Murder is the Pits (6 page)

Being a Category 4 was bad enough; worse, it
was hitting south of Tampa and headed east—our way. At that news,
Ruthie stripped all the olives from the toothpick and chugged the
rest of her martini. “We have to get out of here,” she wailed.

“Out, where?” Penny Sue bellowed. “Look at
the strike zone, everything close by is in it.”

“Maybe we should tape the windows with big
Xs.”

“Not necessary. Daddy had all the windows
replaced with hurricane-rated jobs.”

“Yeah, but what are they rated to? I think
we should get out of here and go to Fran’s house,” Ruthie said.

I had to intervene on that one. Since living
in New Smyrna, I’d learned from old-timers that the Inland Waterway
was a flood zone. The beach wasn’t. Screwy, I admit, but true. It
had to do with water building up in inlets versus a straight
coastline that allowed the storm surge to spread out horizontally,
instead of vertically. “We’re probably as safe here as we would be
at Fran’s.”

Ruthie regarded me as if I’d lost my
mind.

“Really, I’ve checked it out. Fran’s house
is in a worse flood plain than we are. Besides, it’s a compact
storm and will surely lose steam as it moves over land. If we stay
in the closet, I think we’ll be safe. This building has been here a
long time and weathered a lot of storms.” I thought, but didn’t
say, “I hope those storms didn’t weaken the structure.”

Ruthie didn’t get a chance to argue. Guthrie
called. He’d seen the same forecast on the Weather Channel, had
given up on the hobo stew, and was ready to come over with his
brownies and sleeping bag.

* * *

August 13, New Smyrna Beach, FL

It would take
all three of us to get
Guthrie down to our place. Rain was already falling thanks to
Charley’s feeder bands, so we donned the yellow slickers that Penny
Sue had purchased. When we arrived at his place, Guthrie was
waiting by the door wearing an old Pith helmet and a dry cleaning
bag in lieu of a raincoat. Once again, Ruthie and I supported him
with a shoulder under each armpit. Penny Sue shrugged into his
knapsack and carried a large pan of brownies and a tarp-wrapped
sleeping bag. She was none too happy about it.

“What do I look like, a pack mule?” she
muttered under her breath as we trudged down the slope to our
unit.

Don’t tempt me, I thought. Her load was a
fraction of ours. While Guthrie was fairly slim, he weighed at
least one-eighty, not counting the package of frozen sirloin tied
to his knee.

“What’s in this knapsack anyway?” she
groused.

“Frozen food for my knee,” he said haltingly
as we hopped him down the hill. “And, some protection.”

“The Glock?” I asked.

“Looters are always a problem after
storms.”

The blood drained from Ruthie’s face.
“Looters?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Penny Sue said,
softening toward Guthrie. “Hmph, I need to make sure my gun is
loaded.”

I gritted my teeth. Not her damned .38,
again. Penny Sue and guns spelled trouble.

The light sprinkle turned to a torrential
downpour by the time we reached the condo. Ruthie had the
forethought to cover the floor with towels so we wouldn’t track
water. Good thing, too, because we were soaked. We leaned Guthrie
against the wall and ripped off his cleaner’s bag. Then we shed our
slickers in a heap and hopped Guthrie to the living room. The
television was already on. Clearly put out, Penny Sue trailed
behind, dripping water. She dropped the sleeping bag in the dining
room, and plopped the knapsack and brownies on the kitchen
counter.

“Are we having fun now?” she asked
sarcastically, pulling off her raingear and stuffing it in the
sink.

“We will in a minute. Bring in the
brownies,” Guthrie called, propping his bum leg on the coffee
table. “My brownies are guaranteed to brighten your day. Brownies
for everyone!”

Ruthie, Penny Sue, and I exchanged wide-eyed
glances. We’d never decided if it was Alice, of
Alice’s
Restaurant
fame, who baked marijuana brownies. Somebody baked
them in an old movie—we just couldn’t remember which one. In any
event, Guthrie’s enthusiasm made us leery of his baked goods.

Penny Sue handed Ruthie the pan, a knife,
and a napkin. “Thanks, but I’m on a diet,” she said.

Ruthie placed the pan on the coffee table
and dished up a brownie. Guthrie ate it in two bites. She gave him
another. He downed that one just as fast. “Come on, try one,” he
said, still chewing.

“I had a sandwich a few minutes before you
called,” Ruthie said.

