Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  “What about Angel?” I asked.

  “She’ll be fine. She has hiding places inside of hiding places,” Chris assured me.

  As Chris fumbled with the deadbolt, we heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot on the front porch. Adrenaline surged. We nearly ripped the door off its hinges, ran across the back porch, and piled into Chris’ car. The hybrid started like a normal vehicle, but quickly switched to the virtually silent electric mode. Lights off, Chris crept down the driveway to Spanish Street. To our horror, a man lay sprawled across the sidewalk a few feet away from us. Chris made a right on Spanish Street and floored it, causing the gas engine to kick in. The sound of the engine got the attention of two men on the porch, who hopped the railing and raced to a big sedan parked across the street. Before they had a chance to start their car, a black Cadillac sped by and more shots rang out.

  “There are two groups, and they don’t seem to like each other,” Chris shrieked.

  “Like the wreck on Route 1,” I mumbled.

  “Well, they’re not getting me. This baby can out maneuver those lardass boats any day.” Chris took a right at the first intersection, a left on Cordova to King, and onward to Route 1. “Do you seem them?”

  “Yes, but they’re far back.”

  “Good, I know where we can lose them.” She hung a left on Route 1, drove a ways, switched off her lights, and turned into the San Lorenzo Cemetery. We bumped down a dirt road and parked behind the caretakers’ building with a clear view of the entrance. We stared at the gateway, praying headlights would not appear. No such luck.

  “Damn! They probably bugged your car,” Penny Sue cursed. “We’re sitting ducks—we’ve got to get out of here.”

  We exploded from the Toyota and made a beeline for a chapel in the middle of the cemetery. I lugged the taser, Penny Sue had her .38. We left our pocketbooks behind, which showed how scared we were. No Southern woman would be caught dead without her pocketbook. It was the dead part I didn’t like. Hell with tradition, the purses were on their own!

  “Millie says we should find a guy with a skull, then run to the right, toward the woods,” Ruthie panted.

  “Guy with a skull?” Penny Sue called over her shoulder. “Are you sure Millie’s a friendly ghost?”

  “Look, I just call it as I get it,” Ruthie snapped.

  We reached the chapel and scanned the area for a man with a skull. All we saw was row after row of small crosses.

  “Millie says nuns,” Ruthie nodded at the crosses, “and we should go around to the front.”

  We picked our way slowly, hugging the side of the building. The car that turned into the cemetery had parked behind ours.

  “Hurry,” I started to say, but stopped as another car entered the graveyard and cut its lights. “Geez, more company.” We rushed around the corner and came face-to-face with a giant marble statue of a man holding a skull.

  “Crissakes,” Penny Sue exclaimed, backing up. The skull glowed in moonlight streaming through a break in the clouds. “Who’s that, the saint of death?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Ruthie replied in a controlled shriek. “To the woods. Here they come!” We bent down as low as we could and ran like hell toward the trees.

  By this time, the men who’d parked behind the Toyota realized we weren’t at home and had started searching for us with halogen flashlights. Their view obstructed by the caretaker’s building, they obviously didn’t realize they had company. Three lights fanned out from the first car, heading in our general direction. A moment later, our worst fear materialized. One of the beams caught Ruthie, who was in the lead. “Millie says jump.” And Ruthie disappeared.

  We stopped in our tracks. “What tha—?” Penny Sue started.

  “Down here. Jump!”

  Lordy, Ruthie had jumped into a pit—no, a freshly dug grave!

  “A grave? I’m not hopping in a grave,” Penny Sue declared.

  A shot rang out, and one of the flashlights fell to the ground. That was all the encouragement needed, we jumped and landed in a thick layer of mud. Thankfully, I’d held the taser over my head, so it wasn’t damaged.

  We sat on our haunches in a good foot of mud, too scared to move. A flurry of gunfire reverberated around us. We heard a man scream, then a loud curse in a foreign language. Silence. Another shot, and a curse in a different language. Then the weirdest thing happened, the sky above lit up with a pulsating blue. The light bounced off the thunderheads and filled the pit, giving us the first look we’d had of each other since we left the store. Faces full of terror, covered in mud, we were a pitiful sight, to say the least.

