Murder is the Pits (20 page)

Annie held out her hand. “Free paint job? A
deal.”

Andrew headed to the back lot to get a
school bus while Chris and Annie pushed the tiny car off the
carrier. The car looked smaller on the ground—it didn’t even come
to our waists!

Annie grabbed the top and flipped it open.
“This is the door.”

“Thank the Lord,” Penny Sue said. “If we had
to slide in the window like NASCAR guys, we’d be plum out of luck.”
She sized up Ruthie. “You’re anorexic, and I don’t think you’d
fit.”

“Hush, I’m not anorexic. Listen to
Annie.”

“Basically,” Annie started, “this is a
go-kart with a car body. But it’s a fast little booger and can get
up to seventy-five miles per hour.” She pointed at the front
floorboard. “Like a go-kart, there aren’t any gears. All you have
is a gas pedal and a brake. Be very careful with the brake. Hit
that hard when you have some speed, and you’ll go into a spin every
time.”

Annie fetched fireproof coveralls, gloves,
and a helmet from her truck and handed them to Chris. “You might as
well take it for a spin.”

We all studied the paraphernalia as Chris
pulled the coveralls over her clothes. Ruthie blanched.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The suit’s one piece.”

“So?”

“We’ll have to get undressed to go to the
bathroom.”

Since Ruthie peed at least a dozen times a
day, I understood her concern. She wasn’t hot on this race, anyway.
The one-piece suit could be a deal buster. Thankfully, Annie came
to our rescue.

“If you’re going to have them custom-made,
you can get two piece suits. I prefer those myself. I know of a
good local supplier for custom suits and helmets. I’m sure I have
the card in my truck.”

“See, no problem,” I said blithely.

Ruthie was still worried. “We have to wear a
helmet?” she asked.

“Of course,” Annie answered. “It’s standard
equipment.”

“I thought I could tolerate the bag, because
it would be loose-fitting. A helmet and a bag? I’m
claustrophobic—I’m not sure I can handle that,” Ruthie said.

Penny Sue slapped her on the back. “Sure you
can, just say your mantra. We’ll practice wearing our helmets at
home, so you get the hang of it. You’ll be fine.”

Ruthie’s scowl said she didn’t buy a word of
it.

The helmet didn’t faze Chris, who put it on,
climbed in the car, and strapped in. Annie connected the tethers
from the Hutchins device’s shoulder straps to Chris’ helmet.

“What’s that?” Penny Sue asked.

“The thing that might have saved Dale
Earnhardt’s life,” Annie said grimly. “They keep your head from
snapping back and forth. Everyone wears them now, even though they
limit mobility.”

“I’ll say,” Chris exclaimed. “I can only see
straight ahead. Where are the mirrors in this thing? How will I
know when it’s safe to pass or make a run for it?”

“Your spotter will tell you.”

“My what?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Your spotter. A
person who stands on top of the grandstand and tells you want to
do.” She pointed at a platform over the box seats. “There’s a
microphone in your helmet. For example, if your spotter says,
‘Inside,’ it means a car’s about to pass you on the left. ‘Inside,
inside’ means two are going to pass on the left. ‘Outside’ says
someone’s coming on the right. Your spotter will also tell you
about wrecks, spinouts, and how to avoid them—like, ‘go low,’ ‘go
high,’ whatever. Your spotter is your best friend. Always remember,
hold your line unless your spotter tells you otherwise.”

“Will you spot for me?” Chris asked
Annie.

Annie grinned. “I wouldn’t let you drive my
car otherwise. There’s no traffic, so run a few laps.”

Chris turned the key and the tiny car roared
to life. Far from timid, Chris floored it and peeled out of the pit
area as Andrew entered from the rear in a beat-up school bus.

“Think that’s big enough?” I asked Penny
Sue.

She curled her lip at me.

As Chris merrily lapped the track—going high
and low, slow, fast, and spinning into the infield once (I thought
Annie would have a cow)—Andrew acquainted Penny Sue with the school
bus. Everything had been stripped out except the driver’s high back
chair, the first row of seats, and bare necessities. Basically, the
bus wasn’t a lot different than the go-kart. The driver’s seat had
been outfitted with an elaborate shoulder harness/seat belt system
including clips for the Hutchins device. Fortunately, the bus had
an automatic transmission, so there was only a gas pedal and brake
to contend with. And unlike the mini-car, it had mirrors—lots of
mirrors.

