Murder is the Pits (9 page)

“We were all present. Don’t you see—it’s the
combination of our energies.” I nudged Ruthie’s arm. “You always
say there are no accidents, right?”

Penny Sue arched a brow in agreement. “Maybe
we’re destined to fight crime or something like Charlie’s Angels.”
She grinned. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Ruthie curled her lip.

“Come on, Ruthie,” I said. “You’re the one
who says a person’s current situation is the result of all of her
past karma. We’re not victims of fate—we’re here to choose it and
to change it, if we made a bad choice in another life.” I wasn’t
sure I believed it all, but if anything would bring Ruthie around,
that was it. A smile from Ruthie was all I wanted before the police
arrived.

Ruthie regarded me with hooded eyes, then
relaxed—her shoulders dropped at least six inches—and, the glimmer
of a smile. “You were listening to me all along. I thought it was
going in one ear and out the other.”

“I listened, too,” Penny Sue added hastily.
“I kid you about it, but I agree with”—she paused a beat—“most of
what you say.”

Ruthie leaned across the counter for a group
hug. “I’m sorry to be so cross. I don’t do well with blood.”

The hug made us all a bit misty-eyed. We
hadn’t had a fight like that since college, and I hoped we wouldn’t
have another any time soon. They were my best friends, the only
people besides my kids I could always count on. To lose that
support over a silly disagreement was not what I wanted at this
point in my life.

Good ole Penny Sue came to our rescue before
we all tuned-up into a blubbering mass. She wiped her forehead,
which was perspiring profusely, as they say in the South.
Truthfully, she was sweating buckets. The emotion, a dead man, her
hot flashes, and the lack of AC all came together in a slimy,
stinky (none of us had showered) cascade. “Boy, it’s getting hot.
Let’s open all the windows, so we can get some cross
ventilation.”

Brilliant. An assignment. Something to take
our minds off our disagreement.

Understand, Southern women do not fight:
They disagree, have a tiff, or get their nose out of joint, but not
from a physical blow, mind you! The distinction between a fight and
disagreement may be obscure to non-Southerners—especially when the
claws and fangs pop out—yet, there is a big difference. A person
from the North might haul off and hit you or spit in your eye.
Someone from California will outspend you on clothes, finagle an
invitation to an important party, or get a bigger boob job. A
Southerner will lob cryptic insults and talk behind your back.

I don’t know what people in the Midwest do.
They may be the only sane people in the country. They have no
accent, which is why television and radio personalities, no matter
where they originate, go to schools that teach them to speak
Midwestern.

But we’re Southerners, and the best thing to
end a tiff is an assignment! To dutiful wives, who ministered to
everyone during the War of Northern Aggression, there is nothing
like a task to get a Southern woman back on track. Without a word
Ruthie and Penny Sue went to the bedrooms, while I opened the small
window in the guest bath.

As Penny Sue emerged from the master suite,
there was a knock on the front door. She peered through the
peephole and grumbled loudly as she unlocked the door. Ruthie and I
knew that wasn’t good. A Southern lady does not grumble
vociferously, except in extreme circumstances. I peeked around the
corner to see what was wrong. The circumstance
was
extreme.
Officer Heather Brooks and Robert “Woody” Woodhead, the local
prosecutor and our biggest pain in the derriere, stood on the other
side of the screen door.

I won’t go into a lot of details, but our
college sorority used to spend spring break at Penny Sue’s daddy’s
condo. One summer—I think our sophomore year—Penny Sue met Woody, a
local, and they started dating. As usually happened with everything
Penny Sue did, things got complicated. Her Atlanta boyfriend at the
time—Zack, my now ex—showed up unexpectedly. There was a big scene
between Zack and Woody. In the end, Penny Sue dumped them both, and
took up with Andy, the captain of the football team, and her first
husband.

No matter what one’s opinion was of New Age
philosophy, Woody Woodhead was living proof of Ruthie’s favorite
adage: “There are no accidents.” To say the name fit the person was
an understatement in his case. As far as I could tell, he was a
knot-head in everyone’s book.

Penny Sue pushed the screen door, which
emitted an ear splitting screech. See, even the door hated Woody, I
thought sourly.

“What a surprise,” Penny Sue said evenly,
motioning them in.

Towering over Woody, Heather dipped her chin
when she passed Penny Sue as if to say, “Sorry.”

