The Turtle Mound Murder

by Mary Clay

“Yoo hoo,” Penny Sue called from the front door. “I could use some help out here.”

  I grabbed Penny Sue’s clothes from Ruthie’s hands and stuffed them into the bottom drawer.

  “Wait,” Ruthie protested, miffed at me for screwing up her system.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I slammed the last suitcase shut and swung it into the closet. “All this will be in shambles the first time Penny Sue changes clothes.”

  Ruthie harrumphed, but didn’t argue. She knew I was right. Underwear would be hanging from door knobs and bras draped over lamps. That’s just the way Penny Sue was, not one for details.

  * * *

  We finally made it to the beach a little after two. Laden with cooler, boom box, chairs, and other sundry comforts, we lumbered down the wooden walkway that protected the dunes, looking more like an African safari than middle-aged women on vacation.

  “Crap,” Penny Sue said, stopping abruptly. A large square of sand was roped off at the bottom of the stairs. “Another turtle nest. What now?”

  I put the cooler down and peered over her shoulder. There was maybe a foot of space between the walk’s railing and the staked off area. “We can make it. Here, give me that.” I took the boom box and beach bag from Penny Sue. “Go through and we’ll hand the stuff over the railing.”

  Penny Sue sucked up and sidled through the narrow opening. Though she ripped a hole in her new sarong—something she reminded us of all afternoon—we eventually got ourselves and paraphernalia to the beach without disturbing the nest, and thus committing a state and federal crime. The last thing we needed was another run-in with Woody.

  The rest of the day proved pleasantly uneventful. We took a leisurely walk on the beach, sunned ourselves, gossiped, and generally acted like giggly college girls, less mature than our own kids. True to form, Penny Sue took center stage, entertaining us by comparing everyone who walked by to some form of bird or beast. She was amazingly good at it, had a real eye for the absurd. Of course, she never turned an eye on herself. Just as well, she looked remarkably similar to a chubby flamingo in her hot pink two-piece and feathered sun hat.

  We capped off the evening with dinner at The Riverview, a picturesque restaurant on the Inland Waterway where we ate outside on the deck that overlooked a small marina of expensive boats. An imposing yacht named Ecstasy immediately caught Penny Sue’s eye.

  “That cost a bundle,” Penny Sue said, waving her wine glass in the boat’s direction.

  Ruthie agreed. “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous did a show on yachts. That one must have cost millions.”

  Millions for a boat? My house in Atlanta Country Club wasn’t worth that much.

  “I like sailing,” Penny Sue said wistfully.

  “It’s not a sailboat, Penny Sue. No sails,” I said, pointing at the radar scope rotating on top of the bridge.

  She looked down her nose at me. “Sailing, motoring; it’s all the same if the captain is good looking and the champagne’s cold.”

  “What about the Falcon and the Brave?” I asked.

  “They’re in Atlanta.” Penny Sue fingered her emerald necklace absently. “Ecstasy. Isn’t that the name of a cruise line? I’ll bet the owner is a shipping tycoon. Greek, maybe. Europeans are so interesting.”

  A busboy leaned forward to fill her water glass. “He’s sitting at the bar over there.”

  “Pardon?”

  The young man straightened, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I overheard your comment.”

  “Never mind interrupting, sugar,” Penny Sue snapped. “Please repeat what you said.”

  “The owner of the yacht is sitting at the bar. His name is Lyndon Fulbright.” The busboy canted his head at a smartly dressed man in his fifties.

  Ruthie pursed her lips impishly. “Is there a Mrs. Fulbright?”

  “Haven’t seen one.”

  Penny Sue smoothed the front of her dress and grinned. “Well, well, Lyndon. Things are surely looking up.”

  Chapter 4

  I woke up early the next day with the stark realization it was time to get on with my life. For the last eighteen months I’d been busy getting divorced. I was finally free—now what? I couldn’t live off my paltry settlement forever. I’d have to work; heck, I wanted to work. Then there was the issue of where to go when the house sold.

  The kids were on their own. Zack, Jr. was in Vail trying to decide what to do with a degree in philosophy. Ann would graduate in December and already had an internship lined up at the American Embassy in London. I doubted that either would want to come back to Atlanta to live; at least, no time soon. The divorce had taken its toll on them, too. They’d come home less and less over the last year, the tension of having Zack in the house being more than they could bear.

