Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  She didn’t give me a chance to answer, though I was inclined to agree with Ruthie.

  Penny Sue went on, “I’ve never seen him in my life. He was guarding against looters, leaned on a rotten railing, and fell on his gun. You can’t blame me for that!”

  “You didn’t cause it,” Ruthie said quietly, “but you’re a lightning rod for trouble. Murders don’t happen unless you’re around.”

  Penny Sue drew back as if she’d been slapped in the face. “You were there too, for Lord’s sake. Maybe you’re the lightning rod!”

  I held my hands up, trying to calm everyone down. After all, the police would arrive any minute to take our statements. The last thing we needed was a fight among ourselves. Besides, we were all stuck in Florida for who-knew-how long, in case we were required to give depositions in the mafia case. Our initial instructions said we might be called next week. With the hurricane, I had a sneaking feeling the timeline would be extended. I sure as heck didn’t want to spend weeks together at each other’s throats.

  “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 reminde
d 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—”

  “Come on, boy.” Timothy grasped Guthrie’s waist and guided him up the stairs.

  Penny Sue almost swooned over Timothy’s bulging arms and thighs. “Such a loss,” she mumbled.

  Heather chuckled. “Looks like Fred might have had more than one of the pink pills. Okay, let’s see this rusted aluminum.”

  We started with Guthrie’s hurricane shutters. I pointed out the smooth edge and the rust residue.

  Next, we took her to the crawl space under Mrs. King’s house. A big woman, Heather took one look at the tiny door and decided to take our word. “You have a plumber who can verify the strange rust?”

  “Sonny Mallard.”

  “I know him. Good guy. Remodeled my bathroom.”

  “What about the railing?” I asked.

  “What railing?”

  “The one that collapsed. Was it
aluminum?”

  “Let’s see.” Heather led us under the crime tape to the side of the building where the railing lay. It was wood.

  I looked at the bottom of the post. “There’s a smooth edge—it didn’t break.”

  Heather and Penny Sue (talk about a pair) nudged me aside. “You’re right! The railing support didn’t break, so why did it fall?”

  I pointed to the balcony that was ringed by short, square boxes—the size that would accommodate the handrail posts. The box on the corner was missing.

  “I’ll bet a dollar those boxes are aluminum.”

  Officer Brooks called to her partner who was filling out paperwork. “Have you swept the house? All right if we go in?”

  He nodded.

  “Come with me.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Ruthie said, biting her fingernail.

  “We’ll be right back.” I followed Heather and Penny Sue to the front of the building.

  The first floor was empty of furniture and unremarkable, except for the wood interior, which looked like something you’d see in Vail or the mountains. To the left of the door were the stairs to the second floor. We trailed behind Heather, single file. I, for one, was glad she took the lead, since she had her hand on her gun, ready to fire. No goons or nefarious characters appeared. We followed her through the first bedroom that had a door to the balcony. This room was empty except for an Igloo cooler. We trooped to the corner of the porch. Penny Sue and Officer Brooks both stooped to examine the square fittings that lined the balcony.

  “Looks like aluminum,” Heather said quickly. “Both the aluminum and wood were bolted to the deck.” She moved to the corner, where the form was missing, and ran her finger over the floor. She held it up for us to see.

  “Nothing. No sign of any rust. Looks like the thing just pulled out of the deck. The wood over here is pretty soft.”

  Penny Sue cocked her head at me. “Heather’s right. The rusty aluminum bandit wasn’t here.”

  Damn. I was sure all these weird things were related. Truth be told, I suspected Yuri was somehow involved—trying to scare people out of their houses so he could buy them cheap. So much for that theory. Okay, this accident wasn’t related to the aluminum, but the other stuff was very suspicious.