The Turtle Mound Murder (9 page)

We’d finished dinner and our pie had just
arrived when Penny Sue brought Lyndon over to the table. He was
terrific looking up close. Lyndon had a perfect body, perfect
teeth, perfect clothes, and the polished, understated assurance of
the super wealthy. Penny Sue was in hog heaven. She introduced us;
we made polite small talk; then he excused himself to place an
overseas phone call.

Penny Sue ogled his back as he walked down
the pier to his yacht. When he disappeared inside, she reached over
and snatched my drink. “Mmmm-hmm, that is one fine specimen of
manhood.” She finished off the last few sips of the wine and
grabbed Ruthie’s, downing it as well.

“How much have you had to drink?” I
asked.

She tossed her head. “You can drive.”

“Did you ever eat dinner?” Ruthie
questioned.

“I’ll make a sandwich when we get home.”
Penny Sue snatched the spoon from Ruthie’s coffee cup and helped
herself to my coconut cream pie. I pushed the plate in front of
her, obviously she needed it more than I did.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Penny Sue said, mouth full of
whipped cream.

Talking with her mouth full! That was
completely out of character. Penny Sue must really be smashed.
“What’s the story on Lyndon?”

Pie demolished, she licked her finger and
sat back. “He’s in town to check on an investment. Condos or
something. Will be here for at least a few days, maybe a week. He’s
coming to the party.”

“And ...” Ruthie prodded.

“Charlotte’s going to come over to clean and
help with the party.”

Ruthie leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“Come on, Penny Sue, you know what I mean. Is he married? What does
he do for a living? Are you going to see him before Saturday?”

Penny Sue flashed a goofy grin. “Divorced,
don’t know, lunch tomorrow.”

“Did you tell him y’all were destined to
marry?” I asked.

She tittered. “I’m saving that tidbit for
another time. But, we’re definitely in sync. Lyndon said he felt
like he’d known me all his life.”

“How much had he had to drink?” I gibed.

Penny Sue folded her arms and pursed her
lips peevishly. “You’re just jealous.”

“I’m kidding. Though, it’s an amazing turn
of events. I get inducted into the DAFFODILS, and the president
resigns a few days later.”

“Who said anything about me resigning?”

“Well, if you get married ...”

“That doesn’t make any difference. I’m still
divorced and free of licentious scum.” She chopped the air with her
hand and knocked over the wine glass. Fortunately, it was empty.
“DAFFODILS are allowed to remarry, as long as it’s Prince Charming.
Royalty’s a whole ‘nother matter.”

Ruthie and I each took one of Penny Sue’s
arms. “I’m glad you clarified that, Cinderella. It’s almost
midnight, we need to get you home before your carriage turns into a
pumpkin.”

“Pumpkin—” She followed us out without
protest. “—wouldn’t a pumpkin pie taste good?” I unlocked the car
and helped her into the passenger side. She laid her head back and
closed her eyes. “Stop at Food Lion and get a pie, Leigh.”

I guided the car out of the parking lot. I
wasn’t about to stop anywhere; a bed was what she needed.

Ruthie came to my aid. “I know, how about
cream cheese and pepper jelly on toast?”

“Mmmm,” Penny Sue mumbled. “With onion.”

* * *

“
Do you think
a guy should wear a
dress to a school dance?”

I looked up from the cinnamon and raisin
bagel I was smearing with cream cheese. Ruthie sat at the counter
reading the newspaper. “Sure, as long as he doesn’t look better
than his date. That basketball player with the funny hair wears
dresses. He even wears wed—” I stopped myself. I was about to say
wedding dresses, Ruthie’s favorite attire (complete with veil) to
Kappa Alpha’s Old South gala when we were in college. That subject
was best left untouched, no sense starting the day on the wrong
foot. I raised on tiptoes and peered at the newsprint. “What are
you reading?”

Ruthie held up the paper so I could see the
headline: Local High School Bars Teen In Drag.

I took a bite of my bagel. “What’s the
problem?”

“The principal won’t let a gay boy go to the
homecoming dance wearing a dress. The kid’s broken-hearted, worked
overtime for months to buy a red ball gown with matching
shoes.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“A bunch of parents are upset.” She scanned
the article. “They say: No one should be allowed to make himself
the center of attention by deliberately making a spectacle of
himself.”