  I rolled over and looked at the clock radio. Six o’clock. Ruthie was sound asleep in the next twin bed, lying on her back, mouth open, snoring softly. I snatched my robe from the foot of the bed and crept out of the room. I put on a pot of coffee and drew the drapes in the living room. Instead of a sunrise, I was greeted by a thick mist. Fitting. The fog matched my mood.

  I poured a cup of coffee and headed to the deck. The mist was cool and wet on my face with a faint fishy smell. Though I couldn’t see the ocean, I heard it lapping gently. Low tide, the perfect time to look for shells. And, surely, no one had beaten me to it in this fog.

  I hitched the belt on my robe tighter and started for the beach. My plans for the future could wait another hour or two.

  I was happy to see that the turtle mound at the end of the boardwalk had been moved. Relocating nests from traffic areas was a key function of the Turtle Patrols. Evidently, they had come through the night before, saving not only the turtles, but Ruthie and me from extreme mental anguish. Penny Sue had groused about her torn sarong all through dinner. I made a mental note to compliment the patrol on their fine work the next time I saw them.

  The fog was so dense, I was standing in the water before I saw it. I stopped ankle deep and turned slowly. I couldn’t see a thing. I looked to where I thought the horizon should be, hoping to spy a glimmer of sunrise. Nothing. I took a long pull of my coffee. I didn’t have a chance of finding a shell in this pea soup unless I happened to step on it.

  Well, there was always tomorrow.

  I turned around and headed back the way I came. But, the wet, turbid haze had become so thick I kept losing sight of my tracks in the sand. I stopped, a wave of panic welling in my chest. I couldn’t see anything. For all I knew, I was walking north, parallel to the shore, in which case I could go a long way—in my bathrobe, no less.

  I dropped to one knee, frantically looking for footprints and my way home. Thankfully, I found some close by. I followed the tracks, bent double to keep the depressions in view. A moist draft on my bare derrière told me vital parts were protruding from the short bathrobe. I tugged at the back of the robe, however, the cotton sleep set had not been designed for contorted movement. Or, maybe it had. I’d gotten it on sale at Victoria’s Secret, my only thought at the time being the great price. It had never occurred to me I might be getting less than I bargained for.

  I hadn’t gone very far when the beach began to incline, which told me I was approaching the dunes and salvation. By following the dune line, I reasoned, I’d eventually get to a crosswalk and was confident I would recognize the rickety bridge to our unit. Simple. Success was certain; I couldn’t have wandered very far from the condo.

  I straightened up and took a sip of coffee, congratulating myself on brilliant scouting. Zack used to say I could get lost in the driveway. Of course, he used to make a lot of other stupid, cruel remarks. Well, Zack was wrong and Zack was gone. Good riddance. I smoothed the robe over my rear end and resumed my trek—upright, confident, dignified. Two seconds later I tripped and went sprawling. The coffee mug flew from my hand; my bed clothes went up around my shoulders.

  “Damn.” I levered up to my knees and brushed myself off. I was covered in sand. The mois
t grit clung to my skin like breading on a chicken. I had it on my thighs, my boobs, and everywhere in between. I spit. The stuff was even in my teeth. I brushed myself quickly and pulled down my gown.

  Thank God for the fog. Now, if I could just find the mug. It was a wonder I hadn’t spilled the coffee all over myself. That was my usual MO. It seemed I spent most of my life cleaning spots off my clothes, which gave me a lot of sympathy for little kids.

  I saw it in my neighborhood all the time. Little kids covered in dirt, their mommies looming over them menacingly. “How did you get dirty?” Mommy always asked sternly. “I don’t know,” the kid whined. I understood.

  I really didn’t know half the time, spots appeared from nowhere. Ruthie said it was because I was always thinking—lost in thought and not paying attention. Penny Sue attributed the whole thing to hormones. “Memory loss, foggy-brained: first sign of an estrogen deficiency.”

  “Darn, where is that cup?” I pushed myself up into a squat. Sand grated in the folds of my crotch, and I was starting to itch all over. “One pass, that’s it,” I told myself, running my hands across the sand. “That cheap mug isn’t worth it.”

