Murder is the Pits (3 page)

“What about storm surge?” Ruthie asked.

“That doesn’t worry me, unless it’s a direct
hit. Flooding isn’t likely.” He dipped his head and grinned
devilishly. “Not more than a foot or two, at most.”

Ruthie gritted her teeth.

Penny Sue jumped in before Ruthie could say
anything. Staring at his Arlo Guthrie shirt, Penny Sue asked coyly,
“Is Guthrie a family name?”

Our neighbor finished his coffee and stood.
“No. I just have very fond memories of the movie,
Alice’s
Restaurant
.” He flashed the devilish grin again.

Why the grin? Was that the movie where
hippies baked marijuana brownies? I wasn’t sure.

“Guthrie’s not your real name?” Penny Sue
continued.

He swallowed the last bit of his toast. “An
old nickname that stuck.” He rubbed his arms vigorously. “You
ladies keep this place as cold as a refrigerator. Man, I don’t have
on shoes; my toes are turning blue. I need to go home and thaw
out.”

Yes, I thought, rubbing my own arms. I’d
been freezing ever since Penny Sue arrived. Her hot flashes were
out of control, and gods knew what the electric bill would be.

“What’s your real name?”

He started for the door. “Fred,” he said
over his shoulder. The front door clicked shut.

Penny Sue reached under the counter and
pulled out the Bailey’s. She dumped a large dollop in her coffee
and took a swig. “Fred Fribble. His name is Fred Fribble!” She
started to giggle and, thankfully, had the good sense to cover her
mouth. Otherwise, Bailey’s would have sprayed all over the kitchen.
“Lord, it sounds like something from a Flintstones cartoon.”

Ruthie tittered. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Penny Sue choked down a chortle. “Leigh,
this place is a hoot. Bodies, burglaries, Guthrie ‘Fred’ Fribble.”
She wiped tears from her eyes. “None of this ever happens in
Atlanta. It must be you.”

I reared back at the suggestion. “Me!?
Nothing happens unless
you’re
around. You’re the one who
draws trouble.”

She stroked my shoulder soothingly, and then
cackled, spraying coffee all over me.

“Gross!” I threw my toast at her. It bounced
off her prodigious chest and fell to the floor.

“It is you!” Ruthie agreed, heaving her
toast at Penny Sue. It went wide. “There was a hurricane the first
time we came after Leigh’s divorce, and you started that ruckus
with your gun. You draw trouble.”

Penny Sue reached into the breadbasket and
grabbed the remaining toast with both hands. Laughing hysterically,
she pelted us both. “Y’all are old fogeys. If it weren’t for me,
you’d have no excitement in your life. You need me. Admit it, I
spice things up.”

Ruthie and I exchanged eye rolls. Geez, now
a Spice Girl. Hmmm, which spice? Red pepper? Chinese mustard?
Tabasco!

By ten we’d showered, dressed and were ready
to whip through our assigned tasks. (Two guesses who did the
assigning.) Penny Sue raced to Publix, frantic the store had
already sold out of water and toilet paper. Ruthie took my car and
headed to Wal-Mart for flashlights, a battery-powered TV, a first
aid kit, and molded plastic chairs that would fit in the closet and
still accommodate Penny Sue’s butt. I was relegated the chore of
cleaning out the closet, since most of the stuff was mine.

The iron and ironing board were the first to
go, followed by my half-sets of linens, beach chairs, and other
assorted household implements and supplies. Sorting the wheat from
the chaff was easy until I reached the wire mesh shelves at the
back of the storeroom. I decided the lower two shelves would have
to go to make room for our chairs. Easy enough—the wire planks
merely snapped into plastic brackets on the wall. Finding a place
for their contents presented the problem. The utility room was
packed with my belongings—I couldn’t bring myself to toss the
sheets—and the credenza in the great room was already full. If I
was lucky, there was nothing on the shelves but outdated canned
goods that could be thrown away.

I reached down with both hands and came up
with several half-filled bottles of suntan lotion. No dates, they
were likely a decade old. I tossed them into the garbage can
outside the closet door. Next, corroded, swollen canned goods.
Botulism for sure. They hit the wastebasket with a loud thud. I
squatted with a grunt and stretched to the back of the shelf. My
fingertips skimmed the wall, and then hit something furry. Mouse
was all I could think. I fell backward as a tuft of red feathers
fell forward and a round furry thing hurled toward me. I scrambled
to get out of the way.

