Murder is the Pits (19 page)

Gushing Southern peace and light, Penny Sue
followed the two men to the door. What returned was more akin to
Attilla the Hun. “Yuri is not a crook,” she stated angrily, arms
folded over her chest.

I cackled. “Geez, you sound like Richard
Nixon.”

“I do not!” She flashed a mean look as she
headed for the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. “Guthrie doesn’t
know anything. That was the dumbest movie I’ve ever seen.”

“Or didn’t see,” I snickered. “You snored
through most of it.”

“Snore?!” She chugged her wine
indignantly.

I tried to hide my grin. “Okay, breathed
heavily; plus every now and then you choked and gurgled.”

Penny Sue’s eyes turned to saucers. “Choke
and gurgle?! I do not!”

Ruthie dipped her chin. “Yes, you do.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, horrified.

I bit the inside of my lip to stop laughing.
“You do snore … have for a long time. So what? If you didn’t snore,
you’d be perfect, and who wants to be perfect? Perfect is
boring.”

She took the bottle of Chardonnay by the
neck and refilled her glass. “I may have a minor flaw or two, but I
know I don’t snore. Men snore!”

“Women do, too,” Ruthie said. “It can be a
sign of sleep apnea, especially the choking and gurgling. I was
going to say something—”

“What the hell is sleep apnea?” Penny Sue
held up the wine bottle. Ruthie and I both gave her a thumbs-up. If
ever there was a situation for wine among friends, this was it.
Snoring was not a topic Southern women want to discuss.

A Southern woman does not sweat, she
glistens, glows—or in extreme cases—perspires. A Southern woman
does not wear patent leather shoes after five
PM
or white (except winter white, which is really
cream) after Labor Day. Lord knows, a Southern woman may breathe
heavily—after all, it is hot in the South—but she does not snore!
No question, not done. Period.

Penny Sue handed us our drinks. “Is sleep
apnea a disease, like malaria or something? What makes you such an
expert, Ruthie?”

Ruthie sipped her Chardonnay. “It’s not a
disease; it’s a condition. Poppa’s housekeeper has it. Her snoring
used to shake the walls—kept Poppa and Mr. Wong awake all night.
Poppa finally mentioned it to his doctor, who told him she probably
had an obstruction of the airway that occurs when people sleep on
their backs. Poppa sent her for tests, and she tested positive, big
time. Now she sleeps with a mask that keeps her windpipe open, so
she doesn’t snore.”

Penny Sue’s face contorted with horror, as
if Ruthie has suggested a tracheotomy. “What kind of mask?”

“It covers her nose and blows air down her
windpipe.”

“Oh gawd!” Penny Sue’s hand fluttered to her
heart. “You don’t really think I have it, do you?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to be tested when you get
home,” Ruthie said. “It can damage your heart.”

“Lord have mercy!” Penny Sue started rubbing
her chest. “Is there a cure other than the stupid mask? That would
kinda screw up your love life. Who wants to sleep with Darth
Vader?”

Ruthie dipped her chin apologetically. “The
condition seems to come on with age, excess weight, allergies, and
alcohol.”

Penny Sue’s eyes shot darts. “I am not old
or fat!”

I noticed she left out alcohol.

“I didn’t say that,” Ruthie added hastily.
“As we age, muscles, like the windpipe, naturally lose tone, and
our metabolism slows down.”

Penny Sue stalked to the refrigerator and
returned with a large jar of olives. She dumped some in a bowl and
popped one into her mouth. “Ruthie, you’re anorexic. You’re hardly
one to talk about metabolism.”

Ruthie grabbed a handful of olives and
downed them all. “I am not anorexic. I’m blessed with a high
metabolism. You saw me eat a brownie.”

“Half!”

“Whole!”

Yikes, this was going nowhere! And I was not
in the mood for bickering. Best to change the subject. “Who do you
think sent the rose?” I asked Penny Sue.

She sighed. “I thought it was Yuri. Now I’m
not sure. Maybe it was Rich.”

“Who made the delivery?” I asked.

“New Smyrna Florist. They apologized for
running late.”

“We’ll call them tomorrow and see if we can
get a name.”

Another big sigh. “I can’t believe Yuri’s a
crook. He seemed like a nice guy.”

Boy, I’d heard that one before. Penny Sue
was impetuous and hardly the best judge of male character,
especially if the male was good looking, sad, or seemed to have
money. “Guthrie and I think he has bad vibes,” I said.
“Money-grubbing vibes. You have to admit his interest in Mrs. King
seemed mercenary.”

