Murder is the Pits (18 page)

“Gerty,” I said.

“Gerty swung wide berth around you, after
that.” Ruthie giggled.

I cackled. “I was so happy you didn’t have
your gun with you. If you had, the seagull and Gerty were goners
for sure, and maybe a few other members of the turtle patrol.”

Penny Sue pointed to the cooler next to my
chair. I handed her a bottle of water. She twisted the cap and took
a long drink. “You know I wouldn’t really shoot anyone.”

I shook my head in amazement. “You
threatened to shoot us in the foot with the taser the other
day.”

“The taser’s different, because it’s not a
lethal weapon—though, I guess it might kill a seagull.” She lifted
her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “Ruthie, I wish your
father would get one for me. I’d love to have a taser like
yours.”

“I’ll see,” Ruthie murmured, rolling her
eyes at me. I tried not to grin.

We sat quietly, enjoying the sun, for all of
five minutes.

“Damn,” Penny Sue said suddenly.

“What? What?” Ruthie jumped, nearly tipping
over her chair.

“I can’t rest for worrying about the little
turtles. With all of this garbage, they’ll never make it to the
ocean.” Penny Sue pointed at a jagged, brown piece of glass—an
obvious remnant of a beer bottle. She struggled up from her
low-slung sand chair and angrily snatched the glass. “What kind of
heathen would leave a glass bottle on the beach? The turtles could
be shredded by this, not to mention children.”

“Children?” I said. “What about adults? I
walk this beach barefooted all the time.”

Hand on her hip, Penny Sue set her jaw.

Uh oh. “What do you want to do?” I asked,
afraid of the answer. I’d hoped for an hour or two of peace and
quiet.

“Do you remember where those nests are?”

“Generally.”

“Do we still have some of those big garbage
bags?”

I knew where she was going. So much for
relaxation. “Yes, I think we have a few.”

“We’re going to pick up all of this garbage
and clear a path to the sea for the turtles. What do you say?”

Ruthie was already standing and folding her
chair. Penny Sue was in the schoolmarm mode. Argument was
pointless.

While Penny Sue went to the condo for the
garbage bags, I marked off the approximate spots of the turtle
nests with a piece of driftwood. Ruthie dragged our chairs to the
walkover and watched. I also noticed our friendly fisherman peering
over the top of his newspaper.

Penny Sue returned a few minutes later. “We
only have two.” She handed me the brown, plastic bags. “Y’all get
started, and I’ll run up to Food Lion for more.” She stomped off,
not waiting for an answer. Ruthie and I exchanged a puzzled
look.

I waved my bag. “What’s wrong with this
picture? She wants to pick up trash, and here we are doing it.”

Ruthie dropped a shard of wood into her bag.
“It’s Penny Sue—what do you expect?”

In a huff, I plopped on the bottom step of
the walkway. “For once, I am not going to do
Her Highness’
bidding. It was her idea, and I’m willing to help, but I’ll be
darned if I’ll break my back while she rides up and down the road.
I’ll start working when she does.”

Ruthie sat beside me. “Good point. I’ll
wait, too.” She started to bite her fingernail. “You know, Penny
Sue was born bossy. She’s a Leo. It’s her natural way.”

“I know, you’ve said all that before. I’m
not a Leo, darn it. I get tired of being bossed around. I had my
fill of being a doormat when I was married to Zack. I’m not mad at
Penny Sue, I’m just not going to jump when she says jump any
longer.”

“You’re right.”

A half hour later, Penny Sue flounced down
the boardwalk with a big yellow box of lawn bags. We stood when we
saw her coming. She punched open the box, pulled out a bag that she
snapped open in the wind, and said, “All right, let’s get
going.”

She didn’t seem to notice that we hadn’t
already been working. Hmm, maybe I took her commands too seriously.
Or, maybe she forgot the orders as soon as she gave them. Whatever,
we worked almost two hours—with several soda breaks—and filled ten
large bags with trash. One by one, we lugged the bags to the front
of the condo for transport to the dumpster—our dumpster, not the
Russian one.

“Whew,” Penny Sue sighed when the last bag
was deposited next to her car. “Let’s take it to the dumpster
later. I bought a four pack of those little bottles of Chardonnay
when I was at Food Lion. They’re in the icebox, chilling. Come on,
let’s go admire our handiwork.”

