Murder is the Pits (32 page)

Chris recited the number before Penny Sue’s
lips moved, while Melanie made a note on her clipboard.

“And they take credit cards,” Penny Sue
added quickly.

Melanie studied our outfits with the big
daffodil on the chest. “Daffodils … that’s an interesting insignia.
Does it stand for anything?”

Unh uh, we’re not going to go there! I
answered quickly, “It stands for spring and new beginnings.”

Melanie nodded. “That’s nice. I hope you
win.”

The interview went surprisingly well, thanks
to Melanie’s background work. The storeowners—plain, hardworking
people enduring terrible times with gumption and grace—gave the
perfect lead-in to the charity race. My fear that Chris and Penny
Sue might come to blows proved unfounded. They did amazingly
well—sort of a Northern and Southern tag team of information. At
least Melanie and Sean, the reporter, thought the segment was
terrific and sure to make the national evening news.

Chris had to run back to her store, which
she’d closed, and Ruthie had to locate a bathroom. But we left
feeling up and sure we would win the race, Hurricane Jeanne
willing.

We made a quick stop at a McDonalds for
hamburgers, milkshakes, and a bathroom. We went through the
drive-thru while Ruthie checked out the women’s room. Ruthie said
her outfit got a lot of stares. Thankfully, we’d spent the extra
money for two-piece suits, otherwise Ruthie’s milkshake would have
melted before she undressed, tinkled, redressed, and returned to
the car. Air conditioner cranked up to max—the suits were hot!—we
headed home, planning on a nap. The last two days had taken their
toll.

So much for a peaceful nap. We discovered
that while we were doing our interview, Jeanne had been upgraded to
a Category 3 storm. It was still zeroed in on our area. Jim Cantore
was en route to Daytona Beach.

Ruthie kicked the leg of a chair. “Darn,
I’ll miss him again.” She stared into the distance. I realized it
was one of those looks that said she was communicating with
someone. “It wasn’t meant to be. He won’t be here long.”

“What do you mean?” I was spooked by a
Category 3 storm. “Do you think we should go inland? Timothy said
we were welcome at his house.”

Ruthie cocked her head. “We’ll be fine
here.”

Penny Sue and I rolled our eyes, both hoping
Ruthie’s spirits knew what they were talking about. Apparently,
they did.

We took fitful naps, alarms set to wake us
for the five o’clock update. We hovered around the tube like men
watching a play-off game. Praise be, Ruthie was right. Jeanne was
now predicted to hit Saturday morning in Vero Beach. Though
expected to parallel the east coast of Florida, inland, its winds
should die down by the time it reached New Smyrna Beach on
Sunday.

Category 1? No big deal. We had sand under
the deck, we had food, and our interview made the ABC national
news.

Hurricane Jeanne gave us a break, which is
not to say we got off scot-free. It could have been a whole lot
worse. The storm blew ashore as a Category 3 a mere five miles from
the place Frances made landfall. Moving up the middle of the state,
Jeanne steadily lost strength. The strongest winds, Cat 1, hit New
Smyrna Beach at about three
AM
. We sat in
the closet, lights on, listening to the local weather forecast that
blared in the great room. We’d cranked the AC down as low as it
would go to get the place as cold as possible in case there was a
power failure. All of our coolers, and a few new ones, were filled
with blocks of ice.

Rain pounded the windows, and the racket of
waves crashing against our deck could be heard over the television.
About three-thirty Penny Sue ventured into the great room and
flipped on the spotlights that shone on the deck. She quickly
flipped them off.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, peering into the
darkness.

“You don’t want to know. But we might want
to move our stuff into my bedroom at the front of the condo.”

“Why?”

“Remember all the sand Sonny brought in? The
sand and the deck are gone.”

“Oh, boy.” We dragged the supplies into
Penny Sue’s bedroom, which had its own TV, and lounged on the bed
listening to the local broadcast. The patio of the Breaker’s
Restaurant, a New Smyrna Beach icon, had washed away, as well as
the Flagler Street seawall and boardwalk. On site reports showed
sea foam piled up like snow and debris strewn a block up the street
from the ocean.

At some point we all dozed off and awakened
to the awful sensation of complete silence. The electricity had
gone out, but the sun was up, the floors were dry, and we were
safe. We trooped into the great room and gingerly peeked out the
glass door. Where the deck and sand had once been, there was now a
six-foot cliff!

