by Mary Clay
Ruthie grabbed the taser. “Don’t you dare!”
Penny Sue tossed the bag on the coffee table. “Fine. I was only trying to help.”
“Do you have your gun?” I asked as we got in her Mercedes.
“Of course.”
First, we picked up the Corolla from the car lot and took it to the paint shop. Annie’s car was already there. Fortunately, there was a premixed color that matched our suits perfectly, so the cars would be painted by Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest. From there we went to Wal-Mart in search of a battery-powered TV. There was only one model available and it had a tiny black and white screen.
“I was hoping for color,” Penny Sue complained. “We’d have to go all the way to Daytona Beach to get one. What do you think?”
I read the box. “This one takes ten C batteries. A color set would probably require twenty. Lets buy this one. We’ll only need it for a short period, if at all.”
“Good point.”
We purchased the TV, two dozen batteries, and a lifetime supply of snack-sized Snickers, which were on special. As I put the package in the backseat, I caught sight of a black Taurus out of the corner of my eye. It was idling at the end of our row. Probably waiting for our space, I told myself. Still, the murder and Woody’s warning had rattled me. I slid into the front seat and locked my door.
“What’s wrong?” Penny Sue asked.
I told her about the car.
“It’s probably not the same car, but keep your eye on it.” She backed out and headed for the exit to Route 44. “Did it take our space?”
“No, it’s following us. Two cars back.”
“Two cars,” she mused out loud. “Keeping a safe distance. They don’t want us to spot them.” Penny Sue hung a right onto the highway, went one block, and made a quick right back into the shopping center. “This will tell us if we’re really being followed.”
I watched the car in the outside mirror. “It went straight.” I stretched to keep the Taurus in view. The car drove another block and doubled back into the shopping center. “Damn, it turned in at the bank.”
“Hmph.” Penny Sue circled the lot to the Wal-Mart entrance again. She hung a right, floored it, and ran a yellow light. Then she whipped left at the first intersection.
“See ’em?”
“Nope, I think you lost them this time. We’d better call Woody, don’t you think?”
“The driver of the car wasn’t his crazy old mother, was it? Did you notice any white hair?”
“The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t tell who was driving. Besides, why would Pearl Woodhead follow us?”
“Because she’s crazy and thinks we’ve caused trouble for her son. Face it, anyone who’d walk around with a fake gun must be touched in the head.”
“No more than the people on the walkway with real guns,” I countered.
“You’re right. Call Woody.”
I did. With nothing to go on except the description of the car—he laughed when I said black Ford Taurus—there wasn’t anything he could do. “Next time, get a license number.” So much for police protection.
The next few days were an increasingly frantic mix of weather watching and racing practice. By five PM on August 26, Frances became a Category 1 hurricane. At the same time the following day, it had jumped to a Category 3. On August 28, Frances grew even stronger, becoming a Category 4 storm, the same strength as Hurricane Andrew, which had flattened south Florida over a decade before. The only thing that kept Ruthie from hopping an airplane and going home was the fact that the storm was still very far away, and the forecasted track took it south of Florida.
There was also the matter of the race. We all took to wearing our helmets around the condo to get used to them. Penny Sue even donned hers to encourage Ruthie. We wore them watching television (primarily the Weather Channel and CSI), cooking, ironing—virtually the whole time we were inside, alone. Day by day, little by little, Ruthie and I lowered our visors until we were finally comfortable wearing the helmets with the visor in place.
At that point, I was finished, but Ruthie still had to contend with the bag. First, we took to leading her around the house with her helmet on, but eyes closed. Then, we taped paper over the visor and led her around. Finally, we put the largest bag we could find—so there’d be a lot of airflow—over the helmet. That was a tough nut to crack, but Ruthie eventually triumphed with a lot of chanting.