Spying what looked like lumps of nuts on the
top of the brownies, I fibbed, “I’m allergic to nuts.”

“Bummer,” Guthrie mumbled. “Well, can’t let
them go to waste.” He held out his hand and took a third. “If
things get dull, I brought my tape of
Alice’s Restaurant
.
It’s in the knapsack.”

“Whoopee,” Penny Sue muttered, unzipping the
canvas bag.

“You have a VCR, don’t you?”

“It’s broken,” Penny Sue replied languidly,
reaching in the satchel. She came out with a well-viewed videotape
and a large baggie stuffed with a handgun and ammunition. “Wow, is
this a Glock forty-five?”

“Yeah, the compact model. There’s a smaller
one, but I thought it looked wussy. Man, if you’re going to carry a
gun, you want something that makes a statement.”

Penny Sue smirked at me. “My sentiments,
exactly.”

Brother, I wish he hadn’t said that. Penny
Sue’s .38 was bad enough, with a little encouragement she’d
probably buy an M16.

Penny Sue finished unloading the knapsack of
its frozen contents and stowed them in the freezer.

“Flip to Channel 9,” Guthrie instructed.
“They have a man in Punta Gorda. Charley’s coming ashore at Fort
Myers.”

Ruthie changed the channel. “Hotel rooms in
Central Florida are booked with people fleeing Tampa Bay. With the
unexpected turn in the storm, there’s no place for southern
residents to go except shelters,” the anchorwoman said. The picture
flashed to boats pitching and crashing in a marina. A reporter in
Punta Gorda came on by telephone from the hallway of a hotel. He’d
barely begun his story when there was a loud ripping sound. “The
hotel’s roof just peeled away!” the reporter shouted.

“Don’t panic, Ruthie. The storm will blow
out before it gets here,” Penny Sue said.

“Yeah, we’re only expected to get Category 1
or tropical force winds,” Guthrie added.

“But the eye is supposed to pass over
Daytona Beach at eleven tonight. That’s only thirty miles north,”
Ruthie whined.

“Yes, and six hours for the storm to change
course.” Penny Sue popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and put
out a plate of caviar and crackers. “I’ve never thrown a hurricane
party before. Come on, let’s get on with it.”

We spent the evening eating, channel surfing
between the Weather Channel and local stations, and answering the
phone. News of the storm’s path through Daytona Beach spread fast.
Our fathers, my son, Ruthie’s daughter, and assorted friends called
to check our status. “Don’t worry,” we told them bravely. “Winds
will die down before Charley reaches us.”

I hoped our bravery didn’t turn out to be
stupidity.

By nine o’clock the storm had reached
Orlando with high winds, torrential rains, and power outages. We’d
finished the champagne, caviar, and a large tray of Stouffer’s
chicken lasagna. Guthrie had polished off the brownies by eight and
taken to teaching Pete, the toy Parrot, to talk. “One,” he said.
The toy squawked, “On-ne.”

“Two.” The bird croaked, “Two-o.”

“Three.” Guthrie kept going to ten.

The three of us sat at the kitchen counter,
one eye on the TV, the other on our hippie friend with chopped meat
bandaged to his leg.

Penny Sue said, “Hide the Furby.”

I covered my mouth and whispered. “He thinks
the bird is really learning. I’d say that proves the brownies were
spiked with something.”

“He ate the whole tray,” Ruthie
exclaimed.

“He’ll probably pass out any minute.”
Wrong.

“I’ve taught Pete to count,” Guthrie called
happily. “Show them, Pete.”

“Show them, Pete,” the bird aped.

We bit our lips.

“One, two, three-e,” Guthrie prompted.

“One, two, three-e.”

“And?” Guthrie leaned forward, his face
within inches of the bird. “Four, five, six,” he whispered.

“Four, five, six,” the bird said softly.

Penny Sue sputtered, unable to control
herself any longer. Pete cackled like Penny Sue.

“His name is Pete the Repeat Parrot,” I
said. “He only mimics what you say. He doesn’t remember any of
it.”

Guthrie folded his arms, eyes narrowed.
“Man, that was a waste of time.” He reached for his knee. “I need
to change the bandage. My meat’s thawed and started to drip. There
should be a bag of succotash in the freezer.”

A gust of wind rocked the patio door. Rain
pounded the building like shrapnel.

“Man, I’m suddenly really hungry.” He spied
the candy piled on the kitchen counter. “Those Hershey Kisses look
mighty good.”

