Free Bike Week Blues by Mary Clay Page A

course,
she could have opened the front door and hollered, the men had been
waiting in their car for over an hour. Which told me Woody did,
indeed, have something serious to discuss.
    When finally summoned, he bristled with
anger to the point, I swear, his hair stood on end. He plunked down
in the rattan chair by the fireplace. His sidekick, Detective Jones
who looked none too happy either, stood like a sentry. While the
smudge stench had dissipated considerably, the combination of odors
from the herbs and vanilla air freshener was nauseatingly sweet. In
any event, Woody was clearly allergic, his eyes teared
immediately.
    “Did the victim make it?” Penny Sue asked,
taking the bull by the horns.
    “I’m afraid not,” Woody mumbled through his
handkerchief.
    “I’m sorry. Could you lift any prints from
the car?”
    “The only clear prints appeared to be
women’s, probably yours.” Woody nodded to Jones who produced a
fingerprinting kit. “For comparison purposes, we need your prints
so we can rule them out.”
    We held out our hands. The detective rolled
our fingers in black ink and pressed them roughly to fingerprint
cards. He was definitely furious at us for keeping him waiting.
    Penny Sue looked Woody in the eye as she
wiped her hand with ink remover. “Why do you want to talk to us?
The killer was a lousy shot who happened to hit my car. We don’t
know a thing; we were on the deck of the Riverview all night. You
can check with the restaurant staff as well as our friends, Fran
and Carl Annina—they can vouch for us.”
    “We’re not so sure the killer was a lousy
shot.”
    “What?” we blurted like an out-of-key
chorus.
    “The chances of the bullet hitting the exact
center of the P in your license are virtually nil. The fact that
the slug wedged in the plate without penetrating the trunk means
the shooter pulled that round from a fair distance and also says
he’s a crack marksman.”
    Ruthie went white. “Yes, but it could have
been luck, right?”
    Woody nodded slowly, still holding the
handkerchief to his nose. “The victim was shot at close range.
Nailing your car seemed to be an afterthought.”
    “It’s a Mercedes. Maybe it was someone angry
about Germany not supporting the U.S. against Saddam Hussein,” I
said.
    “Or class envy,” Ruthie speculated.
    “Maybe someone who hates the Georgia
Bulldogs,” Penny Sue added, jumping on the rationalization
bandwagon.
    “Possible.” Woody regarded Penny Sue
sternly. “What do you know about Richard Wheeler?”
    The blood drained from Penny Sue’s face.
“He’s a friend from home,” she replied, doing her best to look
nonchalant.
    Detective Jones consulted a small notepad.
“Did you see him last night?”
    Penny Sue drew up haughtily. “Yes, I saw
him. We all saw him, but Rich didn’t see us. We caught a glimpse of
him as he left the restaurant.”
    “Left, as in run?” Jones said.
    “Left, as in hurry,” Penny Sue replied
stiffly.
    Jones consulted his pad again. “You ran
after him. Isn’t that right?”
    “Please, a Southern lady may rush, scoot or
hustle, we do not run!”
    Jones, clearly from the North, probably New
York, was not amused. “Cut the cutesy stuff. You followed him.
Why?”
    Penny Sue’s lips tensed; she was morphing
into a Steel Magnolia. “My affairs of the heart are none of your
business.”
    Woody snickered into his handkerchief. Jones
glared. “It is when there’s a murder and someone apparently has a
vendetta for you.”
    Vendetta! There was no vendetta, certainly
from Rich. He’d left the sweet message on Penny Sue’s phone.
    The Steel Magnolia mutated into a Titanium
Oleander—the blood red kind, deadly poisonous. “First, Rich is NOT
involved in the murder or attack on my car. He’s a good friend, one
I cherish. I followed him last night because I needed to clarify
something. I didn’t catch up to him, so checked with the hotel to
make sure he was still registered. That’s it, fini, no more