The Turtle Mound Murder (10 page)

* * *

“Penny Sue must have a liver the size of
Texas,” I commented under my breath.

Ruthie and I watched through the screen door
as she got into the cab. Though we assured her we were not leaving
the premises, she insisted on taking a taxi so we’d have use of her
car. Penny Sue paused before shutting the door and wiggled her
fingers in our direction. “Toodles.”

“Toodles?” I echoed, rolling my eyes.

Ruthie waved as the Silver Bullet cab pulled
out of the parking lot. “I think that’s her aristocratic persona.
Warming up for Lyndon.”

I closed and locked the front door. “She
never ceases to amaze me. This morning I would have bet money that
she’d have to cancel her date. Then, a few pills, a little toast,
and she’s ready to boogie. What’s her secret?” We picked up our
beach bags and chairs, and headed out the back door.

“The secret is M-A-N,” Ruthie explained.
“She’s a hopeless romantic. Penny Sue isn’t kidding when she talks
about finding Prince Charming; she’s really looking for him. Her
only problem is she thinks everyone she meets fits the bill. I
can’t tell you have many times I’ve heard her say that she’s
finally found her soul mate.” We planted our chairs at the edge of
the surf and sat down. Ruthie chuckled. “Best I can figure, Penny
Sue was a man with a harem in a previous life.”

“Do you believe in that?”

“Penny Sue with a harem? It fits.”

“No, soul mates. Do you think there’s a
perfect partner for everyone?” Was there a perfect mate for me
somewhere? At one time I thought it was Zack, but that had proven
to be a gross mistake.

Ruthie pulled her T-shirt over her head. She
was wearing a floral two piece which showed off her slim, pale
body. Her stomach was perfectly flat. I folded my arms over my
paunch self-consciously.

“Yes and no,” she replied, smearing on
suntan lotion. “I think there is such a thing as soul mates,
although I don’t believe everyone has one in each lifetime.”

I dug into my beach bag for my own sun
block. “Why is that?”

“I think each of us is born with an agenda.
You know, something we need to accomplish or learn. For some the
goal requires a helpmate—it’s sort of a joint purpose. Others can
do their thing alone. It doesn’t mean those people won’t have
relationships, just that they don’t need a partner to fulfill their
destiny.”

Destiny. I didn’t have a clue what mine was.
I looked out across the ocean, a vast expanse of ... what? Calm on
the surface, movement underneath—a dolphin arched over the
water—and life. Perhaps it was time for me to do something
different. But what? And, how did one go about finding their
purpose? “Do you know what your life purpose is?”

Ruthie sank back, eyes closed, and grinned.
“Not sure. Perhaps I’ll move to Cassadaga and become a medium.”

I tilted my face to the sun. Boy, wouldn’t
that be something.

We dozed peacefully in the warm sun until
the ocean got pissed. Or, so it seemed. One minute soaring
euphorically on gentle breezes; the next, swallowed by a
teeth-chattering swell. Clawing for life. Gasping for breath. Okay,
clawing for life might be a slight exaggeration, but we did gasp
for air. The water was cold, absolutely frigid! We blasted out of
the chairs like we were jet propelled and dragged our stuff toward
the dunes. A small group of mostly senior citizens were already
there. They were placing a wreath on the turtle mound where I’d
stumbled over Rick’s body.

“Did you know him well?” I asked.

A small woman with short gray hair, probably
in her seventies, answered. “Not too well; Rick had only been with
us for a couple of months. New to the area. But, he loved the
turtles. Volunteered to come out before dawn to relocate the nests.
Too dangerous to do it in the daytime; the birds, you know.
Besides, the hot sun dries out the eggs.”

Daytime had its dangers, but night obviously
had some too, I thought. “Any idea why someone would want to kill
him?”

The little woman clenched her fists as tears
welled in her eyes. “The H.M. don’t need a special reason. They’re
just mean. They did it, they did it for sure.”

“The H.M.?”

“Hate mongers. The turtle haters. Only, they
don’t just loathe turtles, they despise everything. Shoot arrows at
sea gulls, leave them wounded to die. Kidnap pets and torture them.
Race their trucks up and down the beach, belching smoke and tossing
beer bottles in the ocean so little kids cut their feet on the
glass.” The woman grew more and more agitated as she talked until
the veins in her neck stood out like taunt cords. Alarmed, I
stepped back. “Why, I heard one of their gun molls was taking pot
shots at people right over there the other day.” She pointed to our
parking lot. “I’ll bet that hussy killed Rick.”

