by Mary Clay
“Yes, put it away.”
“Look, it’s not cocked.” She angled it toward the side wall. “It’s just ready, in case.”
“In case of what?” The doorbell rang again and I started down the hall.
“In case someone followed us home.”
I stopped cold.
“Wait,” Ruthie called, eyes wide. She scooped up the Taser and slapped in the batteries. Crouching low, she followed me down the hall, the weapon trained at the door. I paused to gather the nerve to look through the peephole, an image of bullets and mortars crashing through the door at the back of my mind. I took a deep breath, closed one eye and peered through the tiny opening. Another loud knock sent me reeling, knocking Ruthie flat on her back. Penny Sue appeared at the end of the hall, her gun cocked. Lu Nee 2 swiveled around crying “Halt! Who goes there? Halt! Who goes there?”
“Leigh, it’s me. Ted Moore. Are you all right? Open up!”
“Just a minute,” I called, helping Ruthie to her feet. As I opened the door, a screech from the burglar alarm warned it was still armed. Penny Sue lunged for the control panel, bumping Lu Nee 2 in the process. The crazed robot launched into a litany of “Watch out, that hurt. Halt! Where did that come from? Halt! Who goes there?”
Ted shook his head with wonder at the scene. Ruthie and I were standing meekly by the door, our hair and clothes askew, with Ruthie trying to hide the Taser behind her back, which was futile since she was skinny and the darned weapon was the size of a large super soaker water rifle. Penny Sue, revolver in one hand, was crouched over the robot trying to turn it off. She wasn’t meeting with much success. Lights flashing, the little demon’s head whirred from side-to-side as it babbled and sang, “Hello, hello, hello! Take me to your leader! Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”
Ted began to laugh—not a chuckle, but a full-fledged belly laugh. “What are you ladies doing?”
“It’s her fault,” I said, pointing at Penny Sue. “Rambo, here, scared the wits out of Ruthie and me. She said someone might have followed us home.”
“Did you notice anyone behind you?” he asked as he closed the door.
Ruthie and I exchanged glances. “No,” I said slowly. “Come to think of it, we even commented on how empty the streets were after we reached the island.” I scowled at Penny Sue. “In fact, you said everyone was still at the Pub.”
She straightened to face me, having finally silenced the robot. “Someone could have been following with their lights off.”
“Hardly,” Ruthie said, giving Penny Sue a dirty look, too. “The area around Publix is lit up like a Christmas tree. We would have noticed someone behind us.”
“Don’t blame me if y’all are hysterics.” She tossed her hair and started for the kitchen. “Like a cup of coffee, Ted? Decaf.”
“That would be nice.” We headed to the living room, Ruthie stopping long enough to deposit the Taser back in the linen closet.
Penny Sue, having now transitioned from Rambo to June Cleaver, passed around mugs of coffee and even produced a plate of sugar cookies. Still grinning, Ted studied us.
“I checked your car on the way in. It’s definitely a bullet hole, this one from close range because it went through your plate and made a nice dent in the trunk. I called in a report to the New Smyrna Police on the way over. They’ll send someone out in the morning to get your statement.”
“What do you think?” Ruthie asked nervously.
Ted took a bite of a cookie as he considered the possibilities. “If it weren’t for the murder, I’d say it was an immature prank. Someone with a grudge because you cut them off in traffic or something.”
“Penny Sue, maybe it’s Shrewella, getting even for your cayenne pepper prank. That was mean,” I reminded her.
“Get real. That old lady may have a gun, but haven’t you noticed how her hand shakes? There’s no way she could shoot the middle out of the P’s.”
“The lab can’t make a positive ID, because of the condition of the slug, though chances are the same gun was used for the first shot and the murder,” Ted said.
“Shrewella might shoot you or your car, but she wouldn’t shoot a stranger.”
Penny Sue raked her fingers through her hair. “Heck, with her shaky hands, maybe the murder was the accident.”
“Oh, please.”
“Could be, you don’t know.”
I ignored the comment. “Ted, what do you think we should do?”
“Go home—that’s what we should do,” Ruthie flared.
“This is my home, Ruthie. I have a job; I can’t just leave.”
