by Mary Clay
“Please, a Southern lady may rush, scoot or hustle, we do not run!”
Jones, clearly from the North, probably New York, was not amused. “Cut the cutesy stuff. You followed him. Why?”
Penny Sue’s lips tensed; she was morphing into a Steel Magnolia. “My affairs of the heart are none of your business.”
Woody snickered into his handkerchief. Jones glared. “It is when there’s a murder and someone apparently has a vendetta for you.”
Vendetta! There was no vendetta, certainly from Rich. He’d left the sweet message on Penny Sue’s phone.
The Steel Magnolia mutated into a Titanium Oleander—the blood red kind, deadly poisonous. “First, Rich is NOT involved in the murder or attack on my car. He’s a good friend, one I cherish. I followed him last night because I needed to clarify something. I didn’t catch up to him, so checked with the hotel to make sure he was still registered. That’s it, fini, no more to tell.”
“We hear Wheeler was seen with the guy who was murdered. Would you know anything about that?” Jones asked.
Penny Sue’s demeanor streaked through Titanium Oleander to Southern Bitch. “I’m not saying another word until I call Daddy and have counsel present.”
“Fine,” Woody snapped, pocketing his handkerchief. “Call Daddy. And, be sure to tell Daddy that you and your friends are in danger. The murdered man and your good friend were known to hang out with a most undesirable fellow, a gang-type who doesn’t give a hang about the University of Georgia or Germany supporting the U.S. in Iraq.”
“Vulture,” Ruthie whispered.
“Ah, you know of him.”
“From our friends, the Anninas. Carl’s a biker and he’s heard rumors about Vulture.”
“This Carl recognized the guy on the pavement as Vulture’s associate?” Jones shot.
I nodded.
Woody stood. “There you have it. Who did the shooting? I don’t know. Yet one thing’s for certain—this is not a group to trifle with. And, with a half million bikers in the area for Bike Week, many with conflicting allegiances, this incident could explode into a turf war of monumental proportions if we’re not careful. Be sure to mention that to Daddy. My phone numbers are on the card. I’ll expect to hear from you by the end of the day.”
“What about my car?”
Jones and Woody started down the hall. “I’ll give you an update when you call me.”
* * *
Penny Sue sat at the counter with her head in her hands. “Bloody Mary. I need a Bloody Mary,” she whimpered.
“I’ll have one, too,” Ruthie said.
I did a double take. Ruthie rarely drank alcohol, except with us, and then nursed a single glass for hours. That she wanted a cocktail before noon was a clear sign that Woody’s speech had shaken her. I took the Tabasco Bloody Mary mix from the refrigerator. Heck, I might as well have one myself.
“Let’s smudge the place again,” Penny Sue said without looking up.
“The bundle’s still wet.”
“Put it in the oven.”
I slid the cocktail in front of Penny Sue as Ruthie put the smudge stick in the toaster oven on low.
“Sage,” I said, handing Ruthie her drink as I took a long sip of mine. She went to the cabinet, found a bottle of Spice Islands sage and dumped it in a bowl. Ruthie handed the saucer to Penny Sue to do the honors.
“Wait a second.” Penny Sue scooted (barreled was more like it) down the hall and returned with a gold lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “For luck,” she said, touching the flame to the spice, then lighting a cigarette.
“I thought you quit smoking,” I said.
Penny Sue raised her hand to ward off comment. “Please, don’t start on me now. I have an occasional cigarette, that’s all. It calms my nerves. Anyway, what’s good for native Americans is good enough for me. Right, Ruthie?”
Ruthie nodded. “Yes, it was a sacred herb to the Indians. And, new research shows that nicotine is beneficial in Alzheimer’s.”
My jaw dropped. I could hardly believe this revelation was coming from Ruthie “Holistic Health” Nichols.
She saw my disbelief. “It’s true. Nicotine acts like acetylcholine, a crucial brain chemical for memory and attention.”
Penny Sue took a long drink of her Bloody Mary and a drag of her cigarette. “I can vouch for that—I haven’t been right since I quit smoking.”