I hooted. “As if that’s not what every
female is trying to do! Who are they kidding? Sounds like some
mothers are afraid the guy will upstage their daughters.”

“He probably would,” Ruthie said. “I went to
a bar in San Francisco that featured a stage show of female
impersonators. I couldn’t believe the performers were actually men.
They looked fabulous, better than I do.”

“Me, too.” One of the talk shows did a
segment on cross-dressing. On my best day I don’t look that
glamorous. “I can’t believe it’s legal.”

“Everything’s legal in San Francisco.”

“No, I mean barring the teen from the dance.
Isn’t that discrimination?”

“I’d think so.”

I took a bite of the bagel. It wasn’t the
best I’d ever had; in fact, it was bland, very bland. I thought of
the Jalapeño jelly. Why not? I pulled off a piece of bagel and
slathered on the hot concoction. It was surprisingly good.

“Listen to this,” Ruthie said. “Moving
turtle nests can cause the eggs not to hatch or change the sex of
hatchlings.”

“Change the sex of hatchlings? How does that
work?” I asked.

Ruthie scanned the article. “Doesn’t say.
But the number of nests is up, while hatchlings are lower. No one
knows why. Vandalism has increased from here to South Florida.”

I spread hot jelly on the other half of my
bagel. “What kind of person would vandalize turtle nests?”

“The eggs are considered a delicacy and
aphrodisiac. Bars in the Cayman Islands sell them in shot glasses
with Tabasco. It says here that turtle eggs sell for as much as
five dollars apiece.”

“Ouch, that’s steep.”

“The price is nothing. It’s a misdemeanor to
possess the eggs of loggerhead turtles and a felony to destroy
them. A guy in West Palm Beach was sentenced to five years for
possessing the eggs.”

“West Palm? Those rich people will try
anything.”

“Yeah.” Ruthie took a sip of her coffee and
gazed at me over the rim of the cup. “By the way, I know what you
were thinking earlier.”

Earlier? I blinked, baffled.

“There was nothing wrong with my wearing a
wedding gown to Old South. It was a masquerade ball.”

Oh, that earlier. I gulped down guilt.
Fortunately Ruthie let the subject drop and went back to reading
the paper. I nibbled my bagel, waiting for her next pearl of
wisdom. A consummate news junky, if Ruthie wasn’t reading
something—even a cereal box—she was listening to talk radio or
watching television newscasts. And, she delighted in sharing the
knowledge so we would be informed. Where was she when Zack was
running around on me? I wish she’d informed me about that.

“There were a record number of manatees at
Blue Springs last year,” Ruthie said a few minutes later. “Blue
Springs isn’t far, just past Cassadaga. We should go over there,
don’t you think? I’d like to see the manatees.”

The mention of Cassadaga reminded me of our
psychic readings and I realized Ruthie hadn’t said anything about
her call home. “I meant to ask, is everything all right in
Atlanta?”

“Fine. Mr. Wong has things firmly in hand,
including the housekeeper next door.”

Mr. Wong had been in the Edwards’ employ for
as long as I could remember and had to be close to eighty himself.
“Mr. Wong is having an affair?”

“I think so. He’s always had an eye for the
ladies, but he seems especially partial to Hilda, who works for our
neighbor. Of course, it may simply be that Hilda’s close. Mr. Wong
doesn’t get around as well as he used to. Poppa offered to buy him
one of those motorized scooters, but he’d have nothing to do with
it. Said he’d accept one when he stopped catching
twenty-year-olds.” She chuckled. “Big talker.”

“They’re all like that. It’s testosterone.”
I thought of little Zack and his buddies. As mere toddlers boys
swaggered around, bragging. Not to mention hitting each other over
the head with their toys, running into walls, chasing dogs, and
generally creating chaos. It was then that I realized there truly
was a hormonal component to behavior. Little girls played quietly
with dolls and tea sets. Boys? Get out of the way. “Did you talk to
your father?”

“Poppa didn’t have much to say. Poor thing,
he’s starting to get confused. He thought I was Jo Ruth, kept
asking me how school was going.”

I let out a long sigh. My parents were still
in good health, though I knew my time was coming. “That’s
tough.”

