Praise for Mary Clay’s
DAFFODILS* Mysteries
*Divorced And Finally Free Of Deceitful, Insensitive, Licentious Scum (TM)
“Witty and hilarious...”
Midwest Book Review
“ ... a crisp pace with plenty of humor ...”
Romantic Times BookClub
“The Ya Ya Sisterhood meets The First Wives Club. A cleverly done light mystery that’s a rare find ...”
The Examiner (Beaumont, Texas)
“The Turtle Mound Murder is light and accentuated with the familiar mannerisms of Southern women. ... A fun book.”
Southern Halifax Magazine
“Bike Week Blues is one of the funniest capers this reviewer has had the privilege of reading.”
Harriet Klausner, #1 Reviewer, Amazon.com
“Sometimes we just need something fun to read. The DAFFODILS Mysteries fit the bill.”
The DeLand-Deltona Beacon
* * *
DAFFODILS Mysteries
written as
Mary Clay
The Turtle Mound Murder
Bike Week Blues
Murder is the Pits
Murder in the Stacks
New Age Fiction
written by
Linda Tuck-Jenkins aka Mary Clay
Starpeople: The Sirian Redemption
* * *
A DAFFODILS* Mystery
*Divorced And Finally Free Of Deceitful,
Insensitive, Licentious Scum®
Murder is the Pits
Mary Clay
An IF Mystery
An Imprint of Inspirational Fiction
New Smyrna Beach, Florida
* * *
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by IF Mystery, an imprint of Inspirational Fiction
P. O. Box 2509
New Smyrna Beach, FL 32170-2509
www.inspirationalfiction.com
Cover Design: Peri Poloni, www.knockoutbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. All places, names, characters and incidents are either invented or used fictitiously. The events described are purely imaginary.
Smashwords Edition
ePub ISBN 978-0-9710429-2-6
Copyright © 2009 Linda Tuck-Jenkins
* * *
Chapter 1
August 12, New Smyrna Beach, FL
Our car crested the hill, and the headlights caught the outline of a man directly ahead.
“Who the hell is that?” Penny Sue screeched. She slammed on brakes and the Mercedes slid sideways, narrowly missing a hunched man pulling a wheeled cart. Lucky for him, she was driving slowly over the rutted sand driveway. Illuminated by the headlights, he nodded slightly and kept walking toward the path that ran under the elevated beach access.
I tensed, fearing Penny Sue might lose her cool and respond with a rude hand gesture or profanity. “I think he lives in the next complex. I’ve seen him a lot lately on the beach in front of our place. I asked him once if he was catching anything. He laughed and said the spot was a mother lode. Apparently, there’s a trough out there where fish like to hang out.”
“Fishing in the middle of the night?” Penny Sue asked skeptically. “And, what’s that thing he’s pulling?”
“He calls it his fishing machine,” I answered. “It holds his poles and other gear.”
“Well, he scared the fool out of me and almost became fish food himself.”
I bit my lip. I doubted anything could scare the fool out of Penny Sue. She wasn’t a complete dingbat, just—how to say it?—impetuous. And, that was putting it kindly.
She parked in the front of our condo, snatched the CD from its player, and got out in a huff. “We were having such a good time, too.”
“No harm done. Put it out of your mind,” Ruthie, our peacemaker, advised.
“You’re right. I’m not going to let a crazy, old coot ruin my birthday.” Penny Sue jammed the key into the weathered lock and bumped her hip against the door. The warped wood gave with a loud pop. She stomped down the hallway, security alarm screeching its armed-state, as a robotic voice demanded, “Halt! Who goes there?” Penny Sue keyed in the code to the alarm with one hand and elbowed a button on top of Lu Nee 2’s head—our robotic security guard and maid (massive exaggeration). “Boy, that was a good show. Y’all couldn’t have given me a better birthday present.” She flipped on lights and headed for the kitchen. “I laughed until my face hurt. The person who wrote that play had to be a woman.”
The play in question was Midlife Crisis, a fitting birthday gift because Penny Sue had just turned forty-seven and experienced much of the play’s subject matter—whether she admitted it or not. The y’alls who couldn’t have given Penny Sue Parker a better gift were Ruthie Jo Nichols, and me, Rebecca Leigh Stratton, her old-time college sorority sisters and new-time cohorts in the DAFFODILS (Divorced And Finally Free Of Deceitful, Insensitive, Licentious Scum).
Virtually The Three Musketeers at the University of Georgia, we’d grown apart over the years, what with all our marriages, kids, and whatnot. It was my divorce that brought us back together and to New Smyrna Beach. I’d been living in Penny Sue’s daddy’s condo since my house in Roswell, Georgia sold last year. The condo was intended to be a stopgap move to tide me over until my property settlement was finalized. But, I’d grown attached to the place and made little effort to move, even though my share of the settlement had finally come through.