When we weren’t doing helmet practice, we were racing. Penny Sue visited the track several times to drive the school bus. Chris spent every non-working hour racing the mini-car under Annie’s watchful eye. As for the shiny, yellow Corolla with a big daffodil on the hood and the number twenty-two painted on the side (a master number according to Ruthie which insured luck), Ruthie drove the Toyota around sans helmet for a couple of days to get used to its feel. Finally, we took her to the middle school parking lot after hours, where she practiced driving with her eyes closed according to my directions. She did amazingly well. Cool, calm, and collected. Of course, the Valium Penny Sue gave Ruthie the first few times might have helped, too.
Finally off crutches, Guthrie accompanied us to several of our practices so he could rehearse refreshments. Basically, that meant a lot of oxygenated-water and brownies. We actually didn’t have a pit crew, except Guthrie—and, God help us if he got hold of a microphone during the race—so Timothy agreed to mind the pits and use the second headset if needed. Annie volunteered to spot for all of our races, because she had the most experience.
As if that wasn’t enough, there was the matter of sponsors and donations. After all, this was a charity race. Ruthie’s dad made a healthy donation, as did the Judge and his law firm. (I know that really burned Zack, my Ex. Ha!) Chris’ customers were generous, yet we still needed more money. Considering all the dough Ruthie and Penny Sue had shelled out, we hadn’t collected enough to cover our expenses, though we’d always planned to donate that money. It was the principle of the thing—we should at least raise more than we spent!
The realization we were severely in the red pushed Penny Sue into action. She contacted an old friend in Atlanta, Max, who headed a PR firm. In a matter of hours, Max arranged interviews with a local newspaper and television station. He sent over a photographer to take promo pictures of us in our suits, posing beside the cars. The photographer also did a short video, with shots of hurricane damage and interviews with a couple of victims who either were uninsured or could not afford the huge deductibles. Max sent copies of the tape to all the major television stations plus CNN, Oprah, Today Show, The View, and Good Morning America. The video was aired in Atlanta, thanks to Max’s connections, and brought in pledges of over $10,000 in one day.
Yep, we were in high cotton, so to speak, until mid-day Tuesday, August 31. That’s when the shit hit the fan. Frances, a Category 4 hurricane, turned toward Florida.
* * *
Chapter 16
August 31-September 3, New Smyrna Beach, FL
The phone rang as I started down the hall. Decked out in our race suits, helmets in hand, we were ready to walk out the door for an interview with an Orlando television station.
“Don’t answer. We’ll be late,” Penny Sue said.
I checked caller ID. “It’s Chris.” I leaned across the counter and snatched the receiver. “Don’t worry, we’re about to leave.”
“That’s not why I’m calling. Did you hear about Frances?”
I ducked my head and glanced sidelong at Ruthie. “Uh, no.”
“It’s headed this way. I received a call from Andrew’s assistant a few minutes ago. She said there’s talk of school closings and evacuations. If schools close, they’re going to postpone the race.”
“Fine by me. We could use more practice. We’re still meeting the TV crew, right?”
“Yeah, I just wanted to alert you so you can brace Ruthie. I know how skittish she is about storms. I don’t want her to hear it from the TV crew and freak out. Not going to be much of an interv
iew if she starts screaming or chanting.”
I giggled. “Good point. See you in a few minutes.”
Penny Sue guided the DAFFODILS Corolla onto A1A, all the while fiddling with the air conditioning switch. “This AC sucks. I guess you can’t expect much for $3,000. What did Chris want?”
“Just checking in, she’s en route to the speedway. She also said the race may be cancelled if schools close.”
“Frances,” Ruthie exclaimed. “The hurricane’s headed this way, isn’t it? I knew something was wrong. I knew we should have watched the Weather Channel instead of CSI last night.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocketbook and furiously punched buttons on her cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Making reservations, if we’re not too late. I printed out the phone numbers for hotels in St. Augustine. I had a feeling this was going to happen. Damn, this is Labor Day weekend.” She let out a loud sigh. “Casa Monica? Do you have anything available for Thursday through Tuesday?” She glanced at Penny Sue and winked. “A deluxe one bedroom for $349. Terrific.” Ruthie pulled out her American Express card and read the number. “Guarantee that for late arrival. Thank you.” She slumped back in her seat. “We were lucky, that was the only vacancy they had.”