  “Remember that Speilberg mini-series about the little blonde girl who was really an alien?” Penny Sue said, her voice trembling, face raised to the heavens. “I think we’re about to be beamed up like she was at the end of the show.”

  “You think you’re an alien?” I quipped.

  “Not me … Ruthie! This is exactly the way it looked when the aliens came for the little girl.”

  As Penny Sue searched the sky for a spaceship, Chris inched upward to peer over the edge of the grave. “Aliens, hell. It’s the cops!”

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  September 6-8, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  The next day at eleven-fifteen AM, the East Coast alerts for Frances were officially lifted. Chris, Ruthie, Penny Sue, and I raised our Mimosas and toasted the hurricane’s departure as we sat in the bar area of the Casa Monica Hotel with a good view of the TV.

  “And, to Woody, who helped us for a change,” I added. Chris and Ruthie tipped their glasses. Penny Sue scowled. “Come on, Penny Sue, Woody deserves some credit, you have to admit that.”

  “He was doing his job.”

  “True, but he saved our hides.”

  She squinched her nose, yet begrudgingly lifted her drink. “To Woody. About time he did something constructive.”

  The information I gave Woody about the wrecked Taurus and our being followed made its way to the St. Augustine Police Department and the area office of the FBI. While we played poker at Chris’ store, the FBI checked our cars in the Casa Monica garage. They found tracking devices, deciphered the frequency, and gambled that the gang would use it again. They were a little late staking out The Rising Moon, so missed the action there, but located Chris’ car in the cemetery and arrived in the middle of the shootout.

  “Quite a catch,” John, the lead agent for the FBI task force, gloated when we picked the two men out of the lineup who’d followed us from New Smyrna Beach. Frankie, Penny Sue’s heartthrob, turned out to be an underboss in the Italian Mafia. The guy with the snake necklace was a notorious character from the Russian mob. Who was chasing whom, and for what reason, was unclear, since no one would talk. In any event, the FBI thought both gangs would lay low for a while, putting us in the clear.

  So we were celebrating and biding our time until we could go back to New Smyrna Beach. According to Woody, damage was extensive—a combination of wind and thirty-six hours of rain—and the power on the island remained off. He advised us to stay in St. Augustine for a while (probably hoping we’d stay forever), since many roads were impassible from downed trees, not to mention the massive traffic jams and gas shortages caused by returning evacuees.

  Another time we would have headed for St. Augustine’s Old Town shopping district or the outlet malls. On this Labor Day, most stores were closed, so we had to settle for massages at the hotel. Too bad, oh, twist my arm! I, for one, intended to plop in the hot tub as soon as we finished lunch.

  Our sandwiches arrived. “Wait,” Chris said, catching Penny Sue with a wedge of club sandwich halfway to her mouth. “One more toast.” Penny Sue put her sandwich down reluctantly and reached for her Mimosa. Chris stood and we followed suit. “To us!”

  “To us.”

  “And Millie,” Ruthie added.

  “To Millie.”

  “And victory in the race!”

  “Victory!” We clicked our
glasses and did a sloppy high five.

  I was about to chomp down on the biggest, juiciest hamburger on the planet when my cell phone rang. I checked the display—it was Guthrie. I longingly eyed my burger and debated whether to answer. Guess I should—he might be calling about the condo. “Hello?”

  “Man, are you all right?” he asked.

  “Fine. I’m in St. Augustine with Penny Sue and Ruthie. How about you?”

  “Peachy, considering there’s no electricity and,” I could hear him cup his hand around the mouthpiece of the phone, “Timothy’s mother is driving me batty. She calls me Guppy and is crazy as a loon. Like, when are you coming home?”

  “The electricity is out all over the island. We’re planning to stay here for another couple of days.” I glanced at Penny Sue who’d already eaten half of her sandwich. “Can I call you back? We’re in the middle of lunch.”

  “No prob. I’ll be here playing Scrabble with Mother.” His hand went around the mouthpiece again. “She cheats!”

  Suffering from news deficit with all the commotion of the past few days, Ruthie carried the tiny battery-operated TV to the spa. How anyone could relax with a massage as she watched the news was beyond me. I suppose being informed was a security blanket for Ruthie, insuring she wouldn’t be surprised like she had been by her ex-husband, Harold. Trusting soul that she was, Ruthie had no inkling Harold had run around on her all through med school.

