Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  I assured her we were fine and told her about the charity race, which would probably be in early October. I said we hoped she’d be back in time.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replied. “I’ll put two thousand on your team. Be sure to call Carl if you want help with your cars.”

  I thanked Fran and said goodbye, then pointed to Penny Sue’s Bloody Mary and winked. She got my drift and started making one for me.

  “Weak,” I exclaimed, as she took the vodka, poised to pour without a jigger. “How much money do we have pledged so far?”

  “If the Hamptons’ people come through, which I think they will—except maybe Frankie, who’s in jail …” Her face scrunched with concentration. Math was never Penny Sue’s best subject. “… about $45,000.”

  “Make that $47,000, thanks to Frannie May.” I took a taste of the drink she slid across the counter. “Hmmm, that’s good.”

  Ruthie appeared from the bedroom. Penny Sue raised her glass, “Want one?” she asked.

  Ruthie held up a can of green tea. “I’m fine.”

  “You know, I think we should use our free time to raise contributions,” I said. “After all, there are more hurricane victims now than before.”

  “Yes,” Ruthie said emphatically. “I heard on TV that because the two hurricanes are separate disasters, homeowners may have to pay the deductible twice—which for most is two percent of the insured value. That’s thousands of dollars working people can’t afford.”

  “It’s that much?” Penny Sue asked. “We’re lucky Daddy replaced the roof and windows, otherwise we’d be in the same boat. This is a vacation home. If the whole thing went,” she waved her arm, “we wouldn’t be hurt.”

  My eyes widened. “Who wouldn’t be hurt? I wouldn’t have a place to live!”

  “Sure, but you wouldn’t lose money.”

  Ruthie slammed down her green tea—totally uncharacteristic—and motioned to Penny Sue for a Bloody Mary. “You’re right. There are people out there who have lost everything. Think about it. So many businesses have been damaged—especially on the beach—families not only have lost their homes, but their jobs. At the very time people need money for repairs they have no income! We have to help. Penny Sue, call your PR friend. We need TV spots. We need Good Morning America and the Today Show. We need national contributions.” Ruthie chugged her Bloody Mary.

  I was astounded. I’d never heard Ruthie speak with such passion, which was my second clue that Millie had followed her to New Smyrna Beach.

  Pumped up with righteous indignation, Penny Sue threw back her shoulders. “Damn straight, it’s the least we can do. Leigh, please hand me the telephone.”

  Penny Sue reached her friend at the Atlanta PR firm and laid it on thick. Her description of the hurricane damage sounded like a nuclear holocaust, and Max quickly agreed to run the news circuit again.

  “Tony Perkins from Good Morning America was in New Smyrna Beach. That should buy credibility,” Max said. “I’ll contact them. The Weather Channel was in the area, too. I’ll give them a call, since they’re here in Atlanta. Jim Cantore may be willing to do a short spot.”

  “Jim Cantore,” Penny Sue mouthed to Ruthie who all but swooned. Penny Sue hung up the phone, smirking. “We’re on our way.”

  Sonny Mallard, the wonderful contractor who had fixed Nana King’s water leak, agreed to help Penny Sue with the deck. What we needed were a few truckloads of sand to anchor the exposed supports. Sand, what’s the big deal? Seems anything involving the beach was a very big deal, we soon found out. First, you needed a permit and permission to drive equipment on the beach. Secondly, you needed native sand—that is, matching sand. Any old sand wouldn’t do. Whether through luck or connections, Sonny obtained the permits in a few days. The sand was another matter. He put in an order for several truckloads, but unfortunately there was a waiting list. If we were lucky, they’d get to us in a couple of weeks. Under normal circumstances, a reasonable scenario; in our case, not so hot. Every high tide eroded the sand under the deck a little more. At the rate it was going, the deck could collapse before the sand arrived.

  “Sandbags are the only solution I can thing of,” Sonny advised. “I know a place in Sanford that stockpiled them for Frances and may have some left. If you can borrow a truck, you could get a load and place them around the deck supports. That should give you a little protection until the sand arrives. I’d do it for you, but I’m booked solid. Ten-hour days for the foreseeable future.”

