The Turtle Mound Murder

by Mary Clay

  Independent, hell! Zack played golf with Taylor Hill at least twice a month. I gave Max a pleading look. He patted my hand and flashed a thin, sleazy smile. I wanted to backhand him in the mouth. Luckily, Judge Parker entered the room at that moment and stood by the door, listening. I was too angry to meet his eyes.

  “In our experience, it is difficult to get full value from the disposal of community property,” Bradford continued. “Buyers expect bargain basement prices in the case of a divorce. It’s very difficult to overcome that mind set.”

  “I’ve found the same thing in my practice,” Max chimed in.

  I glared at him. Whose side are you on? I wanted to scream. Of course, I knew the answer: he was a good-ol’-boy, a member of the club, and they were all going to stick together. “What about the stocks and bonds?” I demanded through tight lips.

  Bradford consulted another list. “The securities were liquidated last November to take care of family debts.”

  November? Zack went to the Caribbean on business in November. Could he have sold the stocks and deposited the money in an off-shore bank? “What debts?” I demanded hotly. “I want to see proof.”

  “General household expenses.” Bradford looked to Max. “We provided all of this to your attorney. There were several credit cards—”

  Credit cards? “I haven’t seen any proof!” Could Zack have spent that much money on his stripper? Then, it dawned on me. Zack had opened a bunch of accounts, taken out cash advances and deposited the money in tropical banks. What a sneaky jerk ... all our savings gone and I didn’t have a prayer of finding it.

  Bradford continued, “Your attorney has reviewed these documents. We’ve also filed a copy with Judge Nugent. Of course, the judge would like a property settlement before he grants the final decree.”

  I pushed the paper away. “This is not fair; Zack has hidden our assets. I won’t sign it.” I caught Judge Parker from the corner of my eye; he winked and canted his head. I wasn’t sure what that meant, and Bradford gave me no time to think about it.

  He slammed his folder shut. “That is your prerogative, Mrs. Stratton,” Bradford intoned snobbishly. “However, I caution you that a court battle could be very long and expensive.”

  The emphasis on very was crystal clear. While Bradford was probably handling Zack’s case for free, I had to pay my own legal fees. Max’s tab already topped $30,000. Holding out for a trial might double or triple the bill. And, what did I stand to gain? Nothing. The good-ol’-boys would protect each other to the end. I glanced at the Judge who nodded slightly. Damn, I hated giving in! But, the deck was stacked against me, it was time to throw-in my hand. My eyes stung with tears, from frustration more than anything. I blinked them back and raised my chin resolutely; I would not give those men the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  I jabbed Max with my elbow, hard. “Give me a pen,” I spat the words. He rolled his chair back and handed me a Cross ballpoint. I signed the document with an angry flourish, pocketed the pen, and strode stiffly past Judge Parker and out of Zack’s life.

  * * *

  I called my therapist as soon as I got home.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Angry, betrayed, hurt. Those men made me so mad.” I tugged my scarf off and wrapped it around my fist, wishing it was Zack’s throat.

  “No one can make you feel anything. You choose your feelings. If you’re mad, you’ve chosen to feel that way.”

  Chosen to feel that way? Those scuzz balls ganged up on me. “It’s the injustice that angers me. No one—not even my own lawyer—did a thing to help me. Bradford, Max, and Zack walked in together. Don’t you see, it was a done deal before anything was said. I was set up!”

  “So, you feel like a victim?”

  “Yes, I’d like to cut off their private parts and hang them from their ears.” I unraveled the scarf and pulled it tight, like a rope.

  “Violence doesn’t solve anything, does it?”

  “For godssakes, I wouldn’t really do it. It’s a fantasy; a delicious fantasy at this moment.” I balled the scarf up into a tight ball.

  “Lashing out is a common reaction to situations like this. Let’s talk about it. I can work you in tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  “I’ll get back to you.” I slammed down the receiver. Lashing out is a common reaction. I hurled the scarf against the wall. Damn! Then, I drew the blinds and went to bed feeling more depressed than I’d ever felt in my life.

  But, sleep did not save me. My head had hardly hit the pillow when I was awakened by the sound of a siren ... no, the doorbell. And shouting.

  “LEIGH. BECK-KKY LEEE-EIGH. We know you’re in there.”

