Murder is the Pits

by Mary Clay

  After all he’d done, a scotch was the least I could do. I was handing him the drink—his legs still spread eagle in his heart-covered boxers—when Penny Sue and Ruthie rushed in.

  “Wha—” Having negotiated a bunch of police and stepped over a dead body, Penny Sue saw us. Her eyes were the size of saucers. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

  “It’s not what you think. Call Woody. Tell him to get here quick. It has to do with his mother.”

  For once, Penny Sue followed my directions, then went to the kitchen and poured herself a scotch. “Geez, we leave you for a minute and all hell breaks loose.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said, getting a glass of wine. “I was making ice blocks when all of this happened.” My hand shook so badly, more wine went on the floor than in the glass. Ruthie finally took the bottle from me and poured some for both of us.

  “Ice. Lot’s of ice,” I said faintly.

  By this time Woody had arrived. He frowned at the sight of us drinking.

  “Hey,” I said loudly. “We started drinking after the commotion. Everyone was stone-cold sober when this came down.” I considered giving Woody a hand gesture, but didn’t, since I was a Southern woman. Yet, the urge was there, and strong. “These are the guys who were using your mother,” I said sternly.

  Woody’s expression changed instantly. “What? Who?”

  “That’s your mother’s Indian they’re fishing out of the collapsed deck. You know, her relative and friend? The ‘brother’ who gave her the mercury.”

  Woody stomped out the front door and down the sidewalk.

  We sat drinking as paramedics scraped Greasy from our doorway and extricated the Indian. Guthrie and I agreed we were even. I had saved his life, and he had saved mine. Still, he asked if he could stay with us if Hurricane Jeanne hit.

  “If Timothy takes his mother, I have to come here. I can’t stand that woman. She calls me Guppy and cheats at Scrabble. Forget dictionaries, she’s right, the dictionary is wrong. Yeah, like, she could write a dictionary.”

  “Sure, you can stay with us,” I said smiling. It wouldn’t seem like a hurricane without Guthrie.

  It’s a real bummer when your home is a crime scene. They rope it off, the neighbors stand around and gawk, and it’s basically the pits. The police did allow me to take my car to the shop (on Woody’s orders) with Penny Sue following.

  Ruthie stayed at the condo with Guthrie, who was close to falling down drunk, so Penny Sue and I had a chance to talk.

  “Do you suppose there’s any chance Guthrie shot the Greaser in the back?” Penny Sue asked. “If Guthrie did it, he was protecting you. I wonder if I should call Daddy.”

  I ran my hand through my hair, which must have been frightening, since I’d done it a lot in the last few hours. “You know Guthrie. I don’t think he’d shoot anyone in the back to kill them. Of course, it could have been an accident. Maybe Guthrie was aiming for the guy’s thigh, and his bum knee gave way.”

  “I think he’d do that,” Penny Sue said. “Not kill someone, but try to protect us.” She glanced at me across her sunglasses. “Guthrie can be a pain in the butt, but he does like us. He’d try to protect you.” Penny Sue picked up the car phone, hit speed dial for Judge Daddy, and told him the story. The Judge said he’d see what he could do, especially since the altercation took place in his condo.

  When we arrived home, only Ruthie and Guthrie were there, and believe it or not, even Ruthie was half-tanked. Timothy was on his way, since Guthrie had called him at work and laid on scotch-laden dramatics. Penny Sue and I immediately suggested that we warm some soup and make sandwiches. There was also the matter of the hurricane provisions they’d purchased. Needless to say, the ice in Penny Sue’s trunk had melted by this time. Water droplets had probably followed us around town like breadcrumbs.

  While I prepared lunch for our traumatized, drunken friends, Penny Sue brought in the groceries. I noticed an incredible amount of toilet paper, water, chocolate, and wine.

  Judge Daddy had contacts everywhere and could quickly cut to the heart of a matter, since all of his friends were high-level types with no time to waste. A few hours later the judge called with the story.

