Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  Penny Sue pointed at me. Good grief, she’d flipped into the schoolteacher mode. “Leigh, you want to buy a condo in this complex, right?”

  My brows furrowed, wondering where she was headed. “Of course.”

  “Does anyone have a printer?” Penny Sue asked.

  Ruthie and I gave her a dumb look. “Not here,” we said in unison.

  “I have a portable in the trunk of my car. It’s inkjet, but you’re welcome to use it,” Timothy said, clearly intrigued.

  “Thank you, Timothy.” Penny Sue started to pace. “There’s something sneaky going on, and we’re going to find out what it is. Ruthie, your mission is to get the names and addresses of all the owners in this development. Leigh, you’re going to send them letters saying you want to buy a condo, and would they please contact you if they decide to sell.”

  “What about Yuri, who’s going door-to-door?” I asked.

  “Screw Yuri,” Penny Sue said.

  Geez! The heat, work, beer, and scotch had gotten to her. Never in my life had I heard Penny Sue use that term. Could the spirit of Millie move around, I wondered? I thought Millie was attached to Ruthie, because of her psychic abilities. Maybe not. “Do you think Yuri’s involved?”

  “No way. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be going door-to-door. Pearl and her guys are undercutting him, which is why he had to resort to personal contact,” Penny Sue said.

  Made sense. For once, Penny Sue might be right.

  “Okay, let’s do it.” We all did a clumsy high five.

  Hurricanes are the pits, but that’s the cost of living in Florida. It could be worse; you could live in California where the earth moves. That has to be the scariest experience of all, I think. In a hurricane, at least the ground’s solid and you’re blown around. In an earthquake, nothing’s solid.

  The next week and a half passed in a blur of tedium. Ruthie obtained the addresses for the development, and I sent out the letters. Gary’s carpet was ripped up and dumped in our driveway. Guthrie got his insurance appraisal, which nearly sent Uncle Dan into cardiac arrest. Timothy was his hunky self—always good looking, eager to help, but never revealing much.

  Ruthie kept doing reconnaissance on Pearl’s place. So Ruthie wouldn’t continue cutting up her expensive, designer clothes, I took her to Gone Bonkers for local attire. She purchased several cotton outfits that she really liked. “I can’t believe I bought this much stuff for this amount of money,” Ruthie said, thumping the receipt with her finger.

  “Welcome to the beach,” I said. “This isn’t Atlanta where you’re judged by how much your outfit cost. Here, nobody cares what you wear, which is what I like about the place.”

  A big hat, sunglasses, and regular clothes provided the perfect disguise for Ruthie. Unfortunately, she didn’t learn much from her daily treks except that Pearl was truly a brick shy of a full load. Pearl snuck around the development hiding her garbage in neighbors’ plants, stairwells, mailboxes, cars, and anything else she could get in to. The old girl also had sticky fingers. She stole the welcome mat from one condo and a man’s swimsuit that had been draped over a railing to dry.

  “Whoa, that’s seriously kinky,” Guthrie said, when Ruthie recounted her story. “You think Pearl’s doing, like, an Indian counting coup thing?”

  “What’s that?” Penny Sue asked.

  “It was a way Indians gained honor by getting through the enemies’ defenses. All they had to do was touch the enemy, or take something, to prove they were superior.”

  “Pearl’s proving she’s superior by dumping garbage everywhere and stealing things?”

  Guthrie held up his hands. “Stranger things have happened.”

  The other thing Ruthie learned from her daily walks was that fisherman Larry was doing a lot of walking, too. “Likely because he can’t get to the beach to fish,” she surmised.

  “Or the fishing’s lousy with all the debris in the water,” I suggested.

  “That’s probably it,” Penny Sue agreed. “That depression off the coast was just upgraded to a hurricane, and some weather forecasters think Ivan will go out to sea in New England, then turn around and come back here as a nor’easter.”

  “You’re kidding!” Ruthie raced to the television. With all the activity of the last few days, she’d slacked off on her weather watching. Besides, Penny Sue had become hooked on CSI re-runs that we’d watched most evenings. A few minutes into the tropical update, Ruthie moaned.

  “What, what?” Penny Sue rushed to the living room.