“Easy come, easy go.” Penny Sue drew the
blinds to shut out the warm morning sun. “We should keep the doors
and windows closed so it’ll stay cool as long as possible.”

“Want me to make some coffee?” I asked.

“No way we’re going to turn on that hot gas
stove. We’ll get our caffeine from colas.”

Ruthie hauled out the battery-operated
television and tuned it to the local ABC station. “A major feeder
line’s down,” she reported as I dumped cereal into bowls and Penny
Sue poured colas. “Electric crews are already working on it.”

“I hope they work fast,” Penny Sue said.
“Either I’m having a hot flash or this place is already starting to
warm up.”

The crews did work quickly, because the
outage only lasted about eight hours. The time flew with our phones
ringing off the hook. Virtually everyone had seen our TV spot and
called to congratulate us on a fine performance. Max was
particularly pleased because the story was still running in most
major markets. “If that doesn’t generate contributions, nothing
will.”

And it did. Total contributions were over
$400,000 by noon.

“I wonder how the speedway fared?” Penny Sue
mused after taking nearly a dozen calls. “We announced the race was
this coming Saturday, so it must go on.”

I phoned Chris who, as usual, was one step
ahead of us. She’d spoken to Andrew Hart. The track received minor
damage this time, because Frances had already destroyed most of the
billboards, so there wasn’t much to clean up. The race could go on,
it just didn’t come off exactly as planned.

* * *

October 2, New Smyrna Beach, FL

The race was
scheduled to begin at
seven-thirty, but teams were required to meet in the infield at
five o’clock to set-up and receive instructions. There were seven
teams in all: The DAFFODILS, Woody’s team, NASA retirees, a local
realtor, and three teams named Racing Thunder, Hell on Wheels, and
Speed Demons. Our team was a standout, what with our custom suits,
newly painted mini-car and Corolla, and our spotter, Annie, who
wore an obviously expensive headset. Timothy had the spare headset
with strict instructions to keep it away from Guthrie. We were also
the only team with a pit crew. Timothy, dressed in black bike
shorts and a spandex tank top, carried a large washtub of ice and
oxygenated-water. Guthrie was, well, Guthrie. He had on his Arlo
Guthrie tee shirt, baggy khaki shorts, and lugged an old-style
metal TV tray and five large pans of brownies.

The Demons had chosen the right name. They
were big, scruffy, and scary looking. Racing Thunder all looked
alike in their Driving Experience fire suits and helmets. They were
medium height, clean-shaven, with dark, slicked-back hair. Hell on
Wheels was a bunch of teenagers (“They could be dangerous,” Annie
whispered.), while the other crews appeared to be nice, normal
folk.

We drew numbers from Andrew’s cowboy hat for
pit assignments, then went to move our cars and store our gear.
Guthrie set up the TV tray with a pan of his ‘signature’ dish.
“These are for you,” he said, indicating the team. “No nuts. Have
one—you need the strength.”

I chomped down on brownie, and had to admit
this was a good batch. I waved at the other pans. “You don’t expect
us to eat all of those, do you?”

“They’re for the other crews. It’s not
polite to eat in front of people.”

Huh? Since when did pit crews pass out
brownies to their competitors? I was about to say something when a
familiar voice wafted from the track.

“Back off, buddy, I’m with them.” It was
Frannie May, shooing away a speedway employee who blocked her from
crossing to the infield.

“Frannie May,” I waved and nodded to the
employee who let her pass. “Our good luck charm has arrived. I was
afraid you wouldn’t make it.” I gave her a big hug.

“Almost didn’t, my plane was late. Carl, Jr.
and his friends are in the grandstands. See them? The center,
toward the top.”

I followed her arm and was pleased to see
Carl and his buddies,
sans
their
Star Trek
Klingon
and Romulan battle gear. I waved; they stood and whistled.

“Have a brownie?” Ruthie offered. “No nuts.”
She nodded at Guthrie. “Our friend made them.”

Frannie eyed the pans Guthrie held. “I like
nuts.” She pulled up the corner of the foil covering the top pan.
“Do these have nuts?”

Guthrie whirled around putting his back
between Frannie May and the brownies. “You can’t have these—they’re
for the other teams.”