“I don’t have a fire suit for you,” Andrew
said. “It doesn’t matter as long as you go slowly to get the feel
for driving the bus. When you get your suit and helmet, you can
come back and do some real racing.”

Annie finally waved Chris in, commenting
that the mini-car must be nearly out of gas. Chris removed her
helmet, grinning, and climbed out through the roof. “Awesome!”

Meanwhile, with Andrew coaching from the
seat behind, Penny Sue inched the bus out of the pit at about five
mph. The first few laps were very slow, but by the sixth lap, Penny
Sue floored the bus on the straightaway in front of the pits and
promptly fishtailed when she braked for turn one. After that, she
made a few more leisurely laps and kept her foot off the brake.

“That’s tougher than it looks,” she said,
wiping perspiration from her upper lip when she returned. “The rear
end is really loose. Boy, get a few of these on the track together
and you’ve got a traffic jam.”

I had to agree. “Do you think it’s too much
for you to handle?” I asked.

“Of course not. It’ll merely take a little
practice. If I can evade terrorists and ride a Harley, I can surely
master a school bus.”

“What about the car for the bag race?”
Ruthie asked Andrew.

“That’s up to you. Most people buy a cheap
junker.”

Ruthie went wide-eyed again. “Why? Are there
lots of wrecks?”

“Nothing serious. After all, no one is going
fast, still you should expect some fender-benders.”

“Do you recommend a particular brand of
car?”

“Something cheap and sturdy.”

Annie gave us the card for the racing shop,
promised to call her painter, and headed out. Famished from the
morning workout, Team DAFFODILS, as Chris called it, headed to Pub
44 for lunch. We found a table in the windowed corner of the
backroom, next to the bar. The place was hopping, primarily with
locals on their lunch hour. As we waited for our taco salads and
sandwiches, Penny Sue called the race shop and wheedled a fitting
for custom suits at two o’clock. Meanwhile, Chris used my cell to
phone an old friend who owned a used car lot.

“He has a 1997 Toyota Corolla he’ll sell for
$3,000, since it’s me and for a good cause. A little body damage,
the upholstery’s stained, but it’s mechanically sound, and has
relatively new tires. If we have it painted and don’t bang it up
too bad, he’ll buy it back for what we paid. He says the Corolla is
rated as one of the safest cars in crash tests.” Chris raised a
questioning brow at Penny Sue and Ruthie, who would have to finance
the purchase.

“I’d feel comfortable in a smaller car like
a Corolla,” Ruthie said to Penny Sue.

Penny Sue nodded and finished chewing. “Tell
him to hold the car. We’ll swing by after our fitting.”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. The
helmet specialist happened to be at the racing shop when we
arrived. So, he assisted with the fitting—business was slow because
of the hurricanes—and promised to have the helmets ready by the
next afternoon. We picked yellow fabric for the suits and found a
commercially available daffodil that Penny Sue licensed for the
uniforms, helmets, mini-car, Corolla, and school bus—yep, she was
on a Paris Hilton roll!

Although Chris and Ruthie rolled their eyes,
I secretly thought it was kind of cool. Especially since I didn’t
have to pay for it.

The seamstress agreed to rush the order and
we left for our final chore—to buy a vehicle for the bag race. We
followed Chris to the car lot where Penny Sue bought the Toyota.
After that, Chris baled out—I could tell Penny Sue was getting on
her nerves—and we headed home.

It was close to six o’clock when we pulled
into the parking lot and found the weird fisherman on the bench on
our neighbor’s stoop. His fishing machine propped against the wall,
he sat slumped forward, head in his hands.

“Lord, he can’t be dead,” Ruthie
exclaimed.

Penny Sue slammed the car into park. “I
think he’d be sprawled on the ground in that case. He must be
sick.”

Ruthie was out of the car in a flash. We
were close behind.

“I’m borderline diabetic. I think I fished
too long,” he said without looking up. “Too much sun. Not enough
food.”

Penny Sue reached in her handbag, pulled out
a snack-sized Snickers, and ripped off the wrapper. “Here, take a
bite of this.”

He popped the whole thing in his mouth. A
few minutes later he straightened up. “Thank you, I feel better.”
He started to stand up, but collapsed back on the bench.