  “Ivan made landfall in the Panhandle this morning. It’s been downgraded to a tropical storm and is supposed to bring lots of rain all the way to New England. But the worse is Tropical Storm Jeanne that was initially predicted to bypass Florida. It’s now a hurricane and expected to take a northwest turn, following in Frances’ footsteps.”

  “English, Ruthie, English. What does that mean to us?” Penny Sue demanded.

  “We’d better restock the hurricane supplies.”

  Penny Sue and I both groaned.

  The next week was Pearl and weather hell. What probably got Pearl’s back up were the responses we started receiving from the condo owners we’d written. Almost to a person, each owner said they’d been contacted by Pearl Woodhead, but would let us know if they decided to sell. I suppose someone told Pearl about my offer. On Saturday morning we found a typed note stuck to our door with chewing gum; “MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.”

  “Put on gloves,” Penny Sue shrieked as I started to pull the gum off the door. “The crime lab can probably check it for DNA.”

  I shook my head. “Penny Sue, get serious. The police are not going to check this note for DNA.”

  “It’s a threat, and we know Pearl did it.”

  I let out a long sigh. “You may be right, but there’s no overt threat.”

  Ruthie appeared with a baggie. CSI had obviously made an impression on her. “Doesn’t hurt to preserve the evidence. Don’t you guess we should call the police?”

  “Not for this,” I said. “But if it escalates …”

  And, it did.

  That evening Gary Wilson phoned to tell us he and Pat had decided to sell. If I wanted the condo, it was mine. They’d been leaning in that direction, but Pearl Woodhead pushed them all the way. The night before, Pearl called the Wilsons and tried to pressure them into selling. When Gary told her he had promised me first choice, Pearl went berserk, claiming it was rightfully her land, and she’d put a hex on him, his children, and his children’s children. Gary told her he’d heard enough and hung up in her face. Pearl phoned several more times—they could tell from caller ID—but the Wilsons didn’t answer. Pearl finally stopped about midnight their time.

  I told Gary I thought the beachfront condos previously sold in the $550,000-$600,000 range, but considering the repairs, would he consider taking less? “Absolutely, wouldn’t dream of charging you full price,” he assured me. He’d give me a figure when he received all the repair estimates.

  I was ecstatic for about ten minutes. “Gary will sell,” I exclaimed. “I’m not homeless any more!” I did a little victory dance as Penny Sue passed around wine to toast my good fortune.

  “Best yet, you’ll be right next to me. Won’t that be fun-n?” Penny Sue drawled.

  I swallowed hard. Hmmm. I had to think for a minute. Oh, well, Penny Sue wouldn’t be there much, so it would be fun. We toasted again, just as the phone rang.

  “Leigh,” Guthrie whispered. “Turn on your front porch light. Someone’s messing with your car.”

  I flew down the hall to the light switch. Penny Sue followed, pulling her gun from its holster as Ruthie slapped the battery pack into the taser. My heart pounded. “Okay, on three. One, two, three-e.” I flipped the switch and flung open the door. At that moment, a halogen spotlight from Guthrie’s upper deck switched on, illuminating the culprit and Timothy creeping toward the parking lot.

  Pearl stood beside my car. She was holding an egg carton and a jar. As I approache
d her from the front, Timothy snuck in from the rear. Pearl’s lips curled back with a crazed look of contempt when she saw me.

  “You stole my condo,” she said. Before I could stop her, she took an egg and broke it on the hood of my VW. “This is my land.” She threw an egg at me, which missed, and prepared to heave the jar. Luckily, Timothy had reached her by then and snatched the jar before she could release it. Pearl whirled around, eyes wide, and smashed the egg carton in Timothy’s face. He staggered back, blinded.

  Penny Sue shoved her gun into my hands and raced to Pearl. With one swift move, Penny Sue swept her leg in a low arc and knocked the old woman flat on her behind. Then, Penny Sue grabbed Pearl’s wrists and held them tightly. “Call Woody. She’s lost her mind. Ruthie, bring me a scarf or something I can use to tie her hands. Nothing rough, her skin’s like tissue paper.”

  A two hundred dollar Chanel silk scarf is what Ruthie brought back. What a waste. I sucked air as I watched Penny Sue tie Pearl’s hands behind her with the expensive silk and lead her into the house to wait for Woody.

