Murder is the Pits Page 9

  “No problem. We enjoyed your company,” replied Ruthie, a.k.a. Ms. Manners.

  “How did it go with Officer Brooks?” I asked.

  “You mean Heather?” Guthrie patted his temple with his forefinger. “That’s a sharp lady. Her head is screwed on really tight.”

  I bit my lip. It was all I could do to keep from saying, “And yours is a little loose.”

  “Did she give you any trouble about your Glock?” Penny Sue wanted to know.

  “Naw. She’d already run the serial number and knew it was registered to me. Besides, Florida has some of the most liberal gun laws, outside of the West. I think everyone carries a gun out West. They shoot each other all the time. Did you ever see that show, Deadwood? Man, those cowboys go at it. Do you think George Bush packed a gun? I’ll bet he had one in his desk at the Oval Office. Say the wrong thing, and he could pop you, like they do in Deadwood. The Secret Service would probably cover it up. Did you see the episode—”

  Timothy stroked Guthrie’s good leg.

  Guthrie eyed Timothy and smiled meekly. “I’m babbling, huh?”

  Timothy winked.

  Guthrie sat up straight. “I’ll be quiet, because Timothy has something to say.” Guthrie twisted his fingers in front of his mouth like he was turning a key.

  No question in my mind, he’d had another pink pill.

  Noticeably embarrassed by Guthrie’s antics, Timothy stared at the ceiling. “After the police left, I took a look at Guthrie’s hurricane shutters. I agree that they were sabotaged. A highly reactive solvent of some kind. My specialty is fuels, and I’ve worked for NASA so long, I’ve forgotten a lot of basic chemistry. I’ll have to do a little research, but I promise to look into it. Someone definitely wanted Guthrie’s windows to blow out.”

  “It’s not only Guthrie’s windows,” I added quickly. “The water pipe beneath Mrs. King’s condo was sabotaged, too. They both have the telltale rust.”

  “Whew, that makes me feel better. I thought someone was out to get me. I can understand that someone might want to nail my Aunt Harriet, who owns the condo. She has, like, a personality problem. Crab-b-by doesn’t begin to describe her. That’s why I moved over here. I couldn’t stand her yelling anymore. I lived next door to Harriet in my mother’s house. Mom passed a while back—heart attack. Everything was fine for a while, and then Harriet went berserk. I don’t know how Uncle Daniel takes it. Anyway, I rented out Mom’s house and pay them rent on this place. Works out good. Daniel uses the rent money to hire a nurse, so he can get away to play bingo and cards. I’m telling ya, the man would be crazy, too, if he didn’t get away from that old witch.”

  I waited for Guthrie to take a breath, but he kept going.

  “She wasn’t always like this, so it’s sort of a love-hate thing. Uncle Daniel wants to hold onto this condo until Harriet croaks. He figures these places will be worth a fortune. Then, he can sell and get enough money to go into one of those elderly homes where all the nurses are young and have big tits.”

  Timothy patted Guthrie’s knee.

  Guthrie shrugged. “Too much information?”

  Timothy nodded.

  If I were a writer, this was one pair that would make a terrific novel. Guthrie was like a big, floppy puppy, the kind that gets into everything, rolls in dirt, and likes to give people sloppy, wet kisses. Timothy was flawless—straight out of GQ in looks and demeanor. What they saw in each other was beyond me.

  Yet who was I to question relationships? I had my own inexplicable marriage to Zack. In retrospect, our relationship was dumb. Back then, young women graduated from college and got married. Besides, a lawyer was a good catch or so everyone said. Seemingly perfect at first, our marriage went downhill fast, which I attributed to the ambitious lawyer syndrome. By then, who cared? Zack worked long hours? Big deal. I had my precious babies to look after.

  Yep, Timothy and Guthrie’s relationship was none of my business. I hoped they, and everyone on the planet, were blissfully happy—except Zack. (Sorry, Grammy, I know that isn’t the right Christian attitude. Forgiving Zack is beyond my ability at the moment, the wound is too fresh. Besides, he’s still a jerk!)