“Wait,” Ted said, patting the air in a calming manner.
It was a gesture Zack used all the time that I’d really come to detest. It always struck me as condescending, and I hated to think Ted had anything in common with Zack.
“Let’s look at this logically,” Ted continued.
Boy, he was on thin ice now—the implication being that we weren’t capable of logic.
“There’s a connection between the murder and vandalism, no doubt. Penny Sue, is there any way Rich could have a grudge against you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Well, do you think he’s all there? I mean, could Rich have psychological problems like multiple personalities?”
“No! He’s always been a perfect gentleman. I’ve never seen any indication of instability.”
I examined my nails. Was she a good judge of that? Her own behavior had been pretty erratic recently.
“Okay,” Ted patted the air again. “I think you should keep your car parked for now. Can you put it in the garage?”
Penny Sue answered. “There is no garage. We partitioned it off for storage and a larger utility room. Bicycles and the Harley take up what little room there is.”
“Well, I don’t think you should drive the Mercedes until we figure out how all of this fits together.”
“I’ll rent a car. Leigh’s bug is for midgets.”
“Sh-h, let him finish,” I said.
“I recommend you lay low and stay away from Bike Week events.”
Penny Sue’s jaw tightened. I knew what was going through her mind. She was still planning to pursue Rich.
“Finally,” Ted said, setting his mug on the table, “I strongly suggest you leave your revolver at home.”
“What, and run around unprotected? I carry it because I’m in constant danger. Daddy’s locked up his share of—”
Ted stood. “I know. It was a suggestion. Like I said before, there are some tough hombres in town for Bike Week. Your little revolver would make them laugh.”
“I’ll think about it,” Penny Sue said in a tone that meant it was already forgotten.
“We really appreciate your help,” I added quickly.
Ted nodded. “I’ll call tomorrow to check on you. Expect the New Smyrna police sometime in the morning.”
Goody, I thought. The police again.
* * *
Chapter 11
I slept fitfully, my mind churning with Ann, Zack, Vulture—even Uga, the University of Georgia mascot was part of the mix. Every few minutes, I rolled over and glanced at the clock. At 2:22 a.m. I realized this had been happening more and more—the sleep problems, that is. I dozed, but awoke angry—Uga had pooped in the middle of the living room floor as Lu Nee 2 ran in circles shouting Halt! Halt! I checked the time. Damn, only 2:48.
Was I keyed up from the day, or was this one of the dreaded signs of perimenopause? No, of course not—I was keyed up. After all, I hadn’t had night sweats, not really. The condo’s thermostat allowed too much variation, that’s all. But, Penny Sue was another matter. Crying over Rich was understandable, but the episode at the Pub was completely out of character. She needed to have her prescription checked, I thought. I’d talk to Ruthie first thing in the morning and see if we couldn’t come up with a delicate way to broach the subject.
I drifted off again. Ann, Zack, and I were chatting over tea. Ann said she was
having hot flashes, was so thrilled that she and Patrick were moving to Outer Mongolia. She’d already purchased a tiger skin snowsuit for the baby. You know, like the tigers in the Siegfried & Roy show. The next moment we were in a car, driving on the wrong side of the road. A rickety double-decker bus was headed straight for us! I awoke with a start. 3:13.
“You all right? You yelped.” Ruthie asked from the next bed. She rose up on her elbow and looked at the clock. “Three-thirteen, the witching hour.”
“I’m okay. Weird dreams … I’ve hardly slept a wink.”
“Me, either. Why don’t we get a cup of hot chocolate? Maybe that will help.”
I checked to make sure Penny Sue’s door was closed so we wouldn’t disturb her, tiptoed into the kitchen and hopped on the stool farthest from the hall. I watched as Ruthie put on the teakettle and dumped packets of cocoa mix into mugs. “You said 3:13 was the witching hour. What does that mean?”
“It’s the time of day when things are quietest and the electromagnetic gibberish is at its lowest level, which makes it easy for communication to bleed through from other realms. The time when the veil separating dimensions is thinnest.”
I could feel a metaphysical bombshell coming. “Other realms? Like this three-dimensional plane and the astral plane?”
She handed me a cup of cocoa. “There’s more to it than that—celestial realms as well as an infinite number of other dimensions.”