  Guthrie appeared with a washcloth and wiped the egg off Timothy’s face, all the while Timothy studied the jar. He let out a low whistle. “Be glad Pearl didn’t throw this,” he exclaimed. “It’s mercury!”

  My jaw dropped. Was Pearl responsible for Clyde’s death?

  “Got a hose?” Guthrie brought me back to the present. “The egg will ruin your paint job.”

  I absently pointed to the side of the house and followed the others inside.

  Woody arrived in a half hour. The moment Pearl saw him she started screaming. We’d stolen from her, assaulted her, none of it was her fault. She spit at Penny Sue.

  “Mom, if you don’t shut up, I’m locking you in the bathroom,” he said sternly.

  She gave him the most hateful look I’ve ever seen. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He stared her in the eye. “What happened, here?”

  Timothy started the story, telling Woody how he and Guthrie were sitting on their deck and saw Pearl sneak up and start messing with my car. Penny Sue finished the story as Timothy held up the jar of mercury.

  Woody took the jar and examined it. The veins in his neck bulged as he rotated the jar and watched the large silver globule side around in one piece. Finally, he thrust it in his mother’s face. “Where did you get this?”

  “A friend gave it to me.”

  “What friend?”

  “A relative friend.”

  “What relative?”

  “One of us,” she said defiantly.

  “Us? Us, what?”

  “Our brother. An Indian.”

  Woody shook his head and put the jar on the coffee table. “Mom, you’re not an Indian, Dad was. Can’t you get that through your head? You’re not an Indian princess.”

  “Your father was the chief.”

  “Chief of what? The tribe is long gone.” He asked us, “Have any of you heard of the Surruque?”

  We shook our heads.

  “No one has. Dad was the last of the line.”

  Pearl sat up straight. “No, son, you are. This is your rightful land. I’m making arrangements to get it back for you, so you’ll get the respect and riches you deserve.”

  He gave us an expression of total defeat. “I’ll pay for any damage. Do you want to press charges?”

  “No,” I said. “Not if you get her some help. Woody, at her age, she may have Alzheimer’s. Ruthie’s seen her do some very strange things.”

  “Yeah, man, like kinky,” Guthrie added.

  “Thanks.” Woody helped his mother up. Ruthie untied the scarf.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Woody said as he walked his mother down the hall.

  So, the Pearl part of our hellish week came to a fairly satisfactory conclusion. The paint on my car was ruined, but Woody had Pearl committed to a mental hospital for observation. I’m sure that was because of the mercury she had and a secret fear that Pearl might have been involved in Clyde Holden’s death. In any event, she was out of our hair.

  It was the weather that proved to be the hell of hells. For most of the week Hurricane/Tropical Storm Jeanne did a loop-de-loop in the Atlantic, north of Haiti. It posed no immediate threat, but the way it kept getting upgraded and downgraded over and over, moving north, east, south, and west was enough to make you crazy. I honestly feared for Ruthie’s sanity, she’d become so obsessed with Jeanne.

  If Jeanne wasn’t enough, Ivan the Terrible did what a few forecasters predicted. It dumped tons of rain on the East Coast, went out to sea in New England, and then circled back to Florida as a nor’easter. So, as Jeanne did loop-de-loops, Ivan slid to Jeanne’s inland side and pounded us with wind gusts and torrential rains. In fact, the evil booger wasn’t satisfied he had already hit the Panhandle of Florida—it crossed the state, reformed as a tropical storm, and hit the upper Gulf Coast a second time.

  Though we were in St. Augustine for Frances, locals who stayed for that wicked witch told us Ivan was nearly as bad. For three straight days gale force winds, rain, and high tides clobbered the coast. It was the wind and high tides that did us in. The first day we watched a few sandbags float out to sea. By the second day, several dozen were missing. On the third day, the rest of the bags went, and one side of our deck collapsed.

  And that was from a nor’easter and mere gale force winds. Little did we know that two days later Jeanne, tired of running in circles, would head for Florida as a Category 3 hurricane.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  September 23-25, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  Penny Sue and Ruthie left for Publix at eight AM to buy more hurricane provisions. I stayed home to arrange to have my car painted. The Volkswagen dealership would take it that afternoon. Good, I figured the car would be in a garage if Hurricane Jeanne actually came our way.