I looked at her puffing and wondered when she’d quit smoking. I also wondered when Penny Sue’d ever been right. One thing for sure, needling Woody was the wrong thing to do and the faster she cooperated with the police the better. “Penny Sue, you need to call your father right now. You’re on thin ice with Woody. Besides, if you don’t cooperate you’ll never get your car back.”
“He wouldn’t dare.” She blew a smoke ring.
“In a heartbeat,” I countered.
She snuffed her cigarette in the sage, which had gone out, and downed the rest of her drink. “I suppose you’re right. No sense putting it off.”
As she dialed her father’s cell phone, I fished the cigarette butt from the sage and lit it again, fanning the bowl with the feather to keep it smoldering. Although the spice was part of the mint family, the odor was anything but sweet, sort of a cross between charred paper and a compost heap. While I’d never admit it to Penny Sue, I found its smell far worse than tobacco. I truly didn’t think the sage would do any good, but the events of the morning with Ann, Woody, Penny Sue, and even the stupid dream about Zack had left me with a sick sense of impending doom. I headed for the living room, fanning the bowl as the judge came on the line with Penny Sue.
She started out in her bubbly mode, gushing about her wonderful Harley, the wonderful weather, and Ruthie’s wonderful birthday dinner. Daddy must have sensed something was coming—if everything was so wonderful, why was she calling?—and demanded she get to the point. Her demeanor changed instantly to Betty Businesswoman. With a brevity I’d never guessed possible, Penny Sue outlined the situation, ending with a somewhat plaintive, “I thought, perhaps, I should have counsel present, since I believe the police are trying to frame Rich for the murder. You remember Rich, the man whose wife passed away—”
If the judge remembered Rich, he didn’t care and launched into a stern lecture, judging from the slump of Penny Sue’s shoulders and downcast eyes. I set the sage on the coffee table and drifted back to the kitchen. Ruthie abandoned the bread she was about to put in the toaster oven to listen.
Eyes fixed on the counter, Penny Sue started, “But, Daddy—” Her lips tensed as the judge forged ahead, ignoring her comment. Finally, “Yes, sir, I understand—”
At which point, the toaster oven erupted into a raging inferno. I ran to the kitchen and pulled the plug from the wall. Ruthie grabbed a potholder and opened the oven door, releasing a thick cloud of acrid smoke. The smudge stick!
“Close it up,” I hacked. Ruthie slammed the door shut, but it did no good. The whole smudge stick—not just the tip—was ablaze, forcing sheets of smoke through the outside edge of the door.
“No, Daddy, everything’s fine ...” Penny Sue waved frantically, signaling “Do something!” as she hustled down the hall with the portable phone.
Something? What? I grabbed the first thing I saw, Ruthie’s Bloody Mary, and threw it into the toaster oven. A hissing, swirling torrent of smoke and steam poured forth, filling the kitchen. The smudge smell was tolerable, the burnt Tabasco/tomato scent too much. Ruthie and I ran like hell to the deck.
We stared at each other, wide-eyed, shell-shocked. We were both covered in a fine spray of tomato juice, which gave us the appearance of a bad case of measles or a streaky application of the old-time, instant tan lotion that always turned people orange instead of brown. As fate would have it, the nosey couple that lived in the two-story condo behind ours was heading down the boardwalk to the beach. The woman—Suzanne? Sarah? Shrewella!—stared at us, sniffing the air. “What’s wrong with you? And, what is that smell?”
&n
bsp; Penny Sue stalked onto the deck at that moment. She was hopping mad, primed to unload on anyone that got in her way. Shrewella was in her way. “They have a rash, what does it look like? Probably the West Nile Virus. We found a mosquito in the condo, so we’re fumigating. The newest treatment is to burn sage and cayenne red pepper. I’m amazed you haven’t heard, since it’s been all over TV.”
Sarah/Shrewella started to back away. “I’m sorry. Is West Nile Virus contagious?”
“Only from mosquitoes or, sometimes, pets that have been bitten by mosquitoes.” I knew she had a big black cat that slept on the deck most of the time.
“Mosquitoes at this time of year?”
“It’s been unusually warm, and we saw one. So, you should probably fumigate as soon as possible. Can’t be too careful with something like this.”
“Sage and cayenne red pepper? You mean the regular spices?”
