Bike Week Blues (9 page)

“We hear Wheeler was seen with the guy who
was murdered. Would you know anything about that?” Jones asked.

Penny Sue’s demeanor streaked through
Titanium Oleander to Southern Bitch. “I’m not saying another word
until I call Daddy and have counsel present.”

“Fine,” Woody snapped, pocketing his
handkerchief. “Call Daddy. And, be sure to tell Daddy that you and
your friends are in danger. The murdered man and your good friend
were known to hang out with a most undesirable fellow, a gang-type
who doesn’t give a hang about the University of Georgia or Germany
supporting the U.S. in Iraq.”

“Vulture,” Ruthie whispered.

“Ah, you know of him.”

“From our friends, the Anninas. Carl’s a
biker and he’s heard rumors about Vulture.”

“This Carl recognized the guy on the
pavement as Vulture’s associate?” Jones shot.

I nodded.

Woody stood. “There you have it. Who did the
shooting? I don’t know. Yet one thing’s for certain—this is not a
group to trifle with. And, with a half million bikers in the area
for Bike Week, many with conflicting allegiances, this incident
could explode into a turf war of monumental proportions if we’re
not careful. Be sure to mention that to Daddy. My phone numbers are
on the card. I’ll expect to hear from you by the end of the
day.”

“What about my car?”

Jones and Woody started down the hall. “I’ll
give you an update when you call me.”

* * *

Penny Sue sat at the counter with her head
in her hands. “Bloody Mary. I need a Bloody Mary,” she
whimpered.

“I’ll have one, too,” Ruthie said.

I did a double take. Ruthie rarely drank
alcohol, except with us, and then nursed a single glass for hours.
That she wanted a cocktail before noon was a clear sign that
Woody’s speech had shaken her. I took the Tabasco Bloody Mary mix
from the refrigerator. Heck, I might as well have one myself.

“Let’s smudge the place again,” Penny Sue
said without looking up.

“The bundle’s still wet.”

“Put it in the oven.”

I slid the cocktail in front of Penny Sue as
Ruthie put the smudge stick in the toaster oven on low.

“Sage,” I said, handing Ruthie her drink as
I took a long sip of mine. She went to the cabinet, found a bottle
of Spice Islands sage and dumped it in a bowl. Ruthie handed the
saucer to Penny Sue to do the honors.

“Wait a second.” Penny Sue scooted (barreled
was more like it) down the hall and returned with a gold lighter
and a pack of cigarettes. “For luck,” she said, touching the flame
to the spice, then lighting a cigarette.

“I thought you quit smoking,” I said.

Penny Sue raised her hand to ward off
comment. “Please, don’t start on me now. I have an occasional
cigarette, that’s all. It calms my nerves. Anyway, what’s good for
native Americans is good enough for me. Right, Ruthie?”

Ruthie nodded. “Yes, it was a sacred herb to
the Indians. And, new research shows that nicotine is beneficial in
Alzheimer’s.”

My jaw dropped. I could hardly believe this
revelation was coming from Ruthie “Holistic Health” Nichols.

She saw my disbelief. “It’s true. Nicotine
acts like acetylcholine, a crucial brain chemical for memory and
attention.”

Penny Sue took a long drink of her Bloody
Mary and a drag of her cigarette. “I can vouch for that—I haven’t
been right since I quit smoking.”

I looked at her puffing and wondered when
she’d quit smoking. I also wondered when Penny Sue’d ever been
right. One thing for sure, needling Woody was the wrong thing to do
and the faster she cooperated with the police the better. “Penny
Sue, you need to call your father right now. You’re on thin ice
with Woody. Besides, if you don’t cooperate you’ll never get your
car back.”

“He wouldn’t dare.” She blew a smoke
ring.

“In a heartbeat,” I countered.

She snuffed her cigarette in the sage, which
had gone out, and downed the rest of her drink. “I suppose you’re
right. No sense putting it off.”

As she dialed her father’s cell phone, I
fished the cigarette butt from the sage and lit it again, fanning
the bowl with the feather to keep it smoldering. Although the spice
was part of the mint family, the odor was anything but sweet, sort
of a cross between charred paper and a compost heap. While I’d
never admit it to Penny Sue, I found its smell far worse than
tobacco. I truly didn’t think the sage would do any good, but the
events of the morning with Ann, Woody, Penny Sue, and even the
stupid dream about Zack had left me with a sick sense of impending
doom. I headed for the living room, fanning the bowl as the judge
came on the line with Penny Sue.

