Bike Week Blues (8 page)

“No, Patrick is a career employee. A Deputy
Public Affairs Officer.”

Career employee. Deputy Public Affairs
Officer
. That sounded like an important position, not one
they’d give to a recent college grad. “Wow, he sounds impressive.
How old is Patrick, honey?” I detected a transatlantic gulp.

“He’s a little older than I am.”

An image of Monica and Clinton flashed
through my mind. Then, an image of Zack and his young honey. My
blood pressure shot up. “Oh? How much older?”

“He recently turned forty.”

“Forty!” Magawd, he was nearly my age. Was
this one of those contemptible, cloying Casanovas? A philandering
slime bucket who preyed on dewy-eyed interns? “Is he married?” I
nearly shouted.

Penny Sue entered the room, eyes wide. “Who
is it?” she whispered.

“Ann,” I mouthed back.

My friend poured some coffee and perched on
a stool to listen.

“He’s divorced, Mom. Don’t get excited.”

I let out a long breath. “I’m sorry.
Eighteen years is a big age difference.”

Penny Sue’s eyebrow shot up.

“Does he have kids? How long has he been
divorced?”

“No children from either—”

“Either?”

Penny Sue’s other brow arched.

“It’s not what you think, Mom. He got
married right out of college. Young and stupid, as he said.”

Like you!

“That one only lasted a little over a year.
His second marriage ended two years ago. His wife didn’t like
living in England and went back to the states. She came from a big
family and never adjusted to being away from her mother.”

Being away from her mother
. If Ann
married this guy, she’d live in England. I’d never see her. Worse,
Patrick might be transferred to Zimbabwe or Latvia, or an obscure
post that was only accessible by dog sled. Smelly dogs that pooped
and peed as they mushed along.

Then what? I’d never see my grandchildren,
if Ann had any. She might catch a horrible disease like SARS or be
embroiled in a revolution. For godssakes, why did we let her major
in European Studies? Darn it, she should have gotten a degree in
accounting and gone on to get an MBA. A good ole USA MBA. Maybe I
could still talk her into it.

“What’s the temperature over there? It’s
going to be in the upper seventies here. Sunny, not a cloud in the
sky.”

“Mom, what does that have to do with
anything?”

“I was just thinking that England must be
awfully cold and dreary. You know, University of Miami has a great
MBA program. South Beach is the place to go.”

“Momma, Patrick proposed.”

I nearly swallowed my tongue. “Did you give
him an answer?” I finally managed.

“I told Patrick he had to meet my parents
first.”

I sighed with relief until the meaning sunk
in. “Parents, as in Zack and me?”

Both brows went up as Penny Sue took a pull
of her java.

“Well, yeah, you are my parents.”

“You mean, us, together?”

Penny Sue’s jaw dropped.

“That would be nice.”

“I’m not sure your dad will go for it.”

Penny Sue nodded emphatically.

“I’ll call him,” Ann said.

“No.” I had to slow this thing down. She
barely knew Patrick—how could she consider marriage? “I’ll
try
to get your father.” I would try, I just wasn’t saying
how hard.

“That’s great. Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Be happy for me.”

“I am, baby.” I pushed the power button and
started to cry. Penny Sue plunked down her mug and rushed around
the counter to comfort me. At that instant Ruthie emerged from our
bedroom.

“What now?” she moaned. “The
humors
in this place are clearly off. Leigh, do you still have that smudge
stick?”

I motioned to the sideboard in the dining
area where Ruthie retrieved a Baggie containing the charred remains
of what looked like a bundle of broom straw, a feather, and a pack
of matches. She wasted no time lighting the mixture of sweetgrass,
cedar, and sage and fanning the smoke around the room. An American
Indian purification tradition, smudging was supposed to clear
negative vibes and invite the presence of good spirits. It hadn’t
worked all that well the last time. Ruthie said it was because we
didn’t use enough sage. Who knew? After the weird Zack dream and
Ann’s call, I was willing to give anything a try, even another
smudging.

“Can’t you do that somewhere else?” Penny
Sue coughed as Ruthie fanned us with the smoke.

“You know it won’t work unless I cleanse
your auras first.” We held our breath as Ruthie smoked us from head
to toe.

“Whew,” Penny Sue snorted as Ruthie and
smudge stick moved into the hallway. “That stuff smells like
marijuana, doesn’t it?”

