Murder is the Pits (5 page)

“—when I heard a scraping noise coming from
the back of our duplex. Low, like maybe the crawl space.” He took a
good swallow of his scotch. “I listened for a while, and started to
think someone was trying to break into Mrs. King’s house again. So,
I got my Glock—”

“Glock, like a gun?” Penny Sue asked.

He nodded and sucked down more scotch. “I
got my Glock, ran to the porch, and tripped over the front door
mat. I fell down the first flight of steps and landed hard on this
knee. It’s horribly bruised and swollen. Want to see?” He started
fumbling with the Ace bandage.

I held up both hands. “Not necessary—we
believe you.”

“Did you figure out what the noise was?”
Ruthie asked.

He shook his head. “No, it was all I could
do to crawl up the stairs to my condo. Anyway, the noise stopped as
soon as I fell. I guess I scared them away.” He took another gulp
of liquor. “The pain was excruciating. So, I iced my knee down and
called Timothy, my friend. I thought he’d rush over to help me.”
Guthrie wiped his eyes. “No such luck. Timothy’s sister couldn’t
stay with their mother, so he had to bring
Mother
,” Guthrie
virtually spate the word, “to his house for the storm.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked. “We’d
have helped.”

“I couldn’t find your number. Leigh Stratton
isn’t listed.”

Right. I was using the judge’s phone and had
never made the effort to have my name listed. I scribbled our
number on a Post-It note. Here, call us next time.”

“Thank you.” He rotated the chicken and gave
us a pitiful look. “The last day has been so trying. I can’t face
the hurricane alone.”

Ruthie, Ms. Sensitive Pisces, stroked his
back. “Don’t worry, you’re welcome here. In times like these, we
have to stick together.”

Penny Sue closed her eyes and bumped her
forehead against the kitchen cabinet. Thankfully, that was all. I
could tell she wanted to vault over the counter and strangle
Ruthie. I wasn’t jumping with joy at the prospect of Guthrie
sleeping on the sofa, but he seemed nice enough and definitely
needed our help.

“I won’t be any trouble,” Guthrie said. “I
have a sleeping bag. You’ll never know I’m here. I’ll bring dinner.
I’m making a hobo stew out of all of these,” he motioned to the
chicken, “frozen foods.”

Penny Sue gave me the squinty eye. “What
else have you used on your knee?”

“Green beans, corn, the usual.” Guthrie held
his glass up for a refill.

“Peas,” she said, her eyes still slits.

“Huh?”

“Frozen peas. That’s what they recommend for
women after boob jobs.” Penny Sue refilled his glass. “They’re cold
and flexible. I guess corn is about the same.”

“Mine was on the cob. Don’t worry, I cut off
the kernels for the stew. I’m really a good cook. I made brownies
before I hurt my knee.”

Brownies. Yep, Arlo Guthrie. I still
wondered if the brownies contained anything other than the usual
chocolate, flour and sugar.

Penny Sue slid his drink across the counter.
“What did you mean, the Russians were coming?”

“A Russian realtor showed up right before
the scratching started. He came by early this morning, asking if I
wanted to sell my condo. I explained I didn’t own it. I guess I
mentioned that Mrs. King had a heart attack. I was so upset. I
babble when I get upset. If I start to babble, stop me. I won’t be
offended. Really. Anyway, the same Russian stopped by this
afternoon asking if I knew Mrs. King’s family.”

A money-grubber, just as I thought. I
smirked at Penny Sue.

“I said no and he left. Within an hour, the
scraping started.”

“Can you be more specific about the sound?”
Penny Sue asked, arms folded across her chest.

“A metal on metal sound.”

“Which side of your building did it come
from?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“I think we should check it out,” Penny Sue
said in her Jessica Fletcher
Murder She Wrote
tone. “But I’m
certain Yuri had nothing to do with it.”

Guthrie downed his drink and eased his leg
to the floor. “Okay. Can I stay here tonight? I promise not to get
in the way.”

Ruthie helped him stand up. “Of course, we’d
love to have you.”

Penny Sue curled her lip.

With a shoulder under each armpit, Ruthie
and I helped Guthrie up the hill to his condo. Penny Sue led the
way with our new halogen lantern, a crow bar from the utility room,
and her .38 stuffed in the pocket of her capris. She thought she’d
hidden it from us, but the bulge was unmistakable. Under normal
circumstances, I would have been annoyed—her darned gun had gotten
us in a lot of trouble. I didn’t care this time. I was fairly
certain we wouldn’t find anything. Why would a burglar come back in
broad daylight?

