Southern author Maggie Toussaint loves writing mysteries. She’s published thirteen novels in mystery and romantic suspense. Doggone It, book three in her dreamwalker series, is her latest book-length mystery release. The next dreamwalker book, Dadgummit, releases June 2017. Under the pen name of Rigel Carson, she’s published three dystopian thrillers. She’s president of Southeast Mystery Writers of America and on the board of LowCountry Sisters in Crime. Visit her at www.maggietoussaint.com.
A sneak peek at Turtle Tribbles, novella #2 in the Lindsey & Ike series:
Chapter 1
“Ms. McKay, I’ve got turtle tribbles,” an athletic young woman said.
“Come again?” I glanced up from the ad log I’d been wrestling with to see a visitor in my office doorway. I waved her in as I tried to remember her name. Selma Crowley, our Turtle Girl, a posting coveted by college interns. Each of the Georgia barrier islands had students who monitored the yearly loggerhead turtle migration to our shores and subsequent egg hatching.
She perched on the edge of a chair. Her bright blue eyes matched the skin tight tank she wore over running shorts. From her boyish haircut to the rings on both second toes, this gal set her own style.
Selma made a funny face. “Oh. Sorry. I forget everyone wasn’t raised with geeky parents in suburbia. Mom and Dad are whacko about Star Trek everything. I grew up on a steady diet of the TV shows, movies, and Trekkie conventions. The episode about tribbles is my favorite.”
I closed my laptop and reached for a pad of paper. “Please, call me Lindsey, Selma. We’re not big on formalities here. What are tribbles, and what do they have to do with our endangered loggerheads?”
“Tribbles are adorable space creatures, but they multiply faster than rabbits. Just like the TV show, my tribbles are out of control. I desperately need your help.”
I sat in stunned silence. No way was she talking about space creatures on the island, was she? There would’ve been sightings of spacecraft. Unless they were sneaky and were just here for our turtles. Crazy possibilities spun through my head. Selma and her boss could’ve called the TV networks in Savannah or Jacksonville to break this story. Instead, they’d chosen our small weekly? The sceptic in me raised its ugly head.
I settled on what I hoped was a professional expression of interest. “You’ve got alien creatures in the turtle nests? Do you have photos?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to alarm you. Substituting tribble for trouble is a bad habit I picked up ages ago. So far, I haven’t seen aliens, but we can’t rule them out either.” Selma shook her head, her expression glum. “I don’t exactly know who or what is causing the tribble, I mean trouble, but eggs are disappearing from the turtle nests. It happens every year, but this year’s been the worst ever.”
Disappointed, I absently rolled my pen in my fingers. “So we may or may not have aliens on the island, but we positively have fewer turtle eggs?”
“You got it.”
It wasn’t much of a story, except for an earnest young woman’s word that eggs were disappearing. “You sure it’s not natural processes?”
“Real sure. When raccoons, feral hogs, or fire ants invade a nest, they don’t cover everything back up. But, the nests with the missing eggs look undisturbed.”
“How do you know anything’s missing? Do you have a device like ground penetrating radar to detect the eggs?”
“All you have is a geeky kid’s word. I know when the turtles lay eggs because of the crawl marks on the beach. I dig up each new nest to make sure it isn’t a false crawl, then recover the eggs and mark the location. We’re still early in the nesting season, but more nests should’ve hatched already. I dug up two of the first nests I marked before I decided to come over here.” She passed me her hot pink cell phone and showed me the images of sandy holes. “Look at the photos. No eggs.”
All I saw was a sandy pit in each image. Was there a story here? If the egg theft didn’t pan out, I could slant this into a nature piece about turtle nesting. “I’d like copies of relevant images, including those of an egg hatch for the story, and your permission to use them.” She nodded eagerly. I hated to bust her bubble, but this question had to be asked. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but could you have missed the hatch?”
