Murder is the Pits (28 page)

“Daddy said the Woodheads were a nice,
private couple. He doesn’t remember much about Pearl, except that
she always seemed out of sorts. Everyone called her husband Gerry,
an Anglicized version of his American Indian name. He was
apparently three-quarters Indian and his family had lived in these
parts for generations, the last of a long-forgotten tribe. Gerry
told Daddy this area was originally his tribe’s land.”

“Pearl thinks she’s an Indian princess?” I
said as I dumped salad dressing into the sink and rinsed the
container.

“I guess so. If he were the last of a tribe,
I suppose that would make him chief. Is the chief’s wife a princess
or a queen?”

“Darned if I know.” I took a jar of
mayonnaise and scooped it into the sink. Ruthie sat in the other
room watching the weather forecast for the umpteenth time.
“Anything new on Ivan?” I called.

“No, still far south and expected to move
into the Gulf.”

“How would you like to take a stroll while
you’re waiting your turn at the icebox?” I asked.

Ruthie leaned against the counter. “Why?
What do you need?”

“You haven’t met Pearl, so she probably
doesn’t know who you are. How about taking a stroll over to her
condo?”

“Good idea. It’s one of the B-units in the
first cluster,” Penny Sue said. “Pretend you’re checking out
damage. Just walk around and see if you notice anything
unusual.”

“What does she look like?”

“About Penny Sue’s size,” I said, “with
shocking white hair. The hair’s the giveaway. You can’t miss
her.”

“I doubt it’ll do any good, but I could use
some exercise,” Ruthie said. “Let me change shoes.”

Guthrie telephoned right after Ruthie left.
“Commander, mission accomplished. It took some doing—I had to go
through Harriet to get to Uncle Daniel. Anyway, the Woodheads had
one child, Robert. Pearl’s husband was named Gerry, and he was a
Native American. Uncle Dan said he was a super guy. Gerry was a
woodworker who made beautiful tables and things out of stumps and
driftwood. Uncle said they were, like, works of art. But, get
this—Gerry’s true specialty was totem poles. Man, isn’t that
awesome? Woodhead, totem poles!”

“That is wild,” I agreed. “His family must
have Anglicized their last name based on his craft.”

“Yeah, man, like the old English did.
Millers, Smiths, Weavers—they all took names from their
trades.”

Penny Sue was getting ahead of me and had
placed a long line of jars and bottles on the counter. I figured
I’d better get to the point. “Does your uncle know anything about
Pearl?”

“He didn’t like her. Uncle Dan said she was
conceited and put on airs. She ragged Gerry a lot about not getting
the proper respect. Gerry always blew her off, which made her
madder. Seems she thought somebody owed him something. Uncle Dan
tried to steer clear of her, because she reminded him of
you-know-who.”

“Harriet?”

“Yeah, only worse. Hey, I’m almost finished
here. Want to go out to dinner?”

“Go out to dinner? What’s open?”

“I saw Larry, the fisherman, in the parking
lot. He told me the Pub brought in refrigerated trucks for its food
and is grilling stuff out back.”

“Want to go to the Pub for dinner?” I asked
Penny Sue. “They’re grilling food out back.”

“Yes, if they have ice and cold beer.”

I glanced at the clock. “We’re still
cleaning the icebox. How about six?” I arched a brow at Penny Sue.
She nodded.

“That’s cool.”

“We’ll pick you up and bring your stuff down
after dinner.”

“That’s a plan, man.”

Penny Sue finished emptying the bottles, and
I started wiping the icebox with ammonia. I was almost finished
when Ruthie returned.

She sat at the counter and fished a bottle
of cold water from the cooler. “It’s a long way up there, and the
heat index must be over a hundred. There’s considerable damage,
mainly roofs and decks. It’s a disaster.” She took a long drink and
grinned. “I found Pearl’s place, and you’ll never guess what’s next
to the stairway.”

I smiled back. This was too easy! “A totem
pole?”

Ruthie’s jaw dropped. “How did you
know?”

I filled Ruthie and Penny Sue in on my
conversation with Guthrie.

“Respect?” Penny Sue mused. “The other day,
on the walkway, Pearl said something about Woody not getting
respect.”

“That’s right.” I closed the icebox and
washed my hands—they reeked of ammonia. I made a mental note to buy
the lemon-scented variety in the future. “I think the name thing is
a hoot—Woodhead, totem poles.”