  “Guthrie,” Ruthie spoke for the first time. “You’ve been around this area for a long time, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. I used to come here to surf when I was a kid. Man, we had some great clambakes, better than the stuff in Gidget. This was a really cool place. Only problem, there were no bathrooms. See, the place was pretty deserted back—”

  Timothy thumped Guthrie’s arm. Guthrie smiled.

  “—yes, I’ve been coming here a long time,” he finished.

  “If someone told you to go to the Old City, what would you think? Does Old City mean anything to you?”

  Guthrie stroked his chin, in deep thought, or dementia—perhaps Aunt Harriet’s condition was hereditary. Actually, I suspected his reaction had something to do with the pink pills for his knee.

  “St. Augustine,” Timothy said without hesitation. “The Old City in this state is St. Augustine. The legend of Ponce de Leon and the Fountain of Youth centers on St. Augustine. Even the first settlers of New Smyrna initially landed in St. Augustine, then followed the St. Johns River down here.”

  “I never thought of that,” Ruthie replied. “I always think of St. Augustine as a great place to shop.”

  “St. Augustine is full of history,” Penny Sue piped in. “I went with Momma when I was a child. Indians, Spanish, and British all fought wars there. Because of that, there are a lot of disjointed spirits.”

  Ruthie rolled her eyes. “You mean Earth-bound spirits. People who went so fast and unexpectedly, they don’t know they’re gone. They stay at their old haunts, not realizing they’re dead.”

  Penny Sue waved her arms expansively. “Yes! There are a bunch of ghost tours in St. Augustine.”

  “And nice hotels,” Ruthie added.

  “They were all booked for Charley, remember?” Penny Sue chided. “You need to get some dates from your spirits so we can make reservations.”

  “Reservations for what?” Timothy asked.

  I let out a loud sigh. “We did a meditation—y’all smelled the sage—and Ruthie’s guides told her a bigger storm was coming and we should not stay. They said we’d be safe in the Old City.”

  Guthrie’s eyes lit up. “Ruthie, you’ve got guides? Is it the sage? Girl, I’m coming with you.”

  Timothy put his hand on Guthrie’s knee and squeezed. “If there’s another hurricane, you’ll come home with me.”

  “What about your mother?” Guthrie asked tersely.

  Timothy flexed his biceps and set his jaw. “Mother will have to get used to it.”

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  August 14, New Smyrna Beach, FL

  As soon as Guthrie and Timothy left, I called Chris, our friend in St. Augustine. A wonderful lady about our age, we met when she owned a New Age shop in New Smyrna Beach. Since then, she’d moved on to bigger and better things, opening The Rising Moon on Spanish Street in St. Augustine. I explained Ruthie’s guidance about the Old City. Chris said we were welcome to stay in her shop if another hurricane came and the hotels were booked. She’d had no problems there with Charley, except for a brief loss of power. Considering Ruthie’s revelation, she would probably stay at the shop herself.

  “Sleeping bags and air mattresses. We want to be prepared if we have to stay in the shop,” Penny Sue said after I hung up the phone. Penny Sue fished a sliver of ice from her now empty wine and rubbed it on her forehead. “As soon as the power’s back on and the stores re-open, we should lay in our supplies.” She scanned the kitchen. “I’m hungry.”

  “We could warm up some soup,” Ruthie suggested.

  “You have to be kidding. Warm is the last thing I need.” Penny Sue popped the remainder of the ice into her mouth and swallowed. “What became of the chips and dip?”

  Oh, that. I found them in the closet and put them out on the counter, next to
Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant tape that he’d left behind.

  We started with the chips, moved on to Vienna sausages, and finished with Oreo cookies. Not exactly gourmet, but filling nonetheless.

  I was still munching a cookie when my cell phone rang. It was Fran, calling from Boston.

  “Are you all right? Did you get any damage? I’ve been trying to call for hours. I finally reached Carl. He said the cell circuits were overloaded.”

  “We were lucky,” I replied, “only lost a few shingles and some other minor damage. How about your house?”

  Fran snorted. “That big, expensive behemoth took on water. Carl said rain poured down the kitchen wall and soaked the wallboard. It will all have to be ripped out.”

  “I’m sorry. Anything I can do? How’s your sister?”