“Come sit with us for a while,” Ruthie said.
“We’ll make you a sandwich.”

“I’m okay, really,” he said feebly.

“Bullshit,” Penny Sue snapped, grabbing his
arm. I took the other while Ruthie rolled his fishing gear. “You’re
coming with us unless you want to deal with me,” Penny Sue said,
her face an inch from his.

He grinned. “In that case, I think I’ll come
to your house.”

To this point we didn’t even know his name.
We’d always referred to him as the weird fisherman.

“What’s your name?” Penny Sue said as we
half-dragged him down the hall.

“Larry. Larry Smith.”

We eased him onto the sofa, which gave me a
major déjà vu of Guthrie.

“What do you need?” Ruthie asked. “Should we
give you sugar, carbs, protein, fat? Heavens, it’s all so
confusing!”

“The Snickers did the sugar trick. If you
have lunch meat or cheese—protein—that will tide me over.”

Ruthie stuck her head in the refrigerator.
“We have everything. Cheddar? Provolone? Plumrose ham on crackers.
Name it.”

“Cheddar on crackers.”

“Coming up.” In a matter of minutes Ruthie
had crackers and cheese on a plate before Larry and watched
expectantly as he ate one. “Are you feeling better?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “If I’m
not, will you give me CPR?”

Ruthie scowled. “No, Penny Sue does CPR, and
all you’ll get is chest pounding. No mouth-to-mouth. That’s the new
technique, you know.”

He checked out Penny Sue. “Not necessary, I
feel much better. I was being a smartass. I have daughters your
age,” he said sheepishly. “Truly, I’m a harmless old man who only
wants to fish. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” He leaned forward
to stand, but sank back into the sofa.

“Maybe we should call a doctor,” I said.

“I’ll be fine as soon as the cheese gets
into my system. I knew I stayed out too long, but I was fighting a
big one and couldn’t give up.”

“You sound like my father,” Penny Sue said.
“He’s nearly killed himself trying to land fish. He’s thinking of
moving down here when he retires. Y’all would be two peas in a
pod.”

Larry nibbled another saltine. “I’d like to
meet him … always looking for a fishing buddy.” He popped the last
of the cracker into his mouth and chewed. “You were gone all day.
What are you up to?”

“You keep tabs on us?” Penny Sue
snapped.

“Let’s face it, aside from the murders, you
ladies are the most interesting thing around here. You’re not the
average, dried-up prunes we usually see on the beach. Your absence
is noticed by everyone.”

Penny Sue’s ire dissolved. “Why, thank you,
sir,” she said in her best Southern drawl. “We’ve been practicing
for a charity race to benefit hurricane victims.”

“Race? Like running?” He was amused.

“No, a motorized marathon out at the
speedway. There are three parts: mini-cars, a bag race, and a
school bus race.” Penny Sue wiggled her brows saucily. “I’m driving
the school bus.”

“I’m an audio expert. I used to work with
stock car headsets. I can improve the range and clarity, plus
filter out extraneous noise. Many a race has been lost because the
driver didn’t hear an instruction. If you’d like, I’d be happy to
beef up your equipment.”

“That’s very nice.” Ruthie grinned smugly.
“See, there are no accidents. We need help, and he shows up at our
front door.”

Larry stood, his strength back. “I needed
help, and you came along with a Snickers. Let me know when you get
your helmets.”

I nodded. “Unless something happens, they
should be ready tomorrow afternoon.”

* * *

August 26-31, New Smyrna Beach, FL

Ruthie sipped coffee,
eyes glued to
the television.

“Good morning.” I rounded the counter and
poured a mug for myself. She never gave me a glance. Was she mad at
me? I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to offend her. “What’s
up?” I asked.

“That tropical wave in the Atlantic has been
upgraded to a tropical storm. Frances. Tropical Storm Frances. It’s
moving west-northwest. If it maintains that course, it’ll hit
Florida.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t. Danielle stayed over
water, and Earl went south and never came close.”

Ruthie gave me a moist, doe-eyed look.
“Remember my vision of a big storm? The one where we should leave
and go to St. Augustine? I think this is it.”

Her intensity made me uneasy. “If it is,
we’ll leave,” I promised. “We’ll keep an eye on the storm and make
hotel reservations. If push comes to shove, we know we can stay in
Chris’ store.”

“I’m getting bad vibes about that, too. Evil
and greed surround us.”