I blew on my chocolate before taking a sip. “This is the multi-dimensional reality you talk about? The new physics, quantum mechanics, that says there’s no linear time and everything is happening simultaneously?”
“Right.”
“So, this bleed through happens every night at 3:13?”
“Not at that time exactly, but typically between two and four in the morning. There’s nothing to be afraid of—it merely means you’re more susceptible to psychic impressions from other realms. And when the info comes in, you’re more likely to wake up.”
I had to admit that my waking at 3:13 a.m. happened a lot—more frequently than statistics would predict. Statistics was not my best subject in college, but I knew the number of times I’d awakened at that particular time far exceeded normal probabilities. Was someone trying to communicate with me?
Grammy Martin would be my first guess, though I hadn’t heard any Bible quotations. A staunch Southern Baptist with a photographic mind, Grammy could, and did, provide Biblical guidance in virtually every situation when I was growing up.
A jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion. From Proverbs, the quote popped in my mind out of the blue. I immediately associated it with Grammy and knew it referred to Penny Sue. I stared at the ceiling. Grammy, is that you? What are you trying to tell me?
And, if Grammy was contacting me at 3:13, was there someone else at 2:48? Did my dream about Ann and the bus smashing into the car mean anything? My head suddenly felt full. I took a big draw of the cocoa. Change the subject, I told myself.
“Do you think Penny Sue is acting strangely?” I asked. There, shift the blame, get my attention off myself.
“Strange by whose standards? Hers or ours?” Ruthie went to the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of Duke’s mayonnaise. “How about a good old tomato sandwich?”
A slice of tomato on trimmed white bread with a little mayonnaise was a Southern tradition that couldn’t be beat. I hadn’t had one in years. “That would be wonderful.”
I watched as she sliced the tomato and cut the crust off the bread.
“She’s a lot more weepy than I’ve ever seen her. I suspect it’s because she stopped her hormone therapy.” She handed me a sandwich.
“What? I hadn’t heard about that! She bragged about how good she felt the last time I saw her.”
“All the bad press finally got to her. Even though her doctor said the chances of bad side effects were miniscule, Penny Sue decided to stop. I told her to take black cohosh, but I’m not sure she ever did.”
Geez, that explained a lot. ... a fair woman which is without discretion. Clearly, Grammy was referring to Penny Sue’s emotionally volatile state. Yet, what should we do about it? Or was I jumping to conclusions because I’d read all those menopause books? Everyone feels hot from time to time and gets crabby. It doesn’t mean the old juices are drying up, right? Certainly, my juices weren’t drying up! I clicked the mug down so hard, Ruthie jumped.
“What?” she screeched.
“Sorry, I was thinking about my dream,” I fibbed. “Ann. I’m worried about Ann. I hope she hasn’t hooked up with a smooth-talking Casanova. Twenty years may not seem like much of an age difference to her now, but what about when she’s forty? She’ll want to go to rock concerts, and he’ll want to watch golf on TV. If there is television, or golf, in Outer Mongolia.”
“OUTER MONGOLIA?!” It was Penny Sue. She shuffled into the room with the appearance of a person who’d been fighting demons. Her hair was matted with sweat (er, perspiration—Southern Belles do not sweat), her robe was half tied, and mascara smeared on her cheek. “What are y’all doing up?”
“We couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Witch—”
“Witch!” Penny Sue snapped. “You don’t look so good yourself.” She tied her robe and ran her fingers through her damp hair.
“I didn’t mean you were a witch, I meant this is the witching hour. Two to four a.m. Right, Ruthie? That’s when the spirits pierce the veil and wake us up.”
“Oh,” Penny Sue mumbled, heading for the thermostat. “It’s so damned hot in here. That’s why I got up.” She looked at the digital readout. “73? No way. Something’s wrong with this dumb thing.” She thumped the thermostat with her finger, then opened the panel and punched the button to lower the setting. “I’m having someone come look at this first thing Monday morning. The temperature has to be off, don’t you think?” That’s when she noticed our mugs. “Is that hot chocolate?” She fanned herself. “You’re drinking something hot in this oven?”