She started out in her bubbly mode, gushing
about her wonderful Harley, the wonderful weather, and Ruthie’s
wonderful birthday dinner. Daddy must have sensed something was
coming—if everything was so wonderful, why was she calling?—and
demanded she get to the point. Her demeanor changed instantly to
Betty Businesswoman. With a brevity I’d never guessed possible,
Penny Sue outlined the situation, ending with a somewhat plaintive,
“I thought, perhaps, I should have counsel present, since I believe
the police are trying to frame Rich for the murder. You remember
Rich, the man whose wife passed away—”

If the judge remembered Rich, he didn’t care
and launched into a stern lecture, judging from the slump of Penny
Sue’s shoulders and downcast eyes. I set the sage on the coffee
table and drifted back to the kitchen. Ruthie abandoned the bread
she was about to put in the toaster oven to listen.

Eyes fixed on the counter, Penny Sue
started, “But, Daddy—” Her lips tensed as the judge forged ahead,
ignoring her comment. Finally, “Yes, sir, I understand—”

At which point, the toaster oven erupted
into a raging inferno. I ran to the kitchen and pulled the plug
from the wall. Ruthie grabbed a potholder and opened the oven door,
releasing a thick cloud of acrid smoke. The smudge stick!

“Close it up,” I hacked. Ruthie slammed the
door shut, but it did no good. The whole smudge stick—not just the
tip—was ablaze, forcing sheets of smoke through the outside edge of
the door.

“No, Daddy, everything’s fine ...” Penny Sue
waved frantically, signaling “Do something!” as she hustled down
the hall with the portable phone.

Something? What? I grabbed the first thing I
saw, Ruthie’s Bloody Mary, and threw it into the toaster oven. A
hissing, swirling torrent of smoke and steam poured forth, filling
the kitchen. The smudge smell was tolerable, the burnt
Tabasco/tomato scent too much. Ruthie and I ran like hell to the
deck.

We stared at each other, wide-eyed,
shell-shocked. We were both covered in a fine spray of tomato
juice, which gave us the appearance of a bad case of measles or a
streaky application of the old-time, instant tan lotion that always
turned people orange instead of brown. As fate would have it, the
nosey couple that lived in the two-story condo behind ours was
heading down the boardwalk to the beach. The woman—Suzanne? Sarah?
Shrewella!—stared at us, sniffing the air. “What’s wrong with you?
And, what is that smell?”

Penny Sue stalked onto the deck at that
moment. She was hopping mad, primed to unload on anyone that got in
her way. Shrewella was in her way. “They have a rash, what does it
look like? Probably the West Nile Virus. We found a mosquito in the
condo, so we’re fumigating. The newest treatment is to burn sage
and cayenne red pepper. I’m amazed you haven’t heard, since it’s
been all over TV.”

Sarah/Shrewella started to back away. “I’m
sorry. Is West Nile Virus contagious?”

“Only from mosquitoes or, sometimes, pets
that have been bitten by mosquitoes.” I knew she had a big black
cat that slept on the deck most of the time.

“Mosquitoes at this time of year?”

“It’s been unusually warm, and we saw one.
So, you should probably fumigate as soon as possible. Can’t be too
careful with something like this.”

“Sage and cayenne red pepper? You mean the
regular spices?”

Penny Sue nodded. “Dump it in a bowl and set
it on fire. Be sure to smoke your place really well, especially the
closets and your clothes.”

Shrewella cut her eyes at her husband,
trying to gauge our sincerity. Whether we really convinced them or
they were too anal to take a chance, we’ll never know. They hoisted
their beach chairs and shuffled back home.

“Cayenne pepper?” I said, steering Penny Sue
and Ruthie back into the condo. “They may choke to death.”

“No they won’t—that old lady’s too mean to
die,” Penny Sue snickered. “I hope the cayenne singes her nose
hairs. Serve her right. She’s the one who called the police on me
the last time. I’m doing her a favor, anyway—her nose hairs need
trimming.”

For the second time that day, we cranked
down the air conditioner, turned on the exhaust fans, and opened
the windows. Ruthie and I were dying to hear the details of Penny
Sue’s conversation with the judge, but B. O. won out over
curiosity. We showered and changed in record time. When we
finished, Penny Sue was peeking through the front door, laughing
hysterically. She motioned for us to come see. Mr. and Mrs.
Shrewella were hanging over the side of their balcony, wheezing and
wiping their eyes.