  Mob-types of the gambling persuasion were trying to entice American Indians into casino prospects with promises of vast riches. Since certified Indian tribes came under Federal law, not state authority, if the Federal government recognized a tribe, it could engage in gambling. Which is what Pearl’s ‘friends’ had planned. They set out to buy up the development with the idea of building a hotel and casino. According to the Indian, Pearl’s so-called friend, he and his casino cohorts did the research and knew Sea Dunes was the original territory of the Surruques, an obscure tribe, of which Woody was the sole survivor.

  The casino group easily sucked Pearl into the plan since she was half crazy and already thought she was a princess. Once they purchased the development, the group figured Woody would fall in line through greed or fear for his mother’s safety.

  That was the plan, the judge reported. A bullet in the back of the Greaser convinced the Indian to sing like a bird and disrupted the scheme. The slug came from a Russian 9 mm Takarov, the same type of weapon that killed the man on the balcony. That proved Guthrie didn’t kill Mr. Greasy. It also meant the gang war was in high gear.

  By one o’clock the Indian and Greaser were long gone and Timothy had escorted Guthrie home for some clothes. Ruthie had recovered from her morning libations and was glued to the television. Penny Sue and I lounged on the sofa and tried to catch our breath.

  “This has been a heck of a few weeks,” Penny Sue said. “What else could possibly happen?”

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when a loud rumble sounded on the beach, followed by a foghorn. We exchanged deer-in-the-headlights glances. The horn blared again, and Penny Sue bolted to the glass doors.

  “Glory be. The cavalry has arrived!”

  Ruthie and I raced to the window. Three truckloads of sand and a bobcat sat idling in front of our condo. Sonny Mallard and two men with shovels stood on the beach inspecting the deck and shaking their heads.

  “What happened here?” Sonny shouted, pointing at the part of the porch that the Indian fell through.

  “A long story,” Penny Sue yelled. “Think you can shore it up?”

  “That part needs a good carpenter. Best I can do is push sand in front of it. That should give you some protection from the tides.” Sonny waved to the trucks. One by one they dumped their loads into huge piles and rumbled off.

  “If there’s enough sand, push some under my neighbor’s deck,” Penny Sue shouted.

  “I was planning on it. Sand won’t do you any good if the dune next door is scoured. Another couple of truckloads are on the way.” Sonny swung onto the bobcat and started pushing sand toward the deck. The men with shovels heaved the earth against the condo’s foundation and spread it around the deck’s supports.

  “See,” Penny Sue said, beaming. “Just when it seems things couldn’t get any worse, something good happens. I think this means our luck’s changed.” She glanced at Ruthie, who’d shifted her focus back to the television.

  “I believe you’re right,” Ruthie said with a smile—the first smile I’d seen in several hours. “It looks like Jeanne’s going to land to our south, close to where Frances hit. That means we’ll probably get Category 1 winds at the most.”

  “So, you don’t think we need to evacuate?” I asked, puzzled Ruthie hadn’t mentioned it earlier.

  Ruthie cocked her head as if listening to an unseen person. “No, we’ll be fine here.”

  Our luck had changed, or so we thought. Chris called to say the race had been rescheduled for Saturday, October 2, under the lights. She’d also located the owner of an abandoned racetrack in St. Augustine who agreed to let us use it for practice, as long as we signed a liability release. Timothy’s mother decided to weather the storm with his sister, so he and Guthrie could stay together in O
rlando. With sand piled under and around our deck, we had our own private dune. And we had the key to the Wilsons’ condo with its empty garage—a place for Penny Sue to park her car.

  Yes, life was good until eleven PM. Dressed in our pajamas, we huddled around the TV for the tropical update. In retrospect, that was a mistake. We would have slept a lot better if we’d simply gone to bed. We didn’t like what we heard. Hurricane Jeanne was gaining strength, had taken a northward jog, and its eye was expected to hit thirty miles north of us in Daytona Beach on Sunday evening.