“Nope. I hit the beach first thing every morning and monitor the nests after dark each night. If turtle eggs hatched, I would see the signs. Eggshells would be cracked and left behind. The sand from the nest to the sea would be full of turtle tracks. The nests would look disturbed. I didn’t see any of that at those locations. It’s like the eggs got beamed into outer space.”
I leaned back in my chair and briefly contemplated the domed ceiling light. No way was I writing a headline about turtle-egg stealing aliens. I needed an angle for this story, or else I should encourage Selma Crowley to go. Time was always in short supply now that I ran the Gazette.
Though it was technically my family’s newspaper, I was editor in chief. Daddy had retired last fall, and Mama lit out for seminary after their divorce. So the newspaper became mine, and I loved the work, loved telling people’s stories. Selma’s tribbles appealed to me, but I needed more from her. Sometimes it was a matter of asking the right questions.
“You mentioned this happened before,” I said, returning to the puzzle at hand. “Are there historical records of empty nests I can report?”
“The last two turtle girls made notes about nests that didn’t hatch, but only last year’s gal documented that eight of the no-hatch nests were positively empty. The previous year, several nest markers went missing, which dropped them out of the count, so the stats don’t reflect those occurrences.”
“Eight out of how many?”
“The number of nests on my island are usually a hundred or so. As you may recall, turtles return to the same beach every time they lay eggs. I’ll scrounge up the data and email it to you.”
I sensed she was holding back. Time for me to tighten the screws. “I need concrete facts for the paper, Selma. I can’t report on feelings or impressions.” And I certainly couldn’t report on aliens with transporter machines. “Why would anyone steal turtle eggs?”
“Because there’s a black market for the eggs. Some claim they’re an aphrodisiac, while others say they’re a delicacy. With about a hundred and twenty eggs in each nest, a poacher can pocket several hundred dollars off the theft of one nest.”
Black market. Egg heist. I was starting to get an idea of where this story could go if it got legs. “Can you use a hidden camera to catch the thief in the act?”
“Too many nests to monitor. They’re along the entire length of the beach. That’s a couple of miles.”
Disappointed, I blurted out the first thought in my head, unfiltered. “Too bad we don’t have drones to keep watch or something.”
“Too bad we can’t afford armed drones to shoot poachers,” Selma said. “They have no right to do this.”
The cute little blonde had a bloodthirsty bent. Interesting. “What will you do about this issue? Who have you notified?”
“Only my co-workers, my boss, and a wildlife agency contact know about the thefts. We didn’t want the news getting out at first, but my boss gave me the go-ahead to contact you for an article. Dr. Jernigan said it would be cheaper to scare the thief away than it would be to prosecute him or her.”
Hmm. I didn’t like being used, but I was in the business of selling papers. A photo of this pretty girl on the beach would be an attention-getter. Unless we had a deluge of homicides or other major news, there was no reason her picture couldn’t be above the fold on page one.
“Do you have a plan going forward?” I asked.
“Sure do. I’m in the process of removing the traditional markers from the nests. First, I have to record all of the nests’ GPS coordinates in my phone and in my spreadsheet. If that thief doesn’t already know where the nests are, he or she will have a lot of digging to do to find eggs.”
“What do the nest markers look like?”
She showed me an image on her phone of a small wooden stake. Not much of a thing, really, but if you knew what to look for the stakes revealed the location of the nests.
“That should stop your thief all right. Anything else?”
“The wildlife folks have been monitoring ferry passengers for a few days. They’re especially interested in people who might suddenly carry a duffle bag or cooler on or off the island. According to apprehension reports elsewhere, stolen turtle eggs are usually transported in plastic bags inside a container. They’ve made a list of folks who carry these containers infrequently on our ferry. They have a way to detect the eggs, but I can’t talk about that yet.”
“Why not?”
“Until they catch the thief, I’m sworn to secrecy. They don’t want to tip anyone off. The goal is to get this poacher, not send him or her underground for a few weeks.”