She looked sad, and I thought I saw her lip
quiver. “He’s in no pain, and actually pretty happy. I guess it’s
true that ignorance is bliss. It could be worse—”

“Nothing could be worse than this headache.”
Penny Sue rounded the corner holding her head, face contorted in an
agonized grimace. “Ibuprofen, please,” she whimpered pitifully. I
found the bottle in her purse and handed her a glass of water. She
swallowed four pills and shuffled to the sofa. I put a damp paper
towel over her forehead. “I’m never drinking again,” she said,
holding the paper towel in place with both hands. “If I ever so
much as mention wine, shoot me.”

I grinned to myself. Ten bucks said she’d be
having a glass by evening. Yet, I did feel sorry for her. Penny Sue
liked her wine, but normally didn’t overdo. If only she’d eaten
something, she probably wouldn’t feel so bad. “How about some toast
or a bagel? You need to get something in your stomach.”

“Oooo, I can still taste that coconut cream
pie.”

Good, she remembered the pie. There was
hope.

She wiped her face with the paper towel and
handed it to me. I understood the unspoken plea. I rinsed the
compress in cold water.

“Wait,” Ruthie stopped me before I could
take it back. She ran to our bedroom and returned with a small
dropper bottle. Ruthie squirted the liquid on the compress.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A flower remedy.” Ruthie turned the bottle
so I could see the name: Rescue Remedy. “It’s good for grave
situations: heart attack, stage fright, accidents—”

“Massive hangovers. Put on an extra dose.” I
eyed the small container, then glanced at Penny Sue. “Does it come
in a larger size?”

“Like what, a gallon jug?” Ruthie
chuckled.

I placed the compress back on Penny Sue’s
forehead. She smiled appreciatively.

“What time is it? I’m supposed to have lunch
with Lyndon at noon.”

“Eight-thirty,” I said. Penny Sue
groaned.

The phone rang and Ruthie leaped to get it.
“Penny Sue, it’s Woody. He’s returning your call.”

She struggled to a sitting position. “Oh
crap, I think I’m going to throw up.”

In fact, Penny Sue did not puke and actually
managed to talk to Woody, although the call was remarkably brief.
“Jerk,” Penny Sue declared as she hung up the phone. “He told us to
get the license number if we see the pickup again. Leigh, I think I
will have some toast.” She sat next to Ruthie at the bar.

“Did he say anything about the
investigation?” Ruthie asked. “What about the test results for the
gun?”

Penny Sue crossed her arms on the counter
and lay her head down. “He didn’t say. He’s trying to torment
me.”

I slid the plate of toast in front of her.
Woody wasn’t the only one; Penny Sue was doing a good job of
torturing herself.

The phone rang again at nine.

“Mars is conjuncting Mercury,” Ruthie said,
as if that pearl explained some deep, dark secret about Alexander
Graham Bell’s jingling invention.

It told me zip, zilch, nada. I answered the
telephone, it was my realtor. Our house had made the cute young
couple’s short list. I got a strangely sick feeling at the news. I
should be happy, right? Sell the house, get rid of Zack and all
those rotten memories ... except, damn it, there was a whole raft
of good memories there.

Who were these people? Did they deserve such
a house with so many wonderful features? Could they take care of my
crepe myrtle? Would they recognize that the evergreens in the
backyard were our Christmas trees from years-gone-by? Twenty-two,
one for every year we’d been in the house. Did they know you had to
prune roses and dust them for aphids and fungus? Would they smile
at Ann and Zack, Jr.’s handprints in the cement on the patio?

The handprints! There was no way I was
leaving those precious little fingers behind. I’d hire someone to
remove that part of the concrete. Cement was cement, right? Cut it
out and fill the hole. Though, it would probably look tacky. I
could put in a decorative tile. Or, a carved flagstone with a sweet
saying; I’d seen them at the garden shop. Something inspiring like:
Bless this Home, Seize the Day, Eat Shit and Die.
What
difference did it make? Strangers weren’t getting my babies’
handprints.

“—throw in the refrigerator and drapes?” My
realtor was saying.

That snot-nosed couple sure was greedy. They
wanted everything. Well, they couldn’t have it.

The realtor continued, “I’ve already talked
to your husband. He has no problem with it.”

My husband
. My voice turned to ice.
“Ex-husband. I’ll include the refrigerator and drapes on the first
floor, nothing more.” Feeling furious, I hung up the receiver and
turned on Ruthie. “What’s this stuff about Mars and Mercury?”