“I guess so at $349 per night.” I said, still in the penny-pinching mode following my divorce. Although my settlement was fair, thanks to Judge Parker, I hadn’t fully come to grips with being on my own.
“That’s cheap, after all it’s peak season and a holiday weekend,” Ruthie said.
“I’ve stayed at the Casa Monica. It’s very plush and old. Built like a fortress of coquina stone. That thing won’t blow down, for sure. ” Penny Sue drove through open gates at the speedway to the lane that opened onto the track. The TV news van was already there and a tall, lean reporter talked to Andrew and Chris. One man sat in the bleachers; I supposed the track’s public relations manager.
The TV cameraman motioned for Penny Sue to park in front of the low pit area wall emblazoned with “New Smyrna Speedway.” A video assistant angled the four of us, dressed in our suits and cradling our helmets, at the rear of the car. Andrew was positioned slightly to the right of the number twenty-two, which gave a good view of the big daffodil on the hood. The cameraman stood on a platform so he could shoot down.
All together, the TV crew shot close to forty-five minutes of tape, though I was sure it would be cut and clipped to a segment of two to three minutes. Andrew led off explaining the charitable purpose of the race, an overview of the participants, total pledges received to date, and the need for more donations. Then the reporter turned his attention to us. Needless to say, no matter what the question, Penny Sue—Southern honey dripping from her mouth—hogged the limelight. That was fine with Ruthie and me, but not Chris. When the reporter asked a question about racing mini-cars, Penny Sue started to answer and Chris cut her off like a slow car on a fast track. Ruthie and I exchanged amused glances. Good for Chris! Penny Sue had finally met her Northern match.
Fortunately, Penny Sue knew when to back off, so ill feelings didn’t linger when the TV crew pulled out. “We’ve made reservations for a suite at the Casa Monica starting Thursday,” Penny Sue said to Chris. “That thing is a fortress. You’re welcome to join us if the weather gets bad.”
“Do they take pets?” Chris asked.
Ruthie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t leave Angel, my store cat.”
Penny Sue squared her shoulders. “Don’t worry; we’ll sneak her in. We won’t leave her alone.”
Chris gave Penny Sue a wide smile, a clear peace offering with a touch of mischief. “I have to warn you—Angel travels with a crowd.”
“Other cats besides Angel?” Penny Sue asked.
“Ghosts. My store is haunted, and the ghosts are Angel’s friends.”
“You’re kidding?!” Ruthie and Penny Sue said in unison. Ruthie spoke with admiration, Penny Sue with horror. Not sure if Chris was kidding, I watched with amusement.
Chris wiggled her brows and mimicked holding a cigar like Groucho Marx. “Don’t worry, my dear, they’re friendly ghosts.”
Penny Sue transformed instantly. “Well, if they’re friendly, the more the merrier.”
For the rest of the day, the hurricane consumed our every waking minute. We made arrangements to garage the Corolla at the paint shop. We went to Publix and purchased a ton of provisions, particularly a lot of wine and chocolate.
The telephone rang off the hook. Guthrie was frantic, although he was going inland to stay with Timothy, regardless of what Timothy’s mother thought. The prospect of coming face-to-face with Mother freaked him out. Frannie May—Frances May—called from Boston urging us to evacuate, as she’d done with her son, Carl, the Klingon. My son Zack phoned from Vail to invite us to stay with him. Ruthie’s father called. The Judge called. Both my parents called—separately—something they never did. Usually, Mom phoned and Dad got on the line later. Bottom line, everyone wanted us to evacuate as soon as possible. Get out of Dodge. Don’t take chances.
Then Sandra, the office manager of the Marine Conservation Center, telephoned and asked if I would cover for her at the center. Her daughter in North Carolina was due to deliver Sandra’s first child at any minute. With Frannie May out of town, I was the only one she could count on. Would I stay around to see that the center was buttoned up before the storm? I couldn’t say no.
At eight-fifteen AM on Thursday, September 2, the yellow cone for Frances’ strike zone officially included New Smyrna Beach. Coastal residents from Flagler to Palm Beach counties were urged to evacuate. The storm’s winds exceeded 140 mph, and New Smyrna Beach residents could begin feeling hurricane force gusts by Saturday.