A secret. All my journalistic instincts were firing as I scribbled down her words. This could be big. If I was this excited about the story, everyone else would be too. I flashed a bright smile her way. “I’d love to see the nests firsthand. Let’s set a time for me to ride the ferry over to the island this week. What’s a good day for you?”
Selma waved off my question, her lilac nails catching the light. “My schedule is flexible. You tell me when you want to come.”
Sooner was always better in my book. “Let’s plan for tomorrow. I’ll catch the early ferry. Meanwhile, send me the stats from past years on turtle nests and counts. Oh, and I’d love a quote from your boss. Will you share her phone number with me?”
A few minutes later, I had Dr. Jen Jernigan’s number at the university, and Selma had my business card tucked in her hand.
Once she left, my office manager, Ellen Mattingly, came in. “I heard most of that. You believe her?”
I shrugged. “What’s not to believe? She thinks aliens are stealing her turtle eggs to light up their nights.”
“I’d love it if someone lit up my nights,” Ellen said, “but mostly nighttime is about getting my three kids out of my bed. At least you have a boyfriend, though I haven’t heard an Ike report recently.”
Sheriff Ike Harper had swept me off my feet when I moved home last fall. I enjoyed his company and our extracurricular activities, but I valued my independence too. “He’s still pressuring me to move in with him and his son.”
“I don’t see why you don’t take the plunge. You’re at his place all the time, or else Alice Ann is staying with his son. Why not go all in on the Ike train?”
Indeed. Why couldn’t I move in with him? I’d pulled out a suitcase several times, but I’d never packed a thing. Something about our relationship wasn’t to my liking. Darn if I knew what it was.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Selma met me at the island ferry landing and drove us to the research quad. We were loading gear in a utility vehicle she called a Gator when a young man approached. “Y’all headed out?” he asked.
Selma introduced me to her friend Buzz, a mechanic in grey coveralls with the sleeves torn out. His closely shorn hairstyle matched his name. He took the small cooler from Selma and easily hefted it into the vehicle.
“Thanks. I’m taking Miss McKay out to see the nests,” Selma said.
“She writing a story on you?” Buzz asked Selma.
“I’m doing a feature on the turtles,” I said, handing him my business card. “The Gazette periodically highlights the research here on the island.”
“Good to know. Make sure y’all have plenty of water in that cooler. Gets mighty hot on that beach.” He flipped my card a few times in his hand, pocketed it, and waved goodbye. “Catch you ladies later.”
“He’s sweet on you,” I said as we motored toward the beach.
“Not interested. Buzz is a hunk, but he’s not my type. I want a guy who gets me. Someone who doesn’t expect me to change who I am to be with him.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience. Bad breakup?” An involuntary shudder ran down my spine as I said breakup. Talking about turtle eggs and turtle babies was doing weird things to my biological clock. Ike was the first serious boyfriend I’d ever had. Last night, he asked me again to move in with him, but I told him not yet. Would he give up on me because of my commitment issues?
“Yep. A guy at college. Ozzie will probably be the next president or something, but he’s a jerk. All over campus, girls flag him down and write their phone numbers on his hand.”
“Does he call them?”
“No, but it annoyed me.” She hesitated. “Ozzie visited a few days ago, hoping I’d changed my mind about our breakup. But if anything, this internship has given me clarity. I need to focus on things and people I enjoy being around. With him, it’s always about doing what he wants. I don’t miss being his girlfriend.”
God knows I had no crystal ball. Ike and I were still finding our way, but that was the point. Love wasn’t a one-size-fits-all process with the same answers for everyone.
I shot her a reassuring glance. “It sounds like you reached a decision about Ozzie. Good for you on knowing who you are and what you want.”
“I’m glad you agree. I hope one day I’m as well respected and settled in my career as you are.”
