Free Murder is the Pits by Mary Clay Page A

He
might have survived the fall otherwise.”
    “What was he doing with a gun?”
    “Looters. After all, someone tried to break
into Mrs. King’s condo. They would have succeeded if it hadn’t been
for her burglar alarm. But alarms aren’t working now—even the
backup batteries have run out of juice.”
    “I heard a pop, didn’t you?” I said.
    “The railing giving way. These condos are
old, and the wood dries out and rots if it’s not properly
maintained. That’s why so many people are switching to aluminum. A
couple of years ago, a balcony down the beach collapsed and a whole
family was injured.”
    The female officer, Heather Brooks, squatted
beside us with a notebook and a big roll of yellow crime tape. “We
need to rope off this area. Do you live in the complex?”
    I nodded. “At the end of the boardwalk,
number forty-two.”
    Heather wrote it down. “Your name?”
    “Leigh Stratton. That’s L-e-i-g-h.”
    She tilted her head at Penny Sue. “You’re
staying together?”
    “Yes, it’s my father’s condo.”
    “And you are?”
    “Penny Sue Parker.”
    The officer did a double take. “Sorry.” She
grinned sheepishly. “Could you give me that again?”
    “Penny, P-e-n-n-y. Sue—”
    The officer held up her hand. “Got it.”
    “Parker.”
    Heather consulted the previous page of her
notebook. “You made the second call. Ruthie Nichols made the first
call. Do you know her?”
    “She’s staying with us, too. We sent her
back to the condo to clean up …” Penny Sue pointed at the pool of
puke. “Ruthie isn’t good in a crisis.”
    Heather scrunched her nose. “I see. The
three of you witnessed what happened?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    The officer made a notation in her book,
stood, and reached down to help us to our feet. I was grateful for
her assistance; my knees were still a little wobbly.
    “Someone will be down to take your
statements as soon as we secure the area. In the meantime, you
should keep your doors locked.”
    Oh, boy. My right knee started to
twitch.

    * * *

Chapter 6

    August 14, New Smyrna Beach, FL

    Ruthie sat at the kitchen counter
cradling her head in her hands. She’d changed into a yellow cotton
shirt with matching culottes. Un-ironed, since there was no
electricity. Normally a fashion plate, ironing was clearly not high
on Ruthie’s list at the present time.
    Penny Sue rubbed Ruthie’s shoulder. “You all
right?”
    Ruthie shook her head no.
    “A cola will settle your stomach.” Penny Sue
pulled three diet colas from the cooler in the closet and poured
them into Styrofoam cups with a smidgen of ice. “Not much ice,”
Penny Sue said, handing the cup to Ruthie. “Who knows how long the
power will be out?”
    Ruthie spoke without lifting her head.
“Electric feeder lines are down. New Smyrna Utilities has no idea
when power will be restored. We have to conserve water. Almost all
the pumping stations are running on generators. We should limit
flushing toilets.”
    “Toilets aren’t a problem, because we can
always use ocean water. There are some buckets in the utility
room,” I said.
    “Right,” Penny Sue agreed brightly, trying
to cheer up Ruthie. “Y’all made fun of me, but we have a ton of
food and bottled water. Best of all, we can cook—we have gas!”
    Ruthie raised her head and stared at Penny
Sue with red-rimmed eyes. “You are bad luck.”
    Penny Sue tilted her chin haughtily. “I most
certainly am not! I had nothing to do with that man,” she turned on
me, “did I, Leigh?”
    She didn’t give me a chance to answer,
though I was inclined to agree with Ruthie.
    Penny Sue went on, “I’ve never seen him in
my life. He was guarding against looters, leaned on a rotten
railing, and fell on his gun. You can’t blame me for that!”
    “You didn’t cause it,” Ruthie said quietly,
“but you’re a lightning rod for trouble. Murders don’t happen
unless you’re around.”
    Penny Sue drew back as if she’d been slapped
in the face. “You