  Gary Wilson, the other half of our duplex, had flown in the previous day. He had the same problem with his deck, so quickly offered to help with the sandbags. It took several phone calls, but we finally found a dealership willing to rent us a used pick-up truck. Since the cab only held three people, one of us had to stay behind.

  “Ruthie, why don’t you stay here and peek in on Pearl Woodhead?”

  “Pearl Woodhead?” Gary loaded a shovel and wheelbarrow into the back of the truck. “She called last night, wanting to buy my condo.”

  Whoa, Pearl was worse than Yuri, I thought. “If you’re thinking of selling, I hope you’ll give me a chance to bid on your condo. I’m looking to buy something in this development, and your unit would be perfect.”

  “Pat and I haven’t decided what to do yet. I’m waiting for all the estimates. If we decide to sell, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Thanks, units around here are snatched up before the listing even hits the newspaper.”

  We were very grateful to have Gary with us, because the sandbag place was a load-your-own affair. After ten minutes Penny Sue and I were worn out and drenched with sweat. Yeah, it was stinky, dirty sweat—none of that sugarcoated, Southern perspiration stuff. Gary, in his early sixties, was in better shape still; the chances of our filling the back of the truck without help were slim to none.

  That’s when Penny Sue spied two young men hanging out at the bus stop. She reached in her purse, pulled out two fifties, and headed in their direction, her fanny swaying in full gear. They followed her back.

  “Meet Darin and Lee. They can help us for an hour,” she said.

  Fifty bucks an hour was terrific wages for manual labor in Florida, and those young men earned every bit of it. Darin waved us aside, picked up a sandbag and tossed it to Lee, who stood in the back of the truck. They swapped positions several times, but had the truck loaded in fifty minutes. We’d have been in cardiac arrest and on our way to the local hospital. They were happy for the money and hotfooted it to the convenience store across the street.

  “Youth,” Gary said, starting the truck. “You can take vitamins, Viagra, anything you want, but there’s no substitute for youth.”

  “Gospel truth,” Penny Sue said with a devilish grin.

  Uh oh, I knew her all too well … there was a story behind that grin, but I wasn’t going to probe in front of Gary. A young Atlanta Brave, perhaps, back home in Roswell? Anything was possible with Penny Sue.

  We found Ruthie waiting with a big pitcher of lemonade when we arrived home. “I thought you could use some good old Southern vitamin C after your ordeal.” She gave us the once over. “You look like you’ve hardly broken a sweat.”

  Penny Sue flexed her bicep. “Piece of cake! We’re in good shape.”

  “I’d love some lemonade,” Gary said, taking a seat at the kitchen counter.

  “Coming up.” Ruthie filled large glasses packed with ice.

  “Umm-m, this is good. Just what the doctor ordered. And, to set the record straight, it was Penny Sue’s wallet that was in good shape. She found two strapping young men who had some time to spare,” Gary said.

  “I found out some interesting poop while you were gone.” Ruthie took a long drink of her lemonade.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Penny Sue snapped. “Speak up!”

  “Well, in case Pearl saw me yesterday, I figured I needed a disguise. So I took an old pair of jeans and cut the legs off to make shorts.”

  “
Not the Moschinos?” Penny Sue blurted.

  “Yeah, they were getting shiny in the seat.”

  I shook my head. Two hundred dollar jeans and she cut off the legs for a disguise! More money than sense, Grammy Martin would say.

  “Next, I sheared off the sleeves of one of my tee-shirts.”

  “Don’t tell me which one,” I said.

  “Anyway, I tucked my hair up in a baseball cap, wore your flip flops,” she pointed at me, “and Penny Sue’s big sunglasses.”

  “Those are expensive Porsches. They’ve come back in style. Didn’t you notice that some of the guys from the Hamptons wore them?”

  “They look fake with the gold frame and all,” Ruthie said.

  “Fake?” Penny Sue nearly shouted. “The frame’s eighteen-karat!”

  Ruthie snorted. “Do you want to hear my story or not? Besides, I was confident Pearl wouldn’t recognize Porsche sunglasses and would think they were fakes. I couldn’t go back today dressed like I was the last time.”

  Penny Sue sighed. “Go on.”