After considerable huffing, puffing, and a
few stops, we got Guthrie up the hill to his unit. I noticed he had
hurricane shutters, which were already rolled down. Hmmm, maybe we
should stay with him. He has shutters and was on higher ground. I’d
broach the subject to Penny Sue later. Not now, not with the gun in
her pocket. (Penny Sue’s hormones weren’t completely out of kilter;
still, no sense taking chances.)

“Which unit is Mrs. King’s?” Penny Sue
asked, sounding like a feminine Perry Mason.

Guthrie pointed straight ahead. Penny Sue
did a walk around, while Ruthie and I eased Guthrie to the
staircase of his condo. Penny Sue returned with tight lips.
Something was wrong.

“Someone’s been in the crawl space under
Mrs. King’s condo. There are scuff marks in the sand, and the crawl
space door has been opened.”

Penny Sue pointed at Guthrie sternly. He
cringed. I didn’t blame him, this personality reminded me of The
Terminator.

“The door to your crawl space is coated with
sand and cobwebs, meaning no one’s been in it for a long time. No
cobwebs at Mrs. King’s.”

“Did you look inside?”

Penny Sue handed the lantern to Ruthie. “No,
I think Ruthie would be a better fit. The doorway’s pretty
small.”

Ruthie shoved the lantern back at Penny Sue.
“Forget it. You know I’m claustrophobic.”

They both stared at me, the lantern hanging
limply from Penny Sue’s fingers. I stifled the urge to smack it
away. Why me? Why did I have to do everything? Because I was a big
dope. But, I wasn’t going to give in this time.

Guthrie broke the impasse. “It was probably
the pesticide guy spraying for bugs. I’ll bet that’s why the door’s
been opened.”

I frowned. “Spraying on a day when
everything is closed for a hurricane?”

“Maybe he was already in the
neighborhood.”

“What about the grinding sound? Was that bug
spraying?”

Guthrie studied his chicken. “No,” he said
quietly. He motioned to his knee. “I’d do it, but—”

I snatched the lantern from Penny Sue and
stifled a heavy sigh. “Quit! You big bunch of scaredy cats, I’ll
look!” I stomped around back, Ruthie and Penny Sue following on my
heels. I dropped to my knees and examined the door. It was brown
wood to match the building and about two feet wide and three feet
tall. I snuck a glance at Penny Sue’s rear end. Yep, definitely a
tight fit.

She caught my look. “I know what you’re
thinking. I haven’t put on that much weight.”

I chuckled and went to work on the
slide-bolt lock. After a lot of grunting and a few curses from me,
the lock gave. Lantern held high in front of me, I gingerly crawled
in as far as my head and shoulders. The bottom of the area was
concrete slab, while pipes and plastic conduit crisscrossed above
my head.

Penny Sue’s chin rested on my shoulder.
“What do you see?”

I shrugged, bumping Penny Sue’s chin. “Give
me some room. I see the underbelly of a house, what do you think?”
And something skittering in the distance! I jerked backward,
sending Penny Sue sprawling. “Something’s moving in there.”

Penny Sue scrambled to her feet and pulled
out her .38. “A snake?” she shrieked. “There are rattlers around
here, you know.”

I slammed the door and locked it. “I don’t
know what it was, and I’m not going to find out. Besides, I didn’t
see any evidence of tampering. Concrete and pipes, nothing else.” I
brushed myself off.

“What do you suppose Guthrie heard?” Ruthie
asked.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Heck, it
was probably someone rolling down a hurricane shutter. That would
make a scraping noise. I’ll bet most of these shutters haven’t been
moved in years.”

Penny Sue’s eyes brightened. “You’re right,
I’ll bet it was a hurricane shutter. That would explain the
scraping sound.”

“And, maybe he’d been tasting his brownies,”
I said with a wink.

Penny Sue chuckled, but Ruthie gave me a
dumb look.

“Come on, Ruthie, you remember
Alice’s
Restaurant
. What did Alice put in the brownies?”

Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh-h!”

“Are you sure that was
Alice’s
Restaurant
?” Penny Sue shoved the revolver back in her
pocket.

Now that she mentioned it, I wasn’t sure.
“Not one hundred percent.” I brushed hair out of my face, the wind
was picking up.

“We’d better be careful how many we eat
tonight.”

Ruthie’s mouth dropped. “You’d eat
them?”