Penny Sue nodded. “Dump it in a bowl and set it on fire. Be sure to smoke your place really well, especially the closets and your clothes.”
Shrewella cut her eyes at her husband, trying to gauge our sincerity. Whether we really convinced them or they were too anal to take a chance, we’ll never know. They hoisted their beach chairs and shuffled back home.
“Cayenne pepper?” I said, steering Penny Sue and Ruthie back into the condo. “They may choke to death.”
“No they won’t—that old lady’s too mean to die,” Penny Sue snickered. “I hope the cayenne singes her nose hairs. Serve her right. She’s the one who called the police on me the last time. I’m doing her a favor, anyway—her nose hairs need trimming.”
For the second time that day, we cranked down the air conditioner, turned on the exhaust fans, and opened the windows. Ruthie and I were dying to hear the details of Penny Sue’s conversation with the judge, but B. O. won out over curiosity. We showered and changed in record time. When we finished, Penny Sue was peeking through the front door, laughing hysterically. She motioned for us to come see. Mr. and Mrs. Shrewella were hanging over the side of their balcony, wheezing and wiping their eyes.
I shot a look at Penny Sue. “You’ve got a bad streak, you know that?”
She tossed her hair and strutted away, wiggling her fanny. “Not bad, sugar, bold.”
“Well, Your Boldness, what did Daddy say?”
She deflated like a punctured balloon. “I should call Woody and answer all of his questions, ASAP. It seems that a citizen who’s not under suspicion has no rights. A person can only refuse to answer questions if it’s self-incriminating. Since I haven’t done anything, I’m technically not entitled to a lawyer. Bottom line, if I—we—don’t cooperate, we’re subject to subpoenas, court orders, and even obstruction of justice charges.”
I wanted to say ‘I told you so,’ but didn’t. I reached for the phone. “What’s Woody’s cell number?”
* * *
Chapter 8
Woody agreed to see us at one o’clock, and, rather than meet us at the office on Canal Street, as he’d done before, he wanted us to come to the main station—a sure sign he was really angry.
“Daddy says we should dress conservatively, it helps our credibility,” Penny Sue instructed.
The comment was unnecessary for Ruthie, who always dressed that way. I already knew as much, having watched a lot of Perry Mason with my grandmother as a kid, not to mention the twenty-plus years with Zack who had an entire wardrobe of expensive Canali and Zegna suits, required attire for courtroom credibility. But, good for Daddy, he knew his daughter well. Penny Sue was the one who might show up in a short, red dress with a neckline that plunged to her navel—no doubt an expensive, designer job like Versace, but risqué nonetheless. (As Dolly Parton said, “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.”)
We all dressed in black dresses or slack outfits so, for once, we actually looked like members of the same sorority—albeit a drab, boring, business or academic group.
When we arrived at the station, Penny Sue was ushered to a room with Woody and Detective Jones, while Ruthie and I were led to separate offices for questioning by female officers. Separate interrogations to compare stories and look for discrepancies—standard police procedure, if one believed Law and Order.
My officer, a sergeant, proved very nice and I held nothing back. Rich was pleasant enough, but I didn’t know him, having only met him once at dinner. Though I knew Penny Sue had complete confidence in Rich, I also knew her judgment was hormone-impaired on occasion. So, I freely relayed the story of Penny Sue and Rich’s break-up, as well as the apology he left on her cell phone. I hoped it proved that Rich was not out to get us, for Penny Sue’s sake, but left it to the police to sort things out. I absolutely was not interested in getting involved in this mess. I had learned my lesson the last time.
Finishing first, Ruthie and I waited in the lobby for Penny Sue. About fifteen minutes later she showed up, looking flustered.
“Woody’s having my car brought around.” She tried the front door, it was locked. The receptionist on the other side of bullet-resistant glass looked up from his computer. The door buzzed open. We nodded “thank-you” and squeezed through the entrance en masse.
“I’ll ride with you,” Ruthie said immediately. I nodded agreement. We’d come in my car, a tight fit, especially for Ruthie who was relegated to the backseat.
“Let’s go to Norwood’s. There was a sign out front advertising a Bike Week special,” Penny Sue said. “The condo stinks. We need to talk and decide what to do.”