The complex was a rare find that I couldn’t duplicate elsewhere, because it was built on an incline and arranged so each condo had an ocean view. Our unit was in the single story oceanfront building. Up the hill a short distance, two-story duplexes flanked our building—their back balconies overlooking our parking lot and the Atlantic Ocean. Finally, a three-story duplex rounded out the cluster. Centered behind the two-story buildings, the tall duplex’s balconies had a great view over our roof.
I cruised the sand driveways of each cluster daily, searching for sale signs, desperately hoping to get a jump on the competition. And, there was a lot of competition for property on this quarter-mile stretch of wide, car-free beach. Yep, that’s car-free, not carefree, though it’s that, too.
New Smyrna and Daytona Beaches are two of the last ocean resorts that allow beach driving. The famous Daytona Beach races were originally run on the hard-packed sand, establishing a tradition that most old-timers considered an inalienable right, in the same class with free speech and the right to bear arms. Yet, times change, and sea turtles—facing extinction—were no match for the cars and campers that cruised the ocean’s edge. So, a deal was struck between the county and Federal environmentalists, where half of the beach permitted driving and half didn’t. That way, sea turtles had a place to nest where they wouldn’t have to dodge cars, and locals had a place to park, picnic, and swim for the day.
A side benefit of the compromise was a massive increase in real estate values for beachfront property in the non-driving section. Predictably, tourists with young children clamored to buy or rent apartments in the “safe” zone, sending real estate values through the roof. It’s the “through the roof” part that worried me. I wanted to buy a beachfront unit like Judge Parker’s. At current prices, I could just afford it on my divorce settlement. The way the market was moving, beachfront would be out of range within a few months. To call it a seller’s market was an understatement. A couple of B-units—the two story duplexes in the middle of each cluster—came on the market and were sold before I could get the owner on the telephone. And I was calling from their driveway on my cell phone! In each case, I’d waited until eight-thirty AM to phone, judging that a respectable hour. Both times I was told the owner had just accepted an offer. The buyers, whoever they were, could not have been Southerners, or least not mannerly ones. Calling before nine was pushing the envelope of civility, calling before eight-thirty was downright barbaric. After that, I decided I’d better cruise the development twice a day.
“Which will it be?” Penny Sue asked, holding up a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. “A cordial or decaf?”
Ruthie was oblivious to the question, preoccupied with tuning the television to the Weather Channel. An insatiable news junkie who read newspapers and watched cable news every chance she got—“One must be informed”—Ruthie had been fretting about two tropical storms, Bonnie and Charley, which had formed in the Caribbean. Thankfully, Bonnie had moved into the Gulf of Mexico and out of our range, while the jury was still out on Charley.
Penny Sue curled her lip peevishly. “Well, what will it be?” she snapped.
“Both,” I said quickly. “How about decaf with a little Bailey’s in it?”
“That would be great,” Ruthie said distractedly, eyes glued to Dr. Steve, the Weather Channel’s hurricane expert.
I took the coffee pot from Penny Sue. “Sit down, birthday girl. This is your day.” I looked at the clock. Eleven PM. “Only one more hour to enjoy.”
Penny Sue hopped—hefted might be more accurate—onto the stool at the end of the L-shaped bar separating the kitchen from the great room and dining area. The focal point of the condominium, the spacious area had a vaulted ceiling and two walls with sliding glass doors that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean to the east and natural vegetation on the south.
With the moon overhead a mere sliver and the No Outside Light Ordinance in effect for turtle nesting season, the natural beauty was invisible. Still, you knew it was there and could feel the energy of the ocean, plants, and wildlife all around, which is what I loved about the place. Although New Smyrna had the foresight to pass a high-rise ordinance that limited complexes to nine stories, the new condos, for all their glitz and glamour, could not match the majestic—almost spiritual—atmosphere of this low rise, natural community. Geez, I hoped I’d get to buy one. After living in the Judge’s place, I didn’t think anything else would be the same.
I dumped water into Mr. Coffee and flipped the switch. The water started to drip, sending a pleasant hazelnut scent though the room.
Penny Sue swiveled her stool to face Ruthie, perched on the edge of the sofa and listening intently to Dr. Steve.
“Another hurricane, wouldn’t you know it?” Penny Sue moaned.
On our first visit—the Let’s-Cheer-Up-Leigh-After-Her-Rotten-Divorce trip—there’d been a hurricane. That storm turned out to be the least of our worries. I tripped over a body on the second day, which unleashed absolute hell. None of it was our doing, mind you. Pure and simply a matter of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Still, for all the torment, the trip was a success since it did take my mind off my divorce and my two-timing, asset-hiding ex-husband, Zack. It also convinced me to leave Atlanta and move to New Smyrna Beach.
“What does Dr. Steve have to say?” Penny Sue called to Ruthie.
