Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “See, Yuri isn’t a crook,” Penny Sue said smugly as she put the car in gear, made a U-turn, and headed back across the North Causeway Bridge.

  “Maybe,” I replied pensively.

  Penny Sue stared at me. “What do you mean ‘maybe?’”

  “If he were involved in a plot to buy up Sea Dunes, he wouldn’t post it on his window.”

  “You’re right,” Ruthie said. “The listings were all his own. If he was going door-to-door searching for a unit, it would have sold right away and never been listed. A realtor could probably tell us if anything has sold recently, even if it wasn’t officially on the market. Don’t know a realtor, do you, Leigh?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do—a volunteer at the center.” I snatched Penny Sue’s cell phone from its cradle and dialed. “Betsy, would you do me a favor?” I explained what I needed. She promised to check and call me at the condo.

  It didn’t take her long. We’d just returned and settled before the TV when Betsy phoned.

  “Three units have sold in the last month.” I read from my scribbles. “Unit 20C from Wilson Stanton to BB Corp., Unit 14A from Johnson Family Trust to Samuel Adams, and Unit 34B from Naomi King to Magilevich LLC. Naomi King—that’s Nana! She’s already sold her condo and Magilevich sounds Russian.”

  Penny Sue snatched the pad from my hand. “Let me see that.” She studied the name quietly. “I wonder if there’s anyway we can find out who owns this corporation?”

  “Sure,” Ruthie said, fetching her computer from the bedroom. “It’s probably online. Most states have their records posted on the Internet these days.” She typed in Florida.gov and had a list of corporations in a matter of minutes. “Here, Magilevich LLC,” she pointed at the screen. “Registered agent is a lawyer in Tallahassee. It’s a profit company headquartered in Atlantic City, New Jersey.”

  “What about BB Corp.?” Penny Sue asked.

  Ruthie stroked the keyboard. “A profit corporation headquartered in New York.”

  “I wonder if there’s a way to tell what the units sold for,” Penny Sue mused.

  “I think the county property appraiser posts that information.”

  In a matter of minutes, Ruthie found the Web site and located the sales. She glanced up at me. “What do you suppose condos in this complex are worth?”

  “$400,000 to $600,000, depending on the location.”

  “All of these units went in the $300,000s.”

  “Even the beachfront condo? That’s impossible!”

  Ruthie cocked her eyebrow. “Well, it did.”

  Something smelled, I told myself, and it wasn’t the scent of a rose.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  August 25, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  Volusia County is sometimes called the home of stock car racing. Old-time North Carolina moonshine-runners may dispute this claim, but Daytona Beach and Volusia County gave the moonshine drivers legitimacy and made it a sport. That’s because stock car racing and NASCAR’s birth can be traced to the beach/street races held at Daytona Beach in the late 1940s, which eventually evolved into “The World’s Greatest Race—The Daytona 500.”

  While the Daytona races may be the most famous, that track isn’t the only speedway in the county. About twenty miles south, at the intersection of county routes 44 and 415, is the site of racing action most weekends. On one corner is the New Smyrna Speedway, the home of FASCAR—NASCAR’s Florida cousin. A half-mile stock car track, the speedway also holds eclectic competitions for virtually any motorized contraption that moves—this includes motorcycles, trucks, school buses, go-karts, mini-cup cars, and the wildly popular bag race.

  While races at the New Smyrna Speedway are known to get down and dirty, the real dirt is across Rt. 415 at the unpaved track for mud racing. A couple of Saturdays a month, trucks with very big tires bump and slosh through rocks and mud.

  “You’re sure we’re not going to do mud racing, right?” Penny Sue asked as she pulled into a parking space next to a grey Toyota.

  “Yes, Chris nixed it—too messy.” I cocked my thumb at the Toyota. “That’s her new car. It’s really cool, an electric and gas hybrid.”

  “Too small.”

  “You’d be surprised, it’s roomier than it looks. Besides, it gets great gas mileage,” I said.

