Murder is the Pits (23 page)

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.”

“These people from the Hamptons are fun, and
they love our racing promo shots. They’ve donated a lot of
money—over $20,000—so far. If you and Chris were here, I’m sure
we’d get more. I’ve tried to call Chris, but her cell must be off.
Hurry up. The big guys may fly out tomorrow.”

After toting bales and lifting—oh, heck,
what is the saying?—anyway, I couldn’t have cared less about the
big guys from the Hamptons. Yes, I wanted donations for the
hurricane victims, whose ranks were about to swell. However,
fundraising was Penny Sue’s niche, not mine. She had the
personality for it—brazen.

I warmed a can of Campbell’s Clam Chowder
with some garlic bread for dinner and started loading my car.
Fortunately, Penny Sue’s behemoth Mercedes held most of our
supplies. I was left with blankets, pillows, a lot of wine, and
Snickers in case we ended up staying with Chris at her store. After
I loaded the car, I poured a glass of wine and packed my suitcase
to the chatter of the Weather Channel. Things didn’t look good. The
darned storm was barreling straight for us. I was spooked, not only
by the storm, but also the black Ford Taurus and Mafia thing. I
placed a half glass of wine on the nightstand, set the alarm, as
well as Lu Nee 2, and slid between the covers of my bed, giving the
liquid taser an appreciative glance. It was only nine-thirty. I’d
set the alarm clock for three
AM
.

I drifted into an uneasy sleep, the kind
where your mind is racing, thinking of all the things you should
have done. At eleven
PM
a noise of some
sort jarred me awake. I panted, scared to death. Was someone trying
to break into the condo? They hadn’t succeeded, because the alarm
didn’t sound. What if it did? What would I do?

I’d jump out of the window and run. Yes, but
the window was locked, and there was a credenza in front of it.
Best to clear a path, just in case, I thought. I got up in my
nightgown, pushed the credenza against the wall and unlocked the
window to provide an unobstructed escape route.

I went back to bed and thrashed around,
thinking about the Mafia, and the logistics of jumping out the
window. If I jumped out the window, where would I go? I threw back
the covers and fetched my pocketbook and car keys. I took a sip of
wine and slipped back between the sheets.

I lay there fidgeting and thinking. If
someone broke in and I had to jump out of the window, it would hurt
my feet. After all, the window was surrounded by sea grapes and
prickly vegetation. I climbed out of bed, put on my jogging shoes,
and got back into the sack with my sneakers sticking out the bottom
of the covers.

I couldn’t go the sleep because the shoes
kept getting tangled in the blanket. I took another drink of wine
and recited my mantra. No dice. My mind churned. If someone broke
into the condo, I’d jump out the window. My purse and keys were
handy, the window was unlocked, and I had shoes to protect my feet.
But there was a screen in the window!

I whipped the blanket away, shut off the
alarm and Lu Nee 2, opened the window and removed the screen. I
brought it inside and propped it up in the hall. Then I shut the
window, rearmed the condo, and returned to bed. I rolled over and
looked at the clock … a few minutes after midnight.

I grabbed the glass on the nightstand and
finished the wine. I snuggled into the pillow, but my mind still
raced. Okay, if someone broke in, I would grab my purse and keys,
jump out the screen-less window, (which wouldn’t hurt my feet
because I had on jogging shoes) run to my car and drive to St.
Augustine.

But I had on my nightgown. I couldn’t walk
into a classy hotel like the Casa Monica in my nightgown. I rolled
out of bed, got fully dressed, poured a few sips of wine that I
gulped down, and sat on the edge of the bed. By now, it was
one-thirty.

One more time! I whipped the blanket over me
and lay there stiff as a board. A half hour later, I’d had enough.
What the heck?
I locked the window, grabbed the taser,
purse, keys, and headed out. The wind had started to howl, and fat
drops of rain hit me on the head. Thankfully, no nefarious
creatures showed themselves. Good thing, because the taser was
charged and my trigger finger was twitching.

I was out of the parking lot and headed for
St. Augustine by two-thirty. A few miles down the road I realized
my alarm clock would go off at three, sending Lu Nee 2 into a
tizzy. Hell with it, I thought, and kept driving north.

* * *

September 3, New Smyrna Beach, FL

I decided to
take Route 1, even though
I-95 would normally be faster. St. Augustine was only about
seventy-five miles north, and at seventy mph, one could make it in
a little over an hour. But, the local radio station reported heavy
traffic because of mandatory evacuations, and the wind and
torrential rains meant no one could make good time, regardless of
which road they took.