  While Ruthie and Penny Sue were kneaded and rubbed, I lounged in the hot tub and called Guthrie.

  “Devastated. Just devastated at the beach. Roofs gone, dunes eroded, still no power. I fear what we’ll find when we get home. I hope you’re coming home soon,” he whispered. “I, like, can’t stand it here much longer. Mother makes Aunt Harriet look good.”

  “Hold on.” I called to Ruthie and Penny Sue, “Think we’ll head back tomorrow?”

  “If the power’s on,” Penny Sue answered. “I need to check the condo. I hope we didn’t get any damage.”

  “As soon as the power’s back on,” I relayed to Guthrie.

  “Fab, man. I’ll check every hour and let you know the minute the juice is back. Like, I really can’t stand much more Scrabble and rummy.”

  Ruthie suddenly moaned. Not good. It wasn’t an I’m-so-relaxed moan, it was of the oh-shit variety.

  “What now?” Penny Sue asked peevishly.

  “Tropical Storm Ivan has been upgraded to a hurricane.”

  “No!” I held a towel over my face. “I don’t want to know.”

  The electricity in our complex didn’t come back on until late Tuesday evening, so we headed home Wednesday morning. By then, most of the traffic had cleared, although there was still precious little gasoline. Fortunately, we both had half a tank and knew we could make it. Penny Sue led the way with me following. The further south we drove, the worse the destruction became. By the time we reached Port Orange, we saw that most of the blue tarps covering roof damage from Charley were flapping in the breeze. There were also large portions of roofs, tarps still in place, piled on the side of the road.

  I got a sick feeling as we approached the South Causeway Bridge and saw police stopping traffic and checking IDs. A precaution to prevent looting. No one without an official ID that showed they belonged on the island would be allowed to pass. Thankfully, Bobby Barnes had clued me in and vouched for my employment at the center, so I was able to get a business and resident pass. Without his help and the passes, I wouldn’t have been allowed on the island, since I’d never taken the time to get a Florida driver’s license. I quickly called Penny Sue and told her to pull over.

  “If we get out of line, we’ll never—” she started.

  “Hush. Without a pass, you won’t get home at all. I have one for you.”

  They worked like a charm. We flashed the passes, and the police waved us on. We drove slowly, single file, overwhelmed by the downed signs and debris. About the time we reached Ocean’s Seafood, my phone rang. It was Guthrie.

  “They won’t let me on the beach because my driver’s license has my old address,” he wailed.

  “Park in the hospital lot, I’ll come back for you.” I hung up, hit redial for Penny Sue, and told her to pull into Publix’s parking lot. “Guthrie’s stuck, I need your pass.”

  The lot was full of Publix eighteen-wheelers and a bunch of cars. The cavalry had arrived to restock the frozen food. Penny Sue would be happy about that—it probably meant they had ice.

  She handed me the decal. I nodded at the grocery store. “Might be a good time to pick up some ice.” I started for my car.

  “Wait,” she called. “You’re not going to invite Guthrie to stay with us, again, are you?”

  “Geez, we don’t know what we’ll find when we get home. We may need to stay with him.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You’re right. I was being pissy. We’ll do what we have to do.”

  Leaving the island wasn’t a problem, and I quickly located Guthrie and handed him the pass. We were both in shock when we finally got home. With rubble piled on both sides of A1A, the area looked like a war zone. He went to his condo, I went to mine … er, the judge’s. I found the front door ajar and the tile floor covered with damp sand. Ruthie and Penny Sue were in the great room, inspecting the windows and furniture.

  “Water must have run down the hill and under the front door,” Penny Sue said.

  “It rained for thirty-six hours,” Ruthie said quietly.

  Lu Nee 2, our robot security guard/maid, stood in the far corner of the room, perfectly still. Penny Sue patted her head. “Little Lu Nee is dead!”

  “Probably out of power, a recharge should fix her up,” I said, remembering I’d forgotten to turn off my alarm clock, which had undoubtedly sent Lu Nee into a tizzy. For hours the robot probably demanded, “Halt, who goes there?” until her life was spent.