“Bonnie’s safely into the Gulf and about to make landfall in the Panhandle,” Ruthie replied without shifting her eyes from the television. “Charley’s south of Cuba, headed for the Gulf, but may take a northerly turn.” She looked up grimly as I handed her a cup of Bailey’s coffee. “I sure hope it follows Bonnie’s path. After our first trip, I don’t relish the thought of going back into that owner’s closet.”
The owner’s closet is a large storage room found in most resort condos. Designed to keep personal items away from renters’ prying eyes and sticky fingers, the closet turned into a prison on our first stay, thanks to some mobsters who thought we had something we didn’t. Which brought me to the other reason for our reunion in Florida, besides Penny Sue’s birthday. We’d been notified that we might be called next week to give depositions for the trial of the head honcho of a drug smuggling ring.
Judge Parker, Penny Sue’s daddy, said we probably wouldn’t have to appear—the government had a mountain of evidence from undercover operations—still, we had to be available, and it was a good excuse to get together.
Penny Sue hopped down from her stool and strode our way. “Have you put up a hurricane box?” she asked me.
I stared into my mug, as if looking for bugs or other foreign matter. “No.” I squirmed under her scrutiny. “I’ve been busy with the property settlement, Ann (my daughter—a long story I’ll explain later), and I do have a job, you know. Besides, New Smyrna Beach has never taken a direct hit from a hurricane.”
Penny Sue sipped her coffee thoughtfully. I marveled that smoke didn’t billow from her ears, the wheels in her head were whirling so fast.
“Better safe than sorry. That’s our first priority tomorrow. You have the day off, don’t you, Leigh?”
“I took the whole week off in case we have to go to Orlando for the depositions.”
“Good,” she said emphatically. “A box of supplies won’t take much effort, and we really should do it before a storm heads this way. If we wait, grocery shelves will be bare. It may already be too late. Stores sell out of water, bread, and toilet paper first thing.”
Water and bread I could understand. Toilet paper? The stress of the storms gave everyone the runs? Possible, I suppose. In any event, I wasn’t going to argue with Penny Sue. She’d morphed into her take-charge, schoolteacher persona. There was no reasoning with that one.
Understand, Penny Sue is not a multiple personality. She’s simply a Leo, who has to be on top and in charge. God forbid something should happen that she wasn’t prepared for. Yet, a kinder person you’d never find. “You’ve never been loved until you’ve been loved by a Leo,” Ruthie had said repeatedly. “They’re generous to a fault.” But, like the lion in the Wizard of Oz, you’d better acknowledge a Leo’s generosity and importance or that big ego was shattered. She didn’t cry like Dorothy’s hairy friend in Oz—a pout was more Penny Sue’s style. You could tell her feelings were hurt when her lower lip protruded.
Of course, with the silicon lip injections Hollywood stars got nowadays, it was hard to tell when they were sulking. To me, most movie stars looked like they were pouting or, worse, had recently been backhanded in the mouth.
“I don’t want to stay in that closet again. If Charley heads this way, we should evacuate, don’t you think?” Ruthie said nervously.
Penny Sue ran her fingers through her meticulously streaked hair—four colors, she’d informed us, a three hundred dollar job. “There’s no need to run if it’s only a Category 1 storm that’s moving fast. Heck, those things only last a few hours. A little champagne and caviar and you won’t even notice it.”
Ruthie looked doubtful. “Don’t you remember how hot the room got the last time?”
I snatched a coaster and put my mug on the coffee table. “Guess what? There’s a vent at the back of the closet. I found it when I packed away my linens and discovered it was closed.”
“All that sweating for nothing?” Penny Sue went to the closet and peeked in. She reeled backward, bumping Lu Nee 2, which unleashed a torrent of “Whoops!, Watch outs!, Take me to your leader.”
“Lord,” she grumbled, smacking the button on Lu Nee’s head. “Where did all this stuff come from?”
I cleared my throat. “Well,” I started sheepishly, “I had to move out of my house fast and didn’t have time to sort through everything. So I brought it with me.”
Penny Sue stared, pointing at the closet. “Don’t tell me these are the linens Zack took half of? Like these are all bottom sheets, no tops?”
Yep, the rat took all the tops, no bottoms. One of each pair of pillowcases. I smiled weakly, hating to admit my foolishness.
“Well, it’s got to go. We need room for a cooler and some chairs.” Penny Sue screwed her nose up. “Why do you want that stuff? It’s no good—you don’t have a complete set of anything. Bad memories, it’s nothing but bad memories. Put the past behind you. Throw them away.”
She was right; I didn’t have a whole set of anything, thanks to my sleazy ex-husband. The worm took half of everything in our house. Half the pictures on the wall, half the furniture, and half of each set of china and crystal, and we had a lot—several generations of china from both our families. As the old joke goes, if Jesus came back to feed the ten thousand, a Southern woman would have a place setting for everyone.
