The Turtle Mound Murder (3 page)

“
We’re sisters cut
from the same
cloth,” Penny Sue chirped as we sat at the light next to the Bert
Fish Medical Center.

I studied the tan medical building to keep
from laughing. If we were cut from the same cloth, it was a
patchwork quilt.

Penny Sue was tall, pudgy, with streaked
brown hair and decided kewpie doll tendencies in makeup and dress.
Expensive, almost haute couture, yet kewpie doll, nonetheless.
Ruthie was shorter, about five six, and disgustingly slim. A
typical strawberry blonde (fair and freckled), she favored clothes
with tailored, simple lines—the ones that were so plain and drab
they shouted: mega-bucks.

I, on the other hand, was
middle-of-the-road. I was Penny Sue’s height, though a little
slimmer, and my shoulder-length brown hair was darker than hers by
a couple of shades. I bought my clothes at Dillards, favoring
elastic waists and comfort whenever possible. When I did dress up,
I opted for tailored suits and dresses which didn’t shout anything.
Rather, they spoke in a normal voice: I came from the career
department.

“Who’s Bert Fish?” I asked to change the
subject. New Smyrna Beach had grown a lot since our college days. I
seemed to recall a brick medical center and a much smaller hospital
in the olden days.

“I just saw that,” Ruthie responded,
consulting the tour book she’d been reading, much of it aloud, for
the whole trip. “Here it is. Bert was a local lawyer, criminal
judge, and a 32nd Degree Mason. He was the Florida campaign manager
for Franklin Roosevelt … paid back with Ambassadorships to Egypt,
Saudi Arabia, and Portugal. Hmm-m, Portugal was not so good for
Bert. He died there in 1943 under mysterious circumstances—his body
was never found. In any event, he willed a big part of his
estate—orange groves—to Volusia County.”

“How nice,” Penny Sue remarked with an edge
of sarcasm, clearly bored by the pithy tidbits Ruthie’d peppered us
with during the seven-hour trip. The light turned green, and we
started up the hill to the South Causeway Bridge. “We’re going to
have a great time, Leigh. A week from now, you’ll be a new
woman.

“Here we are,” she enthused as we rounded
the top of the tall bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway.
“Looks just like the French Riviera, don’t you think?” Penny Sue
rambled. “I feel like I’m in Europe every time I come here.”

The view
was
spectacular. Stucco
townhouses with red tile roofs lined the inland waterway to the
left, virgin wetlands to the right, and the Atlantic Ocean directly
ahead. A sailboat on the horizon completed the picture of
tranquility. Likening it to the French Riviera might be overstating
things a tad, I thought, but the view was beautiful. I sank back
contentedly, thinking the trip might be a good move. “I didn’t know
you’d been to France,” I commented.

“I haven’t,” Penny Sue replied. “This is
what I imagine it to be.”

“I went with Harold. It doesn’t look
anything like this,” Ruthie said from her minuscule spot in the
backseat. Under normal circumstances the bright yellow Mercedes
would hold five comfortably; however, traveling with Penny Sue was
never normal.

Ruthie and I each brought one large
suitcase; after all, we were only planning to stay a week or two.
Penny Sue showed up with provisions for an expedition. She had
three enormous Hartmann suitcases, a cooler, a boom box, and
God-knew-what-all-else. The bottom line being the backseat was
loaded to the ceiling, leaving only a sliver of room for one of us.
Though Ruthie and I switched seats each time we stopped—which
proved to be often—Ruthie’s nerves were clearly beginning to
fray.

“Details, details. You sure are getting
crabby,” Penny Sue called over her shoulder as the car rounded the
corner to South Atlantic. The luggage in the backseat shifted,
sending the boom box onto Ruthie’s shoulder.

“Who wouldn’t be crabby; you drive like a
maniac. Besides, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

“Again? Your hormones must be going.”

“My hormones are fine.”

“Have you had them checked? You’re at the
age when they start dropping. Peeing a lot is one of the first
symptoms.”

“I’ve had them checked. My hormones are
fine.”

“You’d better look into that bladder urgency
pill. Having to pee all the time isn’t normal.”

“Don’t start on that,” Ruthie warned. “I
wanted to fly, remember?”

“We wouldn’t have gotten here any sooner,
and this way we have my car.”

Ruthie stared out the window peevishly.
“Yeah, but airplanes have big seats and bathrooms.”

