Free Murder is the Pits by Mary Clay Page B

were there too, for Lord’s sake. Maybe you’re the
lightning rod!”
    I held my hands up, trying to calm everyone
down. After all, the police would arrive any minute to take our
statements. The last thing we needed was a fight among ourselves.
Besides, we were all stuck in Florida for who-knew-how long, in
case we were required to give depositions in the mafia case. Our
initial instructions said we might be called next week. With the
hurricane, I had a sneaking feeling the timeline would be extended.
I sure as heck didn’t want to spend weeks together at each other’s
throats.
    “We were all present. Don’t you see—it’s the
combination of our energies.” I nudged Ruthie’s arm. “You always
say there are no accidents, right?”
    Penny Sue arched a brow in agreement. “Maybe
we’re destined to fight crime or something like Charlie’s Angels.”
She grinned. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”
    Ruthie curled her lip.
    “Come on, Ruthie,” I said. “You’re the one
who says a person’s current situation is the result of all of her
past karma. We’re not victims of fate—we’re here to choose it and
to change it, if we made a bad choice in another life.” I wasn’t
sure I believed it all, but if anything would bring Ruthie around,
that was it. A smile from Ruthie was all I wanted before the police
arrived.
    Ruthie regarded me with hooded eyes, then
relaxed—her shoulders dropped at least six inches—and, the glimmer
of a smile. “You were listening to me all along. I thought it was
going in one ear and out the other.”
    “I listened, too,” Penny Sue added hastily.
“I kid you about it, but I agree with”—she paused a beat—“most of
what you say.”
    Ruthie leaned across the counter for a group
hug. “I’m sorry to be so cross. I don’t do well with blood.”
    The hug made us all a bit misty-eyed. We
hadn’t had a fight like that since college, and I hoped we wouldn’t
have another any time soon. They were my best friends, the only
people besides my kids I could always count on. To lose that
support over a silly disagreement was not what I wanted at this
point in my life.
    Good ole Penny Sue came to our rescue before
we all tuned-up into a blubbering mass. She wiped her forehead,
which was perspiring profusely, as they say in the South.
Truthfully, she was sweating buckets. The emotion, a dead man, her
hot flashes, and the lack of AC all came together in a slimy,
stinky (none of us had showered) cascade. “Boy, it’s getting hot.
Let’s open all the windows, so we can get some cross
ventilation.”
    Brilliant. An assignment. Something to take
our minds off our disagreement.
    Understand, Southern women do not fight:
They disagree, have a tiff, or get their nose out of joint, but not
from a physical blow, mind you! The distinction between a fight and
disagreement may be obscure to non-Southerners—especially when the
claws and fangs pop out—yet, there is a big difference. A person
from the North might haul off and hit you or spit in your eye.
Someone from California will outspend you on clothes, finagle an
invitation to an important party, or get a bigger boob job. A
Southerner will lob cryptic insults and talk behind your back.
    I don’t know what people in the Midwest do.
They may be the only sane people in the country. They have no
accent, which is why television and radio personalities, no matter
where they originate, go to schools that teach them to speak
Midwestern.
    But we’re Southerners, and the best thing to
end a tiff is an assignment! To dutiful wives, who ministered to
everyone during the War of Northern Aggression, there is nothing
like a task to get a Southern woman back on track. Without a word
Ruthie and Penny Sue went to the bedrooms, while I opened the small
window in the guest bath.
    As Penny Sue emerged from the master suite,
there was a knock on the front door. She peered through the
peephole and grumbled loudly as she unlocked the door. Ruthie and I
knew that