Bike Week Blues (7 page)

I shook my head. “I told you he was only
playing a game.”

“You have to admit his get-up was pretty
wild. Why would such an attractive man want to look so ugly.”

“It’s a game, Penny Sue, a game.”

“Hmph. A game like sickos in Las Vegas play,
where twisted twerps shoot nude women with paintballs? There was a
TV exposé on it. That isn’t a harmless game, if you ask me.”

“That was a hoax,” Ruthie said. “A guy faked
the whole thing to sell videos of the nude hunts on the
Internet.”

Penny Sue cocked her head skeptically.
“You’re kidding. I never heard that. Why didn’t it make the
news?”

“It did, but was buried at the end of the
broadcast. I suppose the reporters were embarrassed to admit they’d
been duped.”

“Proves appearances can be deceiving,” I
said wryly. “Carl is a nice young man.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll take your word for
it.”

It was nearly ten by the time we paid the
check and left. The night was pleasantly cool as we strolled up the
deserted brick sidewalk. Penny Sue stopped in front of the hotel,
presumably to fetch her car keys. While her hand rummaged through
her purse, Penny Sue’s eyes searched the second floor windows. All
the lights were out. The keys miraculously appeared.

“I should have gone to the bathroom before
we left,” Ruthie said suddenly. “Coffee always goes straight
through me.”

“Everything goes straight through you,”
Penny Sue said. “You really should check into that pee urgency
pill. Peeing all the time is not normal.”

“Don’t start that.”

“Well, do you want to go back to the
restaurant?”

“No, let’s hurry. I can wait until we get
home.”

We double-timed it around the hotel and
stopped cold. Blue flashing lights lit up the sky while a siren
sounded in the distance.

“Lord!” Penny Sue set off at a jog with us
close behind. We rounded the corner of some small shops to the lot
next to the spa. “Crap!” Penny Sue stopped dead. Ruthie plowed into
her back.

Two police cars were stationed at either end
of the lot with a small crowd of people huddled to one side. Siren
wailing, an ambulance turned in from Flagler Avenue. A patrolman
waved back the crowd, and the EVAC truck pulled to a stop, its
headlights illuminating a form on the pavement about twenty feet
from Penny Sue’s car. Another policeman hunched over the body
giving CPR.

“I hope you’re wearing a pantiliner,” Penny
Sue said. “We’re not going home any time soon.”

“I don’t have to go anymore,” Ruthie said
weakly.

I spotted Fran and Carl at the far side of
the crowd. “What happened?’ I asked, worming in beside them as
paramedics rushed to the victim with a stretcher and med kits.

“Gun shot,” Carl replied solemnly.

“A mugging?” Penny Sue asked.

“Not likely.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen that guy around. He’s a biker who
hangs out with a thug called Vulture who has a reputation for being
mean. Some say Vulture’s crazy, others claim he’s one of those
anti-government extremists. Bad news in either case.” Carl canted
his head at the form the medics were about to shock with a
defibrillator. “I’d guess this is some sort of turf battle.”

We watched as the EMT applied a shock and
checked for a pulse. Another shock. His partner listened with a
stethoscope and shook his head. The first medic waved his hands,
and everything went into high gear. They lifted the body onto the
stretcher and headed for the ambulance. As the gurney rolled past,
the victim’s head rolled to the side, his lifeless eyes staring
straight at us.

Penny Sue gasped and covered her face with
both hands.

I put my arm around her waist. “Take a deep
breath.”

She shook her head, hands still covering her
eyes. “It won’t help,” she mumbled. “That’s one of Rich’s old
friends.”

“Rich’s friend?” I watched as a policeman
closed the EVAC’s back door. The vehicle inched away, siren
blaring.

“He’s one of the men I saw on the balcony,”
she said.

“Uh oh, here comes trouble,” Ruthie
whispered.

“Penny Sue Parker,” a familiar voice said.
“I thought I recognized that Mercedes.”

I turned toward the voice.
Damn. Double
damn.
It was Woody.

* * *

Robert “Woody” Woodhead
was the local
prosecutor. He was also one of Penny Sue’s many jilted college
loves. Though Woody was now married and swore he didn’t hold a
grudge, none of us believed it. Woody made our last vacation pure
hell. Needless to say, we weren’t thrilled to see him.

Penny Sue set her jaw and glared at him. “We
were just passing by.”