“It’s the sweetgrass,” Ruthie replied.
“Grass is grass—it all smells about the same.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Penny Sue turned
her attention to me. “Now, what’s wrong with Ann? Why in the world
are you crying?”

I sniffled from the smoke as much as the
tears. “She’s in love with some old government employee. He’s
probably married and leading her on like Clinton did Monica. Ann’s
going to get hurt and humiliated. These old men preying on young
girls, they should be ... be ... have their privates cut off!” Then
I thought of Zack and his sweetie, a stripper who was clearly as
guilty as he was. “Well, maybe all the licentious old wieners
shouldn’t be whacked off—”

Penny Sue went into hysterics. “They
wish!”

“Mind in the gutter.” I shook my head. “You
know what I mean!”

“Sorry,” she sputtered, clapping her hand
over her mouth.

“Darn it, Ann is an innocent and, as far as
I’m concerned, this Patrick is a candidate for radical surgery ...
without anesthesia!”

“Slow down,” Penny Sue said, finally calming
herself. “You’re jumping to conclusions, like Daddy did with
Sydney—” She grinned weakly. Sydney was the bisexual husband.
“Okay, a bad example. But, Patrick—that’s his name, right?—may be
sincere. Ann’s a lovable person. She’s sensible, too. Don’t you
suppose your values have rubbed off on her, that your troubles with
Zack have made her cautious? Don’t prejudge the relationship before
you get more details. This could be a match made in heaven.”

“He could be her soul mate,” Ruthie said,
emerging from the hall with the smoldering wand. “Get his birthday
and I’ll do an astrological comparison. That’ll tell us if he’s the
one.”

I wiped my eyes. Yes, we’d check this out.
He might be the one, and he might not. I grabbed the phone and held
it up for Ruthie to smudge before I dialed. Ann answered. “Before I
agree to come, where and when, including the time, was Patrick
born?”

“Ruthie’s with you, right?” Ann asked
flatly. “Is Penny Sue there, too?”

“Yes. We’re going to check him out.”

“Does Ruthie do this to her daughter?”

To?
“Do you do this
for
Jo
Ruth?” I asked Ruthie who was running water over the straw in the
kitchen sink.

“Of course,” she said over her shoulder.

“Of course.”

“Okay, if it’ll make y’all feel better, I’ll
find out.”

“It will,” I said, feeling relieved
already.

My reprieve didn’t last long. Literally, the
moment I hung up the phone, someone knocked on the front door. I
looked at the clock, eight.

“What is this, Grand Central Station?” Penny
Sue said, smoothing her hair and hitching her robe tighter. “Who in
the world would drop in unannounced at this hour? Honestly, what’s
become of common courtesy?”

I keyed the alarm code into the panel as
Penny Sue stomped to the front door and peered through the
peephole. “Damn, it’s Woody and another guy, probably a
detective.”

“The smoke,” I exclaimed, thinking how it
smelled like marijuana.

Ruthie caught my meaning and ran to the
bathroom for air freshener. She only got out a few squirts before
another knock, this one louder.

“Don’t answer it,” I hissed.

“I have to—they’ve got my car.”

Terrific. Why did it have to be Woody? The
one person who wanted, more than anything, to get even with Penny
Sue for dumping him back in college. The little weasel who’d given
us a fit in October.

Another knock. Crap, the smudging hadn’t
worked. Maybe we should have used more sage.

* * *

Penny Sue surveyed
the parking lot
through the screen door. “Good morning, Woody. I was hoping you
were here to return my car. I’d invite you in, but at as you can
see,” she did a Vanna White/Wheel of Fortune hand sweep, “we’re not
prepared to accept visitors.”

Woody flashed a smarmy grin. The detective
standing in the background was visibly sniffing the air.

“Sorry to intrude. We tried to call, but
your line was busy.” Woody inhaled deeply and glanced back at his
sidekick. “We’d like to take your fingerprints and ask a few
questions. It’s important. How about we wait in the car while you
get dressed?” He slipped his card through the edge of the screen
door. “Call my cell phone when you’re ready.”

“It could be a long wait,” she said under
her breath, closing the door.

“What do you think that’s about?” Ruthie
asked anxiously. “Your car was shot, what could Woody possibly want
from us?”

“He’s a jerk who intends to badger me
whenever possible. Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee. I’ll be
darned if I’m rushing to meet with Woody and his lackey.”