“We don’t get many murders in New Smyrna
Beach,” Woody said, taking his usual seat in the rattan chair by
the chimney. “New Smyrna and Volusia police have instructions to
call me whenever you’re involved in anything.” He gave us a crooked
grin. “And, here we are again, just like old times.”

Heather was a tall, attractive brunette, and
I sensed she wasn’t particularly fond of Woody. I’m sure he treated
her in the same condescending way he had previously dealt with us.
To her credit, she was the consummate professional, which Woody was
not. Heather stood in the entry to the great room, eyes glued to
Guthrie’s Glock on the coffee table. Woody the Wuss hadn’t even
noticed it.

I saw Heather unsnap her holster, ready for
action. “That’s not ours,” I exclaimed, pointing to the Glock. “Our
neighbor, Guthrie Fribble, weathered the storm with us last night.
He hurt his knee and couldn’t walk, so he was stuck on the sofa.
When he heard about the looting in Orlando, he wanted his gun
within in easy reach, while we checked the neighborhood for
damage.”

Heather pulled on a latex glove. “Do you
mind if I take a look at it?”

“Be my guest,” Penny Sue snapped.

The officer picked up the gun and sniffed
the barrel. “Doesn’t appear to have been fired recently.”

Woody steepled his fingers in front of his
chest. “Do you still carry a .38, Penny Sue?”

“Yes, perfectly legal.”

“Do you mind showing it to Officer
Brooks?”

Penny Sue reached in her pocket and pulled
out her revolver. Thankfully, she’d put it back in its holster at
some point, so she wasn’t guilty of carrying a concealed
weapon.

Heather slipped the gun out of its leather
pouch and smelled the barrel. She shook her head, and gave it back
to Penny Sue.

“So the Glock belongs to your neighbor,
Guthrie. If he’s so concerned about his safety, where’s Guthrie
now?”

“At Bert Fish, having his leg X-rayed. Call
the emergency room, you’ll see,” I said.

“Wait,” Ruthie spoke for the first time.
“His real name is Fred Fribble. Guthrie is a nickname.”

Woody looked to the ceiling, rolling his
eyes. “Fred Fribble. This is a new low for you girls.”

All of us, including Heather, cringed at the
word
girls
.

“That’s his name,” I retorted. Woody’s
condescending attitude reminded me of Zack, which brought up a lot
of anger. If Woody wasn’t careful, I might forget I was a Southern
lady and pop him in the nose. Of course, then I’d go to jail. Not a
good idea on second thought. I hated the idea that my kids would
have a jailbird for a mother.

Heather called Bert Fish on her cell phone
while this exchange took place. “Fred Fribble is in the emergency
room,” she confirmed flatly.

“You’re kidding,” Woody replied.

Heather held out her cell phone. “Would you
like to speak with the nurse? He’s in X-ray right now. Fred fell
down some stairs.”

At that moment, Woody’s beeper went off. He
checked the display and stood. “Sorry, something more important has
come up.”

He nodded to Brooks. “Get their statements
and bag the Glock.” He turned to us. “You don’t mind if we return
this to Mr. Fribble ourselves, do you?”

“Of course not. He’ll verify everything we
said. Woody, there’s no reason to treat us like suspects. We were
in the wrong place at the wrong time and witnessed a horrible
accident,” Penny Sue retorted.

“It’s amazing how that keeps happening to
you girls. Wrong place at the wrong time, that is. Accident? Maybe.
So far, preliminary results don’t show powder burns on his
shirt.”

“So?” Penny Sue asked.

“He didn’t fall on the gun and shoot
himself.” Woody started for the door.

“If he didn’t shoot himself—” Ruthie
started.

“Sniper!?” Penny Sue and I said in
unison.

“Wait, Woody, ” Penny Sue shouted. “We’re in
town to give depositions against Al, the mafia guy.”

Woody turned. “The turtle man?”

We nodded.

“I hadn’t heard about that.” He ground his
teeth, obviously annoyed. “I should have been informed.” Woody
stalked toward the door. “I’ll get back to you,” he said over his
shoulder.

Heather Brooks asked to interview us
individually. “One person can influence another’s
recollection.”

“Like the old story about no two people
remembering an auto accident the same way,” Penny Sue said.

“Exactly. This way I’ll get the details from
all angles. Who’d like to go first?”

Naturally, Penny Sue volunteered. Ruthie and
I found some garbage bags in the utility room and headed outside to
pick up debris. We told Heather to holler when she was ready for
us.