“Yeah, we couldn’t sleep and thought it would help. Besides, the British drink hot tea in the heat of summer. Did in India, and it cooled them down.”
Penny Sue raked her hair away from her face as sweat beaded on her forehead. She backed up to stand under an air conditioning vent in the ceiling. “Then, please, give me some.”
At five-thirty we were still talking and watching the Weather Channel. Ruthie voiced the possibility that Penny Sue was having hot flashes and Penny Sue finally agreed to try black cohosh. I’d told them my dream about Ann, which they concluded was simply a projection of my fears. They, also, urged me to go the extra mile to accommodate the trip with Zack, provided Ann gave me Patrick’s birth data, as promised. Regardless of Zack’s schedule, that was my condition for going to England.
So, I was feeling very empowered, as they say in the women’s seminars, when the phone rang. It was almost six o’clock. My first thought, naturally, was of Ann. Crap, I wasn’t ready to deal with it. One little jingle, and my nerve evaporated. We all looked at the phone. Dreading the message, I made no move. Finally, Penny Sue got up and answered it.
“No problem. We were already awake, couldn’t sleep.” She listened intently, then held the receiver out to me. “It’s Frannie May. She couldn’t sleep either and has been listening to her police scanner. She wants to speak to you.”
Frannie May had a police scanner? I took the phone.
“A policeman’s going to be there at eight. Something about another gunshot to Penny Sue’s car?” she said eagerly.
“Yes, it happened last night. We parked in the shopping center across from the Pub, and someone nailed the other P in Penny Sue’s license plate.”
“Did they get the dog?”
“Uga?”
“Whatever, the dog on the plate with the spiked collar.”
“No, just the second P.”
“Then, this is personal.” Frannie May stated emphatically. “Go pack your clothes. The minute you f
inish with the police, come to my house. I have a three-car garage, so we can hide Penny Sue’s Mercedes. I also have four guestrooms, you’ll be comfortable. Besides, Carl is downstairs and he has lots of friends. You’re not safe there. No argument. Call me as soon as the cops leave.”
* * *
They came, they saw, they went. That was the extent of the police’s interest in Penny Sue’s car. An officer, who looked all of fifteen years old, dug out the slug, took a quick photo, and they were off.
“A lot of help we’ll get from them,” Penny Sue said as the police drove away.
I shrugged. “It’s Bike Week, Penny Sue. Their resources are stretched to the limit. A bullet hole in a license plate isn’t exactly high priority.”
“I know. In any event, it means that if anything gets done, we’ll have to do it ourselves.” She turned to us and clapped her hands. “So, let’s get going.”
Lord, she’d morphed into an elementary school teacher. Ruthie and I bit our tongues as Penny Sue barked orders.
“You’d better call Ted,” she said, as we stacked our suitcases in the hall. “He’ll worry if we’re not here. What about Ann? Maybe you should call her, too.”
“I’ll call Ted, because he may stop by. As for the rest, it will only worry them. We’ll check our messages regularly and no one will be the wiser.”
Penny Sue nodded emphatically. “Good idea.”
By ten-thirty we’d loaded the car, including the liquid Taser, and were ready to go. Penny Sue picked up the Book of Answers, put Lu Nee in sentry mode in the living room, and set the alarm. As Penny Sue locked the front door, I caught a glimpse of Shrewella peeking through the blinds of her second floor window.
“Nosey old biddy,” Penny Sue muttered as she started the car.
“Look on the bright side,” I said. “We have free, round-the-clock surveillance.”
Penny Sue grinned. “Yeah.”
Frannie May’s house is one of many large homes, on big lots overlooking the Intercoastal Waterway on North Peninsula Drive. A modern day adaptation of an old Florida-style house with a metal roof and wide porches, it was huge. A four story structure, the first floor consisted of a three-car garage and an apartment for Carl. A white-railed staircase reminiscent of something from Gone With the Wind led to the second floor porch and main entrance. We’d brought both cars and parked in the driveway. Fran must have been waiting, because she appeared in the front door with a remote control in her hand. She pushed the button, and one of the garage doors rose. “Pull in there, Penny Sue,” she called. “Quick, before someone sees your car. Leigh, pull in behind her.”