  “Well, you won’t catch me in one. Besides, I’m not sure I’d fit.” Penny Sue swung her huge Louis Vuitton handbag over her shoulder and clicked the Mercedes’ locks. She was decked out in a black bodysuit with leopard print capris. If you added a black riding helmet, knee-high boots, and a crop, she could have passed for an overweight jockey or maybe a dominatrix. Ruthie and I wore jeans, tee shirts, and jogging shoes, not exactly sure what was required for racing.

  We trooped through the open chain link front gate, past the concession stands and bleachers to the edge of the track. Chris stood in the pit area talking to a man in a white cowboy hat and a woman in a pickup truck with a trailer carrying a miniature racecar.

  “Magawd,” Penny Sue blurted as we crossed the track, “that car’s smaller than your bug. There’s no way I can drive it.”

  “Chris and I already decided she’d drive the mini-car, Ruthie and I will do the bag race, and you’ll drive the school bus. You’ll fit in the bus, don’t you think?” I said over my shoulder.

  “Very funny.” Penny Sue poked my arm, hard, and then flashed her most winning smile at Chris and the others.

  Chris introduced us to Andrew James Clyde Hart, the track owner, and Annie Bronson, owner of the mini-cup car.

  “Just call me Andrew,” Mr. Hart said with a wink.

  Penny Sue winked back, as she gave him the once over. I shook my head. Incorrigible.

  “Annie’s agreed to let us use her new racer.” Chris interrupted Penny Sue’s flirtation.

  Annie cocked her thumb at the tiny, flat grey car. “Don’t worry, that’s primer, it hasn’t been painted yet.”

  Penny Sue’s eyes lit up. “Annie, if we pay for everything, could we have it painted yellow, with a daffodil on the hood?” Penny Sue faced us, eyes aglow. “And, we could have yellow racing suits made with daffodil patches. The school bus is already yellow. What do you think?”

  Chris cut her eyes at Penny Sue. “I think you’ve watched too much of Paris Hilton. The Daytona Racing Experience has agreed to lend us fireproof suits and helmets. We have to wear them.” Andrew nodded. “This is a charity race, not a fashion show. The money would be better spent on hurricane victims than designer outfits.”

  Penny Sue tilted her chin regally. “It never hurts to stand out in a crowd. Besides, it’ll help us get pledges for our team. Why, it may even draw media attention.” She wiggled her fanny.

  Andrew glanced away, stifling a grin.

  “A spiffy group of divorced women would surely get a lot of support. We might even make the Today Show or Good Morning America. Think what that would do for contributions to the hurricane fund.”

  The Southern belle and savvy New Yorker stared at each other for a full minute. I held my breath, afraid a fistfight might break out. Chris finally broke the silence. “Good merchandising—you may have something there. What do you think, Annie? It’s your car.”

  Focused on Penny Sue’s leopard capris, Annie was obviously skeptical. “It’s my new car. I’m planning to paint it pink. The Pink Panther.”

  Penny Sue gave her the palms up. “We promise to return it to you in exactly the shape it is now.” She waved grandly. “In fact, we’ll pay for your new paint job and our new suits and helmets. Won’t we?”

  “Penny Sue, I don’t have that kind of money,” I objected.

  She stared at Ruthie. “We do. Right, Ruthie? Come on, this is for charity. Think of all of those poor people with damaged roofs and huge insurance deductibles, or worse, no insurance at all! This would give us visibility and the chance to draw national contributions. Besides, you and your dad have more money than the Saudis. You’ll spring for it, won’t you?”
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br />   “It is a good cause,” Ruthie started hesitantly. “Oh, hell. I’m in. But, it’s only because national attention would generate contributions. Those camera-mugging rich people get on my nerves. I’m not looking for personal notoriety.”

  Penny Sue planned to handle the camera-mugging department, I was sure.

  “Good enough?” Penny Sue asked Annie.

  Annie glanced at Chris.

  “Don’t worry, those two have money to burn,” Chris assured her.

  Annie held out her hand. “Free paint job? A deal.”

  Andrew headed to the back lot to get a school bus while Chris and Annie pushed the tiny car off the carrier. The car looked smaller on the ground—it didn’t even come to our waists!

  Annie grabbed the top and flipped it open. “This is the door.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Penny Sue said. “If we had to slide in the window like NASCAR guys, we’d be plum out of luck.” She sized up Ruthie. “You’re anorexic, and I don’t think you’d fit.”