Penny Sue dipped her chin and grinned. “I’ll
try one. He’s a guest, after all. We can’t be rude.” She started up
the hill toward Guthrie’s stairs. “You invited him, Ruthie, so you
must try one, too.”

Ruthie canted her head defiantly. “Not if
I’m allergic to chocolate or on a diet.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Penny Sue shot
back.

“Peace of mind is more important than
diarrhea,” Ruthie fairly shouted.

That stopped Penny Sue in her tracks. She
turned around and gave Ruthie a slow, long look over. “What in the
crap—excuse my French—does that mean?”

Ruthie put her hands on her hips. “A quote
from Hugh Prather. Surely, you remember Hugh Prather.
Notes to
Myself
and
Notes on Courage
. The man is a legend.”

Penny Sue put her fist on her hip,
thankfully the hip without the gun. “I missed that legend.” She
started back around the building. “What does diarrhea have to do
with peace of mind?” she called over her shoulder.

Ruthie and I huffed after her. I could tell
Ruthie was winding up for one of her spiritual lectures. We rounded
the corner and found Penny Sue sitting next to Guthrie on the
bottom step.

“Hugh Prather’s one of my favorite authors,”
Guthrie gushed. “Hugh was saying that we should be as vigilant with
our peace of mind as we are with diarrhea. You know, like, if you
have diarrhea—”

“’Nuf said!” Penny Sue raised her face to
the heavens. “Two of ’em, heaven help us.”

Penny Sue left abruptly, claiming an urgent
problem with her peace of mind. Ruthie and I helped Guthrie up the
stairs to his condo—no small feat, since the chicken had thawed and
kept slithering down his leg. After two attempts to tie it back in
place, we gave up and left it around his ankle. It was time for him
to move on to pork chops, anyway. We told Guthrie to call for help
when he was ready to come over and then left. The phone was ringing
when we arrived. It was Frannie May calling from Boston.

“I’m not sure you should stay there on the
beach,” she started. “Carl’s home, and you’re welcome to weather
the storm at my house. It’s a cinderblock house that’s built to
hurricane codes. You’ll be safe there.”

Penny Sue sauntered in from the deck sipping
a martini.

“Frannie May,” I mouthed.

She shook her head and whispered, “We’ll be
fine here.”

I thanked Fran and promised to call Carl if
things got dicey.

I stared at Penny Sue’s martini. “You said
you were having acute peace of mind problems.”

She held up the drink as Ruthie came in from
our bedroom. “I was. This is the cure.”

“We thought you had diarrhea and were being
polite with the peace of mind stuff,” Ruthie said.

Penny Sue squared her shoulders. “If I’d
listened to you and Guthrie much longer, I would have had a
terrible case of the runs. The way you two went on, I’m convinced
there
is
a link between peace of mind and gastric distress.”
She took a sip. “Want one? It’ll cure what ails ya.”

Ruthie and I gave each other the
she-is-awful look, then nodded.

“Make mine dirty,” Ruthie said loudly.

I nearly fell through the floor. Ruthie
rarely drank, except in our company, and usually she’d sip a single
glass of wine for an entire evening. (Yes, we were a bad
influence.) For her to pipe up wanting a dirty martini was on par
with the Dalai Lama asking to see an X-rated movie. Okay, maybe not
X-rated, but at least PG-13.

“Dirty it is.” Penny Sue pulled out gin and
a big jar of olives.

As she prepared the drinks, the phone rang
again. It was our friend Chris, the former proprietor of a local
New Age shop, now owner of a store in St. Augustine. She was
worried that I might be staying alone on the beach. We were all
welcome at her house—or if things looked bad there, her store. I
assured her we were well prepared, and would call if the situation
went downhill.

Penny Sue handed Ruthie a martini with a
toothpick skewering at least six olives. Mine only had one.

“Dirty means you add olive juice. The extra
olives were my idea,” Penny Sue explained.

Shoot, wish I’d known that, I’d have gone
for a dirty drink, too.

We took our cocktails into the living room
and tuned to the Weather Channel. Charley had taken a turn for the
worse; it was now a Category 4 storm. Translation: You’d better
write your social security number on your arm in permanent ink,
along with the name and phone number of your next of kin. You’d
also better have your affairs in order, unless you happen to live
in a bomb shelter. Hurricane Andrew was a strong Category 4, and it
blew away everything in its path, except the strongest bank vaults.
A problem if your bank went for the lowest bid. In that case, your
safe deposit box’s contents were strewn across Mexico.