  “You’re right.” Penny Sue stepped under an AC vent. “Cool air. Hallelujah!” She hurried to her room and returned with Lu Nee 2’s charger.

  I gazed out the salt-coated windows. The image of the beach was fuzzy, still the water seemed a lot closer than it used to be. “We should check outside,” I said. “The ocean looks awfully close to the deck. We should go down the cluster walkway.”

  Ruthie pressed her nose against the window. “You’re right, I think we’ve lost the last dune.”

  We trooped out the front door and ran into Guthrie. “It’s a disaster,” he wailed. “The windows without the shutters blew out. The condo is soaked. The wallboard has swollen up like a sponge. Frances even blew the pictures off the walls. What am I going to do?”

  Ruthie put her arm around him. “You’ll stay on our sofa until we get this straightened out.”

  I could tell Penny Sue wanted to strangle Ruthie, but like a true Southern lady, she smiled instead. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay with us,” she murmured, all the while giving Ruthie the evil eye. Ruthie returned the hard look and gave Penny Sue a stealthy hand gesture, something I’d never seen her do before. That’s when I first suspected that Millie had followed us home!

  The four of us trooped down the cluster walkway and stopped abruptly a few feet beyond our condo. The rest of the walkway was gone, ending in a steep five-foot drop to the beach. Thank goodness, we didn’t step out on the deck—the side closest to us was hanging in midair.

  Penny Sue’s hand went to her chest. “Gawd, it’s worse than I imagined.” She inspected our roof. “At least the roof held—probably because it was replaced when we did the windows.”

  Debris—huge planks, poles, concrete slabs—the remnants of decks and walkways from who knew where covered our beautiful beach. “Larry won’t being fishing any time soon,” I said, pointing down the now non-existent dune line. “All the stairs to the beach washed away.”

  “The turtle nests were lost, that’s for sure,” Ruthie said ruefully.

  Guthrie motioned to the other half of the judge’s duplex where the blue tarp covering Charley roof damage flap
ped. “Man, a shame they didn’t get a new roof when you did. I’ll bet there’s water inside. Do you know the people who live there?”

  “Pat and Gary Wilson still own it, I assume. Like Daddy, they hardly ever come down, rent it out instead. I think they’re holding it for their kids.” She turned to me. “This could be your chance. They may be willing to sell now.”

  I gulped. “I might not be interested when I see the mess.”

  “They’re not making any more beachfront property. The dunes will come back, they always do. Besides, it’s worth a call,” Penny Sue said. “If you want a condo here, you can’t dillydally.”

  “You’re right. Do you have their phone number?”

  “I think it’s in the kitchen junk drawer, and a local realtor has the key. We’ll call and offer to check on their damage.”

  Guthrie, still limping, hobbled home to nail plastic over the broken window, tell Timothy where he’d be, and gather his stuff. Meanwhile, Penny Sue called the Wilsons, who were thrilled to hear from ‘little Penny Sue’ and grateful for her offer to check on their place. Their realtor handled over a dozen rental properties and wasn’t sure when she could get to it. The Wilsons debated whether one of them should fly down from Wisconsin, but were worried about the other storm that was on the way. Mr. Wilson promised to call the realtor and have her bring Penny Sue a key.

  “As soon as we see the damage, you can decide if you want to make an offer,” Penny Sue said. “Ruthie, maybe you should check on Ivan. It’s worrying the Wilsons.”

  She didn’t have to ask Ruthie twice. The Weather Channel was on in a split second. As Ruthie waited for the storm update, I pulled out a bottle of ammonia and a large trash bag. “I’ll clean the icebox. It’s been off for five days; the food is all spoiled.”

  “Good idea, we want to get that icemaker going ASAP. Publix had already sold out and said the first shipment of ice went in less than an hour.” Penny Sue peered over my shoulder as I opened the freezer. The ice cream and everything else had melted, then refroze when the power came back on. The bottom of the compartment was covered in a disgusting mishmash of drippings. “That is nasty! Hand me the ice bins,” Penny Sue said, holding her nose. “I’ll wash them in the sink.”