Bike Week Blues

by Mary Clay

  Penny Sue tugged on Carl’s shirtsleeve. “Are you sure that man was a friend of Vulture’s?”

  “Positive. I’ve seen them together at the Canaveral Park several times and at the Pub, too. It’s definitely the same guy.”

  “What in the world were they doing at the park? Surely not sightseeing.”

  “Paintball battles.”

  Penny Sue recoiled. “They’re Klingons?”

  Carl scowled. “No. Paintball battles are all the craze. Lots of people play them. Corporate team building seminars even use them.”

  “Yeah, and Muslim terrorists use paintballs to train for jihad.” Ruthie, our news junkie, jumped in. “There was a big article about it in the Washington Post.”

  “I always suspected Vulture and his crowd were training for a conflict. Like I said, some people say he’s an anti-government extremist.”

  “Rich is not an extremist. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said with more conviction than I felt. I hoped Penny Sue’s faith was justified. I was beginning to like my new single life and hated to stake it on anything.

  * * *

  The telephone rang at seven o’clock the next morning. I bolted upright, heart pounding, struggling for air. I was right in the middle of the damned dream about Zack. The nightmare I’d had over and over since I discovered his secret life. The wrenching horror that my divorce decree had not silenced.

  I was sitting in the garage waiting for my husband. My feet were propped up on a carton of wooden figurines identical to the ones Zack claimed to have carved. I’ll never forget the moment I found that box marked Country Originals hidden under his workbench. In a flash I knew and felt like my heart had been ripped out. It must have been the same sensation suffered by virgins in Aztec sacrifices when the priest savagely severed her heart, and ate it, still beating.

  The utter emptiness in my chest was almost more than I could bear, yet it was peanuts compared to the feeling of abandonment I felt when I confronted Zack. He callously brushed me off and categorically refused to give up his girlfriend. I couldn’t believe the man I’d slept next to for so many years, the man I’d put first in almost everything, had so little regard for me and our marriage! Dumped for a strip club dancer hardly older than our own daughter.

  The shock was more than my system could stand. I started to hyperventilate, from pain, back then. Since the divorce, I heaved from rage. A rage that spurted from my chest like a ballistic missile. A furor so fierce it could destroy Zack, me, and the entire planet.

  The shift from pain to rage happened shortly after I moved from Atlanta to New Smyrna Beach. Alone, away from family and friends, it worried me. Should I consult a therapist, I wondered? My track record with psychologists in Atlanta was dismal. Desperate for support, I had called Ruthie who was an aficionado on the newest spiritual and psychological theories.

  “That’s terrific,” she’d said, when I told her my feelings of despair had turned to rage. “You’re making great progress. Rage is much farther up the consciousness scale than despair. Don’t be concerned unless the nightmares get worse. Otherwise, I think your unconscious is working it out.”

  Geez, everything was terrific to Ruthie. She said the same thing about my memory loss. Heck, maybe she was right. Perhaps I’d just forget Zack pretty soon.

  The phone emitted another electronic jingle. Ruthie stirred in the next twin bed. “Wha—” she mumbled.

  I snatched the portable from its cradle and headed for the kitchen. It was all merely a dream, I told myself, trying to clear my head.

  I looked at the clock. The only person who would call at that ungodly hour was my daughter, Ann, who still hadn’t gotten the hang of the time difference although she’d been in London six weeks.

  “Hello.”

  “Mom, are you all right?”

  I cradled the phone on my shoulder and reached for the coffee can. “Sure, I’m fine,” I replied, trying to calm my racing heart. You woke me up, that’s all. It’s seven a.m. here.”

  “Sorry, I keep forgetting. I just finished lunch.”

  “That’s okay. How about you? Still loving your job?”

  “Yes, more than ever.”

  My antenna went up. More than ever. A hidden meaning there. “Another junket to Scotland?” I asked, pouring water into the Mr. Coffee.

  “Nothing like that. Mom, I’ve met someone.”