I got the succotash as Ruthie poured the
candy into a bowl. He handed me the thawed, bloody sirloin that had
leaked and wrapped the vegetables on his knee with the soiled Ace
bandage. I put the meat down the garbage disposal. Yuck!

We spent the rest of the evening eating—we
even cracked a couple of cans of Vienna sausages—and watched the
storm’s progress. We had electricity, though there were several
ominous brownouts. Fortunately, our stove was natural gas, so we
could cook even if the electricity failed.

The wind was howling as eleven o’clock drew
near, but except for occasional hits by palm fronds and debris,
there didn’t seem to be major damage. Still, Ruthie insisted we all
go into the closet at ten-thirty. I gave my chair to Guthrie, who
propped his leg on the cooler. I sat cross-legged on the floor. We
left the TV on in the living room, volume maxed, so we could track
the hurricane’s progress. At eleven o’clock there was a report of
looting in Orange County.

Penny Sue took her .38 from her pocket,
slipped it out of the holster and placed it on a shelf in easy
reach. “Can’t be too careful,” was all she said. “Where’s your
Glock?” she asked Guthrie.

“On the coffee table. It’s loaded. If you
hear anything, one of you run get it.”

About eleven fifteen, the storm passed off
the coast of Daytona Beach and we ventured from the closet. Though
the wind still raged, blowing rain in horizontal sheets, Charley
was kind to us. We seemed no worse for the wear. At least there
were no leaks or outward signs of damage.

Penny Sue cracked the second bottle of
champagne to toast our good fortune, and we all proceeded to turn
in for the night. I helped Guthrie unroll his sleeping bag and blow
up the air mattress rolled inside. I rewrapped his knee with a
Birds Eye Teriyaki stir-fry and zipped him in the sleeping bag.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he muttered,
either very sleepy or completely stoned. Whichever, he seemed
content for the rest of the night.

Wrong.

“Help! I’m drowning!”

I was in the middle of a dream where I was
shopping at Beall’s department store. I was standing in a mob at
the jewelry counter, eyeing a humongous bottle of Joy perfume. It
was hot, and I was sweating. The people around me smelled of
perspiration, and I wished I could douse them all in the cologne.
No sooner did I have the thought when the bottle burst. The Joy
perfume ran down the counter and filled the store up to my chin.
There was a mad rush as customers swam out—

“Help! I’m stuck. I’m drowning!”

This call, louder and more urgent than the
first, woke me up. Drenched in sweat, I blinked at the early
morning sun shining through the window and tried to separate dream
from reality.

A moment later a loud “Damn!” came from the
hallway—unmistakably Penny Sue. “The electricity is off and the
place is filled with water.”

Ruthie and I, in the guest room’s twin beds,
bolted upright.

Ruthie swung her feet to the floor.
“Heavens!” she cried.

I stood up in ankle deep water. “The place
is
flooded.” Then I remembered Guthrie on his air mattress,
zipped up in a sleeping bag. Lord, he really could be drowning. I
slogged to the spot where I’d left him; he wasn’t there.

“Over here,” he yelled. “Help me.”

Lying on the air mattress, he’d floated to
the far side of the room, behind the sofa. I splashed through the
water, unzipped the sleeping bag, and pulled him to his feet.

“Thanks, man. You saved my life. I was
trapped like a big, soggy burrito. I’m indebted to you for
life.”

“Forget it. You would have done the same for
me.”

“Yeah, man, but I’m still indebted—your
slave for life. If you need anything, just ask.” He rubbed his leg.
“After this knee heals.”

A slave, just what I needed. My own life was
tough enough to handle. Managing Guthrie’s life was too heavy to
contemplate.

By now everyone was in the living room.
“Where the hell did all this water come from?” Penny Sue asked,
scanning the room with the halogen lantern.

“Storm surge,” Ruthie said forcefully. “I
warned y’all.”

“It couldn’t be storm surge. The water would
have come in through the glass doors.” I pointed to the sliding
doors, where dawn was beginning to break. “In that case, Guthrie
would have floated down the hall and been jammed against the front
door.”

Penny Sue dipped her hand in the ankle deep
water and tasted it. “It’s not salty. This is fresh water.”

“Rain,” Ruthie said sharply. “It ran down
the hill from the other condos.”

“Well, open the patio doors,” Penny Sue
instructed, zinging into her Martha Stewart mode. “If it’s coming
downhill, we have to let the water drain out. And stuff towels
under the front door so no more gets in.”