  I rotated on the balls of my feet, patting the ground. Ninety degrees, one-eighty; I found nothing. I stretched my arms as far as I could manage and still keep my balance. Then, my fingertip touched something cold and hard. I leaned forward and grabbed ... a cold, stiff foot!

  It was like a bad dream—the one where someone is chasing you, and you try to scream but can’t. You open your mouth, straining, yet no sound comes out. You try and try, your heart thumping furiously until you finally wake yourself up. Only I didn’t wake up. I was frozen in place, my mouth open, breath coming in staccato bursts.

  I have no idea how long I stayed in that state. Seconds, a minute, an hour—it seemed like an eternity. Finally, a single note escaped from my throat. A woosey peep that even I could barely hear—a sound, nonetheless. And, if one could get out, why not two? That thought broke the stupor. My throat unclenched, and a cacophonous torrent emerged.

  My screams woke up the whole neighborhood. Spotlights flashed on, and I could hear voices. I half crawled, half ran across the dunes toward the lights. Hell with my pantiless butt, let the whole world see it! I was getting out of there. Sand burrs embedded in my feet and legs, but I didn’t care. “Call an ambulance. Call the police,” I shrieked at the top of my lungs.

  An EVAC ambulance arrived first, followed by a fire truck and police car. By then the fog had cleared, and the neighbors poured out of their condos and onto the beach. Penny Sue, Ruthie, and I watched from the deck. I was shaking so hard, my teeth literally chattered. Even two of Penny Sue’s tranquilizers did not calm my racing heart. I sat on the lawn chair watching the commotion as Ruthie picked burrs from my feet with tweezers. Penny Sue sat next to me rubbing my back, then hugged me to her side as the EVAC crew carried a stretcher with a yellow body bag across the deck and through the condo to the ambulance.

  “A helluva way to start the day,” Penny Sue drawled.

  By ten o’clock it was over. The police had carted off the body, taken my statement, and photographed the crime scene. My statement was brief, very brief, since I truly knew nothing. I had not even looked at the corpse. All I remembered was the bare foot. The big toe had a gash on it and the one next to it was bent at a crazy angle. It was a big foot, definitely a man’s, since it was connected to a hairy leg. That was all I knew. Period.

  For the second time in two days the police instructed us not to leave town. I collapsed on the sofa.

  At ten thirty my realtor called. She was showing my house to a young couple for the second time. Things looked promising, could I stay close to the phone in case there was an offer? I said “Sure.” I was too bummed out by the morning’s events to do much, anyway.

  We ate a light breakfast and stretched out on the deck for some sun. Penny Sue perused a Cosmopolitan magazine while Ruthie read astrology. I just lay there in a tranquilized daze, grateful for the peace and quiet, until Ruthie bolted out of her chair, shrieking. My heart all but stopped from fright again.

  “I’m allergic,” Ruthie threw her book down and dashed inside, a wasp hot on her tail.

  Another bug appeared which went after Penny Sue. She swatted it with her magazine. By this time I was on my feet and saw the problem. A wasp nest was lodged in the space between the glass pane and molding on the sliding door. We’d knocked it loose when we opened the door and the wasps were none too happy about the intrusion.

  “Om-m-m.” Ruthie, safe behind the screen door, started to chant while Penny Sue batted the air wildly.

  “What the heck are you doing, Ruthie?” Penny Sue screeched.

  “Om-m-m. I’m setting up a protection field. Om-m-m.”

  “Protection for who? Us or the bugs? Scoot, scoot.” Penny Sue grabbed her beach towel and put it over her head.

  By then the vermin had started to buzz me. But I was calm, collected ... heck, sedated. “Your force field isn’t working, Ruthie. Go get the Hot Shot Wasp Spray. I saw some under the sink.” Still chanting, she found the insecticide. As Ruthie opened the door to hand me the can, Penny Sue bounded through, leaving me to face the vicious vespids alone.

  “Kills on Contact from Twenty Feet,” the container read in bright yellow letters. I intended to put it to the test. Draping a towel over my head, I backed up and pushed the button. A stream of foul smelling poison spewed forth. The bugs exploded from the nest like shrapnel as Ruthie’s chanting grew louder and more frantic. I clutched the towel around me and dashed down the boardwalk toward the beach. When I returned a few minutes later, the wasps were writhing pitifully in the final throes of death.

