed. “I thought it was Yuri. Now I’m not sure. Maybe it was Rich.”

  “Who made the delivery?” I asked.

  “New Smyrna Florist. They apologized for running late.”

  “We’ll call them tomorrow and see if we can get a name.”

  Another big sigh. “I can’t believe Yuri’s a crook. He seemed like a nice guy.”

  Boy, I’d heard that one before. Penny Sue was impetuous and hardly the best judge of male character, especially if the male was good looking, sad, or seemed to have money. “Guthrie and I think he has bad vibes,” I said. “Money-grubbing vibes. You have to admit his interest in Mrs. King seemed mercenary.”

  Penny Sue ate a few olives and started drumming her fingers on the counter. “It’s still light. Let’s go back to Yuri’s office and check out the flyers in his window.”

  “Are you serious?” Ruthie asked.

  “Hell, yes. Grab the halogen flashlight.”

  Ten minutes later, Penny Sue parked around the corner and once again cajoled Ruthie into checking Yuri’s window. “You’re the logical choice. He’s met Leigh and me.”

  “You don’t think this big yellow Mercedes is a give away?” Ruthie snagged the flashlight and headed down the street angrily. She wasn’t gone long. “No units in Sea Dunes listed on the flyers.” She slammed her door.