“Parker. I guess my ancestors parked
buggies.” Penny Sue elbowed me, giggling. “Your ancestors, Martin,
must have been birds.” Penny Sue pawed to the bottom of the cooler
and found a beer. “What about Guthrie? Fribble. What’s a
fribble?”

Ruthie hopped down from her stool and pulled
a dictionary from a drawer in the credenza. She thumbed the pages
and went into hysterics. “It’s here! Fribble means a frivolous
person.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction!”

“Wait,” Ruthie said. “There’s something else
I forgot to tell you.”

She had our attention.

“Pearl drives a black Taurus.”

The next few days were a blur of activity.
Phone calls from concerned family and friends, phone calls to
insurance agents who never answered or showed up when promised,
busy lines and answering machines at any establishment remotely
related to roofing or construction.

Guthrie spent nights with us on the sofa and
worked to clean up his condo during the day. Mold, he said. Even
though we had electricity—which many people still didn’t have—he
was afraid the wallboard had been infected during the five steamy
days without power. Although there were no outward signs of mold,
it was a definite possibility.

We trooped next door to the Wilsons’ the
morning after we spoke with them and found extensive damage. Like
in Guthrie’s condo, moisture swelled the wallboard, and the
saturated carpet would have to be replaced. We took a bunch of
digital pictures, cranked the AC down to seventy-two—mold!—and
emailed the pictures to Gary in Wisconsin. One look and Gary Wilson
decided he’d better fly down. Besides, Ivan seemed certain to pass
us by.

We hadn’t been home long from Gary’s when
Chris called wanting to know if we needed any help. She also
informed us that the New Smyrna Speedway was covered with
debris—all the billboards had blown apart—and was closed until the
first of October. That news was truly a bummer, as Guthrie would
say. Our court depositions had been delayed indefinitely, and we
were counting on racing practice to give us a break from cleaning
and construction.

“You’re welcome to come stay with me and do
some shopping,” Chris offered.

“Thanks, but we wouldn’t feel right running
off and leaving Guthrie and Gary Wilson to fend for themselves,” I
said.

Penny Sue, sipping a Bloody Mary, gave me
the evil eye. I blew her off by curling my lip like Elvis.

“The offer stands,” Chris said. “Call if you
change your mind. Meanwhile, I’ll check around St. Augustine to see
if there’s another place we can practice.”

The moment I clicked off, the phone rang
again— Frannie May from Boston. How were we? Did we get much
damage? Her sister was doing great, but Fran was going to stay up
North until the repairs to her house were completed. Carl guessed
it would take another week or two. Was there anything we needed? If
so, call Carl. He’d be happy to help.

I assured her we were fine and told her
about the charity race, which would probably be in early October. I
said we hoped she’d be back in time.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she
replied. “I’ll put two thousand on your team. Be sure to call Carl
if you want help with your cars.”

I thanked Fran and said goodbye, then
pointed to Penny Sue’s Bloody Mary and winked. She got my drift and
started making one for me.

“Weak,” I exclaimed, as she took the vodka,
poised to pour without a jigger. “How much money do we have pledged
so far?”

“If the Hamptons’ people come through, which
I think they will—except maybe Frankie, who’s in jail …” Her face
scrunched with concentration. Math was never Penny Sue’s best
subject. “… about $45,000.”

“Make that $47,000, thanks to Frannie May.”
I took a taste of the drink she slid across the counter. “Hmmm,
that’s good.”

Ruthie appeared from the bedroom. Penny Sue
raised her glass, “Want one?” she asked.

Ruthie held up a can of green tea. “I’m
fine.”

“You know, I think we should use our free
time to raise contributions,” I said. “After all, there are more
hurricane victims now than before.”

“Yes,” Ruthie said emphatically. “I heard on
TV that because the two hurricanes are separate disasters,
homeowners may have to pay the deductible twice—which for most is
two percent of the insured value. That’s thousands of dollars
working people can’t afford.”

“It’s that much?” Penny Sue asked. “We’re
lucky Daddy replaced the roof and windows, otherwise we’d be in the
same boat. This is a vacation home. If the whole thing went,” she
waved her arm, “we wouldn’t be hurt.”

My eyes widened. “Who wouldn’t be hurt? I
wouldn’t have a place to live!”

“Sure, but you wouldn’t lose money.”