I shot a look at Penny Sue. “You’ve got a
bad streak, you know that?”

She tossed her hair and strutted away,
wiggling her fanny. “Not bad, sugar, bold.”

“Well, Your Boldness, what did Daddy
say?”

She deflated like a punctured balloon. “I
should call Woody and answer all of his questions, ASAP. It seems
that a citizen who’s not under suspicion has no rights. A person
can only refuse to answer questions if it’s self-incriminating.
Since I haven’t done anything, I’m technically not entitled to a
lawyer. Bottom line, if I—we—don’t cooperate, we’re subject to
subpoenas, court orders, and even obstruction of justice
charges.”

I wanted to say ‘I told you so,’ but didn’t.
I reached for the phone. “What’s Woody’s cell number?”

* * *

Woody agreed to
see us at one o’clock,
and, rather than meet us at the office on Canal Street, as he’d
done before, he wanted us to come to the main station—a sure sign
he was really angry.

“Daddy says we should dress conservatively,
it helps our credibility,” Penny Sue instructed.

The comment was unnecessary for Ruthie, who
always dressed that way. I already knew as much, having watched a
lot of
Perry Mason
with my grandmother as a kid, not to
mention the twenty-plus years with Zack who had an entire wardrobe
of expensive Canali and Zegna suits, required attire for courtroom
credibility. But, good for Daddy, he knew his daughter well. Penny
Sue was the one who might show up in a short, red dress with a
neckline that plunged to her navel—no doubt an expensive, designer
job like Versace, but risqué nonetheless. (As Dolly Parton said,
“It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.”)

We all dressed in black dresses or slack
outfits so, for once, we actually looked like members of the same
sorority—albeit a drab, boring, business or academic group.

When we arrived at the station, Penny Sue
was ushered to a room with Woody and Detective Jones, while Ruthie
and I were led to separate offices for questioning by female
officers. Separate interrogations to compare stories and look for
discrepancies—standard police procedure, if one believed
Law and
Order
.

My officer, a sergeant, proved very nice and
I held nothing back. Rich was pleasant enough, but I didn’t know
him, having only met him once at dinner. Though I knew Penny Sue
had complete confidence in Rich, I also knew her judgment was
hormone-impaired on occasion. So, I freely relayed the story of
Penny Sue and Rich’s break-up, as well as the apology he left on
her cell phone. I hoped it proved that Rich was not out to get us,
for Penny Sue’s sake, but left it to the police to sort things out.
I absolutely was not interested in getting involved in this mess. I
had learned my lesson the last time.

Finishing first, Ruthie and I waited in the
lobby for Penny Sue. About fifteen minutes later she showed up,
looking flustered.

“Woody’s having my car brought around.” She
tried the front door, it was locked. The receptionist on the other
side of bullet-resistant glass looked up from his computer. The
door buzzed open. We nodded “thank-you” and squeezed through the
entrance en masse.

“I’ll ride with you,” Ruthie said
immediately. I nodded agreement. We’d come in my car, a tight fit,
especially for Ruthie who was relegated to the backseat.

“Let’s go to Norwood’s. There was a sign out
front advertising a Bike Week special,” Penny Sue said. “The condo
stinks. We need to talk and decide what to do.”

Do? I wasn’t hot on doing anything. I’d just
come through a devastating divorce, my daughter was in the clutches
of a lecher, and I was still having nightmares. How much could
Penny Sue expect? Every time she came around, things went to hell
in a handbasket. But, the condo did smell awful and Norwood’s was a
safe bet—I didn’t expect to find Vulture bellied up to a bar that
boasted 1,400 varieties of wine. “Okay, I’ll go ahead and get us a
table.”

I found a table in the elevated area next to
the bar, ordered water all around, and three glasses of an
Australian Chardonnay. I knew Penny Sue and Ruthie wouldn’t care
about the vineyard or vintage after our ordeal. The drinks arrived
at the same time they did. A good thing, because Penny Sue was fit
to be tied.

She gulped her wine. “They scratched Uga!
There’s a gash right between his eyes. I know it wasn’t there last
night. One of those Florida Gators did it on purpose—probably
Woody. Remember how he said it was a shame Uga hadn’t been shot?
That weasel. He is low, you know that, low. I’ve got a mind to file
a complaint. Gators!” she said loudly. Several nearby patrons
stared.