The sneaky beast had waited until I went to visit my parents then swooped in like a vulture. The hatefulness stunned me, considering he was responsible for the divorce. Mr. Big Shot Attorney found himself a young stripper while he entertained clients. And the sleazebag had the gall to rent a house for his mistress in our neighborhood. Every night I went to bed thinking he was sanding wood in his garage workshop. Hell, he was stroking silicon breasts!
His scam worked for over a year, until our daughter, Ann, was picked up for DUI late one night. I went to the garage to tell Zack. His car was gone.
“Why are you glaring at me?” Penny Sue asked, her bottom lip inching forward. “Keep the linens, if you want. It was only a suggestion.”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking off the rotten memories. “I was thinking of Zack.”
Penny Sue nodded sympathetically. A person who’d been around the altar three times, she had her own regrets—the worst being Sydney, her second husband, who turned out to be bisexual. It’s one thing to be dumped for a woman, and quite another to be dumped for a man. That was a real slap in the face for her, as well as for Judge Parker. Yep, her daddy took Sydney’s shenanigans very personally. Penny Sue is quite wealthy as a result of that parting.
“Sorry, Leigh, I didn’t mean to drag up dirty linen.” She smirked, pleased with her witticism.
I rolled my eyes.
“What if it’s a Category 2 storm?” Ruthie asked anxiously, having missed the whole conversation about Zack. “We won’t stay then, will we? There would probably be storm surge; we could be flooded.”
Penny Sue huffed. “There are two big dunes between us and the beach, for crissakes. If it makes you feel better, we’ll evacuate for a Category 2. Of course, that means we’ll have to go to a school and sit in a hallway with a bunch of screaming kids.”
“School?” Ruthie repeated, biting her fingernail. “I figured we’d go to one of the hotels in Orlando or St. Augustine.”
“If we can get a room. This is tourist season—everything’s already booked.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ruthie replied.
Our sensitive friend was working herself into a tizzy. Ruthie had run her hands through her hair so many times her bangs were standing straight up. I patted her knee reassuringly. “Don’t worry—the storm won’t hit us. It’s south of Cuba and headed for the Gulf. We’ll lay in supplies as a precaution. New Smyrna has never taken a direct hit.”
“Everyone keeps saying that. Did you ever think that we might be overdue? Besides, a glancing blow from a Category 2 storm is nothing to sneeze at. Winds can be as high as 110 mph.” Her voice was up an octave. “Imagine driving a car at 110 mph and sticking your arm out of the window. Think how that would feel!”
Ouch! I’d never thought in those terms. My stomach suddenly knotted. “Maybe we should try to find a hotel.”
“Y’all are worrywarts,” Penny Sue said, eyeing the clock. “Only a few minutes left of my birthday, and you’re whining about something that may never happen.” She sashayed to the kitchen and poured herself a Bailey’s on the rocks. “Come on, let’s party!” She held her drink up.
Ruthie and I shook our heads. One liquor-laced coffee was enough.
“I know what you need.” Penny Sue pushed the CD for Midlife Crisis into the boom box and turned the volume to high. The musical’s spoof of “Heat Wave” bounced from the vaulted ceiling.
Glass held high, Penny Sue twirled to the driving rhythm. Suddenly, she planted her feet. Snapping her fingers like the dance scene in West Side Story, she gyrated toward us, stopped within inches of our faces and crooned, “It’s a hot flash burning up my spine. … A hot flash that makes my forehead shine.” She snapped her fingers. “Come on,” she chided, “don’t be sticks in the mud.”
The energy was infectious. I glanced at Ruthie, who shrugged and giggled. “What the hell?”
Next thing I knew, Ruthie and I were gulping wine, shaking our booties, and singing three-part harmony.
The heck with Charley! Tomorrow was another day. Now, we were going to party for the last few minutes of Penny Sue’s birthday.
* * *
Chapter 2
August 13, New Smyrna Beach, FL
Rinn-ng, rinn-ng. BAM, BAM, BAM. “Halt, who goes there?” Lu Nee 2’s mechanical voice squawked.
I rolled to my side and checked the clock. Eight AM. What dimwit would come calling at eight in the morning? Then I realized it was Friday the thirteenth. Fitting. I hoped this wasn’t an omen for the rest of the day. I snatched my robe from the end of the bed and headed down the hall followed by Ruthie. Penny Sue was already at the door, eye pressed against the peephole, hands holding her head. It looked like she’d slightly over-celebrated with the Bailey’s Irish Cream.
Penny Sue was a sight, as my mother says, with her hair standing on end and mascara streaking her cheeks. The only saving grace was a spiffy, pink print kimono.
“It’s a tall, skinny guy with salt and pepper hair,” she whispered.
I nudged her aside and took a look. “That’s Guthrie.”