  It was Penny Sue. I had on my slip and didn’t bother to find a robe. I looked through the peephole at the optically-widened images of Penny Sue and Ruthie, who was holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers. I cracked the door; Penny Sue barged through.

  “Get dressed, girl. We’re going to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “The divorce, of course. Free at last, free at last. Praise the Lord, free at last! Besides, you’re now qualified to be in the DAFFODILS.”

  Ruthie thrust a vase of daffodils into my face as Penny Sue fastened a silver and gold brooch to my slip strap. Both women were wearing the same pin, a circular swirl of graceful leaves, stems and daffodils in full bloom. Penny Sue’s brooch served as the clasp for a wispy Chanel scarf; Ruthie’s accented the square neckline of her black silk chemise.

  “The what?” I asked testily, eyeing the daffodils and brooch that hung limply from my slip strap.

  Penny Sue replied, “Daff-o-dils: Divorced And Finally Free Of Deceitful, Insensitive, Licentious Scum.”

  Deceitful, Insensitive, Licentious Scum. A smile tugged at my lips. I was definitely qualified, and so were Penny Sue and Ruthie.

  I figured Penny Sue had probably founded the club. Her second husband, Sydney, was a television producer who’d had an affair with his male assistant. As painful as Zack’s infidelity was, at least I hadn’t been thrown over for a man. The huge settlement the Judge got for Penny Sue (Daddy took Sydney’s escapades very personally) undoubtedly helped. Her third husband, Winston, wasn’t much better; he had an eye for young secretaries.

  Ruthie had also endured her share of heartache. Harold, her ex, was a cardiologist in Raleigh, North Carolina. A heartless cardiologist at that. (Maybe Penny Sue was right about teaching what you need to learn.) Ruthie worked as a librarian to put him through medical school, only to be ditched for a nurse the week after Harold finished his residency. Not one to mope, Ruthie Jo had packed up Jo Ruth, their only child, and taken a train back to Atlanta, where she’d lived with her father ever since.

  I studied the bouquet of flowers. The symbol of Spring and new beginnings, there was something intrinsically happy about a daffodil. “Where in the world did you find daffodils at this time of year?”

  Penny Sue responded, “My florist in Buckhead stocks them for me.”

  “A lot of members in the club, huh?”

  “No, I just like daffodils.” Penny Sue quick-stepped a jig. “Perk up, girl, it’s party time.”

  I ignored her antics and headed for the kitchen with the flowers, my friends following close behind. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s been a terrible day. I don’t feel like celebrating.” I put the vase on the sideboard and filled a glass from the kitchen tap. “Want something to drink?” I asked, holding up the glass of water.

  “You didn’t take any pills, did ya?” Penny Sue asked, eyeing me like a mother hen.

  I sat down and buried my head in my hands, the brooch clanking heavily on the tabletop. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Good, ‘cuz we’ve got champagne!” Penny Sue pulled a bottle of Dom Perignon from her oversized Louis Vuitton bag as Ruthie searched the cabinets for stemmed glasses.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, taking a glass of the fizzing liquid.

  “Daddy called me,” Penny Sue repl
ied.

  My spine straightened reflexively. “Daddy? Why didn’t Daddy help me today?” I said through gritted teeth. “I was rolled, raped ... swindled. Swindled! Lord, I can’t believe it took me so long to make the connection—Parker, Hanson, & SWINDAL. I never stood a chance!”

  I was shouting now and it felt good. Hell with my therapist. At that moment, I chose to be mad—foot-stomping, dish-throwing mad. Mad, furious, LIVID. I gulped the sparkling wine.

  “Daddy wanted to help, but he couldn’t interfere overtly. He called Judge Nugent after the meeting—they go back a long way, you know. Anyhow, he asked Albert to go ahead and grant the divorce, but to take a close look at the property settlement.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked wearily.

  “Monday: the marriage is history. Tuesday: Zack will have some explainin’ to do.”

  “Glory, there is a God.” I stood and raised my glass. “To the Daff-o-dils.”

  “Daffodils.” We clinked our glasses.

  “Now, get some clothes on. We’re going to have a fancy dinner and plan our trip to the beach.”

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  New Smyrna Beach, Florida

  “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 coul
d 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.