Penny Sue ate a few olives and started
drumming her fingers on the counter. “It’s still light. Let’s go
back to Yuri’s office and check out the flyers in his window.”

“Are you serious?” Ruthie asked.

“Hell, yes. Grab the halogen
flashlight.”

Ten minutes later, Penny Sue parked around
the corner and once again cajoled Ruthie into checking Yuri’s
window. “You’re the logical choice. He’s met Leigh and me.”

“You don’t think this big yellow Mercedes is
a give away?” Ruthie snagged the flashlight and headed down the
street angrily. She wasn’t gone long. “No units in Sea Dunes listed
on the flyers.” She slammed her door.

“See, Yuri isn’t a crook,” Penny Sue said
smugly as she put the car in gear, made a U-turn, and headed back
across the North Causeway Bridge.

“Maybe,” I replied pensively.

Penny Sue stared at me. “What do you mean
‘maybe?’”

“If he were involved in a plot to buy up Sea
Dunes, he wouldn’t post it on his window.”

“You’re right,” Ruthie said. “The listings
were all his own. If he was going door-to-door searching for a
unit, it would have sold right away and never been listed. A
realtor could probably tell us if anything has sold recently, even
if it wasn’t officially on the market. Don’t know a realtor, do
you, Leigh?”

“As a matter of fact, I do—a volunteer at
the center.” I snatched Penny Sue’s cell phone from its cradle and
dialed. “Betsy, would you do me a favor?” I explained what I
needed. She promised to check and call me at the condo.

It didn’t take her long. We’d just returned
and settled before the TV when Betsy phoned.

“Three units have sold in the last month.” I
read from my scribbles. “Unit 20C from Wilson Stanton to BB Corp.,
Unit 14A from Johnson Family Trust to Samuel Adams, and Unit 34B
from Naomi King to Magilevich LLC. Naomi King—that’s Nana! She’s
already sold her condo and Magilevich sounds Russian.”

Penny Sue snatched the pad from my hand.
“Let me see that.” She studied the name quietly. “I wonder if
there’s anyway we can find out who owns this corporation?”

“Sure,” Ruthie said, fetching her computer
from the bedroom. “It’s probably online. Most states have their
records posted on the Internet these days.” She typed in
Florida.gov and had a list of corporations in a matter of minutes.
“Here, Magilevich LLC,” she pointed at the screen. “Registered
agent is a lawyer in Tallahassee. It’s a profit company
headquartered in Atlantic City, New Jersey.”

“What about BB Corp.?” Penny Sue asked.

Ruthie stroked the keyboard. “A profit
corporation headquartered in New York.”

“I wonder if there’s a way to tell what the
units sold for,” Penny Sue mused.

“I think the county property appraiser posts
that information.”

In a matter of minutes, Ruthie found the Web
site and located the sales. She glanced up at me. “What do you
suppose condos in this complex are worth?”

“$400,000 to $600,000, depending on the
location.”

“All of these units went in the
$300,000s.”

“Even the beachfront condo? That’s
impossible!”

Ruthie cocked her eyebrow. “Well, it
did.”

Something smelled, I told myself, and it
wasn’t the scent of a rose.

* * *

August 25, New Smyrna Beach, FL

Volusia County is
sometimes called the
home of stock car racing. Old-time North Carolina moonshine-runners
may dispute this claim, but Daytona Beach and Volusia County gave
the moonshine drivers legitimacy and made it a sport. That’s
because stock car racing and NASCAR’s birth can be traced to the
beach/street races held at Daytona Beach in the late 1940s, which
eventually evolved into “The World’s Greatest Race—The Daytona
500.”

While the Daytona races may be the most
famous, that track isn’t the only speedway in the county. About
twenty miles south, at the intersection of county routes 44 and
415, is the site of racing action most weekends. On one corner is
the New Smyrna Speedway, the home of FASCAR—NASCAR’s Florida
cousin. A half-mile stock car track, the speedway also holds
eclectic competitions for virtually any motorized contraption that
moves—this includes motorcycles, trucks, school buses, go-karts,
mini-cup cars, and the wildly popular bag race.

While races at the New Smyrna Speedway are
known to get down and dirty, the real dirt is across Rt. 415 at the
unpaved track for mud racing. A couple of Saturdays a month, trucks
with very big tires bump and slosh through rocks and mud.

