Murder is the Pits Read Free Page B

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