“Hold on for a little while longer. There’s
the Food Lion.” Penny Sue waved to the right. “The condo’s only a
couple more blocks.” A few minutes later, she took a left onto a
road marked Sea Dunes. A small compound of duplexes—three two-story
buildings and a single-story beachfront unit—the structures were
carefully placed to grace each condo with an ocean view. The car
bounced down the rutted sand lane which led to the Judge’s unit in
the single story building that overlooked the beach. Grunting and
grimacing with each bump, Ruthie sighed with relief when Penny Sue
finally brought the car to a stop between a van and pickup truck
parked in front of the weathered, clapboard duplex.

The truck was a big red job—a true
testosterone statement—with lots of chrome, spotlights mounted on
the front, oversized tires, and a bumper sticker that read:
Turtles? They Make Good Soup. The van, on the other hand, was
completely nondescript except for A-1 Pest Control which was
lettered neatly across the back.

“Check that out,” I said, pointing at a
bumper sticker on the back of the van. “
Turn Lights Out for
Turtles.
I don’t suppose the guys in those trucks are good
friends.”

Ruthie squirmed. “Who cares? It’s their
problem. Give me the key, Penny. I’ve got to go. Now!” She was
almost shouting.

Penny Sue arched a brow haughtily. A
veritable cloud of gauzy cotton, she hurried to the oceanfront
condominium with Ruthie close on her heels. I trailed behind,
lugging the boom box and cooler.

As Penny Sue fumbled with her key ring,
Ruthie reached over her shoulder and tried the door, which proved
to be unlocked. Already starting to unbutton her shorts, Ruthie
pushed past Penny Sue and ducked into the first bedroom. A man with
a large spray canister flew out.

Penny Sue gave him the once over with an
amused grin. About six feet tall, he had blond hair, a deep tan,
and nice biceps. “A-1, indeed,” she mumbled.

Oh, brother. I’d heard that tone a million
times and knew where it was leading. An Atlanta Falcon and Atlanta
Brave were not enough. Penny Sue was going after an
exterminator.

I’d never understood her addiction to men.
Though she’d packed on a few pounds over the years, as we all had
(except Ruthie), Penny Sue had a lot going for her. Vivacious,
connected, smart in an understated Southern-belle way, and very
rich—owing to the huge settlement from her second divorce—Penny
certainly didn’t need a man, and could have virtually any one she
wanted.

Yet, for some unfathomable reason she had a
penchant for losers. Andy, her first husband was nice, but dumb.
Real dumb. Last I heard, he was selling used cars in Valdosta. Her
second, Sydney, had been artistic, rich and bisexual. Finally,
there was Winston Brewer, an up-and-coming lawyer in Daddy’s firm.
Daddy had orchestrated that pairing, convinced that Penny couldn’t
tell a good man when she saw one. It seems, Daddy couldn’t either.
It was the Judge himself who caught Winston in a compromising
position with a secretary on top of a copy machine.

Winston doesn’t practice law in Georgia
anymore.

“Excuse me.” Hating to intrude on a romantic
moment, not to mention that my bladder wasn’t a high capacity
model, either; I wedged by Penny Sue and the bug man into the
bedroom that had swallowed Ruthie. I set my gear in the corner and
perched on the end of the bed. Ruthie was humming, which meant I
might be there a long time.

“Ruthie, you going to be long? I’ve got to
go, too.” She mumbled something that I couldn’t understand. I
leaned back on the bed to wait. There was no sense rushing Ruthie;
she’d just get flustered and clam up, so to speak. Heck, now she
was singing. Might as well get comfortable. I rolled to my side,
checking out the layout of the room.

The decor was typically Florida:
white-washed rattan furniture with pictures of birds and hibiscus.
A pink flamingo lamp graced an imposing chest of drawers on the far
wall. In any other setting, the piece would look hokey, but fit
perfectly in this room. No doubt the ceramic fixture was rare,
costly and decorator-picked. Penny Sue’s mother, now passed, had
always had impeccable taste. It ran in the family, I supposed.

Ruthie came out of the bathroom, and I
rushed in. When I finally emerged, Penny Sue was waving goodbye to
the bug man, Rick. Ruthie was in the great room, gazing out an
expansive window that overlooked the ocean. I dropped the cooler on
the kitchen counter and joined her.