Penny Sue regarded me like I’d dropped in from outer space. “Guthrie? Who the heck,” she paused to massage her temples, “is Guthrie? What kind of name is that?”
“He’s staying in the two-story unit on the far left. His name is Guthrie Fribble.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Guthrie Fribble? You’ve got to be kidding.” She turned on her heel. “It’s barely light, for godsakes! I’m not in the mood for Fribble’s dribble.” She stomped past me to the master suite and slammed the door.
BAM, BAM, BAM. Whether Guthrie heard Penny Sue’s comment, I don’t know, but he was not giving up. “Leigh, it’s me, Guthrie. Something’s happened! Something bad,” he shouted.
Penny Sue must have been listening from her bedroom. The “something bad” apparently got her attention. She barreled from her room and opened the front door.
The three of us must have been an eye full, because Guthrie went mute.
“What happened?” Penny Sue demanded.
Guthrie, barefooted and dressed in baggy jeans with a very faded Arlo Guthrie tee shirt, backed away.
I patted the air soothingly. “Sorry, you woke us up.” Guthrie was an old hippie—about 50, I guessed—who might have done a few too many drugs in his youth. Still, he was a neighbor who’d been staying in his aunt and uncle’s place for the last few months. My intuition said he was gay, though it really didn’t make any difference. He’d always been nice to me and was a good guy as far as I could tell. “What happened?”
“Little Mrs. King’s in the hospital. Someone tried to break into her condo, and she had a heart attack.”
My hand went to my mouth. I had no idea who he was talking about. “Mrs. King?” I asked sheepishly.
“My next door neighbor.”
Oh, that lady. She was a quiet, sweet widow approaching 80, whom I knew as Nana.
“Someone broke into her house?” Penny Sue asked.
“They tried to pry open the window in the garage and set off the burglar alarm. The alarm must have scared Nana and caused the heart attack. She had a weak heart, you know.”
“I didn’t know about her heart,” I confessed, feeling like a dirty dog for not taking more interest in my neighbor.
Guthrie’s hand went to his heart. “And now Hurricane Charley …”
“What about Charley?” Ruthie snapped, eyes widening.
I pushed open the screen door, the rusty spring stretching with a loud twang. “Let’s talk about this over coffee.”
Guthrie took the stool at the corner of the L-shaped bar. Ruthie flicked on the television that was still tuned to the Weather Channel from the night before. While I scooped Columbian grounds into Mr. Coffee, Penny Sue made toast.
“There, see?” Guthrie exclaimed, pointing at the television and a jumble of colored lines fanning out from Charley’s location. “Those are computer forecasts of the storm’s path. Check out Mr. Yellow.”
Ruthie sank onto the sofa, her expression grim. “It goes right through Central Florida and could become a Category 3.”
Penny Sue slid a basket of toast, knives, jelly, and stack of napkins on the counter. “A hurricane box is our first priority.” She glanced at the clock. “The stores are probably packed already.”
“Yeah, sure.” I passed Guthrie a mug of coffee. “How is Nana?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Her alarm woke me. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it. Luckily, she wore one of those medical emergency necklaces. Like the ones in the commercial where the lady falls and can’t get up. Nana had the strength to push the button, so it couldn’t have been a massive heart attack. The police and ambulance arrived at about the same time.”
“The burglars didn’t get in?”
“No, I guess the alarm scared them away. The police are dusting for fingerprints now. Ten bucks says it was some kids looking for quick cash. Dummies. That window had an alarm sticker on it.”
Penny Sue washed down two ibuprofens with her coffee. “Those warnings don’t make much difference. So many people put up stickers who don’t have alarms, they’re not much of a deterrent anymore.”
Guthrie nodded. “She doesn’t have an outside bell, so the kids probably thought the sticker was a fake. Nana told me the outside bell kept rusting in the salt air, and she was tired of replacing it. She had an extra loud alarm installed inside, figuring that noise would scare away thieves. Seems it worked. Only, it nearly scared her away,” he glanced at the ceiling, “like, permanently.”
Ruthie sat next to Guthrie and snagged a piece of toast. “If Charley comes this way, will you stay?”
“I guess,” he said, waving at the radar image on the TV. “Where would I go that’s not in the line of fire?”
“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.
Penny Sue surveyed our handiwork with satisfaction. “We’re ready for Charley. Bring it on.”
“Where is Charley?” Ruthie asked anxiously. She checked the clock over the credenza. “Eleven-forty-eight. It’s time for the hurricane update.” She dove for the TV remote and punched buttons like a crazy woman. Thankfully, the set was tuned to the station. Dr. Steve, the hurricane expert, had just come on.
The state of Florida appeared on the screen, an ominous yellow cone extending from a red pinwheel in the Gulf of Mexico and fanning out over the central part of the state.
“It’s a Category 2,” Ruthie murmured, “and we’re in the strike zone.”