  My heart raced again. Ann was a smart, attractive, twenty-two year old who’d had many boy friends over the years. She was pinned to Gregory at one point and hinted at marriage. Yet, even then, she’d never sounded so serious. I took a deep breath to calm myself. “Is your boyfriend an intern?”

  “No, Patrick is a career employee. A Deputy Public Affairs Officer.”

  Career employee. Deputy Public Affairs Officer. That sounded like an important position, not one they’d give to a recent college grad. “Wow, he sounds impressive. How old is Patrick, honey?” I detected a transatlantic gulp.

  “He’s a little older than I am.”

  An image of Monica and Clinton flashed through my mind. Then, an image of Zack and his young honey. My blood pressure shot up. “Oh? How much older?”

  “He recently turned forty.”

  “Forty!” Magawd, he was nearly my age. Was this one of those contemptible, cloying Casanovas? A philandering slime bucket who preyed on dewy-eyed interns? “Is he married?” I nearly shouted.

  Penny Sue entered the room, eyes wide. “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “Ann,” I mouthed back.

  My friend poured some coffee and perched on a stool to listen.

  “He’s divorced, Mom. Don’t get excited.”

  I let out a long breath. “I’m sorry. Eighteen years is a big age difference.”

  Penny Sue’s eyebrow shot up.

  “Does he have kids? How long has he been divorced?”

  “No children from either—”

  “Either?”

  Penny Sue’s other brow arched.

  “It’s not what you think, Mom. He got married right out of college. Young and stupid, as he said.”

  Like you!

  “That one only lasted a little over a year. His second marriage ended two years ago. His wife didn’t like living in England and went back to the states. She came from a big family and never adjusted to being away from her mother.”

  Being away from her mother. If Ann married this guy, she’d live in England. I’d never see her. Worse, Patrick might be transferred to Zimbabwe or Latvia, or an obscure post that was only accessible by dog sled. Smelly dogs that pooped and peed as they mushed along.

  Then what? I’d never see my grandchildren, if Ann had any. She might catch a horrible disease like SARS or be embroiled in a revolution. For godssakes, why did we let her major in European Studies? Darn it, she should have gotten a degree in accounting and gone on to get an MBA. A good ole USA MBA. Maybe I could still talk her into it.

  “What’s the temperature over there? It’s going to be in the upper seventies here. Sunny, not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Mom, what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I was just thinking that England must be awfully cold and dreary. You know, University of Miami has a great MBA program. South Beach is the place to go.”

  “Momma, Patrick proposed.”

  I nearly swallowed my tongue. “Did you give him an answer?” I finally managed.

  “I told Patrick he had to meet my parents first.”

  I sighed with relief until the meaning sunk in. “Parents, as in Zack and me?”

  Both brows went up as Penny Sue took a pull of her java.

  “Well, yeah, you are my parents.”

  “You mean, us, together?”

  Penny Sue’s jaw dropped.

  “That would be nice.”

  “I’m not sure your dad will go for it.”

  Penny Sue nodded emphatically.

  “I’ll call him,” Ann said.
r />   “No.” I had to slow this thing down. She barely knew Patrick—how could she consider marriage? “I’ll try to get your father.” I would try, I just wasn’t saying how hard.

  “That’s great. Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be happy for me.”

  “I am, baby.” I pushed the power button and started to cry. Penny Sue plunked down her mug and rushed around the counter to comfort me. At that instant Ruthie emerged from our bedroom.

  “What now?” she moaned. “The humors in this place are clearly off. Leigh, do you still have that smudge stick?”

  I motioned to the sideboard in the dining area where Ruthie retrieved a Baggie containing the charred remains of what looked like a bundle of broom straw, a feather, and a pack of matches. She wasted no time lighting the mixture of sweetgrass, cedar, and sage and fanning the smoke around the room. An American Indian purification tradition, smudging was supposed to clear negative vibes and invite the presence of good spirits. It hadn’t worked all that well the last time. Ruthie said it was because we didn’t use enough sage. Who knew? After the weird Zack dream and Ann’s call, I was willing to give anything a try, even another smudging.