Bladders pleasantly low, we could enjoy the
scene. With Ruthie’s help, I opened the sliding glass doors that
had obviously not been moved for a long time, and stepped out on a
wooden deck perched on top of a sand dune. Sea spray hit my face,
dousing all thoughts of Zack, money, houses and children. I took a
deep breath and let it out slowly. There is nothing like salt air
to clear the mind and invigorate the spirit.

I surveyed the terrain. Storms had
definitely taken their toll since my last visit. Though the beach
was wide and flat as always, it was a good ten feet lower than I
recalled, not to mention that an entire row of dunes were now
missing. And, for a beautiful October afternoon with temperatures
in the mid-eighties, the beach was surprisingly vacant except for a
four-by-four square marked off by stakes and green tape at the edge
of the sand dune.

“A turtle mound,” Ruthie commented, pointing
at the stakes below us. “The tour book said turtle season runs
through the end of October. We must be careful to close the blinds
and turn off all our beach-side lights after sunset. There’s a
strict light pollution ordinance, since bright lights disorient the
hatchlings. Every year, hundreds of baby turtles are crushed by
cars or die from dehydration and starvation because they are
distracted by lights and never make it to the water.”

Penny Sue appeared with paper cups of wine.
“That’s sad,” she said, passing out the drinks. “You’re in charge
of the lights, Ruthie. We sure don’t want any turtles dying on our
account.” Penny Sue stepped up on the low benches built into the
side of the deck and looked out over the ocean. “We’ve had some
good times here, haven’t we, girls?”

Ruthie climbed up on the bench alongside
her. “I’ll say. Footloose and fancy free. Though, you never stayed
footloose for long; you always got hooked up with someone,” she
said to Penny Sue. “Remember the guy you met the summer after our
sophomore year? He had a funny name—what was it?”

Penny Sue giggled. “Woodhead. Woody
Woodhead.”

Ruthie sputtered, spitting wine. “That’s
right. What a name! Remember the commotion when Zack showed up.
He’d come down to see Penny Sue, and was so ticked off—” Ruthie
stopped abruptly, realizing what she’d said. She looked at me
guiltily, apologetically ... when angry shouts from the front of
the condo cut the air.

“You’re a real ass,” Rick barked.

“Stuff it,” a male voice shouted back. Then
a dull, slapping sound.

Penny Sue was off the deck in a millisecond.
She grabbed her purse and raced to the front door. Ruthie and I
were initially too stunned to move, though finally recovered, and
chased after Penny Sue. By the time we arrived, the men were
rolling in the driveway, trading punches. Penny Sue was fumbling in
her purse, and couples from the two-story duplex behind our unit
had come out on their balconies to watch.

Rick seemed to be getting the upper hand,
sitting on the stranger—the owner of the pickup truck, I
presumed—until the stranger’s hand found a large chunk of concrete
in the driveway. The man swung the slab toward Rick, missing his
head, but catching his shoulder.

“Stop it,” Penny Sue demanded loudly. They
ignored her.

“Stop it! I’m not kidding,” she shouted
again, pulling a small, pearl-handled revolver from her purse.

I gasped so hard, I almost swallowed my
tongue. Penny Sue’d always had a penchant for playing roles, but
they usually took the form of a femme fatale—Scarlett O’Hara,
Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe. I’d never, ever, imagined Annie Oakley
was part of her repertoire.

“That’s enough, boys,” Penny Sue yelled.

Rick landed a punch on his opponent’s
face.

“Stop! I’m not fooling.” Penny Sue waved the
gun in their general direction.

My heart flopped over with fear. Penny Sue
was excitable; how far would she go? I grabbed Ruthie’s arm and
whispered, “Go call 9-1-1.” She hurried off.

“Stay out of this, bitch,” Rick shouted.

Penny Sue’s eyes narrowed. “What did you
say?” She aimed the gun to the side and pulled the trigger. The
bullet hit the ground with a thud. Sand billowed. An elderly couple
on the balcony scurried inside. My heart did a triple flip. “Would
you like to repeat that last comment?” Penny Sue asked sweetly,
beaming her fake beauty-queen smile.

Rick held his hands up and rolled off his
adversary. “Calm down, lady.”

“That’s better. For a moment I thought you
were talking to a dog.”

Rick’s foe took the opportunity to scramble
to his truck. He sped off, spewing sand.

Rick glared at Penny Sue, hands raised. “He
started it.”

Penny Sue kept the gun angled to the side.
“Maybe so, but that’s no call for being rude.”