Murder is the Pits (22 page)

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.

* * *

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 interview 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.