Murder is the Pits by Mary Clay Page A

coffee table and let
it burn out. I took my seat next to Penny Sue. Ruthie curled her
legs under herself like a pretzel. Penny Sue and I glanced at each
other, silently acknowledging that we couldn’t get in that position
if our lives depended on it. Ruthie placed her hands, palms up, on
her knees, thumb and forefinger lightly touching. Penny Sue and I
mimicked the movement, though our feet were firmly planted on the
floor. ( Where they should be , as Grammy Martin would
say.)
    Ruthie closed her eyes and we could tell she
was centering. “Om-m-m-m,” she intoned.
    Penny Sue and I joined in. “Om-m-m-m.”
    Then silence—a profound silence one rarely
experiences. Amazing how quiet things get without electricity. No
hum of refrigerators or air conditioners. No televisions or radios
playing in the distance. A quiet like people knew in the olden
days, I suspected, before electricity and before we were bombarded
with electromagnetic waves, continuous noise, and too much
information. The quiet was unnerving. I wasn’t used to a feeling of
such solitude. Finally, Ruthie spoke.
    “Chaotic energy. Mother Earth is
rebalancing. There will be more storms. There are also hateful
energies all around us.”
    No joke. Drug-crazed punks vandalized Mrs.
King’s house and a guy just died, probably murdered. That’s pretty
hateful in my book.
    “Can you pinpoint the people responsible?”
Penny Sue whispered.
    I peeked at Penny Sue and saw her eyes were
open and she was sipping wine.
    Ruthie thought a moment. “Greed. A rapacious
craving for power. That is behind it. There are many greedy
factions, all vying for the top spot.”
    “Can you tell who they are?” Penny Sue
asked.
    “Only that they’re very dangerous.”
    “What should we do?” I asked.
    “There is another storm coming, much bigger
than the last. Soon. We should not stay. We should go to the Old
City, there is protection there.”
    “The Old City? What the heck does that
mean?” Penny Sue asked.
    Ruthie opened her eyes and shrugged. “I
don’t know. That’s all I got.”
    “Maybe it means the mainland,” I said. “This
island was originally named Coronado Beach. The mainland was New
Smyrna. The two didn’t merge until 1947 and combined the names to
New Smyrna Beach.”
    “Which is older?” Penny Sue asked.
    “I don’t know. They’re probably about the
same age.”
    Penny Sue refilled her cup. “Great, that
tells us a lot.”
    A knock on the screen door ended the
discussion. My first thought was Woody. I sniffed the sage. Lord,
please, not Woody.
    “Come on in,” Penny Sue called.
    We heard the twang of the spring on the
screen door.
    “Cool, man, incense. Sage. Are y’all
meditating? Can I join in?”
    Guthrie. What was he doing here? He sounded
like he might have taken another pink pill. He hobbled in on
crutches with Timothy walking behind him, supporting his waist.
From the look on Guthrie’s face, Timothy was the only thing keeping
that injured puppy on his feet. Ruthie scooted to the rattan chair
and motioned for Guthrie to take the loveseat. He plopped down and
put his bum leg on the coffee table.
    Timothy had changed into a tank top and
running shorts. I had to admit that the man was a fine specimen of
humanity. Penny Sue obviously agreed, since she was swigging wine
with her eyes fixed on his muscular thighs. Considering the
oppressive heat—the heat index had to be 103º—I was afraid she
might burst into flames. I once saw a television program about
strange phenomena that claimed spontaneous human combustion was a
documented fact. Maybe we had the prerequisite combination—heat,
humidity, a menopausal woman, and a very well built man.
    Guthrie patted the place beside him and
Timothy sat down. Penny Sue groaned. Praise be, the spell was
broken. I had no desire to be toasted by a flaming Penny Sue.
    Guthrie took a deep breath. “Man, I love
sage. Terrific for putting you in touch with the Great Beyond.
Lavender’s good, too. I use