Woody waved off the remark. “Relax, that was
a observation, not an accusation.” His lips stretched into a
crooked smile. “You have an amazing affinity for men with bullet
wounds. This is the first gunshot I’ve seen since you were in town
last October.”

“Pure chance,” I said.

“It is, indeed.” A policeman in uniform
approached and whispered something to Woody. His grin grew wider.
“I’m afraid we’ll need to give you a ride home. It seems the
shooter wasn’t very accurate. He or she nailed your Mercedes.”

“What?” We looked at the yellow Benz, where
an officer was prying something from the middle of the first P in
the PSP of Penny Sue’s University of Georgia vanity plate.

“Yeah, whoever it was shot the center out of
Penny,” Woody snickered.

“Did they hurt Uga?” she demanded.

A vicious-looking bulldog with a spiked
collar, Uga is the Georgia mascot and the only dog to be invited to
a Heisman trophy dinner. Actually, there have been a succession of
Ugas who are paraded at the beginning of home games in an
air-conditioned, fire hydrant doghouse.

Woody stared at the license. “No. A shame.
I’m a Gator fan.” He chuckled to himself. “We’ll have to take your
car in to check for prints. You should get it back tomorrow. I’ll
have one of the officers give you a ride.”

“We’ll take them home,” Fran said
forcefully.

I was relieved, to say the least. It had
taken some doing after the October debacle, but I’d finally
convinced several of the neighbors that we were not homicidal
maniacs and hated to queer the relationship by showing up in a
police car. The three of us slid into the back seat of Fran’s new
Jaguar. Spacious with a new leather scent, the luxury car’s back
seat was a far cry from the rear of my Beetle.

“I don’t like that guy,” Fran said, starting
the Jaguar and cranking up the air conditioner. “Your car was shot,
and he laughs about it. And that football comment was totally out
of line. I might report him. He’s a public employee. Where does he
get off with such arrogance?”

He’s a lawyer, I thought. Then, two other
lawyers—Zack, my ex, and Max Bennett, my worthless divorce
counsel—came to mind. They were both snide and overbearing. In
truth, virtually all the attorneys I knew, except for the judge,
were egomaniacs. Probably a required course in law school,
Self-Importance 101.

“He could see how upset Penny Sue was,” Fran
went on. “His remark was totally thoughtless. I’ve got a mind to
call the mayor.”

“No,” I blurted. Fran was right, but a
run-in with Woody was the last thing we needed. “Woody’s not worth
your time. Besides, he’s one
old acquaintance
we really want
to
be forgot
.”

“Well, I’m going to keep an eye out for that
guy. Public employees need to show a little respect for taxpayers.
After all, we’re paying their salaries.” Fran reached through the
space between the front bucket seats and patted Penny Sue’s knee.
“Are you feeling better?”

“Much, thank you.” She sighed. “I suppose
insurance will cover the bullet hole. But, that’s the least of my
worries. The victim is one of the fellows I saw outside of Rich’s
room the other day. Rich said he was an old friend.”

An old friend that hangs out with a person
named Vulture. I also couldn’t help but wonder about the
coincidence of Rich rushing through the restaurant and the old
friend’s body being discovered less than a hour later. The look on
Ruthie’s face said she was thinking the same thing. Surely, it had
also occurred to Penny Sue.

“I can hardly believe all of this. Rich
seemed so kind and gentle,” Penny Sue said.

“He’s into motorcycles,” Ruthie said
quietly. “Some of the motorcycle crowd are pretty rough.”

“Yeah, but they’re a minority,” Penny Sue
said defensively. “It’s always a few bad apples that give the bunch
a bad name. Like Muslim fanatics—everyone from the Middle East
isn’t a terrorist.”

Fran nodded. “All Italians aren’t in the
Mafia.”

“True, but all bikers don’t hang out with a
Vulture,” Ruthie said.

Penny Sue looked at her lap, crestfallen
“You’re right. I just can’t imagine Rich is involved in this. He’s
such a sweetheart.” She glanced up, tears rimming her eyes. “He’s
my soul mate.”

I swallowed. Lordy, I’d heard that line a
million times before. Best I could tell, Penny Sue had been in a
harem in several past lives, and everyone was her soul mate. Still,
the tears threw me. I’d seen more tears from Penny Sue in the last
two days than the last twenty-five years.