  “Hush, I’m not anorexic. Listen to Annie.”

  “Basically,” Annie started, “this is a go-kart with a car body. But it’s a fast little booger and can get up to seventy-five miles per hour.” She pointed at the front floorboard. “Like a go-kart, there aren’t any gears. All you have is a gas pedal and a brake. Be very careful with the brake. Hit that hard when you have some speed, and you’ll go into a spin every time.”

  Annie fetched fireproof coveralls, gloves, and a helmet from her truck and handed them to Chris. “You might as well take it for a spin.”

  We all studied the paraphernalia as Chris pulled the coveralls over her clothes. Ruthie blanched.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “The suit’s one piece.”

  “So?”

  “We’ll have to get undressed to go to the bathroom.”

  Since Ruthie peed at least a dozen times a day, I understood her concern. She wasn’t hot on this race, anyway. The one-piece suit could be a deal buster. Thankfully, Annie came to our rescue.

  “If you’re going to have them custom-made, you can get two piece suits. I prefer those myself. I know of a good local supplier for custom suits and helmets. I’m sure I have the card in my truck.”

  “See, no problem,” I said blithely.

  Ruthie was still worried. “We have to wear a helmet?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Annie answered. “It’s standard equipment.”

  “I thought I could tolerate the bag, because it would be loose-fitting. A helmet and a bag? I’m claustrophobic—I’m not sure I can handle that,” Ruthie said.

  Penny Sue slapped her on the back. “Sure you can, just say your mantra. We’ll practice wearing our helmets at home, so you get the hang of it. You’ll be fine.”

  Ruthie’s scowl said she didn’t buy a word of it.

  The helmet didn’t faze Chris, who put it on, climbed in the car, and strapped in. Annie connected the tethers from the Hutchins device’s shoulder straps to Chris’ helmet.

  “What’s that?” Penny Sue asked.

  “The thing that might have saved Dale Earnhardt’s life,” Annie said grimly. “They keep your head from snapping back and forth. Everyone wears them now, even though they limit mobility.”

  “I’ll say,” Chris exclaimed. “I can only see straight ahead. Where are the mirrors in this thing? How will I know when it’s safe to pass or make a run for it?”

  “Your spotter will tell you.”

  “My what?”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Your spotter. A person who stands on top of the grandstand and tells you want to do.” She pointed at a platform over the box seats. “There’s a microphone in your helmet. For example, if your spotter says, ‘Inside,’ it means a car’s about to pass you on the left. ‘Inside, inside’ means two are going to pass on the left. ‘Outside’ says someone’s coming on the right. Your spotter will also tell you about wrecks, spinouts, and how to avoid them—like, ‘go low,’ ‘go high,’ whatever. Your spotter is your best friend. Always remember, hold your line unless your spotter tells you otherwise.”

  “Will you spot for me?” Chris asked Annie.

  Annie grinned. “I wouldn’t let you drive my car otherwise. There’s no traffic, so run a few laps.”

  Chris turned the key and the tiny car roared to life. Far from timid, Chris floored it and peeled out of the pit area as Andrew entered from the rear in a beat-up school bus.

  “Think that’s big enough?” I asked Penny Sue.

  She curled her lip at me.

  As Chris merrily lapped the track—going high and low, slow, fast, and spinning into the infield once (I thought Annie would have a cow)—Andrew acquainted Penny Sue with the school bus. Everything had been stripped out except the driver’s high back chair, the first row of seats, and bare necessities. Basically, the bus wasn’t a lot different than the go-kart. The driver’s seat had been outfitted with an elaborate shoulder harness/seat belt system including clips for the Hutchins device. Fortunately, the bus had an automatic transmission, so there was only a gas pedal and brake to contend with. And unlike the mini-car, it had mirrors—lots of mirrors.

  “I don’t have a fire suit for you,” Andrew said. “It doesn’t matter as long as you go slowly to get the feel for driving the bus. When you get your suit and helmet, you can come back and do some real racing.”

  Annie finally waved Chris in, commenting that the mini-car must be nearly out of gas. Chris removed her helmet, grinning, and climbed out through the roof. “Awesome!”