She breezed through the condo, plucked the
carton of mini-bottles from the refrigerator, and led us to the
beach. We walked to the edge of the water and surveyed our
handiwork. Penny Sue passed out the wine and turned one up. The
moment she took a drink, it must have dawned on her that the
bottles were glass. “Don’t you dare drop those twist caps or
bottles,” she admonished us.

“Honey, we’re not stupid. We picked up
enough of this stuff to know better.” I gazed at the litter-free
sand. “We did good, didn’t we?”

Penny Sue drank her wine quickly. “Do we
have a rake in the utility room?”

“You’re not proposing that we rake the
beach, are you?” My back was already killing me from so much
bending. Raking sand was out of the question.

She shot me the old hooded-eye, pitiful
look. “Remember how the little turtle kept getting stuck in the
holes? I thought we should smooth out the beach.”

“Penny Sue, it will be smoothed,” I said
with a sigh. “It’s called high tide. Tomorrow morning this beach
will be completely flat. It will also be filled with trash
again.”

Her hooded eyes widened. “Darn, I never
thought of that!”

The idea of cleaning the beach every day
proved too much for Penny Sue. She’d downed the last bottle of the
four-pack by the time we got back to the condo. Thankfully, the
phone was ringing, diverting her attention. It was Chris, calling
about the benefit race. Penny Sue answered, and then pushed the
speaker button on the phone so we could all hear.

“I spoke with Mr. Hart, the owner of the New
Smyrna Speedway. He said he’d make arrangements for us to practice,
but we have to make an appointment. The other teams want to
practice, as well. So, when are you free?” Chris asked.

We all shrugged. “Tomorrow,” Penny Sue said.
“Is that too soon?”

“Perfect. I have tomorrow off. How about
one? I hate to get up early on my day off.”

“One it is,” Penny Sue replied. “Should we
wear something special?”

“Shorts, jeans, clothes you wouldn’t mind
getting dirty.”

“Wait,” Ruthie said nervously. “Is there
anyone to train us? I don’t know a thing about races.”

“Mr. Hart said he or his promoters would
give us some pointers, but they can’t show favoritism. It’s a
benefit race. We’re on our own. By the way,” Chris said, “I’ve
heard you speak—none too fondly—of the local prosecutor. Woody? I
heard today he’s fielding a squad. Seems Woody learned there was a
DAFFODILS team and decided to join in the fun.”

I saw Penny Sue’s jaw muscles flex. “No
problem. I welcome the competition,” she drawled. “It is for
charity, after all.”

“Yes, it is. See you tomorrow.” Chris
clicked off.

Penny Sue turned on us like a crazed woman.
“Who do we know who knows anything about racing?”

* * *

August 24, New Smyrna Beach, FL

Ring, ring. Bam,
bam, bam. We heard
the front door open. “Hey guys, it’s me, Guthrie and Tim. Are you
decent?”

“Yes,” Ruthie called. “Come on in.”

Guthrie hobbled in on his crutches followed
by Timothy who carried a VCR and a pan of brownies. “With all the
stuff going on around here, we thought we should have a party. We
can send out for pizza and watch
Alice’s Restaurant
.” Our
hippie friend cocked his thumb at the brownies. “I made dessert,
since you didn’t get any last time. What do you say?”

It was only five
PM
, a little early for dinner, but we knew we’d have
to see the dang movie sometime, and now was as good a time as any.
Ruthie and I looked to Penny Sue. She sighed. There was no way we
could refuse.

“Sure, that will be a lot of fun,” she
muttered through gritted teeth.

Timothy set up the VCR while we filled them
in on the benefit race and our practice session scheduled for the
next day.

“Man, I wish I could race.” Guthrie slapped
his bandaged knee disgustedly. “I’ll be the water boy for your pit
crew. I should be walking by then. I’ll make refreshments. Every
pit crew needs refreshments.”

“You really don’t have to—” Penny Sue
started.

He grinned and held up a hand. “No argument,
I want to do it. You’ve done so much for me.”

The pizza arrived and we settled down to
watch
Alice’s Restaurant
. Guthrie sat on the edge of his
seat. Timothy rested his head on the back of the loveseat,
stoically staring down his nose at the screen. His body language
spoke volumes—like, he’d seen the movie a million times and hated
every minute of it.

About half an hour into the showing and
pizza, we all, except Guthrie, shared Timothy’s opinion. The film
was one of the slowest, dumbest movies ever made. Guthrie’s
continuous interruptions and comments—“Listen to this!”, “Isn’t
that wild?”, “Alice is such a nice person.”—actually added to the
show.