  The telephone rang at eight AM. It was Max, Penny Sue’s PR friend in Atlanta. “All the news outlets are descending on Daytona Beach. I’ve lined up a spot for you with an ABC affiliate. It’s a background piece. Can you meet them at eleven o’clock?”

  Penny Sue gave us the thumbs-up. “Sure, we’ll be there.”

  “Wear your racing suits,” Max said. “I hear Jim Cantore’s headed that way, too. I’ll see what I can do.” She wrote down the address for our interview and gave him her cell phone number in case Max could arrange something with the Weather Channel. She hung up the phone, jumping up and down. “We’re on our way.”

  “Chris,” I exclaimed. “She has to be there.”

  Chris was as excited as we were, vowing to close her store if she couldn’t find someone to fill in.

  Three hours notice isn’t much time, especially for Penny Sue. We wolfed down Raisin Bran, took showers, and put on our gear. Two hours later—a record for Penny Sue—we were in her Mercedes, headed for Daytona Beach. We arrived at the same time Chris did and were met by Melanie, the production assistant. The backdrop for the interview was a boarded-up store on the waterfront with a blue tarp covering its roof.

  “We’re starting with an interview of the storeowners,” the perky young woman explained. “That will lay the groundwork for your segment, because they’re going to talk about the high deductibles—one for each storm—and how they haven’t been able to get the old damage fixed. They’re also going to say that their ten employees are out of work, and as much as they hate the situation, they can’t afford to pay them. They’re afraid Jeanne will wipe out what’s left of their store and thirty years of hard work.” She consulted her clipboard. “You’re holding a charity race to benefit people like this, right?”

  “Yes,” Chris jumped in before Penny Sue had a thought formed. “Donations from the race will help needy people with their deductibles, as well as the many who are uninsured and unemployed. We’ve put together a panel of respected community leaders to review claims. All monies are being held and disbursed by a major local bank. Every penny donated goes to the fund. New Smyrna Speedway, which is hosting the event, has donated one hundred percent of their time and expenses.”

  Melanie nodded. “Good, be sure to mention that.”

  I noticed that Penny Sue’s eyes narrowed slightly at Melanie’s direction to Chris.

  “People are leery of these fundraisers,” the young woman continued, “because so many charities use most of the donations for their own expenses.”

  “Yes,” Penny Sue jumped in, looking sidelong at Chris. “We’re paying for these uniforms and all of our expenses. Not one penny will come from the fund.”

  “We think this spot may be picked up for the national news. Do you have a toll free number people can call to make donations?”

  Chris recited the number before Penny Sue’s lips moved, while Melanie made a note on her clipboard.

  “And they take credit cards,” Penny Sue added quickly.

  Melanie studied our outfits with the big daffodil on the chest. “Daffodils … that’s an interesting insignia. Does it stand for anything?”

  Unh uh, we’re not going to go there! I answered quickly, “It stands for spring and new beginnings.”

  Melanie nodded. “That’s nice. I hope you win.”

  The interview went surprisingly well, thanks to Melanie’s background work. The storeowners—plain, hardworking people enduring terrible times with gumption and grace—gave the perfect lead-in to the charity race. My fear that Chris and Penny Sue might come to blows proved unfounded. They did amazingly well—sort of a Northern and Southern tag team of information. At least Melanie and Sean, the reporter, thought the segment was terrific and sure to make the national evening news.

  Chris had to run back to her store, which she’d closed, and Ruthie had to locate a bathroom. But we left feeling up and sure we would win the race, Hurricane Jeanne willing.

  We made a quick stop at a McDonalds for hamburgers, milkshakes, and a bathroom. We went through the drive-thru while Ruthie checked out the women’s room. Ruthie said her outfit got a lot of stares. Thankfully, we’d spent the extra money for two-piece suits, otherwise Ruthie’s milkshake would have melted before she undressed, tinkled, redressed, and returned to the car. Air conditioner cranked up to max—the suits were hot!—we headed home, planning on a nap. The last two days had taken their toll.