She made me sound older than dirt. We were barely eight years apart, but that must seem like a generation to her. Even so, it took an effort to pry my back teeth apart. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
On the beach, Selma pointed out the wooden markers on nesting sites. About every third nest, we stopped for her to catalog the spot with her phone’s GPS and to remove the physical marker. I took pictures of her recording the data. She explained how she coded the sites and logged the data. I took copious notes on the process, knowing this wouldn’t all fit in the story, but not wanting to misunderstand anything in case it had relevance to something she said later.
After we skipped a few more nests, I asked her the reasoning behind the hit-or-miss approach. Science was about similar data sets among control and test populations, so leaving certain nests flagged struck me as unscientific.
“My boss suggested this strategy,” Selma said. “Partly to keep from tipping our hand too soon. I left the markers in place near the beach access point. Unless our thief comes out here daily, he or she shouldn’t notice what I’m doing.”
“Will you put the markers back once you catch the thief?”
“If it were up to me, no. But Jen says that having the nests marked keeps good people from inadvertently pitching a tent or having a bonfire there. I get where she’s coming from, and I want to protect my turtles.”
Her boss, Dr. Jen Jernigan, was in Athens this week. I’d gotten a nice quote from her yesterday over the phone. She commended the thorough job Selma was doing and remarked on how discouraged she was about anyone disturbing the turtle nests.
I took photos of the nests and of Selma driving the Gator, making sure to get the lighting right to display her passion for this work. I was glad for the sunscreen I’d applied on the ferry because the June sun was already brutal at mid-morning. Even so, I knocked back two bottles of water before we reached the south end of the beach.
A nice cross breeze cooled the sand flats around us. Water sparkled everywhere, as small waves built and crested on the sand. Gulls winged happily overhead, and little plovers chased after each retreating wave. The Turtle Girl may have a lowly job on the scientific totem pole, but dang if the benefits weren’t spectacular.
I wished I’d been more adventurous during my college years, but my brother’s death and my fear of water kept me from seeking intern opportunities like this. That’s how I’d ended up writing for a science journal in Atlanta. The job had been safe, not scary. I’d gotten over my fear of the water recently, but I would always have a huge respect for the sea. Fishing, boating, or swimming in the ocean would never be my first choice for recreation.
“I may have news for you on Friday,” Selma said.
Two days from now. “Oh?”
&
nbsp; “The wildlife agency is going to try something.”
“Their top secret test?”
“Yep.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“You’ll have to be patient. This is for the good of the turtles.”
~*~
Friday came, and each minute ticked slowly off my life clock as my phone didn’t ring. By noon, I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. I phoned Selma, and my call went straight to voice mail. I tried her again at three. Same result. Since I had her boss’s number, I tried that, only to be told that Dr. Jernigan hadn’t heard from her. I phoned the research center’s onsite answer gal. “Do you know where Miss Crowley is?” I asked.
“She’s probably out there with her turtles,” the receptionist said, her voice cheery.
Her good mood darkened mine. “I tried her phone already. Left messages. She isn’t returning my calls. I’m concerned about her.”
“I’ll take a message and put it in the lab, hon. That’s all I can do.”
I hung up, miffed. Selma was so passionate about her turtles. I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t returning my calls. Needing to talk to someone about this in person, I whistled up my dog, Bailey, a rescued black lab mix, and walked over to the Morrison County Sheriff’s Office.
Ike was delighted to see me. He told his Deputy Alice Ann Harper, his sister, to hold his calls and watch Bailey. The office door locked behind us, he drew me into his arms for a senses-drugging kiss.
“I’ve been thinking of you all day,” he murmured in my hair as his hands went to work on my clothes.
The need to be with him thrummed in my head, in my heart, and I gave myself up to the heat of the moment.
~*~
Afterward, we cuddled together in his chair. “We should do this more often,” Ike said. “Instead of lunch.”
“Did Alice Ann hear us?” I asked as my thinking cleared.
“Not if she knows what’s good for her.”
“Oh.”
“So, did you come over here to seduce me, or is something else on your mind?”
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