  Penny Sue emerged from the condo holding a fly swatter. “Great shooting, girl.”

  I didn’t respond, just brushed dead bugs off of my chair and stretched out again. Yet, my head had hardly touched the chair when the telephone rang. Ruthie stopped chanting long enough to answer it. My realtor again.

  Yes, the couple seemed very interested, but there wasn’t any hot water. Was something wrong with the hot water heater? Could she hire a repairman to take a look at it? Although I suspected it was something simple like a pilot light, I said, “Go ahead, if it will help make the sale.”

  As I talked, Ruthie busied herself making sandwiches. I hung up the telephone and snatched a half. “Um-m, cream cheese and olive. I can’t remember when I last had one of these.”

  Ruthie took one. “Me either, but they must be Penny Sue’s favorite. Look at the size of these containers.” Ruthie motioned at an extra large tub of cream cheese and an enormous jar of green olives. “What if you sell the house? Have you thought of where you’d like to live?”

  I concentrated on my sandwich. I’d been so caught up in the mechanics of now, of details, of what had to be done, that I hadn’t given any thought to the future. “I don’t know.”

  “There are some adorable apartments in Vinings. That’s a nice, eclectic area. Lots of cute shops, great restaurants.”

  I picked the crust off my sandwich. “I like Vinings, but I’m not sure I want to stay in Atlanta. There’s nothing to hold me there.”

  Ruthie looked stricken. “What about the kids?”

  “Ann’s going to London in January, and Zack, Jr. seems happy in Vail. His old girl friend just moved out there to be with him. The kids went to Vanderbilt, so most of their friends are in Tennessee. Neither of them are particularly thrilled with their father. There’s no need for me to stay in Atlanta for their sake.”

  “What about Penny Sue and me? We DAFFODILS have to stick together.”

  I patted her hand soothingly. “I’d always come back to visit.”

  “I would hope so,” she said, looking sad.

  “For the first time I can do whatever I want. Until now, my life has been one big obligation. School, then marriage, the kids, even the divorce. There were certain steps you had to follow, certain things you had to do; shoot, even certain st
ages of grieving. Duty has always determined my life. But, I have no responsibilities at this moment. It’s a funny feeling.”

  Ruthie poured some tea and handed me the plate of sandwiches. I took one and started peeling the crust off again.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Haven’t you ever thought of moving, doing something else?”

  “Sure,” she said slowly. “Jo Ruth’s been accepted to med school at Chapel Hill. I’d move up there if it weren’t for Poppa; he’s my responsibility.”

  “You’re here.” I swept my arm in a wide arc.

  “Oh, I have lots of freedom. Mr. Wong and the housekeeper take care of Poppa’s physical needs; I provide the emotional support. I owe him. After all, Poppa was there for me when I got divorced; it’s my turn now.”

  I nodded. “An obligation. I’d feel exactly the same way.”

  “What are y’all up to? You look awfully serious.” Penny Sue stood in the doorway, peering across the top of her Chanel sunglasses.

  I held up the plate of sandwiches. “Having a little snack. Cream cheese and olive.”

  “Just what I need.” Penny Sue perched on a stool at the counter and took a sandwich. “Hand me the pepper, please.” She doused the sandwich liberally and took a bite. “Hm-m. Onion, it needs onion.” She found a Vidalia in the refrigerator and cut a thick slice. “Delicious,” she muttered between bites.

  Ruthie watched with distaste. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with your hormones?”

  “I’ve taken care of that. I’m doing hormone replacement therapy.” Penny Sue finished her half and took another. “You know what would be good on this? Jalapeño pepper jelly. Would you fetch it from the frig, Ruthie?”

  Ruthie handed her the jar. “Maybe you need to cut back on the estrogen.”

  Penny Sue slathered a thick layer of jelly on the bread and tasted it. “Mmm-m. What, ruin all this fun? Not a chance.”

  I didn’t hear from the realtor again that afternoon. We never left the deck, so I couldn’t have missed the call. Truth be told, I was relieved. When the house sold, I’d have to make some decisions, and fast.