  So much for a peaceful nap. We discovered that while we were doing our interview, Jeanne had been upgraded to a Category 3 storm. It was still zeroed in on our area. Jim Cantore was en route to Daytona Beach.

  Ruthie kicked the leg of a chair. “Darn, I’ll miss him again.” She stared into the distance. I realized it was one of those looks that said she was communicating with someone. “It wasn’t meant to be. He won’t be here long.”

  “What do you mean?” I was spooked by a Category 3 storm. “Do you think we should go inland? Timothy said we were welcome at his house.”

  Ruthie cocked her head. “We’ll be fine here.”

  Penny Sue and I rolled our eyes, both hoping Ruthie’s spirits knew what they were talking about. Apparently, they did.

  We took fitful naps, alarms set to wake us for the five o’clock update. We hovered around the tube like men watching a play-off game. Praise be, Ruthie was right. Jeanne was now predicted to hit Saturday morning in Vero Beach. Though expected to parallel the east coast of Florida, inland, its winds should die down by the time it reached New Smyrna Beach on Sunday.

  Category 1? No big deal. We had sand under the deck, we had food, and our interview made the ABC national news.

  Hurricane Jeanne gave us a break, which is not to say we got off scot-free. It could have been a whole lot worse. The storm blew ashore as a Category 3 a mere five miles from the place Frances made landfall. Moving up the middle of the state, Jeanne steadily lost strength. The strongest winds, Cat 1, hit New Smyrna Beach at about three AM. We sat in the closet, lights on, listening to the local weather forecast that blared in the great room. We’d cranked the AC down as low as it would go to get the place as cold as possible in case there was a power failure. All of our coolers, and a few new ones, were filled with blocks of ice.

  Rain pounded the windows, and the racket of waves crashing against our deck could be heard over the television. About three-thirty Penny Sue ventured into the great room and flipped on the spotlights that shone on the deck. She quickly flipped them off.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, peering into the darkness.

  “You don’t want to know. But we might want to move our stuff into my bedroom at the front of the condo.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember all the sand Sonny brought in? The sand and the deck are gone.”

  “Oh, boy.” We dragged the supplies into Penny Sue’s bedroom, which had its own TV, and lounged on the bed listening to the local broadcast. The patio of the Breaker’s Restaurant, a New Smyrna Beach icon, had washed away, as well as the Flagler Street seawall and boardwalk. On site reports showed sea foam piled up like snow and debris strewn a block up the street from the ocean.

  At some point we all dozed off and awakened to the awful sensation of complete silence. The electricity had gone out, but the sun was up, the floors were dry, and we were safe. We trooped into the great room and gingerly peeked out the glass door. Where the deck and sand had once been, there was now a six-foot cliff!

  “Easy come,
easy go.” Penny Sue drew the blinds to shut out the warm morning sun. “We should keep the doors and windows closed so it’ll stay cool as long as possible.”

  “Want me to make some coffee?” I asked.

  “No way we’re going to turn on that hot gas stove. We’ll get our caffeine from colas.”

  Ruthie hauled out the battery-operated television and tuned it to the local ABC station. “A major feeder line’s down,” she reported as I dumped cereal into bowls and Penny Sue poured colas. “Electric crews are already working on it.”

  “I hope they work fast,” Penny Sue said. “Either I’m having a hot flash or this place is already starting to warm up.”

  The crews did work quickly, because the outage only lasted about eight hours. The time flew with our phones ringing off the hook. Virtually everyone had seen our TV spot and called to congratulate us on a fine performance. Max was particularly pleased because the story was still running in most major markets. “If that doesn’t generate contributions, nothing will.”

  And it did. Total contributions were over $400,000 by noon.

  “I wonder how the speedway fared?” Penny Sue mused after taking nearly a dozen calls. “We announced the race was this coming Saturday, so it must go on.”

  I phoned Chris who, as usual, was one step ahead of us. She’d spoken to Andrew Hart. The track received minor damage this time, because Frances had already destroyed most of the billboards, so there wasn’t much to clean up. The race could go on, it just didn’t come off exactly as planned.

  * * *