  “When I got there, Pearl was coming out of her garage with a bag of garbage. I hid behind the building to watch. You won’t believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Pearl stopped at her neighbor’s stairway, reached in the garbage bag, pulled out a milk carton and a chicken bone, and put them on the bottom step.”

  “That’s sick,” Penny Sue muttered.

  “That’s not all. Next she took a rotten head of lettuce and put it on top of the mailboxes. By then she was at the dumpster, tied the bag and slung it in.”

  Gary held his glass out for a refill. “Sounds like the old lady’s lost a few marbles.”

  “Was that it?” I was disappointed. Pearl’s strange behavior merely confirmed what I already thought—that she was seriously nuts.

  “There’s more. As Pearl was walking back to her condo, a big black limo pulled in. It stopped, picked her up, and drove to her house. I ran around the back of the building to spy on them. Three men got out with Pearl. Two men had dark brown hair, well-tailored suits, and were very tan. They’d either just come from the tanning salon or were Mediterranean, you know Greek, Italian, Spanish, or something. The third man was unmistakably American Indian. His hair was shoulder length and pulled back in a braid. He wore slacks and a print shirt with one of those string ties that guys out West wear. He also had on a lot of turquoise and silver jewelry.”

  “Did you go to Pearl’s door and listen?” Penny Sue asked.

  “Heck, no. The driver in the limo would have seen me. I strolled around pretending to inspect hurricane damage. After about a half hour, Larry came by with his fishing machine, and I figured I’d better skedaddle. Even with the big sunglasses, he might recognize me and get suspicious.”

  Thinking, Penny Sue stroked her chin. “Larry was probably trying to find a way to get to the beach. All the walkways are gone, and there’s a five-foot drop in most places.” Penny Sue folded her arms across her chest and chewed a fingernail. “What does all of this mean? Pearl thinks she’s an Indian princess, is trying to buy up the complex, and an Indian and two apparently well-heeled men come to visit. What’s the connection? She’s obviously crazy, so why would they fool with her?”

  Gary drained his lemonade. “Ladies, it’s getting late, and the truck has to be back by tomorrow afternoon. I think we should get started on the sandbags. It’s going to take us a lot longer than it took Darin and Lee.”

  “A shame we couldn’t have brought them back with us,” Penny Sue said.

  Gary stood. “Not a chance, this is Friday night. I’m sure those young men have plans.”

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  September 11-22, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  Timothy was spending the weekend with Guthrie (Yeah, we got our sofa back!) and offered to help us with the sandbags. We mapped out a plan of attack the night before. Gary determined that our sidewalk was secure all the way to the end where it had been sheered off by the storm. Our job was to load the sandbags into the wheelbarrow, roll it to the end of the sidewalk, tip it forward, and dump the load. Meanwhile, Gary used a ladder to climb down the sheer sand cliff to the beach. Once we dumped the sandbags, he’d place them around the deck supports. Simple, right? Simple in theory, hard to execute. The sandbags weighed at least a million pounds when loaded in the wheelbarrow.

  If it hadn’t been for Timothy with all of his bulging ’ceps, we’d never have finished. Guthrie couldn’t help because of his bum knee, but lent another wheelbarrow to the cause and played oxygenated-water boy. Timothy loaded the wheelbarrows; we pushed them down the sidewalk and tipped them over. Either we were completely out of shape or the darned handcarts actually weighted a ton, because it took two of us—one on each handle—to push and dump. Being there were three of us, we devised a rotation plan so that one could rest after two trips.

  With two carts and Atlas unloading the truck, we finished before poor Gary. A huge pile of sandbags had stacked up on the beach. With the heat index hoveringly around a hundred, the three of us were sprawled against the truck, every pore spouting oxygenated-water. Timothy, aka Atlas, merely glistened and went to Gary’s aid. If Penny Sue hadn’t been so tired, she’d probably have licked Timothy’s ankle as he passed by. The fact she didn’t give him a second glance showed her utter exhaustion.