Ruthie and I exchanged horrified looks. Gun
moll? Hussy? The woman sounded like a 1940 detective novel, which
would have been funny except that she was talking about Penny
Sue.

“I tell you they’re an evil menace to us, to
everyone.” She started to cry. “Murderers. The H.M. did it.
Murderers.”

Another woman from the group stepped forward
to comfort her. “Calm down, Gerty. It’ll be all right.”

I smiled soothingly. I had to steer Gerty
away from Penny Sue. “The H.M. Is that a gang or something?” I
couldn’t tell if the woman was talking in philosophical
generalities or referring to a specific group.

A red-headed woman about my age replied,
“It’s not a formal thing, like the Hell’s Angels. There’s a small
core of mean ones who whip up the locals with their hateful talk.
You know, a lot of old-timers regard driving on the beach as an
inalienable right.”

Except for a few places in North Carolina, I
couldn’t think of other areas that still allowed that. “How does
that fit in with the turtles?”

“The green, leatherback and loggerhead
turtles are endangered,” a gaunt man pushing eighty answered. “The
cars and motorcycles destroy their nests and crush the
hatchlings.”

“I wouldn’t think the cars would be great
for little kids, either,” Ruthie commented.

“They’re not. There’s a death almost every
year, but the driving advocates never talk about that. Anyway, the
county banned driving on half the beach in a compromise settlement
to a federal lawsuit.”

I looked around at the wide, pristine
expanse.

The red-head noticed my confusion. “Motor
vehicles are outlawed on this stretch of beach. The driving ban
runs south from Twenty-Seventh Street. Walk north, past there
sometime; you’ll see wall-to-wall cars.”

Ruthie motioned at the wreath the group had
placed next to the mound. “Did Rick have family?”

“The sheriff asked that,” the elderly man
answered. “Apparently they’re having a hard time finding his next
of kin. We don’t know of any, Rick never talked about himself. The
poor guy deserves a decent burial, though. If the Sheriff doesn’t
find his relatives, we’re going to take up a collection. We figure
it’s the least we can do.”

Ruthie nodded solemnly. “If it comes to
that, we’d like to help out.”

I glanced at the wreath and then to our
condo at the top of the dune. A man was shot to death a mere
hundred, hundred-fifty feet from our unit. Yes, I wanted to make
sure Rick got a decent burial. But more than that, I wanted someone
to find the killer and lock him away from us.

* * *

Penny Sue returned
a little after
three. By then we’d moved to the deck so we could be closer to the
bathroom. Ruthie was wearing herself out running back and forth. I
was going to broach the subject of the pee-urgency pill that was
advertised on television, but stopped myself when I realized that
all the peeing and going back and forth was probably how Ruthie
stayed slim.

Penny Sue bounced out to the deck, full of
herself, grinning from ear to ear. She brushed my feet to one side
and sat at the end of the lounge chair. I was reading
Midnight
in the Garden of Good and Evil.
Though I’d seen the movie with
Kevin Spacey, I’d somehow missed the book when it first came out.
I’d gotten to the part where Joe Odom was hot-wiring the electric
meter at his pilfered abode when Penny Sue sat down. She looked
like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. I wondered how long she
could last if we didn’t ask about her date. I stealthily moved my
arm behind the book so I could see my watch and winked at Ruthie.
She caught my drift.

It took exactly one minute and ten seconds
for the exciting details to bubble up and spew forth. “He has his
own chef. A captain, first mate, and chef. Isn’t that divine?”

I marked my place and lowered the book.
“That explains why he didn’t eat last night at The Riverview.”

She let out a heavy sigh. I could tell she
was winding up for high drama. “You wouldn’t believe his yacht. All
plush carpet, polished teak and marble. It’s decorated in a South
Pacific motif. The living room is huge with bamboo furniture
covered in silk. The dining room has a gorgeous round table inlaid
with mother of pearl. It seats ten. No telling how much that thing
cost, Lyndon said it was an antique. There are three bedrooms, all
king and queen-sized, and the master suite has a hot tub for
two!”

“Only a hot tub? No indoor pool?” I needled.
Considering she’d been on death’s door hours earlier, I guess I
should have cut her some slack. Though, she’d made a remarkable
recovery. Perhaps Ruthie’s Rescue Remedy really did work.

“Smart aleck.” Penny Sue poked my thigh.
Hard.