“Dum, da da, dum! Dum, da da, dum! Big
sleep. Hungry, very hungry,” the furry vermin chirped. Lord, it was
Ruthie’s Furby, May May, and a … a toy bird! I’d forgotten about
the Furbies Ruthie and Penny Sue purchased on our first visit.
Penny Sue’s Furby was named Lu Nee, an incredible twist of fate,
considering Penny Sue’s personality. Yep, that little guy was a
real chip off the old block. Sadly, Lu Nee met an untimely end at
the hand of a humorless thug. So, Penny Sue’s new remote controlled
robot, and purported security guard, was named in honor of her
first “child.” Lu Nee 2—the perfect sidekick for Penny Sue.

I picked up a red-feathered parrot and the
Furby. It sang, “Fun. Party. Dance. Dance.”

“That was last night,” I told the fuzzy
munchkin.

I levered to my feet and placed the toys on
the kitchen counter, then pulled out the bottom shelves. Hot and
grimy, I’d just poured a diet Coke when the doorbell rang. My
stomach clenched at the thought it might be Guthrie, this time with
really
bad news about Mrs. King. I took a deep breath for
courage before looking through the peephole. Instead of a grubby
tee shirt, I saw a suit-clad, barrel chest, and the lower half of a
square jaw. Definitely not Guthrie. I fluffed my hair, smoothed my
shirt, and opened the door to reveal a stocky man about six feet
tall with thick brown hair and a ruddy complexion.

He flashed a wide smile. “Good morning, I’m
with Westside Realty.” He held out a business card.

I opened the screen door and took it. Yuri
Raykov, Broker/Agent. I ran my finger over the paper. Embossed
print, nice.

“I have a client who wants to buy a condo in
this development. Are you the owner?”

“No, this belongs to a friend.” I studied
him. Was this the guy who’d snatched up the other two condos before
I could get the owners on the phone? He certainly was aggressive,
going door-to-door. His client must be a big spender. “I know the
owner’s not interested in selling. I tried to buy the place
myself,” I added for good measure. Not true, but I was sure the
judge would give me first dibs if he ever decided to sell.

“Ah, the owner is your friend. That always
helps.” He started to leave, then stopped abruptly. “I hear an
elderly lady over there,” he pointed in the direction of Nana’s
unit, “is in the hospital. Do you know if she has family?”

Boy, this guy had no scruples. Mrs. King’s
hospital bed was barely warm, and he’d all but written her off as
dead. “She has a minor problem, nothing to worry about.”

He gave me smarmy grin. “That’s good. Sorry
to bother you. Have a nice day.”

“Sure.”

I watched him walk up the hard-packed sand
drive to a shiny, black Jaguar parked on the side of the hill. He
gave me a finger wave, swung into the driver’s seat, and started to
back up. Penny Sue’s yellow Mercedes popped the hill at that
moment, coming within inches of Yuri’s car. She steered hard right,
sending a plume of sand over the formerly pristine Jag, and skidded
to a stop in a palmetto. Her door flew open and a Steel Magnolia
emerged—mad as a hornet, loaded for bear. She stalked to the middle
of the driveway and planted her feet. I instinctively checked her
hands for weapons. None. Good! I breathed a sigh of relief. Two
near misses within twelve hours. What’s the probability of
that?

“What tha’?” she started.

Yuri was at her side in a millisecond. “I am
so sorry, Madame. My fault. It was stupid to park on the side of
the hill.” He took her arm and nudged her toward the Mercedes. “Are
you hurt? Perhaps you should sit down.”

She didn’t budge, though her shoulders
relaxed. She’d shifted out of attack mode.

The real estate agent held his hands up
apologetically. “If there’s any damage, I will pay for it. We
should check your car.” He strode to the Benz, which was idling,
and peered at the front end. Futile since it was embedded in
palmetto fronds. “May I back it out?” he asked softly.

She smiled demurely. “I’ll do it,” Penny Sue
all but purred.

Oh, boy, I’d heard the tone before. The
scent of a man, it got her every time.

She backed the car out and parked in front
of the condo. We huddled around the front end, checking for damage.
At least, I was checking for damage. Yuri and Penny Sue, eyes
locked, were checking out each other.

I got bad vibes from Yuri, making this was
one eye-lock I wanted to break. “Wow, a miracle! No damage. Not so
much as a scratch.” I looked from Penny Sue to Yuri. They were
still gazing at each other like dumb goats. “Well, I guess we’d
better get the groceries in the house before the ice cream melts,”
I added.

