Murder is the Pits (4 page)

Penny Sue surveyed our handiwork with
satisfaction. “We’re ready for Charley. Bring it on.”

“Where is Charley?” Ruthie asked anxiously.
She checked the clock over the credenza. “Eleven-forty-eight. It’s
time for the hurricane update.” She dove for the TV remote and
punched buttons like a crazy woman. Thankfully, the set was tuned
to the station. Dr. Steve, the hurricane expert, had just come
on.

The state of Florida appeared on the screen,
an ominous yellow cone extending from a red pinwheel in the Gulf of
Mexico and fanning out over the central part of the state.

“It’s a Category 2,” Ruthie murmured, “and
we’re in the strike zone.”

“Don’t start panicking,” Penny Sue chided.
“It’s supposed to hit the west coast and move east across the
state. Hurricanes always lose strength over land. And, look, we’re
still close to the bottom of the danger zone—meaning the weak side
of the storm. Tropical force winds are probably the worse we’ll
get.”

Ruthie pulled at her lip, not speaking until
Dr. Steve finished and a commercial began. “It has the potential to
become a Category 3. I think we should evacuate. I’m going to call
inland hotels.”

“Go ahead, if it will make you feel better.
But Charley’s going to blow out, and we’ll have a fun party,” Penny
Sue said matter-of-factly.

“What about Frannie May?” Ruthie turned to
me.

Frannie May, a.k.a. Fran Annina, was my
co-worker at the Marine Conservation Center. A wealthy, Italian
widow in her sixties, Frannie had taken me under her wing and
become a good friend to us all. She was also feisty, á la Penny
Sue. She showed her stuff in our pursuit of renegade bikers by
kicking the butt of a man a foot and a half taller. No kidding, she
literally kicked his butt. I did a mental chuckle at the memory of
Frannie hanging from the guy’s neck, her legs flailing for all she
was worth.

“Frannie?” Ruthie repeated.

“She’s in Boston. Her sister’s in the
hospital.”

“What about Carl?” Ruthie continued.

Carl was Frannie’s genius son. He was also a
Star Trek
fan who engaged in role playing games with his
MIT-educated buddies. Carl played a Klingon, other friends played
Romulans. They kept reenacting something called the Battle of
Khitomer. This battle was apparently a big deal in alien circles.
I’d intended to get old
Star Trek
tapes and look it up, but
never found the time. I had tried to fix my daughter up with Carl,
but it didn’t work. She wasn’t a Trekkie. A shame. A good-looking
millionaire, who was kind to his mother, Carl Annina was a catch by
almost anyone’s standards. Anyone except my Ann, who wasn’t drawn
to the Trekkie stuff. Oh, well, Ann Annina was a tongue twister. “I
know he’s working on a project, but he may be in town. Why do you
ask?”

Ruthie began to pace. “I’d like to think
there’s someone around if we need help.”

“How about Deputy Ted?” Penny Sue said
brightly.

Ted Moore was a very nice guy who worked for
the Volusia County Sheriff’s office. Recently divorced, like me,
we’d struck up a friendship that was beginning to develop.
Beginning was as far as it got, however. A front page newspaper
photo of Ted and me holding hands at an art fair was enough to get
his ex-wife’s back up. Suddenly, she needed to confer with him
daily on their sons’ welfare. The boys were sassing her, hanging
out with the wrong crowd, might be doing drugs, and on and on ad
nauseum. Her manipulation was crystal clear to me, but not to Ted.
When he canceled the third date for a kid catastrophe, I called it
quits, telling him to call me when he got his life sorted out. I
was having enough trouble sorting out my own life; proof being the
huge stack of mismatched sheets piled in the utility room.

I cleared my throat. “We’re not seeing each
other anymore.”

“You’re not?” Penny Sue called, fanny up,
head buried in the refrigerator. She came out with three
cellophane-wrapped sandwiches. “How about a Cuban? I’m starving.
All we’ve had was toast, and we ended up throwing most of it on the
floor.” She snickered.

Ruthie and I nodded. My stomach was feeling
hollow. Besides, eating might divert their attention from Ted. No
such luck.

“What became of Ted?” Penny Sue pulled out a
skillet and started to grill the sandwiches.

I sat at the counter as Ruthie arranged
placemats and napkins. “There’s not much to tell. In a nutshell,
his life is complicated—young kids and a possessive ex-wife.”