  “Can’t you do that somewhere else?” Penny Sue coughed as Ruthie fanned us with the smoke.

  “You know it won’t work unless I cleanse your auras first.” We held our breath as Ruthie smoked us from head to toe.

  “Whew,” Penny Sue snorted as Ruthie and smudge stick moved into the hallway. “That stuff smells like marijuana, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s the sweetgrass,” Ruthie replied. “Grass is grass—it all smells about the same.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Penny Sue turned her attention to me. “Now, what’s wrong with Ann? Why in the world are you crying?”

  I sniffled from the smoke as much as the tears. “She’s in love with some old government employee. He’s probably married and leading her on like Clinton did Monica. Ann’s going to get hurt and humiliated. These old men preying on young girls, they should be ... be ... have their privates cut off!” Then I thought of Zack and his sweetie, a stripper who was clearly as guilty as he was. “Well, maybe all the licentious old wieners shouldn’t be whacked off—”

  Penny Sue went into hysterics. “They wish!”

  “Mind in the gutter.” I shook my head. “You know what I mean!”

  “Sorry,” she sputtered, clapping her hand over her mouth.

  “Darn it, Ann is an innocent and, as far as I’m concerned, this Patrick is a candidate for radical surgery ... without anesthesia!”

  “Slow down,” Penny Sue said, finally calming herself. “You’re jumping to conclusions, like Daddy did with Sydney—” She grinned weakly. Sydney was the bisexual husband. “Okay, a bad example. But, Patrick—that’s his name, right?—may be sincere. Ann’s a lovable person. She’s sensible, too. Don’t you suppose your values have rubbed off on her, that your troubles with Zack have made her cautious? Don’t prejudge the relationship before you get more details. This could be a match made in heaven.”

  “He could be her soul mate,” Ruthie said, emerging from the hall with the smoldering wand. “Get his birthday and I’ll do an astrological comparison. That’ll tell us if he’s the one.”

  I wiped my eyes. Yes, we’d check this out. He might be the one, and he might not. I grabbed the phone and held it up for Ruthie to smudge before I dialed. Ann answered. “Before I agree to come, where and when, including the time, was Patrick born?”

  “Ruthie’s with you, right?” Ann asked flatly. “Is Penny Sue there, too?”

  “Yes. We’re going to check him out.”

  “Does Ruthie do this to her daughter?”

  To? “Do you do this for Jo Ruth?” I asked Ruthie who was running water over the straw in the kitchen sink.

  “Of course,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, if it’ll make y’all feel better, I’ll find out.”

  “It will,” I said, feeling relieved already.

  My reprieve didn’t last long. Literally, the moment I hung up the phone, someone knocked on the front door. I looked at the clock, eight.

  “What is this, Grand Central Station?” Penny Sue said, smoothing her hair and hitching her robe tighter. “Who in the world would drop in unannounced at this hour? Honestly, what’s become of common courtesy?”

  I keyed the alarm code into the panel as Penny Sue stomped to the front door and peered through the peephole. “Damn, it’s Woody and another guy, probably a detective.”

  “The smoke,” I exclaimed, thinking how it smelled like marijuana.

  Ruthie caught my meaning and ran to the bathroom for air freshener. She only got out a few squirts before another knock, this one louder.

  “Don’t answer it,” I hissed.

  “I have to—they’ve got my car.”

  Terrific. Why did it have to be Woody? The one person who wanted, more than anything, to get even with Penny Sue for dumping him back in college. The little weasel who’d given us a fit in October.

  Another knock. Crap, the smudging hadn’t worked. Maybe we should have used more sage.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Penny Sue surveyed the parking lot through the screen door. “Good morning, Woody. I was hoping you were here to return my car. I’d invite you in, but at as you can see,” she did a Vanna White/Wheel of Fortune hand sweep, “we’re not prepared to accept visitors.”

  Woody flashed a smarmy grin. The detective standing in the background was visibly sniffing the air.