Yuri took Penny Sue’s hand. “Please, let me
help with your packages, it’s the least I can do.”

“That’s very kind,” she said in her best
Georgia Peach, Scarlet O’Hara voice.

Sheesh. It was all I could do to keep from
sticking a finger down my throat. A gag and vomit was the only
appropriate response to his come-on and her syrupy reply. At least
he helped bring in the groceries before he stroked her hand one
last time and left. Penny Sue had purchased four-twelve packs of
toilet paper, six big bags of crushed ice, and enough food to feed
a platoon on weekend maneuvers.

“Yuri’s a realtor. He stopped by to see if
you wanted to sell the condo,” I said, hefting ice into the large
ice chest that would serve as our coffee table in the closet. Only
three bags fit, so I put one in the freezer and the rest in the
sink, hoping Ruthie would return soon with a Styrofoam cooler. “I
told him your dad’s not interested. You don’t mind, do you? If the
judge decides to sell, I hope he’ll give me first dibs.”

Penny Sue shoved two bottles of champagne
into the refrigerator. “He’s not going to sell any time soon. He’s
started talking about coming down after he retires for surf
fishing. Besides, Momma loved this place. He’d keep it for
sentimental reasons if nothing else. And,” she grinned smugly, “I
want it.”

She unloaded a brown bag of assorted chips
as I stacked the toilet paper on the floor beside the credenza.
There was no other place to put it, because I’d already filled most
of the condo’s free space with the pitiful remnants of my
marriage.

Next came a bag of jars and cans. I reached
in and came up with a small jar. “Red Salmon Caviar?”

Penny Sue handed me a package of water
crackers. “Don’t worry, there’s some white in there, too.”

I shot her the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding
glare. “Champagne? Caviar?”

She squared her shoulders. “Haven’t you
heard of a hurricane party? Laa, if we’re going to be stuck in a
closet, we might as well have fun.” She dropped a large bag of
Hershey Kisses on the counter. “I love chocolate with champagne,
don’t you?” She plopped a sack of miniature Snickers atop the
Kisses, which jostled the counter and Ruthie’s Furby. The toy awoke
jabbering, “Big sleep. Hungry, very hungry.”

Penny Sue snatched the fur ball. “This is
Ruthie’s Furby. I was so busy unpacking the groceries, I didn’t
notice it. And, Repeat Parrot,” she took the bird with her other
hand. “Where did you find them?”

“On the bottom shelf, at the back of the
closet.”

“I gave the parrot to Daddy for his birthday
years ago.” Penny Sue cradled the Furby in the crook of her arm and
stuck her pinky finger in its mouth. A string of Furby
yum, yum,
very good, very hungrys
spewed forth. “The parrot’s a stitch.
Pete repeats everything you say and is activated by noise. Daddy
put him in the guest bathroom and programmed him to say, ‘Boy, you
have a big behind.’” She chuckled. “He thought it was hysterical.
Momma didn’t, which is how it ended up in the closet. I’ll have to
take that home with me. Ten bucks says he puts it in the guest
bathroom again.”

The Furby’s lunch was cut short by Ruthie’s
arrival. Chairs, cooler, a first aid kit, and a red box.

“Boy, are we lucky,” Ruthie said, holding up
the red box. “I found a weather radio! A lady was returning it when
I walked in the door. I snatched it immediately.” Her eyes caught
the Furby. “Little May May. Where—?”

“The closet,” I said.

Penny Sue surveyed the items Ruthie’d
stacked on the floor. “No battery-operated television?”

“Too late. They sold out days ago.”

“Darn, I told you there’d be a rush on
necessities. I guess the boom box radio will have to do. It can
pick up local television stations, but no Weather Channel.”

“Exactly why I bought this radio. It airs
NOAA weather alerts. All we have to do is put in our zip code. When
there’s a warning for our area, it sounds an alarm and broadcasts
the details.”

I took the box from Ruthie and read the
label. “This is very cool. It works like an alarm clock—only goes
off if there’s a weather warning for the area. Great to have in
case a storm hits in the middle of the night.”

“That’s what I thought,” Ruthie said. “You
should keep this in your bedroom.”

It took a little over an hour for us to
arrange the closet and program the weather radio. The three chairs
fit nicely around the ice chest, while our supplies—chips,
crackers, boom box, flashlights, and batteries—were stored within
easy reach on the lowest remaining shelf.