Murder is the Pits by Mary Clay

him.
    “Yes, the murder and all,” Timothy replied
quickly.
    “It’s more than that. Guthrie’s hurricane
shutters didn’t blow off. We think they were sabotaged.”
    “Oh, my.” He opened the screen door with his
butt and let it slam in my face. Safely on the other side, he
seemed to calm down. “I’ll be sure to look at that and help Guthrie
make arrangements for repairs.”
    “We’d like your opinion on his shutters.
There’s rust on the edge where they broke away, and they’re made of
aluminum.”
    He flashed a movie star smile—his teeth were
blinding white. “I’ll look at it and get back to you. I’m sure
Guthrie has your phone number, so I’ll give you a call. Thanks
again for taking care of my buddy.” Timothy turned and hotfooted up
the hill.
    I whirled around, hands on hips, my elbow
accidentally brushing Penny Sue’s belly. She drew back,
squinty-eyed.
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean to poke you.”
    She relaxed.
    “Penny Sue, you scared the hell out of
Timothy. You acted like a sex-starved floozy. I thought you were
going to tackle him and lick his arms or something.”
    Her bottom lip jutted out as her eyes
contracted to slits, like a snake. “I am not a sex-starved floozy.
If anyone’s sex-starved, it’s you. I didn’t do anything,” she said,
glaring at Ruthie. “Did I?”
    “Don’t drag me into this. I’m not taking
sides.”
    Penny Sue put her hands on her hips. “What
did I do?”
    “You all but drooled on the man.”
    “Ha ha,” she chuckled theatrically. “Who
shouted, ‘chemist!?’ The poor guy nearly jumped out of his
skin.”
    I sighed. She was right. I canted my head
apologetically. “Guilty.”
    Penny Sue shrugged. “Let’s forget it. We’re
all on edge. It’s been a helluva few days.”
    “You can say that again,” Ruthie exclaimed.
“The vibes in the atmosphere are truly ominous. It makes my skin
crawl.”
    Back in the living room, Penny Sue and I
thumped our Styrofoam cups together as a final act of
forgiveness.
    “There are more hurricanes brewing?” I
asked, following up on Ruthie’s comment about bad vibes in the
atmosphere.
    “Two—Danielle and Earl. Danielle’s still
over by Africa, and Earl’s only a tropical storm. They don’t worry
me. It’s more than that.” Ruthie glanced around, searching the
kitchen. “Where’s the wine?”
    I went to the closet, retrieved the now
chilled Chardonnay, and poured her a glass. We all toasted this
time.
    Ruthie took a dainty sip. “It’s not only the
hurricanes, there’s bad energy everywhere.”
    “Can you be more specific?” Penny Sue
asked.
    I switched off the radio and herded them
toward the living area. Penny Sue snatched the bottle of wine as
she passed the kitchen counter. Ruthie perched on the loveseat,
while Penny Sue and I plopped on the sofa. I held up my hands.
“Ruthie, can you tune into the vibes if we’re quiet and all
concentrate?”
    “Probably.”
    “Wait. Shouldn’t we burn some sage or
something?” Penny Sue asked.
    Burning sage was an American Indian
tradition for cleansing spaces of bad energy that we’d used several
times before in tense situations. I’m not sure it did any good,
though it surely didn’t hurt. We were still alive. The only
drawback was that the stuff smelled awful, a lot like marijuana,
which caused considerable trouble with our prosecutor acquaintance,
the spiteful Woody Woodhead.
    “Sage?” Ruthie said. “Couldn’t hurt.”
    I found some Spice Island sage in the
kitchen, dumped it in a bowl on the coffee table, and lit it. The
fine powder flamed for a moment, then smoldered. I fanned the stuff
on all of us, including the living room, saying a silent prayer
that Woody wouldn’t show up. All the doors and windows were open,
since the electricity was still out. The air was hot and heavy with
moisture, meaning the smoke hung in the room like stinky
clouds.
    After a good cleansing with the sage—or as
much as I could stand—I placed the bowl on the