“We were really lucky,” Ruthie said,
dropping several shingles into her bag. “The power may be out, but
the judge’s condo didn’t get much damage.”

“Tell me about it! I didn’t know the windows
were hurricane rated. I’m glad he spent the money to maintain the
place properly. That’s definitely something I need to consider if I
buy one of these condos.” I picked up a few palm fronds and stacked
them in a pile.

“Woody implied that someone shot the
neighbor. Do you think it had anything to do with our
depositions?”

“No. Why would anyone shoot him? If it had
to do with our depositions, they would have shot us.” The moment
the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could reach out and take
them back. Ruthie was skittish, hated confrontation, and was none
too keen on the depositions, anyway. For that matter, neither was
I. But the judge said that chances were slim we’d be called. The
government had a mountain of evidence without our information.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I said quickly.
“Let’s wait until the police have a chance to fully investigate the
death. Woody said preliminary results. Maybe he was wrong.”

Ruthie half-heartedly dropped a piece of
wood siding into her bag. “You’re right. I hope we’re called or
released by the court soon. I intend to go home on the first
flight. I have bad feelings about all of this.”

Heather appeared at the front door and
called for her next witness. Ruthie handed Penny Sue the trash bag
and followed Heather inside.

Instead of continuing the clean-up effort,
Penny Sue pulled the Mercedes’ remote from her pocket and opened
the car. “I need to call Daddy.” She sat in the driver’s seat and
used her car phone. The conversation lasted a long time for the
judge. In my experience, he was a no nonsense guy with little
patience for chitchat.

Penny Sue emerged from the car with a scrap
of paper. “He gave me the name of the insurance agent and a
contractor to make repairs. He’s also going to make some calls
about our depositions. He wants us to come home. He’s not at all
happy that we’ve stumbled on another body.”

“Neither am I. At least Woody believes us
this time. That’s something.”

“Yeah, and I like Heather Brooks. I told her
about the corroded aluminum. She wants to see it as soon as she
finishes our interviews.”

It took a number of tries, but I finally
reached my mother and assured her we were fine and would she please
pass the information along, since cellular circuits were jammed.
Almost immediately, Heather appeared in the door and waved me in.
The interview was short, sweet, and consistent with Penny Sue and
Ruthie’s stories, judging from Officer Brooks’ reaction. I also
made a point of the rusted aluminum, stressing the fact that
aluminum isn’t supposed to rust. Heather’s interest was definitely
peaked.

“Let’s go see this,” she said.

The four of us trooped up the hill toward
Guthrie’s condo and the scene of the crime. Remarkably, Timothy’s
baby blue BMW pulled in at that very moment. The crime tape, which
included Ruthie’s puke, extended almost to Guthrie’s stairs.

Timothy blasted from his car like a rocket.
“What is this? I have an injured man here.”

Heather, about Timothy’s height, stared him
in the eye and introduced herself. “There was an accident, and a
man died. The incident is under investigation. Don’t cross the
crime tape. If you need room to accommodate your injured friend,
I’ll see about moving the tape.” She nodded toward the car. “By the
way, is your friend Fred Fribble?”

Timothy flexed his biceps. “Yes, he’s been
at the hospital.”

“I’d like to speak with him.”

“He’s in too much pain. You’ll have to come
back another time.”

Heather smiled as she reached into the
canvas tote slung from her shoulder and pulled out a plastic bag
holding Guthrie’s Glock. “I wanted him to know that I have his gun.
This is his, isn’t it?”

Timothy’s lips tightened. “Give me a few
minutes to get Guthrie settled and then you can speak with him. I
warn you, he’s on painkillers they gave him at the hospital.”

“All I need is verification that this is his
gun and he had it with him for self-protection.”

“Fine.” Timothy pulled crutches from the
backseat and helped Guthrie out of the car.

Guthrie waved to us with a goofy grin. “Man,
the hospital was gnarly. Everyone was in a bad mood, and they
wouldn’t let me see Mrs. King.” He paused as Timothy shoved the
crutches under Guthrie’s arms. “Nobody believed I’d been a wet
burrito and almost drowned.” He swayed dizzily. Timothy steadied
him and guided him toward the staircase. “I’ll catch you later,”
Guthrie said over his shoulder. “I think I better lie down. A lady
doctor gave me some wild pills. She looked really mean, but gave me
a lot of them. They’re pink—”