“I don’t think it’s smart to toy with him.
He can make things very difficult,” I reminded her.

“Woody wouldn’t dare.” Penny Sue did a hair
toss. “I’m the injured party here. We’ve done nothing wrong, and I
refuse to be intimidated.”

“That’s not a wise move. I think you could
be accused of obstructing justice or something.” I’d learned that
much from my years with Zack. “Let’s throw some clothes on and get
it over with.”

Penny Sue gave me her aristocratic
expression. “I will as soon as I have my coffee.”

She finally called Woody at quarter after
nine, declaring that the proper time to accept visitors. Of course,
she could have opened the front door and hollered, the men had been
waiting in their car for over an hour. Which told me Woody did,
indeed, have something serious to discuss.

When finally summoned, he bristled with
anger to the point, I swear, his hair stood on end. He plunked down
in the rattan chair by the fireplace. His sidekick, Detective Jones
who looked none too happy either, stood like a sentry. While the
smudge stench had dissipated considerably, the combination of odors
from the herbs and vanilla air freshener was nauseatingly sweet. In
any event, Woody was clearly allergic, his eyes teared
immediately.

“Did the victim make it?” Penny Sue asked,
taking the bull by the horns.

“I’m afraid not,” Woody mumbled through his
handkerchief.

“I’m sorry. Could you lift any prints from
the car?”

“The only clear prints appeared to be
women’s, probably yours.” Woody nodded to Jones who produced a
fingerprinting kit. “For comparison purposes, we need your prints
so we can rule them out.”

We held out our hands. The detective rolled
our fingers in black ink and pressed them roughly to fingerprint
cards. He was definitely furious at us for keeping him waiting.

Penny Sue looked Woody in the eye as she
wiped her hand with ink remover. “Why do you want to talk to us?
The killer was a lousy shot who happened to hit my car. We don’t
know a thing; we were on the deck of the Riverview all night. You
can check with the restaurant staff as well as our friends, Fran
and Carl Annina—they can vouch for us.”

“We’re not so sure the killer was a lousy
shot.”

“What?” we blurted like an out-of-key
chorus.

“The chances of the bullet hitting the exact
center of the P in your license are virtually nil. The fact that
the slug wedged in the plate without penetrating the trunk means
the shooter pulled that round from a fair distance and also says
he’s a crack marksman.”

Ruthie went white. “Yes, but it could have
been luck, right?”

Woody nodded slowly, still holding the
handkerchief to his nose. “The victim was shot at close range.
Nailing your car seemed to be an afterthought.”

“It’s a Mercedes. Maybe it was someone angry
about Germany not supporting the U.S. against Saddam Hussein,” I
said.

“Or class envy,” Ruthie speculated.

“Maybe someone who hates the Georgia
Bulldogs,” Penny Sue added, jumping on the rationalization
bandwagon.

“Possible.” Woody regarded Penny Sue
sternly. “What do you know about Richard Wheeler?”

The blood drained from Penny Sue’s face.
“He’s a friend from home,” she replied, doing her best to look
nonchalant.

Detective Jones consulted a small notepad.
“Did you see him last night?”

Penny Sue drew up haughtily. “Yes, I saw
him. We all saw him, but Rich didn’t see us. We caught a glimpse of
him as he left the restaurant.”

“Left, as in run?” Jones said.

“Left, as in hurry,” Penny Sue replied
stiffly.

Jones consulted his pad again. “You ran
after him. Isn’t that right?”

“Please, a Southern lady may rush, scoot or
hustle, we do not run!”

Jones, clearly from the North, probably New
York, was not amused. “Cut the cutesy stuff. You followed him.
Why?”

Penny Sue’s lips tensed; she was morphing
into a Steel Magnolia. “My affairs of the heart are none of your
business.”

Woody snickered into his handkerchief. Jones
glared. “It is when there’s a murder and someone apparently has a
vendetta for you.”

Vendetta! There was no vendetta, certainly
from Rich. He’d left the sweet message on Penny Sue’s phone.

The Steel Magnolia mutated into a Titanium
Oleander—the blood red kind, deadly poisonous. “First, Rich is NOT
involved in the murder or attack on my car. He’s a good friend, one
I cherish. I followed him last night because I needed to clarify
something. I didn’t catch up to him, so checked with the hotel to
make sure he was still registered. That’s it, fini, no more to
tell.”