In a nutshell, Alice was a good cook, had a
restaurant, and invited a bunch of hippies to her house for
Thanksgiving dinner. After the big feast, Arlo Guthrie loaded up a
VW minivan with trash and set out for the county dump. Being a
holiday, the dump was closed. (Yep, this guy was a bubble short of
plumb.)

Lo and behold, Arlo happened upon a mound of
trash on the side of the road. Figuring a little more garbage won’t
make any difference; he dumped his trash on top. Predictably,
upstanding citizens observed the nefarious deed and reported him to
the police. So, Arlo was arrested for littering.

Truly, the story was dull, dull, mundane
stuff. The only interesting twist came from the fact that the
littering conviction—a criminal record!—kept Arlo from being
drafted for the Vietnam war.

Penny Sue’s eyes closed after her third
piece of pizza. Ruthie and Timothy seemed to be in a meditative (or
perhaps catatonic) state. The only thing that kept me awake was
Guthrie’s exuberance and my determination to see if Alice ever
baked marijuana-laced brownies. There was a lot of marijuana
smoking in the movie but, not once, did Alice contaminate baked
goods. Hmmm, maybe Guthrie’s brownies were fine after all.

As the closing credits played, Guthrie
shouted, “Brownies for everyone!” which sent our snoozing
companions halfway to the ceiling.

I fetched the pan and Guthrie downed a cake
immediately. Timothy demurred, patting his stomach. (Pizza was
enough pollution for his bodily temple, I suspected.) I took one
and nibbled a corner cautiously. Chewing slowly, I searched for any
hint of a grassy ingredient. Nope, they tasted like regular old
Duncan Hines—probably the double fudge mix I used to bake for the
kids.

Penny Sue arched a brow at me, an obvious
question if the dessert was safe to eat. I nodded and took a big
bite. That’s all she needed, Penny Sue dove in like a starving
orphan. I swear she ate at least four. Even Ruthie finally relented
and had one. She seemed pleasantly surprised.

Guthrie was down to pressing his forefinger
on the crumbs and licking it when the doorbell rang. I
instinctively checked the clock. Seven-thirty, still light. My
spine stiffened. Please, not another emergency.

Penny Sue glanced at us apprehensively as
she headed for the door. A moment later she returned with a wide
smile. She was holding a yellow rose.

“Another rose,” Ruthie exclaimed. “What does
the card say?”

Penny Sue sashayed to the kitchen and
arranged the yellow rose in the vase with the now withering pink
one. Playing the scene for all it was worth—honestly, it was worse
than the melodrama of
Alice’s Restaurant
—she slowly opened
the envelope, read the card, and grinned like the Cheshire cat in
another Alice story.

“What does it say?” Ruthie pressed.

Penny Sue tittered. “I’m still thinking
about you,” she read. “What does yellow mean?” she asked
Ruthie.

“Joy and freedom. The roses are obviously
related, do you still think it’s from Yuri?”

Penny Sue toyed with her emerald necklace,
an heirloom from her mother. “I don’t know. Joy and freedom sorta
sounds like Rich, doesn’t it?”

“Yuri?” Guthrie bellowed before Ruthie could
respond. “Are you talking about that Russian, criminal realtor who
keeps asking me about Nana King?”

Penny Sue shot Guthrie the evil eye. “We
don’t know he’s a criminal.” She glared at me. “That’s mere
speculation.”

Timothy was as smart as he was good looking.
In a flash he was on his feet and unplugging the VCR. “I have an
early meeting tomorrow. We really must be leaving.” He slung the
recorder under his arm and snatched the brownie pan. Guthrie took
the hint and struggled up on his crutches. “We appreciate your
hospitality, …” Timothy said loudly, “and patience,” he whispered
to Ruthie and me.

“Yeah, man, it’s been a blast. Isn’t Alice
cool? I’m happy you finally tasted my brownies. I’ll bake a giant
batch for the race.” Guthrie glanced at me. “I left out the nuts so
you could have some.”

My face grew hot, remembering I’d fibbed
about being allergic to nuts to avoid the first batch. “That was
very thoughtful,” I mumbled. “I enjoyed the show.”
Liar, liar,
pants on fire.
Well, as Grammy Martin used to say,
Let he
who is without sin cast the first stone!
Sorry, Grammy, I’m
pulling a two stoner this time.