  “Carl will take care of the house, and my sister’s doing well. She should be up and about in a few days. Considering the mess down there, I’m going to stay in Boston until the house is fixed. Allergies. No way I could stand that wallboard dust. Heaven help us if Carl can’t get a contractor soon. Mold. He said the power was out, our expensive generator wouldn’t work, and the heat index was over a hundred.”

  Mold. One complication I hadn’t thought of.

  “I guess I should make this short and free up the circuit. If you need help, call Carl. He’ll be around.”

  No sooner had I pressed the off button than there was another knock on the door, and a quivering woman’s voice called, “Leigh? Are you home?”

  I recognized the voice. It was Mrs. Holden, a neighbor in the next cluster. “Yes ma’am. Please come in.” I rushed to escort her down the hall. A frail, tiny woman who was probably over a hundred and still drove—like a maniac!—she was a definite candidate for slip and fall. I wasn’t worried she’d sue me, I worried she’d break something. I took her arm and ushered her to the rattan chair that was higher than the sofa, making it easier for her to get up when the time came.

  I introduced Penny Sue and Ruthie, who offered her food, drink— everything but a foot massage. Judging from the way Mattie Holden walked, she might have taken Ruthie up on the foot thing.

  “Where’s your husband?” I asked.

  “Clyde’s at home. We stayed in Orlando with my daughter during the storm. She wanted us to stay a few days, but Clyde wouldn’t hear of it. He had to get back to check on our house. Did you stay, dear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We were lucky—only minor damage.”

  “No trouble with crooks?”

  “None.” I thought of Mrs. King. “Did you have any trouble?”

  Mrs. Holden said, “Our front door was unlocked when we got home.”

  “Were you robbed?” Penny Sue asked breathlessly.

  “We don’t see that anything’s missing, except there’s glitter on the floor of our bedroom. Glitter!”

  “Glitter?”

  “Yes, it’s smeared on the carpet. Clyde stepped on it and slid—would have broken his neck if he hadn’t fallen onto the bed. Doesn’t make sense, does it? Why would someone break into our house and sprinkle glitter on the floor? Clyde’s all upset. He’s worried someone has a passkey and is playing practical jokes.”

  The more likely scenario was that they forgot to lock the door, with all the hubbub of the storm and quick evacuation. The glitter could have spilled from a keepsake they took along. Birthday cards, even wedding invitations, are often covered with glitter. The thing I hate the most is when people stuff a letter with glitter or tiny hearts and stars that fly all over the room when you open the envelope. Not cute in my book, since it means I’ll have to haul out the Hoover. “Maybe the latch didn’t catch when you turned the key. I’ve done that before.” Bald-faced lie. “To be safe, maybe you should have your locks changed.”

  “That’s what Clyde thinks.”

  “Would you like to stay with us tonight?” Ruthie offered.

  Penny Sue glared at Ruthie.

  Mrs. Holden leaned forward to stand. Ruthie rushed to help. “We’ll be fine. Clyde has a Colt .38 Super he keeps by the bed. You know, in Florida you can shoot anyone who enters your house and threatens you.” She took a few steps with Ruthie cradling her elbow. “Should be like that everywhere, don’t you think?”

  Penny Sue arched a brow smugly. “Yes, ma’am. I agree completely.”

  I scribbled our phone number on a Post-It note and gave it to Mrs. Holden. “If you have any trouble, don’t hesitate to call.”

  She patted my cheek. “Thank you, darling. It warms my heart to have nice neighbors like you.”

  We walked her to the parking lot and her new Cadillac Deville.

  “I saw an area roped off by yellow tape when I drove in. Does that mean a sinkhole? Lord, I hope our houses don’t slide into a big hole.”

  “No, ma’am. A man fell from a balcony this morning. The police roped the area off,” I said. No need to worry her with the details.

  She turned the key to her Caddy and gunned the V-8. “Don’t want to compromise the crime scene, huh? I watch that CSI show, I know what’s what.” She slammed her door and peeled out of the driveway.

  Ruthie went into hysterics. “What a character! I’m not sneaking into her house, that’s for sure. Does everyone watch this CSI? I guess I’ll have to catch it when the power comes back on.”