“You’re sure we’re not going to do mud
racing, right?” Penny Sue asked as she pulled into a parking space
next to a grey Toyota.

“Yes, Chris nixed it—too messy.” I cocked my
thumb at the Toyota. “That’s her new car. It’s really cool, an
electric and gas hybrid.”

“Too small.”

“You’d be surprised, it’s roomier than it
looks. Besides, it gets great gas mileage,” I said.

“Well, you won’t catch me in one. Besides,
I’m not sure I’d fit.” Penny Sue swung her huge Louis Vuitton
handbag over her shoulder and clicked the Mercedes’ locks. She was
decked out in a black bodysuit with leopard print capris. If you
added a black riding helmet, knee-high boots, and a crop, she could
have passed for an overweight jockey or maybe a dominatrix. Ruthie
and I wore jeans, tee shirts, and jogging shoes, not exactly sure
what was required for racing.

We trooped through the open chain link front
gate, past the concession stands and bleachers to the edge of the
track. Chris stood in the pit area talking to a man in a white
cowboy hat and a woman in a pickup truck with a trailer carrying a
miniature racecar.

“Magawd,” Penny Sue blurted as we crossed
the track, “that car’s smaller than your bug. There’s no way I can
drive it.”

“Chris and I already decided she’d drive the
mini-car, Ruthie and I will do the bag race, and you’ll drive the
school bus. You’ll fit in the bus, don’t you think?” I said over my
shoulder.

“Very funny.” Penny Sue poked my arm, hard,
and then flashed her most winning smile at Chris and the
others.

Chris introduced us to Andrew James Clyde
Hart, the track owner, and Annie Bronson, owner of the mini-cup
car.

“Just call me Andrew,” Mr. Hart said with a
wink.

Penny Sue winked back, as she gave him the
once over. I shook my head. Incorrigible.

“Annie’s agreed to let us use her new
racer.” Chris interrupted Penny Sue’s flirtation.

Annie cocked her thumb at the tiny, flat
grey car. “Don’t worry, that’s primer, it hasn’t been painted
yet.”

Penny Sue’s eyes lit up. “Annie, if we pay
for everything, could we have it painted yellow, with a daffodil on
the hood?” Penny Sue faced us, eyes aglow. “And, we could have
yellow racing suits made with daffodil patches. The school bus is
already yellow. What do you think?”

Chris cut her eyes at Penny Sue. “I think
you’ve watched too much of Paris Hilton. The Daytona Racing
Experience has agreed to lend us fireproof suits and helmets. We
have to wear them.” Andrew nodded. “This is a charity race, not a
fashion show. The money would be better spent on hurricane victims
than designer outfits.”

Penny Sue tilted her chin regally. “It never
hurts to stand out in a crowd. Besides, it’ll help us get pledges
for our team. Why, it may even draw media attention.” She wiggled
her fanny.

Andrew glanced away, stifling a grin.

“A spiffy group of divorced women would
surely get a lot of support. We might even make the
Today
Show
or
Good Morning America
. Think what that would do
for contributions to the hurricane fund.”

The Southern belle and savvy New Yorker
stared at each other for a full minute. I held my breath, afraid a
fistfight might break out. Chris finally broke the silence. “Good
merchandising—you may have something there. What do you think,
Annie? It’s your car.”

Focused on Penny Sue’s leopard capris, Annie
was obviously skeptical. “It’s my new car. I’m planning to paint it
pink. The Pink Panther.”

Penny Sue gave her the palms up. “We promise
to return it to you in exactly the shape it is now.” She waved
grandly. “In fact, we’ll pay for your new paint job and our new
suits and helmets. Won’t we?”

“Penny Sue, I don’t have that kind of
money,” I objected.

She stared at Ruthie. “We do. Right, Ruthie?
Come on, this is for charity. Think of all of those poor people
with damaged roofs and huge insurance deductibles, or worse, no
insurance at all! This would give us visibility and the chance to
draw national contributions. Besides, you and your dad have more
money than the Saudis. You’ll spring for it, won’t you?”

“It is a good cause,” Ruthie started
hesitantly. “Oh, hell. I’m in. But, it’s only because national
attention would generate contributions. Those camera-mugging rich
people get on my nerves. I’m not looking for personal
notoriety.”

Penny Sue planned to handle the
camera-mugging department, I was sure.

“Good enough?” Penny Sue asked Annie.

Annie glanced at Chris.

“Don’t worry, those two have money to burn,”
Chris assured her.