  Remembering the ice shortage during Hurricane Charley, I had the brainstorm that blocks of ice would melt slower than ice cubes or the bags you could purchase. So, I pulled out every mixing bowl in the condo, filled it with water, and put it in the freezer. If I filled a couple of coolers with the blocks of ice, they would last a long time. I hoped. Halfway through my project, the doorbell rang. Of course, my first thought was Guthrie. I figured he’d seen the weather forecast and had come to beg for a place to stay.

  I opened the door, not bothering to check the peephole, and came face-to-face with a stout American Indian and a greasy, but well dressed, New York-type. They were standing inside the screen door. I noticed a gun tucked in the waistband of Greasy’s trousers. A big black limo sat next to my car.

  Greasy reached in his coat pocket and took out a piece of paper that he carefully unfolded. It was a copy of the letter I’d sent to the owners. “Are you Leigh Stratton?” he asked, looking none too happy.

  A vision of The Sopranos flashed through my mind, a particular episode where Tony beat a man to death, then chopped him up into little pieces. I smiled, stupidly, wiping my hands against my shorts. Think, girl, think! You were married to a lawyer for over twenty years; you must have learned something about bullshitting people.

  Dumb! Play dumb. Stall for time. Maybe someone would walk by. Where were all those nosy neighbors when you needed them? “Oh, are you a homeowner interested in selling? I’d really like to buy a unit in this development. It’s so pretty with the sand roads and native vegetation.”

  Greasy ripped the letter into tiny pieces and threw them in my face. “No, I’m not a homeowner.” He stepped forward and shook his finger in my face. “You are a really dumb bitch. What did you think my note meant?”

  “No-ote? What note?”

  “The one that told you to mind your own business.”

  I gave him a silly grin. “Oh, that note.” Yuk, that was his gum I touched! “I thought Pearl wrote the note. She’s old and has been acting funny lately. I didn’t take it seriously.”

  “You should have. Where’s Pearl? What did you do with her?” he
sneered.

  “I didn’t do anything with Pearl, her son did. She came over last night and threw eggs on my car.” I pointed at my yellow VW bug with bubbled paint on the hood. “We figured Pearl must be having a spell, so we called her son. He put her in the hospital for observation. You know, at her age, Pearl could have Alzheimer’s or dementia or hardening of the arteries. Maybe a stroke.”

  Greasy reached in his waistband and pulled out the gun. I didn’t know what kind it was, but it looked like a cannon to me. He waved it in my face and nodded at the Indian. “You’ve screwed up our plans, and we don’t like it one bit. Your meddling has cost me millions.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry. I only wanted to buy a condo.”

  “I warned you, and you wouldn’t listen.” He glanced at the Indian and shook his head. “Only one thing I can think of doing with a meddlesome bitch.” He raised the gun.

  POW!

  Greasy’s gun hand went limp, and he fell into my arms. A moment later, I felt something wet and warm. BLOOD! I stumbled backward, and Greasy fell flat on his face. Blood spurted from a hole in his back. The limo driver floored the car, clipped my VW trying to turn around, and spun away. The Indian was no warrior. One look at the hole in his partner’s back, and the Indian took off down the hall. I raced after him. He reached the glass door in the great room and gave me the look of a caged animal. He fumbled to open it.

  “Noo-oo,” I shouted.

  The Indian didn’t listen. He slid the door aside and started across the deck, which promptly collapsed.

  By this time, Guthrie had hobbled down from his condo. Glock in hand, he had on nothing but boxer shorts covered in red hearts, an obvious Valentine’s present from years gone by. He hopped to the corner where the deck collapsed, flung open the glass door, and pointed the Glock at the man tangled in a mass of sand and wood.

  “Make my day, and my friend, Mr. Glock’s. One move and you’ll get it between the eyes.”

  As Guthrie held the Indian at bay, I called the police. For once, a patrol car was nearby. Two uniforms arrived. One checked the body in the front door, while the other—Heather Brooks—raced into the great room. Her lips tensed at the sight of Guthrie’s shorts and boney legs, but she went into action fast. “Call for medical,” Heather barked, as she headed back out the front door and around the building to the deck. She carefully picked her way down the sand slope to the Indian. Once she had him, Guthrie flopped down on the sofa, spread eagle. “I need a scotch,” he whimpered.