While I-95 was crawling, Route 1’s traffic
was slow because of the rain, but cars weren’t bumper to bumper. I
didn’t pass anyone going south, and there was a line of evenly
spaced cars behind me headed north. I decided I’d call Penny Sue
when I reached Palm Coast, which was approximately halfway. There
was a straight, deserted stretch of highway, a good place to use
the phone. Unlike Penny Sue who could eat, talk on her cell, and
drive all at the same time, I’d found multitasking wasn’t my strong
suit. For that reason, I rarely used my cell phone, except in
emergencies, and hadn’t bothered to invest in a hands-free headset
or one of the newer phones that took pictures and dialed numbers
from voice commands.

When I passed the Palm Coast sign, I held
the phone at eye level, scrolled down to Penny Sue’s number, and
hit send. I guess I slowed down, because I noticed a car in my
rearview mirror gaining fast. I accelerated and set my speed
control to sixty. Penny Sue answered after seven rings.

“You’re here?” she asked with a thick
tongue. “Lord, it’s only three-thirty.”

“I’m at Palm Coast, probably forty minutes
away. How do I get there from Route 1?” I caught a flash of
headlights in the mirror. Two vehicles were close behind me, and
the one at the rear—an SUV or, maybe, a pickup truck—had pulled out
to pass.

“Best way is to stay on Route 1, then go
right on King Street, which takes you straight to the hotel.
There’s valet—”

“Oh, Lord!” I screamed and threw the cell
phone on the passenger’s seat. The SUV wasn’t trying to pass the
car behind me—it was attempting to run the car off the road! I
gripped the steering wheel with both hands and floored the gas
pedal.

“What’s going on?” I heard Penny Sue
cry.

“A case of road rage behind me,” I screamed.
“An SUV is trying to run a car off the road.”

“Get out of there!” she shouted.

“I’m trying,” I yelled back. My speedometer
inched toward 80 as the vehicles behind gained on me, side-by-side,
in a sick tug of war. But luck was with me: an exit sign to I-95
appeared. I hung a quick right and slid up the on-ramp, brake pedal
pressed to the floor. I skidded toward a long line of cars
traveling at a snail’s pace. All the while, I heard Penny Sue and
Ruthie screaming from the phone in the next seat.
Help me,
God,
I prayed silently. He must have heard me. Thanks to a
slow-moving eighteen-wheeler, a space opened up in traffic, and I
slid in, my speed down to about thirty. I let off the brake, my
knee shaking violently.

“LEIGH!”

“I’m okay. Give me a minute to catch my
breath.” I inhaled deeply, trying to calm myself, trying to steady
my trembling hands. The traffic, bumper to bumper, moved at
approximately thirty-five mph. I could care less. There was safety
in numbers and slow was fine by me. Still panting, I picked up the
phone. “Heavens, I don’t know who was trying to run over who back
there. I thought the SUV was after the other car, then it seemed
they were both after me. I’m on I-95 and traffic is creeping. I
won’t be there in forty minutes.”

“Why did you leave so early? To beat the
traffic?” Penny Sue asked.

“Yeah.” No need to go into my anxiety
attack.

“Call when you get to King Street. We’ll
meet you at the valet stand.”

“Evil all around us,” I heard Ruthie
pronounce in the background.

Great, just what I needed to hear.

“Be careful,” Penny Sue said and hung
up.

It was after five o’clock when I pulled up
to the valet station of the Casa Monica. Penny Sue was waiting,
dressed in flowing red silk pajamas, covered by an embroidered,
knee-length jacket. She pressed a twenty into the valet’s palm and
gave me a big hug. “You scared me to death!”

I took my wheeled suitcase from the backseat
and handed the car keys to the valet. “The rest of the stuff will
stay in the car. You have secure parking, don’t you?”

The young man—probably a student at Flagler
College across the street—stiffened as if I’d offended him. “You
are completely safe at the Casa Monica.”

I winked. “I’m glad to hear that. Safe is
good.” And I wasn’t kidding.

Pulling my suitcase, I followed Penny Sue to
the fifth floor. My friends had a corner suite in one of the
towers. Ruthie waited with a cup of coffee, the TV was tuned to the
Weather Channel. (Wonder of wonders!)