  Meanwhile, with Andrew coaching from the seat behind, Penny Sue inched the bus out of the pit at about five mph. The first few laps were very slow, but by the sixth lap, Penny Sue floored the bus on the straightaway in front of the pits and promptly fishtailed when she braked for turn one. After that, she made a few more leisurely laps and kept her foot off the brake.

  “That’s tougher than it looks,” she said, wiping perspiration from her upper lip when she returned. “The rear end is really loose. Boy, get a few of these on the track together and you’ve got a traffic jam.”

  I had to agree. “Do you think it’s too much for you to handle?” I asked.

  “Of course not. It’ll merely take a little practice. If I can evade terrorists and ride a Harley, I can surely master a school bus.”

  “What about the car for the bag race?” Ruthie asked Andrew.

  “That’s up to you. Most people buy a cheap junker.”

  Ruthie went wide-eyed again. “Why? Are there lots of wrecks?”

  “Nothing serious. After all, no one is going fast, still you should expect some fender-benders.”

  “Do you recommend a particular brand of car?”

  “Something cheap and sturdy.”

  Annie gave us the card for the racing shop, promised to call her painter, and headed out. Famished from the morning workout, Team DAFFODILS, as Chris called it, headed to Pub 44 for lunch. We found a table in the windowed corner of the backroom, next to the bar. The place was hopping, primarily with locals on their lunch hour. As we waited for our taco salads and sandwiches, Penny Sue called the race shop and wheedled a fitting for custom suits at two o’clock. Meanwhile, Chris used my cell to phone an old friend who owned a used car lot.

  “He has a 1997 Toyota Corolla he’ll sell for $3,000, since it’s me and for a good cause. A little body damage, the upholstery’s stained, but it’s mechanically sound, and has relatively new tires. If we have it painted and don’t bang it up too bad, he’ll buy it back for what we paid. He says the Corolla is rated as one of the safest cars in crash tests.” Chris raised a questioning brow at Penny Sue and Ruthie, who would have to finance the purchase.

  “I’d feel comfortable in a smaller car like a Corolla,” Ruthie said to Penny Sue.

  Penny Sue nodded and finished chewing. “Tell him to hold the car. We’ll swing by after our fitting.”

  The rest of the afternoon was a blur. The helmet specialist happened to be at the racing
shop when we arrived. So, he assisted with the fitting—business was slow because of the hurricanes—and promised to have the helmets ready by the next afternoon. We picked yellow fabric for the suits and found a commercially available daffodil that Penny Sue licensed for the uniforms, helmets, mini-car, Corolla, and school bus—yep, she was on a Paris Hilton roll!

  Although Chris and Ruthie rolled their eyes, I secretly thought it was kind of cool. Especially since I didn’t have to pay for it.

  The seamstress agreed to rush the order and we left for our final chore—to buy a vehicle for the bag race. We followed Chris to the car lot where Penny Sue bought the Toyota. After that, Chris baled out—I could tell Penny Sue was getting on her nerves—and we headed home.

  It was close to six o’clock when we pulled into the parking lot and found the weird fisherman on the bench on our neighbor’s stoop. His fishing machine propped against the wall, he sat slumped forward, head in his hands.

  “Lord, he can’t be dead,” Ruthie exclaimed.

  Penny Sue slammed the car into park. “I think he’d be sprawled on the ground in that case. He must be sick.”

  Ruthie was out of the car in a flash. We were close behind.

  “I’m borderline diabetic. I think I fished too long,” he said without looking up. “Too much sun. Not enough food.”

  Penny Sue reached in her handbag, pulled out a snack-sized Snickers, and ripped off the wrapper. “Here, take a bite of this.”

  He popped the whole thing in his mouth. A few minutes later he straightened up. “Thank you, I feel better.” He started to stand up, but collapsed back on the bench.

  “Come sit with us for a while,” Ruthie said. “We’ll make you a sandwich.”

  “I’m okay, really,” he said feebly.

  “Bullshit,” Penny Sue snapped, grabbing his arm. I took the other while Ruthie rolled his fishing gear. “You’re coming with us unless you want to deal with me,” Penny Sue said, her face an inch from his.

  He grinned. “In that case, I think I’ll come to your house.”