  “Sorry to intrude. We tried to call, but your line was busy.” Woody inhaled deeply and glanced back at his sidekick. “We’d like to take your fingerprints and ask a few questions. It’s important. How about we wait in the car while you get dressed?” He slipped his card through the edge of the screen door. “Call my cell phone when you’re ready.”

  “It could be a long wait,” she said under her breath, closing the door.

  “What do you think that’s about?” Ruthie asked anxiously. “Your car was shot, what could Woody possibly want from us?”

  “He’s a jerk who intends to badger me whenever possible. Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee. I’ll be darned if I’m rushing to meet with Woody and his lackey.”

  “I don’t think it’s smart to toy with him. He can make things very difficult,” I reminded her.

  “Woody wouldn’t dare.” Penny Sue did a hair toss. “I’m the injured party here. We’ve done nothing wrong, and I refuse to be intimidated.”

  “That’s not a wise move. I think you could be accused of obstructing justice or something.” I’d learned that much from my years with Zack. “Let’s throw some clothes on and get it over with.”

  Penny Sue gave me her aristocratic expression. “I will as soon as I have my coffee.”

  She finally called Woody at quarter after nine, declaring that the proper time to accept visitors. Of course, she could have opened the front door and hollered, the men had been waiting in their car for over an hour. Which told me Woody did, indeed, have something serious to discuss.

  When finally summoned, he bristled with anger to the point, I swear, his hair stood on end. He plunked down in the rattan chair by the fireplace. His sidekick, Detective Jones who looked none too happy either, stood like a sentry. While the smudge stench had dissipated considerably, the combination of odors from the herbs and vanilla air freshener was nauseatingly sweet. In any event, Woody was clearly allergic, his eyes teared immediately.

  “Did the victim make it?” Penny Sue asked, taking the bull by the horns.

  “I’m afraid not,” Woody mumbled through his handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry. Could you lift any prints from the car?”

  “The only clear prints appeared to be women’s, probably yours.” Woody nodded to Jones who produced a fingerprinting kit. “For comparison purposes, we need your prints so we can rule them out.”

  We held o
ut our hands. The detective rolled our fingers in black ink and pressed them roughly to fingerprint cards. He was definitely furious at us for keeping him waiting.

  Penny Sue looked Woody in the eye as she wiped her hand with ink remover. “Why do you want to talk to us? The killer was a lousy shot who happened to hit my car. We don’t know a thing; we were on the deck of the Riverview all night. You can check with the restaurant staff as well as our friends, Fran and Carl Annina—they can vouch for us.”

  “We’re not so sure the killer was a lousy shot.”

  “What?” we blurted like an out-of-key chorus.

  “The chances of the bullet hitting the exact center of the P in your license are virtually nil. The fact that the slug wedged in the plate without penetrating the trunk means the shooter pulled that round from a fair distance and also says he’s a crack marksman.”

  Ruthie went white. “Yes, but it could have been luck, right?”

  Woody nodded slowly, still holding the handkerchief to his nose. “The victim was shot at close range. Nailing your car seemed to be an afterthought.”

  “It’s a Mercedes. Maybe it was someone angry about Germany not supporting the U.S. against Saddam Hussein,” I said.

  “Or class envy,” Ruthie speculated.

  “Maybe someone who hates the Georgia Bulldogs,” Penny Sue added, jumping on the rationalization bandwagon.

  “Possible.” Woody regarded Penny Sue sternly. “What do you know about Richard Wheeler?”

  The blood drained from Penny Sue’s face. “He’s a friend from home,” she replied, doing her best to look nonchalant.

  Detective Jones consulted a small notepad. “Did you see him last night?”

  Penny Sue drew up haughtily. “Yes, I saw him. We all saw him, but Rich didn’t see us. We caught a glimpse of him as he left the restaurant.”

  “Left, as in run?” Jones said.

  “Left, as in hurry,” Penny Sue replied stiffly.

  Jones consulted his pad again. “You ran after him. Isn’t that right?”