Frannie gave us a what’s-with-him frown.
Timothy shrugged. I gave her a palms-up and whispered, “He’s a
little high strung.”

“I see that. What did you do, put Metamucil
or something in those brownies?” Frannie May teased.

Guthrie’s brows furrowed. “Of course not.”
He stalked off toward the other teams.

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea, would it? Use a
little Exlax instead of cocoa,” Frannie joked.

My eyes went wide. Certainly Guthrie
wouldn’t do that. Would he? I didn’t have time to ponder the
question. Andrew called the crews to the infield to go over the
rules. I noticed almost everyone was eating brownies and all of the
teenagers had one in each hand.

“Remember, this is a charity marathon, and
it’s all for fun. We don’t want anyone to get hurt. We want a nice,
clean race because there’s a lot of news media here.” He searched
our faces. Everyone nodded.

“Okay, we’ll start with the mini-cup cars.
Ten laps. Spotters are only allowed for this and the school bus
race. Spotters, you can go up to the top of the grandstand
now.”

Annie winked at us and headed across the
track with six men.

“The second race is the bag race.” Andrew’s
assistant handed him a heavy brown paper bag. The sack had several
strips of silver duct tape across the center. “As you know, the
driver in this race must wear a bag over his or her head. The
passenger directs the driver. I don’t expect a problem with this
group, but people have tried to cheat in the past by putting
pinpricks in the bag over the eye area. That’s why we’ve added duct
tape, and my assistant will distribute the bags just before the
race begins. Also, to insure the passenger doesn’t ‘accidentally’
steer the car, both of the passenger’s hands must be on the top,
outside of his window, throughout the race.

“The final leg is the bus race. It’s the
most fun for fans, but the most dangerous for drivers. This is a
short track, and the buses are light in the rear. I know you’ve all
practiced. Be careful out there, I don’t want any buses going over
the wall.”

Everyone nodded again.

“I hear donations total over a half million
dollars and some teams have matching offers. This is a good cause,
so be safe.” Andrew clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s do it!”

We all jogged to our pit areas. Our team was
number four, putting us on the outside of the second row. That was
a definite disadvantage for the school bus race, mainly because
they were cumbersome, but shouldn’t make much of a difference for
the other two cars. I was so excited my skin tingled. Chris looked
like she was about to jump out of her shoes. Ruthie was serene,
doing her mantra, I supposed. Penny Sue was Penny Sue, swishing her
butt and waving to the crowd. Timothy handed us all a bottle of
water. I looked around. Where was Guthrie? Water was his job. I
spotted him dishing up brownies to the Demons.

Chris took a swig of water, gave us a
thumbs-up, and vaulted through the roof of the mini-car. Timothy
attached the Hutchins device to her helmet, and Chris did several
microphone tests with Annie on the spotters’ platform that
overlooked the track.

“Ladies and gentlemen, proceed to the
starting line,” the announcer said over the speaker system.

The mini-cars sprang to life with a loud
roar. One by one they left the pit area, lapped the track, and
stopped, two-by-two, at the finish line in front of the grandstand.
A hush fell over the crowd, all eyes glued to the starter who stood
on an elevated platform. I held my breath.

The starter, a wiry guy with a gift for
dramatics, gave the green flag a vigorous swirl. The mini-cars
peeled out. Chris was trapped behind the two starters, Hell on
Wheels in the number two spot and Racing Thunder with the inside,
pole position. The Demon car was on the inside of the second row on
Chris’ left. As the cars approached the first turn, Racing Thunder
lagged behind and started to drift toward Chris. The Demon car,
either annoyed or not paying attention, bumped Racing Thunder from
the rear, sending it through the infield. The bump created a
temporary opening that Chris zipped through. She floored it and
pulled in front of Hell on Wheels, taking the lead.

Meanwhile, Racing Thunder ran through the
infield and spun onto the far side of the track just as the pack of
cars came around. Drawing a bead on the Demon car, Thunder rammed
it from the side, sending it into Hell on Wheels. Hell hit the
wall, bounced back into Demon, which then rammed Thunder. Thunder
skidded into the infield followed by Demon and Hell on Wheels.
Thankfully, Chris was far enough ahead to miss the melee. However,
the realtor car caught a piece of Hell and went into a three-sixty
degree spin that landed it in a puddle of mud and out of the
race.