“Hmph,” Penny Sue grunted as she forcefully
mashed the sandwiches with a spatula. “I’ll bet his wife wanted the
divorce until she found out someone else was interested in Ted.
Happens all the time. Once she’s sure y’all are finished, she’ll
dump him again. You watch.” She slid a sandwich onto a plate and
passed it to Ruthie, who added a handful of chips. “Let’s hope he’s
smart enough to go that route only once. I dated a jerk that did
the number three times. Mind you, one time was enough for me. I
hear his next girlfriend has already been around that track twice.”
She scooped out the last two sandwiches and took the stool beside
me. “Would you take Ted back?” she asked, biting into the sandwich.
“Mm-m, these things are good. They don’t do much for the
waistline,” she patted a newly acquired perimenopausal paunch, “but
do wonders for my mood. If we’re going to wrestle a hurricane,
we’ll need our strength.”

I looked sidelong at Ruthie, who’d stopped
chewing. Darn, I wish Penny Sue hadn’t said wrestle. “Don’t worry,
Ruthie, Guthrie will be here if we need anything. He’s a nice
man.”

Ruthie stared back at me. She wasn’t buying
a word of it.

It was after one when we finished lunch.
Penny Sue retired to her
boudoir
to
select
an outfit
for the hurricane. (Lord knows which personality said that line,
probably Scarlett O’Hara. If Penny Sue came out wrapped in
curtains, I’d know for sure.) Ruthie—on pins and needles as she
waited for the two o’clock storm update—took her cell phone to the
deck and started calling hotels. I made my bed, took a quick shower
to knock off the closet dust and called Bert Fish, the local
hospital, to check on Mrs. King. She was resting quietly. I tried
to wheedle information about her family—like, had they been
notified? Had anyone arrived to sit with her?—but the ward nurse
was too professional to spill any beans. Next, I called New Smyrna
Beach Florist. They were closing early for the hurricane, but I was
in luck. The van hadn’t left, and they had a nice, cheery
arrangement in stock. I put it on my charge card. I guess we had a
bad connection, because the storekeeper couldn’t seem to get our
address right, and made me repeat it twice.

Exactly at one forty-five we all rushed,
like trained monkeys, to the living room and the next tropical
report. Ruthie watched the broadcast, hands touching her lips
prayerfully. I sat on the edge of the loveseat, and I noticed that
Penny Sue, normally nonchalant, gripped her diet soda tensely.

A meteorologist I didn’t recognize came on
and announced that Charley’s eye wall showed the storm was gaining
strength. If that wasn’t enough, the storm was moving faster.
Several models predicted it would make landfall around Tampa. New
Smyrna was on the lower edge of the strike zone.

Penny Sue took a big gulp of soda. “See,
Ruthie? Worse we’ll get are tropical force winds. We’re home
free.”

Ruthie shot Penny Sue a cynical look. “If it
hits, we’ll be on the right—STRONG—side of the storm.”

Penny Sue downed the rest of her cola. “For
a New Ager, you’re awfully fearful. Can’t you contact your spirit
guides to confirm the storm’s path?”

Ruthie folded her arms defensively. “I’m not
bothering my guides with earthly matters.”

“Enough said.” Penny Sue sashayed toward the
kitchen, exaggerating the fanny action. “If earthly matters are not
worthy of the spirits’ time, they’re not worth ours. We
are
spiritual beings, right? Ruthie, you need to put your actions where
your mouth is.”

I glanced at Ruthie whose face was beet red.
Penny Sue had lobbed a real zinger!

Thankfully, the doorbell rang at that
moment, proof that spirits were looking after Ruthie.

Penny Sue virtually ran to get the door,
obviously realizing she’d stepped way over the line. My stomach
seized, fearful it was Guthrie with news of Mrs. King. I heard the
twang of the screen door, a slight yelp, and the front door clicked
shut.

“What?” I called, dreading the answer.

Penny Sue emerged from the hall holding a
single pink rose. “Look.” She held out the flower with a New Smyrna
Beach Florist card attached. The card was addressed to Penny Sue
and simply said, “You haven’t been out of my mind since I first saw
you.”

* * *

August 13, New Smyrna Beach, FL

“
I wonder who
sent this?” Penny Sue
mused, placing the rose in a bud vase. She turned the card over—no
other inscription. “The florist must know.” She dialed the number
on the card and waited a long time. “Darn, they’ve closed early for
the hurricane.”

Ruthie sniffed the rose. “I’ll bet it was
Rich.”

“Rich?” Penny Sue shot back, irritability
masking her sorrow. “How could Rich know I was here? He’s in the
witness protection program, probably sequestered in Timbuktu.”