“Y’all go ahead,” I told Penny Sue and Ruthie. “Bobby Barnes is going to help me.” Bobby was the center’s boat captain. “Worst case, I’ll be on the road tomorrow. We don’t want to lose the reservation at the Casa Monica. Y’all go today, and I’ll be there by Friday evening—Saturday morning—at the latest.”
“I don’t feel good about this—not only the hurricane … it’s the evil, greedy forces around here. We don’t want to leave you alone,” Ruthie objected.
“Get a grip,” I said lightly, faking courage. “I live here. Nothing can happen. The condo has an alarm system and I have Lu Nee 2 to protect me.”
Ruthie rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t count on Lu Nee 2 if I were you.”
“I’ll be fine. Go! Guthrie’s still here—it will be all right.”
So Penny Sue and Ruthie went off to St. Augustine.
Not wanting to be alone, I invited Guthrie down for pizza and to watch TV on Thursday night. He jumped at the chance since he was as spooked as I was. For once, Guthrie didn’t bring brownies. “Too upset to cook,” he moaned.
We had a large pizza delivered that arrived in less than a half hour—which told me that a lot of people had evacuated. Guthrie and I ate the pie and watched reruns of CSI, knowing the Weather Channel would freak us out. At nine-thirty we said goodnight. Guthrie reluctantly headed home—he’d hinted several times about sleeping on the couch, which I nixed—and I prepared for bed, knowing I’d have to be at the center at eight in the morning.
At ten o’clock, just when I was drifting off to sleep, the phone rang. It was Penny Sue. “Did you arm Lu Nee 2?” she asked.
“Yes,” I hated to admit it, but I had.
“Do you have the taser close by?” They’d left it with me, since Penny Sue had her gun.
“Yes. It’s on Ruthie’s bed.”
“It’s a damned shame you’re not with us. The bar is hopping. A contingent from the Hamptons is here, and they’re having a high ole time. Flew down on NetJet, but will leave tomorrow if the winds pick up. There are a couple of good-looking single guys.”
“You handle ’em. I spent the evening with Guthrie, and men are the last thing on my mind. I’m going to bed. Have to get up early tomorrow.”
�
�Guthrie came down? That’s great. We hate to think you’re alone. Our suite is spectacular, and this place has walls like a bomb shelter. The concierge told me they were over a foot thick. Drive up tomorrow as soon as you can.”
“Will do.” I hung up the handset with a big sigh.
I was up at six AM after an uneventful night. Lu Nee 2 didn’t sound a peep—praise the Lord, I’d have wet myself if the mechanical monster had started talking. I ate my oatmeal watching the Weather Channel, which nearly gave me indigestion. Frances was still headed our way. Damn. A quick shower, and I dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and jogging shoes. No sense dolling up to tie down the center. Bobby was there when I arrived. The task we thought would consume half a day took twice as long as anticipated. It didn’t help that a clueless man, obviously a tourist, stopped in to ask about our nature cruises. Really, the guy had to be a nut. What sane person cared about nature cruises in the middle of a mandatory evacuation? Thankfully, Bobby informed the man that the boat was out of commission and hustled him away with a stack of brochures. Bottom line, I didn’t get home until five-thirty. There was no way I had the energy to pack my car and drive to St. Augustine.
I reached Penny Sue on her cell phone to tell her I’d leave the next morning. She answered amid a cacophony of chatter. I surmised she was in the bar.
“Have you filled your gas tank?” she shouted over the din. “They say stations are dry all the way to Georgia. Too many evacuees, not enough gas.”
“Yes, I topped it off on the way home. Gas-wise, I’m fine, but I’m tired to the bone. There was a lot more to do at the center than I expected. I’ll sleep here tonight and drive up first thing in the morning.”
“The traffic will be horrible. I heard I-95 is gridlocked. You should come up Rt. 1 or A1A.”
“I’ll get up early,” I said, “like four AM. Leave your cell phone on and don’t be surprised if you get an early morning call.”