Penny Sue tugged on Carl’s shirtsleeve. “Are
you sure
that man
was a friend of Vulture’s?”

“Positive. I’ve seen them together at the
Canaveral Park several times and at the Pub, too. It’s definitely
the same guy.”

“What in the world were they doing at the
park? Surely not sightseeing.”

“Paintball battles.”

Penny Sue recoiled. “They’re Klingons?”

Carl scowled. “No. Paintball battles are all
the craze. Lots of people play them. Corporate team building
seminars even use them.”

“Yeah, and Muslim terrorists use paintballs
to train for jihad.” Ruthie, our news junkie, jumped in. “There was
a big article about it in the
Washington Post
.”

“I always suspected Vulture and his crowd
were training for a conflict. Like I said, some people say he’s an
anti-government extremist.”

“Rich is not an extremist. I’d stake my life
on it.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said with more
conviction than I felt. I hoped Penny Sue’s faith was justified. I
was beginning to like my new single life and hated to stake it on
anything.

* * *

The telephone rang at seven o’clock the next
morning. I bolted upright, heart pounding, struggling for air. I
was right in the middle of the damned dream about Zack. The
nightmare I’d had over and over since I discovered his secret life.
The wrenching horror that my divorce decree had not silenced.

I was sitting in the garage waiting for my
husband. My feet were propped up on a carton of wooden figurines
identical to the ones Zack claimed to have carved. I’ll never
forget the moment I found that box marked
Country Originals
hidden under his workbench. In a flash I
knew
and felt like
my heart had been ripped out. It must have been the same sensation
suffered by virgins in Aztec sacrifices when the priest savagely
severed her heart, and ate it, still beating.

The utter emptiness in my chest was almost
more than I could bear, yet it was peanuts compared to the feeling
of abandonment I felt when I confronted Zack. He callously brushed
me off and categorically refused to give up his girlfriend. I
couldn’t believe the man I’d slept next to for so many years, the
man I’d put first in almost everything, had so little regard for me
and our marriage! Dumped for a strip club dancer hardly older than
our own daughter.

The shock was more than my system could
stand. I started to hyperventilate, from pain, back then. Since the
divorce, I heaved from rage. A rage that spurted from my chest like
a ballistic missile. A furor so fierce it could destroy Zack, me,
and the entire planet.

The shift from pain to rage happened shortly
after I moved from Atlanta to New Smyrna Beach. Alone, away from
family and friends, it worried me. Should I consult a therapist, I
wondered? My track record with psychologists in Atlanta was dismal.
Desperate for support, I had called Ruthie who was an aficionado on
the newest spiritual and psychological theories.

“That’s terrific,” she’d said, when I told
her my feelings of despair had turned to rage. “You’re making great
progress. Rage is much farther up the consciousness scale than
despair. Don’t be concerned unless the nightmares get worse.
Otherwise, I think your unconscious is working it out.”

Geez, everything was terrific to Ruthie. She
said the same thing about my memory loss. Heck, maybe she was
right. Perhaps I’d just forget Zack pretty soon.

The phone emitted another electronic jingle.
Ruthie stirred in the next twin bed. “Wha—” she mumbled.

I snatched the portable from its cradle and
headed for the kitchen. It was all merely a dream, I told myself,
trying to clear my head.

I looked at the clock. The only person who
would call at that ungodly hour was my daughter, Ann, who still
hadn’t gotten the hang of the time difference although she’d been
in London six weeks.

“Hello.”

“Mom, are you all right?”

I cradled the phone on my shoulder and
reached for the coffee can. “Sure, I’m fine,” I replied, trying to
calm my racing heart. You woke me up, that’s all. It’s seven a.m.
here.”

“Sorry, I keep forgetting. I just finished
lunch.”

“That’s okay. How about you? Still loving
your job?”

“Yes, more than ever.”

My antenna went up.
More than ever.
A
hidden meaning there. “Another junket to Scotland?” I asked,
pouring water into the Mr. Coffee.

“Nothing like that. Mom, I’ve met
someone.”

My heart raced again. Ann was a smart,
attractive, twenty-two year old who’d had many boy friends over the
years. She was pinned to Gregory at one point and hinted at
marriage. Yet, even then, she’d never sounded so serious. I took a
deep breath to calm myself. “Is your boyfriend an intern?”