Rich Wheeler was a man Penny Sue fell in
love with on our last trip. Unfortunately, Rich got mixed up with
some very rough bikers who were engaged in scary activities. They
nearly killed Rich, so the Feds shuttled him away for his own
safety. How long that would last, no one knew; but Rich vowed he’d
return to Penny Sue one day.

“Sorry, Rich was my first thought. Pink
roses stand for admiration.”

“Admiration? I’ll bet it was Yuri,” I
said.

“Who’s Yuri?” Ruthie asked.

“A sleazy realtor who wants to buy up the
complex. He’s trying to butter you up,” I said to Penny Sue.

“Sleazy? I thought he was a nice guy. Not
bad looking, either.” Penny Sue studied the rose smugly. “He helped
us bring in the groceries.” She paused again, the wheels in her
head whirring. “Admiration. What stands for love?”

“Red roses.”

Penny Sue grinned. “I’ll bet it
was
Yuri. Rich would have sent a red rose.”

“Does that mean Rich is history?” I
asked.

“No,” she snapped, her brows knitting. “Even
though I love Rich, it doesn’t mean I have to check into a nunnery.
Nothing wrong with an occasional date until he gets home. After
all, we’re not married.”

True, she wasn’t married or even officially
engaged. Besides, flirting to Penny Sue was akin to breathing, an
involuntary biological process. I was certain she’d been faithful
to all three of her husbands—even the two who didn’t return the
favor—still, she’d always been a flirt. The thrill of victory, I
supposed, to see how many men she could attract. And lord knows,
that was a lot.

A loud horn blared, and Penny Sue’s romances
were instantly forgotten. Lu Nee 2 whirled in circles, demanding,
“Halt! Who goes there?” The Furby woke up too, moaning, “Big sound,
scare me!”

Ruthie, Penny Sue, and I stood like
slack-jawed fools, trying to figure out where the sound came from.
Then, a loud male voice boomed, “At two forty-five, Volusia County
issued a mandatory evacuation for all mobile and manufactured
homes.”

The weather radio! We rushed to the
closet.

“Shelters will open at four
PM
and close to new entrants between eight and nine
PM
. Tropical force winds are expected by
ten
PM
. Bridges from the beach to the
mainland will close when winds reach 38 mph. All Daytona Beach
International Airport flights have been cancelled.”

Ruthie sank into one of the plastic chairs.
“A mandatory evacuation! The airport’s closed and there are no
hotel rooms to be found. We’re stuck.”

Ring, ring. Bam, Bam, Bam. The Furby
screeched, “Whoa-a-a!” Lu Nee 2 exclaimed, “Where did that come
from?”

Penny Sue put her hands over her ears,
stomped down the hall, and flung the door open with a thud. There
was a long pause then she started to laugh. “Come here, you’ve got
to see this!”

Ruthie and I turned off the weather radio
and double-timed it to the door.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Guthrie was on
the stoop dressed in his Arlo Guthrie tee shirt, baggy madras
shorts (circa 1972) with a chicken tied around his knee. Yep, you
heard right, a chicken! A whole, frozen, Purdue roaster.

“Leigh,” he began, pitifully, “I’ve hurt
myself, Charley’s coming, and I’m all alone. Can I stay with
you?”

Penny Sue’s eyes were glued to the chicken.
“What’s with the poultry?” she asked.

“Publix sold out of ice. My freezer’s turned
to high, but it can’t make ice fast enough for drinks and my knee.
The chicken is frozen—as good as ice.” He put his hand to his
forehead. “I’m so upset. My friend isn’t going to come—he has to
stay with his mother. I can’t go to his place, because Mother
doesn’t approve of our relationship. With Mrs. King in the
hospital, I’m all by myself. On top of that, the Russians are
coming. Can I stay with you? Or will you come to my place?”

Penny Sue opened the screen door and waved
him in. Once again, he took the seat at the corner of the bar,
propping his leg up to rearrange the Ace bandage and rotate his
chicken.

“Can I get you something?” Penny Sue asked.
“Like a stiff drink?”

His eyes shifted from Ruthie to me. “A
scotch would be nice. Neat.”

Penny Sue poured four fingers of scotch in a
glass with a few cubes of ice. “I suppose we’d better conserve our
own ice.” She handed Guthrie the drink. “How did you hurt your
knee?”

“I was upstairs making brownies—”

Marijuana brownies? I wondered. Wasn’t that
a scene in
Alice’s Restaurant
?