Ruthie gave me the don’t-get-her-riled
expression and changed the subject. “What did you have for
lunch?”

Penny Sue reared back, squashing my feet. “A
heavenly tarragon chicken salad on croissant, pasta medley, fruit
cup (fresh, of course), a scrumptious chocolate mousse, and
champagne.” The last word was mumbled.

“You had champagne?” I extricated my feet
and formed my thumb and index finger in the shape of a gun. “Pow.
You said we should shoot you if you ever drank wine again.”

Penny Sue folded her arms defensively. “I
couldn’t be rude. Thomas, the chef, had gone to so much trouble
and, I didn’t have much, just a few sips. Besides, champagne isn’t
wine, it’s, well, champagne.”

I shook my head. Penny Sue was incorrigible.
“What’s Daddy Warbucks do for a living?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I suspect it’s inherited
wealth. Lyndon seems to have been everywhere, though he spends a
lot of time in the Caribbean, especially the Caymans. You’ll love
this, Ruthie: he’s into New Age. Traveled to most of the power
spots. The pyramids, Macchu Picchu, Sedona, Easter Island—Lyndon’s
seen it all. He even knew about Cassadaga.”

“Did you tell him about your reading?”
Ruthie asked.

“Pu-leeze. I am many things, but stupid’s
not one of them. Think I want to scare him off?” Penny Sue stood
up. I flexed my toes to get the circulation going again. “What’s
that?” She asked, pointing toward the wreath.

Ruthie admonished me with her eyes.

I understood. “The Turtle Patrol put it
there in Rick’s honor.” I filled her in on the Turtle Patrol and
Hate Mongers, conveniently leaving out Gerty’s reference to the
Hussy Gun Moll. “The Patrol plans to collect money for a funeral if
Rick’s relatives aren’t found.”

“I’d chip in. Did you get the names of the
members of the patrol?”

“No, but they come by here every morning.
All we have to do is get up early.”

Penny Sue cut her eyes at me
reprovingly.

Dumb comment. Penny Sue was the person whose
favorite refrain was: Chickens get up early, civilized people
don’t. In college, she wouldn’t take a class that met before ten
o’clock even though it meant she had to go an extra semester to get
enough credits to graduate. She was late to her first wedding
because she’d overslept. (An eleven o’clock wedding, what was she
thinking?) No, if the Turtle Patrol was going to be contacted,
Ruthie or I would be the ones to do it. Besides, it was probably
advisable that we keep Penny Sue and Gerty as far apart as
possible.

“I went to one of those parties.” Penny Sue
bent forward and thumped the back of my book.

“What?” Another one-hundred-eighty degree
turn. The workings of Penny Sue’s mind were a marvel. Either a few
neurons were missing or her lobes had connections and cross
connections that nobody else possessed.

“Jim Williams’ Christmas party. Sydney knew
him,” she said smugly.

Jim Williams was the subject of
Midnight
in the Garden of Good and Evil
, played by Kevin Spacey in the
movie. Renowned throughout Savannah for his lavish lifestyle and
impeccable taste, invitations to Williams’ parties were a coveted
prize. That Jim murdered his gay lover made no difference. Right up
until Jim’s death from a heart attack, Savannah’s privileged elite
clamored to be among the chosen few at Williams’ parties. Sydney
had apparently been chosen. He was Penny Sue’s second husband, the
movie producer who turned out to be bisexual.

Ruthie broke in, “Before or after the
murder?”

Penny Sue stroked her forehead as if trying
to conjure up the memory the way a stranded castaway might summon a
genie from a bottle that washed up on the shore. Maybe that was the
answer to Penny Sue’s mind, I thought. There was someone else
inside her head!

“In the middle, I think. Seems like the
murder had taken place, but everyone still thought Jim was
innocent.”

“Was he as charming as they say?”

Penny Sue smiled—that thin, crooked smirk
that said she was thinking of something devilish. “Absolutely. But
he had this friend, Attila, who was the master courtier.” Her smile
grew wider.

“Come on, Penny Sue. What happened?”

“I had on a particularly low-cut dress. That
was during the period when I couldn’t understand why Sydney wasn’t
more affectionate. I’d bought a lot of sexy underwear, wore tight
clothes, rented porno flicks—generally made a fool of myself trying
to get his attention. Little did I know Sydney preferred
three-piece suits. Anyway, my dress had a plunging neckline and I
had on one of those push up bras ...” She stopped, a wide grin
plastered on her face.