“Don’t start panicking,” Penny Sue chided. “It’s supposed to hit the west coast and move east across the state. Hurricanes always lose strength over land. And, look, we’re still close to the bottom of the danger zone—meaning the weak side of the storm. Tropical force winds are probably the worse we’ll get.”
Ruthie pulled at her lip, not speaking until Dr. Steve finished and a commercial began. “It has the potential to become a Category 3. I think we should evacuate. I’m going to call inland hotels.”
“Go ahead, if it will make you feel better. But Charley’s going to blow out, and we’ll have a fun party,” Penny Sue said matter-of-factly.
“What about Frannie May?” Ruthie turned to me.
Frannie May, a.k.a. Fran Annina, was my co-worker at the Marine Conservation Center. A wealthy, Italian widow in her sixties, Frannie had taken me under her wing and become a good friend to us all. She was also feisty, á la Penny Sue. She showed her stuff in our pursuit of renegade bikers by kicking the butt of a man a foot and a half taller. No kidding, she literally kicked his butt. I did a mental chuckle at the memory of Frannie hanging from the guy’s neck, her legs flailing for all she was worth.
“Frannie?” Ruthie repeated.
“She’s in Boston. Her sister’s in the hospital.”
“What about Carl?” Ruthie continued.
Carl was Frannie’s genius son. He was also a Star Trek fan who engaged in role playing games with his MIT-educated buddies. Carl played a Klingon, other friends played Romulans. They kept reenacting something called the Battle of Khitomer. This battle was apparently a big deal in alien circles. I’d intended to get old Star Trek tapes and look it up, but never found the time. I had tried to fix my daughter up with Carl, but it didn’t work. She wasn’t a Trekkie. A shame. A good-looking millionaire, who was kind to his mother, Carl Annina was a catch by almost anyone’s standards. Anyone except my Ann, who wasn’t drawn to the Trekkie stuff. Oh, well, Ann Annina was a tongue twister. “I know he’s working on a project, but he may be in town. Why do you ask?”
Ruthie began to pace. “I’d like to think there’s someone around if we need help.”
“How about Deputy Ted?” Penny Sue said brightly.
Ted Moore was a very nice guy who worked for the Volusia County Sheriff’s office. Recently divorced, like me, we’d struck up a friendship that was beginning to develop. Beginning was as far as it got, however. A front page newspaper photo of Ted and me holding hands at an art fair was enough to get his ex-wife’s back up. Suddenly, she needed to confer with him daily on their sons’ welfare. The boys were sassing her, hanging out with the wrong crowd, might be doing drugs, and on and on ad nauseum. Her manipulation was crystal clear to me, but not to Ted. When he canceled the third date for a kid catastrophe, I called it quits, telling him to call me when he got his life sorted out. I was having enough trouble sorting out my own life; proof being the huge stack of mismatched sheets piled in the utility room.
I cleared my throat. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“You’re not?” Penny Sue called, fanny up, head buried in the refrigerator. She came out with three cellophane-wrapped sandwiches. “How about a Cuban? I’m starving. All we’ve had was toast, and we ended up throwing most of it on the floor.” She snickered.
Ruthie and I nodded. My stomach was feeling hollow. Besides, eating might divert their attention from Ted. No such luck.
“What became of Ted?” Penny Sue pulled out a skillet and started to grill the sandwiches.
I sat at the counter as Ruthie arranged placemats and napkins. “There’s not much to tell. In a nutshell, his life is complicated—young kids and a possessive ex-wife.”
“Hmph,” Penny Sue grunted as she forcefully mashed the sandwiches with a spatula. “I’ll bet his wife wanted the divorce until she found out someone else was interested in Ted. Happens all the time. Once she’s sure y’all are finished, she’ll dump him again. You watch.” She slid a sandwich onto a plate and passed it to Ruthie, who added a handful of chips. “Let’s hope he’s smart enough to go that route only once. I dated a jerk that did the number three times. Mind you, one time was enough for me. I hear his next girlfriend has already been around that track twice.” She scooped out the last two sandwiches and took the stool beside me. “Would you take Ted back?” she asked, biting into the sandwich. “Mm-m, these things are good. They don’t do much for the waistline,” she patted a newly acquired perimenopausal paunch, “but do wonders for my mood. If we’re going to wrestle a hurricane, we’ll need our strength.”
I looked sidelong at Ruthie, who’d stopped chewing. Darn, I wish Penny Sue hadn’t said wrestle. “Don’t worry, Ruthie, Guthrie will be here if we need anything. He’s a nice man.”
Ruthie stared back at me. She wasn’t buying a word of it.