  Penny Sue took another ice cube from her drink and rubbed it between her boobs. “I hope it comes on soon, we’re getting low on ice. I’d hate to have to put a bag of green beans in my bra.”

  Ruthie sniggered. “Well, you’d definitely be stacked and it would be a lot cheaper than an operation.”

  “You know, that would be a good invention,” Penny Sue said as she went back inside.

  “A bean bra?”

  “A frozen bra. They could make it out of that gel stuff they use for ice packs.”

  “Never work, it would soak your shirt as it defrosted.”

  Penny Sue tossed her hair. “So what? You’d be soaked with perspiration anyway. At least the bra wouldn’t leave a salt stain. Better yet, you could wear it like a bathing suit top.”

  I thought a moment. The idea had possibilities.

  Praise be, the electricity came on at about eleven PM so we didn’t have to resort to cooling off with soggy vegetables.

  “Turn off everything but a few lights, quick! We don’t want to overload the circuit,” Penny Sue barked.

  Ruthie and I scurried to do her bidding. Everything off except lights in the kitchen and living room, Penny Sue and I each stood under an AC vent. Ruthie made for the television and tuned to the local news.

  Though Volusia County sustained considerable damage, Orlando fared much worse. Power was out for over a million customers, sewers were backed up, and an untold number of homes and businesses were severely damaged by uprooted trees and flying debris. As bad as that was, electricity could be out for weeks in some places, meaning many buildings would be further damaged by mold.

  “Your bra idea may not be so bad,” Ruthie said to Penny Sue.

  “Yeah, I wonder what it takes to get a patent?”

  The next few days were chaotic. We had to deal with the police, insurance company, an endless stream of prospective roofers, and Guthrie.

  Although price gouging is illegal in Florida during disasters, many contractors didn’t seem to care or were simply willing to take a chance on making a quick buck. A team of contractors went door-to-door offering free inspections and repair estimates. The man who showed up at our door was an attractive, muscular blond named Wayne. Naturally, Penny Sue took him up on the offer. It was amazing how many times she went outside to check his progress and offer refreshments. Ruthie and I shook our heads—we’d seen this drill a thousand times. Penny Sue’s acrylic nails had curved into hooks and she was going for the catch. That is, until Wayne walked in with a form that detailed his estimate. The condo needed a whole new roof, there was water in the walls, termite damage, and the old windows really should be replaced. The total price tag was a
whopping $80,000, and might go higher if he found more damage when he started work.

  I think it was the old window part that riled Penny Sue. In the blink of an eye, Ms. Sweetness and Light morphed into Cruella DeVil.

  “Old windows? What kind of a quack are you?” Penny Sue took the estimate and ripped it in half. “These windows are three years old and hurricane-rated.” She stood and pointed stiff-armed at the front door. “Get out of here.”

  Wayne tried to snatch the torn form, but Cruella was faster. She held the pieces behind her back.

  “Get out,” I said, “now!”

  “If you’re not interested, I need the estimate back.”

  “No way.” She glanced at me. “I’m feeling threatened, aren’t you Leigh? Get my gun.”

  Gun got his attention. Wayne high-tailed it out of the house.

  Still boiling mad, Cruella shoved the papers at me, unholstered her .38, and ran to the front door.

  “You can’t shoot him if he isn’t in the house,” I yelled, chasing after her.

  She flung the door open. “I just want him to know I’m serious.”

  He knew. Not only was his truck peeling out of the parking lot, but so were his buddies.

  “I’m going to report him to the Attorney General first thing tomorrow morning. Where’s the estimate? What was the name of his company?”

  I handed her the top half of the form. Standard office supply stock, no company name or phone number. She waved the paper angrily. “I have nothing to report.”

  “Maybe the police can lift a fingerprint like they do on CSI,” I suggested.

  “Think so?” Penny Sue carefully placed the estimate pieces in a large baggie. “Worth a try.”

  We fixed deviled ham sandwiches and sweet tea for lunch and were working up to a nap when the telephone started. The first caller was Guthrie.

  “Mrs. King came home today. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Did you explain to her about the busted water pipe?” I asked. “Last thing we need is for her to turn on the water and flood us again.”