Do? I wasn’t hot on doing anything. I’d just come through a devastating divorce, my daughter was in the clutches of a lecher, and I was still having nightmares. How much could Penny Sue expect? Every time she came around, things went to hell in a handbasket. But, the condo did smell awful and Norwood’s was a safe bet—I didn’t expect to find Vulture bellied up to a bar that boasted 1,400 varieties of wine. “Okay, I’ll go ahead and get us a table.”
I found a table in the elevated area next to the bar, ordered water all around, and three glasses of an Australian Chardonnay. I knew Penny Sue and Ruthie wouldn’t care about the vineyard or vintage after our ordeal. The drinks arrived at the same time they did. A good thing, because Penny Sue was fit to be tied.
She gulped her wine. “They scratched Uga! There’s a gash right between his eyes. I know it wasn’t there last night. One of those Florida Gators did it on purpose—probably Woody. Remember how he said it was a shame Uga hadn’t been shot? That weasel. He is low, you know that, low. I’ve got a mind to file a complaint. Gators!” she said loudly. Several nearby patrons stared.
I surveyed the crowd. A handful of people were dressed in biker garb, while the majority of patrons wore regular clothes. A bald man at the end of the bar had on a University of Florida golf shirt. “Calm down, Penny Sue. This is Gator territory, and we need to be discreet,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “Besides, we can’t be sure it wasn’t done by the shooter. It was dark. Let it go. We’ll put a Band-aid on the scratch when we get home.”
She drained her water. “A Band-aid? No way.”
“I’ll bet we can fix it with white fingernail polish. I learned the trick from one of our cleaning ladies. She used it to fill nicks on sinks, tile, just about anything.” Ruthie chuckled. “She eventually got married and moved away. The white globs drove our next cleaning lady crazy. The poor thing spent untold hours scrubbing and scraping them all off. Bless her heart.”
Penny Sue shrugged. “I guess it’s worth a try. Better than leaving him injured and defaced.”
I hurried to change the subject. “My interview was not bad. Sergeant Hooks seemed nice.”
“Mine wasn’t tough, either. Lieutenant Gunter moved here from Valdosta.”
“Well, mine was the pits.” Penny Sue spat the words, still furious over Uga. “They’re after Rich. It’s guilt by association. I’ve got to warn him!”
“Penny Sue, this is not our business,” I said.
“Would you stand by and wat
ch while someone was mugged?”
“Of course not.”
“This is the same thing. Woody is convinced that Rich is the killer. I know with every fiber of my being it’s not true. I have to find Rich and warn him. Convince him to go in for questioning on his own. I don’t want him getting caught in the middle of a shootout between Vulture and the police. Whether or not y’all help me is your decision.”
Help me—I wish she hadn’t said that. Penny Sue had come to my aid more times than I could count. Heck, I was living in her father’s condo free of charge. How could I refuse her plea—even if I thought it was stupid? “What do you have in mind?”
Her brow furrowed with concentration as she sipped her wine.
“Did you try calling his room? We could leave a message for him at the front desk of the Riverview,” Ruthie suggested.
“Too obvious. I’m sure the police have his room under surveillance. Heck, they’ve probably instructed the staff to notify them when Rich returns.”
“Why don’t you call his cell phone? Or page him. Does his phone have a pager?”
“Yes, but that would leave a paper trail. Warning Rich might be misconstrued as obstructing justice, even though we’re trying to do the exact opposite.”
I hadn’t thought of that angle. Neither had Ruthie, judging from the expression on her face.
“A shame we couldn’t get Lu Nee 2 in his room. It does surveillance, you know,” Penny Sue said. “There’s a way to hook it into your computer so you can see and hear everything at a remote site. Problem is, the instructions for connecting the computer are complicated.”
“What about Carl?” Ruthie asked. “I’ll bet he could do it.”
“I’m sure he could, but I don’t want to get him involved. Besides, how would we get that big robot into Rich’s room?”
Penny Sue dug into her cosmetic pouch and came up with a key. “I have a key to his room. He locked himself out the second night and got another key from the desk. I was supposed to return this when I left.” She smirked. “I forgot.”