It was after one when we finished lunch. Penny Sue retired to her boudoir to select an outfit for the hurricane. (Lord knows which personality said that line, probably Scarlett O’Hara. If Penny Sue came out wrapped in curtains, I’d know for sure.) Ruthie—on pins and needles as she waited for the two o’clock storm update—took her cell phone to the deck and started calling hotels. I made my bed, took a quick shower to knock off the closet dust and called Bert Fish, the local hospital, to check on Mrs. King. She was resting quietly. I tried to wheedle information about her family—like, had they been notified? Had anyone arrived to sit with her?—but the ward nurse was too professional to spill any beans. Next, I called New Smyrna Beach Florist. They were closing early for the hurricane, but I was in luck. The van hadn’t left, and they had a nice, cheery arrangement in stock. I put it on my charge card. I guess we had a bad connection, because the storekeeper couldn’t seem to get our address right, and made me repeat it twice.
Exactly at one forty-five we all rushed, like trained monkeys, to the living room and the next tropical report. Ruthie watched the broadcast, hands touching her lips prayerfully. I sat on the edge of the loveseat, and I noticed that Penny Sue, normally nonchalant, gripped her diet soda tensely.
A meteorologist I didn’t recognize came on and announced that Charley’s eye wall showed the storm was gaining strength. If that wasn’t enough, the storm was moving faster. Several models predicted it would make landfall around Tampa. New Smyrna was on the lower edge of the strike zone.
Penny Sue took a big gulp of soda. “See, Ruthie? Worse we’ll get are tropical force winds. We’re home free.”
Ruthie shot Penny Sue a cynical look. “If it hits, we’ll be on the right—STRONG—side of the storm.”
Penny Sue downed the rest of her cola. “For a New Ager, you’re awfully fearful. Can’t you contact your spirit guides to confirm the storm’s path?”
Ruthie folded her arms defensively. “I’m not bothering my guides with earthly matters.”
“Enough said.” Penny Sue sashayed toward the kitchen, exaggerating the fanny action. “If earthly matters are not worthy of the spirits’ time, they’re not worth ours. We are spiritual beings, right? Ruthie, you need to put your actions where your mouth is.”
I glanced at Ruthie whose face was beet red. Penny Sue had lobbed a real zinger!
Thankfully, the doorbell rang at that moment, proof that spirits were looking after Ruthie.
Penny Sue virtually ran to get the door, obviously realizing she’d stepped way over the line. My stomach seized, fearful it was Guthrie with news of Mrs. King. I heard the twang of the screen door, a slight yelp, and the front door clicked shut.
“What?” I called, dreading the answer.
Penny Sue emerged from the hall holding a single pink rose. “Look.” She held out the flower with a New Smyrna Beach Florist card attached. The card was addressed to Penny Sue and simply said, “You haven’t been out of my mind since I first saw you.”
* * *
Chapter 3
August 13, New Smyrna Beach, FL
“I wonder who sent this?” Penny Sue mused, placing the rose in a bud vase. She turned the card over—no other inscription. “The florist must know.” She dialed the number on the card and waited a long time. “Darn, they’ve closed early for the hurricane.”
Ruthie sniffed the rose. “I’ll bet it was Rich.”
“Rich?” Penny Sue shot back, irritability masking her sorrow. “How could Rich know I was here? He’s in the witness protection program, probably sequestered in Timbuktu.”
Rich Wheeler was a man Penny Sue fell in love with on our last trip. Unfortunately, Rich got mixed up with some very rough bikers who were engaged in scary activities. They nearly killed Rich, so the Feds shuttled him away for his own safety. How long that would last, no one knew; but Rich vowed he’d return to Penny Sue one day.
“Sorry, Rich was my first thought. Pink roses stand for admiration.”
“Admiration? I’ll bet it was Yuri,” I said.
“Who’s Yuri?” Ruthie asked.
“A sleazy realtor who wants to buy up the complex. He’s trying to butter you up,” I said to Penny Sue.
“Sleazy? I thought he was a nice guy. Not bad looking, either.” Penny Sue studied the rose smugly. “He helped us bring in the groceries.” She paused again, the wheels in her head whirring. “Admiration. What stands for love?”
“Red roses.”
Penny Sue grinned. “I’ll bet it was Yuri. Rich would have sent a red rose.”
“Does that mean Rich is history?” I asked.
“No,” she snapped, her brows knitting. “Even though I love Rich, it doesn’t mean I have to check into a nunnery. Nothing wrong with an occasional date until he gets home. After all, we’re not married.”
True, she wasn’t married or even officially engaged. Besides, flirting to Penny Sue was akin to breathing, an involuntary biological process. I was certain she’d been faithful to all three of her husbands—even the two who didn’t return the favor—still, she’d always been a flirt. The thrill of victory, I supposed, to see how many men she could attract. And lord knows, that was a lot.
A loud horn blared, and Penny Sue’s romances were instantly forgotten. Lu Nee 2 whirled in circles, demanding, “Halt! Who goes there?” The Furby woke up too, moaning, “Big sound, scare me!”