Ruthie slammed down her green tea—totally
uncharacteristic—and motioned to Penny Sue for a Bloody Mary.
“You’re right. There are people out there who have lost everything.
Think about it. So many businesses have been damaged—especially on
the beach—families not only have lost their homes, but their jobs.
At the very time people need money for repairs they have no income!
We have to help. Penny Sue, call your PR friend. We need TV spots.
We need
Good Morning America
and the
Today Show
. We
need national contributions.” Ruthie chugged her Bloody Mary.

I was astounded. I’d never heard Ruthie
speak with such passion, which was my second clue that Millie had
followed her to New Smyrna Beach.

Pumped up with righteous indignation, Penny
Sue threw back her shoulders. “Damn straight, it’s the least we can
do. Leigh, please hand me the telephone.”

Penny Sue reached her friend at the Atlanta
PR firm and laid it on thick. Her description of the hurricane
damage sounded like a nuclear holocaust, and Max quickly agreed to
run the news circuit again.

“Tony Perkins from
Good Morning
America
was in New Smyrna Beach. That should buy credibility,”
Max said. “I’ll contact them. The Weather Channel was in the area,
too. I’ll give them a call, since they’re here in Atlanta. Jim
Cantore may be willing to do a short spot.”

“Jim Cantore,” Penny Sue mouthed to Ruthie
who all but swooned. Penny Sue hung up the phone, smirking. “We’re
on our way.”

Sonny Mallard, the wonderful contractor who
had fixed Nana King’s water leak, agreed to help Penny Sue with the
deck. What we needed were a few truckloads of sand to anchor the
exposed supports. Sand, what’s the big deal? Seems anything
involving the beach was a very big deal, we soon found out. First,
you needed a permit and permission to drive equipment on the beach.
Secondly, you needed native sand—that is, matching sand. Any old
sand wouldn’t do. Whether through luck or connections, Sonny
obtained the permits in a few days. The sand was another matter. He
put in an order for several truckloads, but unfortunately there was
a waiting list. If we were lucky, they’d get to us in a couple of
weeks. Under normal circumstances, a reasonable scenario; in our
case, not so hot. Every high tide eroded the sand under the deck a
little more. At the rate it was going, the deck could collapse
before the sand arrived.

“Sandbags are the only solution I can thing
of,” Sonny advised. “I know a place in Sanford that stockpiled them
for Frances and may have some left. If you can borrow a truck, you
could get a load and place them around the deck supports. That
should give you a little protection until the sand arrives. I’d do
it for you, but I’m booked solid. Ten-hour days for the foreseeable
future.”

Gary Wilson, the other half of our duplex,
had flown in the previous day. He had the same problem with his
deck, so quickly offered to help with the sandbags. It took several
phone calls, but we finally found a dealership willing to rent us a
used pick-up truck. Since the cab only held three people, one of us
had to stay behind.

“Ruthie, why don’t you stay here and peek in
on Pearl Woodhead?”

“Pearl Woodhead?” Gary loaded a shovel and
wheelbarrow into the back of the truck. “She called last night,
wanting to buy my condo.”

Whoa, Pearl was worse than Yuri, I thought.
“If you’re thinking of selling, I hope you’ll give me a chance to
bid on your condo. I’m looking to buy something in this
development, and your unit would be perfect.”

“Pat and I haven’t decided what to do yet.
I’m waiting for all the estimates. If we decide to sell, I’ll be
sure to let you know.”

“Thanks, units around here are snatched up
before the listing even hits the newspaper.”

We were very grateful to have Gary with us,
because the sandbag place was a load-your-own affair. After ten
minutes Penny Sue and I were worn out and drenched with sweat.
Yeah, it was stinky, dirty sweat—none of that sugarcoated, Southern
perspiration stuff. Gary, in his early sixties, was in better shape
still; the chances of our filling the back of the truck without
help were slim to none.

That’s when Penny Sue spied two young men
hanging out at the bus stop. She reached in her purse, pulled out
two fifties, and headed in their direction, her fanny swaying in
full gear. They followed her back.

“Meet Darin and Lee. They can help us for an
hour,” she said.

Fifty bucks an hour was terrific wages for
manual labor in Florida, and those young men earned every bit of
it. Darin waved us aside, picked up a sandbag and
tossed
it
to Lee, who stood in the back of the truck. They swapped positions
several times, but had the truck loaded in fifty minutes. We’d have
been in cardiac arrest and on our way to the local hospital. They
were happy for the money and hotfooted it to the convenience store
across the street.