  Guthrie offered to drive the pickup truck back to the dealership, while I followed in my car. Penny Sue proposed to call in orders for pizzas and antipasto salads that we’d pick up on the way home. I ran to the bedroom for a quick shower when I returned and emerged as Timothy and Gary arrived. Exhausted, famished, but clean, we all twisted the cap off a beer—even Timothy!—and quickly found places at the table. Conversation was scarce until everyone had consumed several slices of pizza and hefty helpings of salad. As Gary and Guthrie continued to munch, the rest of us settled back and twisted the cap off a second beer.

  “Man, I’m sorry I don’t have any brownies for dessert. I’ve been so busy cleaning the condo, I couldn’t get in the mood to bake, ya know what I mean?” Guthrie pointed his beer at me. “I meant to tell you, Pearl called Uncle Dan wanting to buy his condo. She told him there was a six-month wait for repairs and other storms were coming. If he was smart, he’d sell the unit while it was still worth something.”

  Other storms? We all gazed at Ruthie.

  “Ivan’s out there, but it seems headed for the Gulf,” our resident weatherwoman replied.

  “Did Pearl make an offer?” I asked.

  “Yeah, she offered $299,000. With all the repairs the place would need, that was generous, she said.”

  “Your uncle didn’t take it, did he?” Penny Sue asked.

  “Heck no. First of all, he doesn’t like Pearl. Second, he’s holding the place as his nest egg for when Harriet dies. Uncle Dan hopes he’ll get enough money for one of those retirement homes where all the nurses are young with big tits.”

  Gary, who’d just taken a bite of pizza, almost choked. Ruthie pounded his back. He took a sip of beer. “Sorry,” he sputtered.

  “What is Pearl up to?” Penny Sue asked no one in particular.

  Ruthie clunked her beer on the table. “She’s trying to scare people into selling cheap, then she’ll turn around and sell them for a big profit.”

  “Anastasia said she’s not rich. How could Pearl afford to do that?” I asked.

  “The men in the limo are backing her,” Penny Sue said emphatically. “I’ll bet they’re trying to buy the place to put in big, high-rise condos. Pearl is the front man. She’s probably earning a commission.” Penny Sue’s eyes lit up. “A commission Pearl needs because she’s a compulsive spender, which is why her condo’s mortgaged to the hilt.” Penny Sue leaned back and wagged her finger. “And Woody’s told her she has to change her ways, because he’s not making her mortgage payments anymore. What do you think?” Penny Sue took a satisfied sip of water.

  “You’ve lost me,” Gary said. “But this is pr
ime real estate, and I’d hate to see a high rise go in here.” He swiveled toward me. “Don’t worry—if we decide to sell, you’ll get the first call.” He folded his napkin and placed it on the table. “Sorry to eat and run, but I have to fly home tomorrow. My realtor will send someone to rip out the carpet and will coordinate with the insurance company, if they ever send an inspector.” Disgusted, he shook his head. “Pat and I appreciate your help. It’s hard to live so far away and nice to know you have friends.” Gary stood and patted Timothy on the shoulder. “Thanks, big guy. I wouldn’t be standing without your help.” They shook hands, and we said our goodbyes.

  While Penny Sue walked Gary to the door, Ruthie told Guthrie and Timothy about Pearl, her strange behavior, and the limo.

  “Chicken bones?” Guthrie said. “Like, maybe, that’s some kind of Indian hex. Whoa, I find chicken bones on my steps, and I’m gonna sage the place.”

  Penny Sue returned and plopped an ice bucket of beer in the center of the table. “Ya know, I’ll bet Pearl’s in on the mercury sabotage.”

  “Pearl couldn’t have done that,” I said. “She’s old. Pearl wouldn’t have the strength to hold up the tool that scratched Guthrie’s storm shutters. Besides, she’s stiff as a board—no way could she have crawled under Nana King’s house.”

  “The guys in the limo have lackeys who did it.” Penny Sue stood. “Would anyone like a scotch?”

  Guthrie raised his hand like a child. “I would.”

  Penny Sue departed for the kitchen. “We need more information,” she said. “Someone’s trying to frighten people away from this complex.” Penny Sue handed a glass to Guthrie. “Ruthie, can you use your computer to get a list of all the owners in this development?”

  “Probably—the Volusia Appraiser’s database is online.”