Ruthie, Penny Sue, and I stood like slack-jawed fools, trying to figure out where the sound came from. Then, a loud male voice boomed, “At two forty-five, Volusia County issued a mandatory evacuation for all mobile and manufactured homes.”
The weather radio! We rushed to the closet.
“Shelters will open at four PM and close to new entrants between eight and nine PM. Tropical force winds are expected by ten PM. Bridges from the beach to the mainland will close when winds reach 38 mph. All Daytona Beach International Airport flights have been cancelled.”
Ruthie sank into one of the plastic chairs. “A mandatory evacuation! The airport’s closed and there are no hotel rooms to be found. We’re stuck.”
Ring, ring. Bam, Bam, Bam. The Furby screeched, “Whoa-a-a!” Lu Nee 2 exclaimed, “Where did that come from?”
Penny Sue put her hands over her ears, stomped down the hall, and flung the door open with a thud. There was a long pause then she started to laugh. “Come here, you’ve got to see this!”
Ruthie and I turned off the weather radio and double-timed it to the door.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Guthrie was on the stoop dressed in his Arlo Guthrie tee shirt, baggy madras shorts (circa 1972) with a chicken tied around his knee. Yep, you heard right, a chicken! A whole, frozen, Purdue roaster.
“Leigh,” he began, pitifully, “I’ve hurt myself, Charley’s coming, and I’m all alone. Can I stay with you?”
Penny Sue’s eyes were glued to the chicken. “What’s with the poultry?” she asked.
“Publix sold out of ice. My freezer’s turned to high, but it can’t make ice fast enough for drinks and my knee. The chicken is frozen—as good as ice.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I’m so upset. My friend isn’t going to come—he has to stay with his mother. I can’t go to his place, because Mother doesn’t approve of our relationship. With Mrs. King in the hospital, I’m all by myself. On top of that, the Russians are coming. Can I stay with you? Or will you come to my place?”
Penny Sue opened the screen door and waved him in. Once again, he took the seat at the corner of the bar, propping his leg up to rearrange the Ace bandage and rotate his chicken.
“Can I get you something?” Penny Sue asked. “Like a stiff drink?”
His eyes shifted from Ruthie to me. “A scotch would be nice. Neat.”
Penny Sue poured four fingers of scotch in a glass with a few cubes of ice. “I suppose we’d better conserve our own ice.” She handed Guthrie the drink. “How did you hurt your knee?”
“I was upstairs making brownies—”
Marijuana brownies? I wondered. Wasn’t that a scene in Alice’s Restaurant?
“—when I heard a scraping noise coming from the back of our duplex. Low, like maybe the crawl space.” He took a good swallow of his scotch. “I listened for a while, and started to think someone was trying to break into Mrs. King’s house again. So, I got my Glock—”
“Glock, like a gun?” Penny Sue asked.
He nodded and sucked down more scotch. “I got my Glock, ran to the porch, and tripped over the front door mat. I fell down the first flight of steps and landed hard on this knee. It’s horribly bruised and swollen. Want to see?” He started fumbling with the Ace bandage.
I held up both hands. “Not necessary—we believe you.”
“Did you figure out what the noise was?” Ruthie asked.
He shook his head. “No, it was all I could do to crawl up the stairs to my condo. Anyway, the noise stopped as soon as I fell. I guess I scared them away.” He took another gulp of liquor. “The pain was excruciating. So, I iced my knee down and called Timothy, my friend. I thought he’d rush over to help me.” Guthrie wiped his eyes. “No such luck. Timothy’s sister couldn’t stay with their mother, so he had to bring Mother,” Guthrie virtually spate the word, “to his house for the storm.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked. “We’d have helped.”
“I couldn’t find your number. Leigh Stratton isn’t listed.”
Right. I was using the judge’s phone and had never made the effort to have my name listed. I scribbled our number on a Post-It note. Here, call us next time.”
“Thank you.” He rotated the chicken and gave us a pitiful look. “The last day has been so trying. I can’t face the hurricane alone.”
Ruthie, Ms. Sensitive Pisces, stroked his back. “Don’t worry, you’re welcome here. In times like these, we have to stick together.”
Penny Sue closed her eyes and bumped her forehead against the kitchen cabinet. Thankfully, that was all. I could tell she wanted to vault over the counter and strangle Ruthie. I wasn’t jumping with joy at the prospect of Guthrie sleeping on the sofa, but he seemed nice enough and definitely needed our help.
“I won’t be any trouble,” Guthrie said. “I have a sleeping bag. You’ll never know I’m here. I’ll bring dinner. I’m making a hobo stew out of all of these,” he motioned to the chicken, “frozen foods.”
Penny Sue gave me the squinty eye. “What else have you used on your knee?”
“Green beans, corn, the usual.” Guthrie held his glass up for a refill.