The Turtle Mound Murder

by Mary Clay

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  A small woman with short gray hair, probably in her seventies, answered. “Not too well; Rick had only been with us for a couple of months. New to the area. But, he loved the turtles. Volunteered to come out before dawn to relocate the nests. Too dangerous to do it in the daytime; the birds, you know. Besides, the hot sun dries out the eggs.”

  Daytime had its dangers, but night obviously had some too, I thought. “Any idea why someone would want to kill him?”

  The little woman clenched her fists as tears welled in her eyes. “The H.M. don’t need a special reason. They’re just mean. They did it, they did it for sure.”

  “The H.M.?”

  “Hate mongers. The turtle haters. Only, they don’t just loathe turtles, they despise everything. Shoot arrows at sea gulls, leave them wounded to die. Kidnap pets and torture them. Race their trucks up and down the beach, belching smoke and tossing beer bottles in the ocean so little kids cut their feet on the glass.” The woman grew more and more agitated as she talked until the veins in her neck stood out like taunt cords. Alarmed, I stepped back. “Why, I heard one of their gun molls was taking pot shots at people right over there the other day.” She pointed to our parking lot. “I’ll bet that hussy killed Rick.”

  Ruthie and I exchanged horrified looks. Gun moll? Hussy? The woman sounded like a 1940 detective novel, which would have been funny except that she was talking about Penny Sue.

  “I tell you they’re an evil menace to us, to everyone.” She started to cry. “Murderers. The H.M. did it. Murderers.”

  Another woman from the group stepped forward to comfort her. “Calm down, Gerty. It’ll be all right.”

  I smiled soothingly. I had to steer Gerty away from Penny Sue. “The H.M. Is that a gang or something?” I couldn’t tell if the woman was talking in philosophical generalities or referring to a specific group.

  A red-headed woman about my age replied, “It’s not a formal thing, like the Hell’s Angels. There’s a small core of mean ones who whip up the locals with their hateful talk. You know, a lot of old-timers regard driving on the beach as an inalienable right.”

  Except for a few places in North Carolina, I couldn’t think of other areas that still allowed that. “How does that fit in with the turtles?”

  “The green, leatherback and loggerhead turtles are endangered,” a gaunt man pushing eighty answered. “The cars and motorcycles destroy their nests and crush the hatchlings.”

  “I wouldn’t think the cars would be great for little kids, either,” Ruthie commented.

  “They’re not. There’s a death almost every year, but the driving advocates never talk about that. Anyway, the county banned driving on half the beach in a compromise settlement to a federal lawsuit.”

  I looked around at the wide, pristine expanse.

  The red-head noticed my confusion. “Motor vehicles are outlawed on this stretch of beach. The driving ban runs south from Twenty-Seventh Street. Walk north, past there sometime; you’ll see wall-to-wall cars.”

  Ruthie motioned at the wreath the group had placed next to the mound. “Did Rick have family?”

  “The sheriff asked that,” the elderly man answered. “Apparently they’re having a hard time finding his next of kin. We don’t know of any, Rick never talked about himself. The poor guy deserves a decent burial, though. If the Sheriff doesn’t find his relatives, we’re going to take up a collection. We figure it’s the least we can do.”

  Ruthie nodded solemnly. “If it comes to that, we’d like to help out.”

  I glanced at the wreath and then to our condo at the top of the dune. A man was shot to death a mere hundred, hundred-fifty feet from our unit. Yes, I wanted to make sure Rick got a decent burial. But more than that, I wanted someone to find the killer and lock him away from us.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Penny Sue returned a little after three. By then we’d moved to the deck so we could be closer to the bathroom. Ruthie was wearing herself out running back and forth. I was going to broach the subject of the pee-urgency pill that was advertised on television, but stopped myself when I realized that all the peeing and going back and forth was probably how Ruthie stayed slim.

  Penny Sue bounced out to the deck, full of herself, grinning from ear to ear. She brushed my feet to one side and sat at the end of the lounge chair. I was reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Though I’d seen the movie with Kevin Spacey, I’d somehow missed the book when it first came out. I’d gotten to the part where Joe Odom was hot-wiring the electric meter at his pilfered abode when Penny Sue sat down. She looked like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. I wondered how long she could last if we didn’t ask about her date. I stealthily moved my arm behind the book so I could see my watch and winked at Ruthie. She caught my drift.

  It took exactly one minute and ten seconds for the exciting details to bubble up and spew forth. “He has his own chef. A captain, first mate, and chef. Isn’t that divine?”

  I marked my place and lowered the book. “That explains why he didn’t eat last night at The Riverview.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. I could tell she was winding up for high drama. “You wouldn’t believe his yacht. All plush carpet, polished teak and marble. It’s decorated in a South Pacific motif. The living room is huge with bamboo furniture covered in silk. The dining room has a gorgeous round table inlaid with mother of pearl. It seats ten. No telling how much that thing cost, Lyndon said it was an antique. There are three bedrooms, all king and queen-sized, and the master suite has a hot tub for two!”

  “Only a hot tub? No indoor pool?” I needled. Considering she’d been on death’s door hours earlier, I guess I should have cut her some slack. Though, she’d made a remarkable recovery. Perhaps Ruthie’s Rescue Remedy really did work.

  “Smart aleck.” Penny Sue poked my thigh. Hard.

  Ruthie gave me the don’t-get-her-riled expression and changed the subject. “What did you have for lunch?”

  Penny Sue reared back, squashing my feet. “A heavenly tarragon chicken salad on croissant, pasta medley, fruit cup (fresh, of course), a scrumptious chocolate mousse, and champagne.” The last word was mumbled.

  “You had champagne?” I extricated my feet and formed my thumb and index finger in the shape of a gun. “Pow. You said we should shoot you if you ever drank wine again.”

  Penny Sue folded her arms defensively. “I couldn’t be rude. Thomas, the chef, had gone to so much trouble and, I didn’t have much, just a few sips. Besides, champagne isn’t wine, it’s, well, champagne.”

  I shook my head. Penny Sue was incorrigible. “What’s Daddy Warbucks do for a living?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I suspect it’s inherited wealth. Lyndon seems to have been everywhere, though he spends a lot of time in the Caribbean, especially the Caymans. You’ll love this, Ruthie: he’s into New Age. Traveled to most of the power spots. The pyramids, Macchu Picchu, Sedona, Easter Island—Lyndon’s seen it all. He even knew about Cassadaga.”

  “Did you tell him about your reading?” Ruthie asked.

  “Pu-leeze. I am many things, but stupid’s not one of them. Think I want to scare him off?” Penny Sue stood up. I flexed my toes to get the circulation going again. “What’s that?” She asked, pointing toward the wreath.

  Ruthie admonished me with her eyes.

  I understood. “The Turtle Patrol put it there in Rick’s honor.” I filled her in on the Turtle Patrol and Hate Mongers, conveniently leaving out Gerty’s reference to the Hussy Gun Moll. “The Patrol plans to collect money for a funeral if Rick’s relatives aren’t found.”

  “I’d chip in. Did you get the names of the members of the patrol?”

  “No, but they come by here every morning. All we have to do is get up early.”

  Penny Sue cut her eyes at me reprovingly.

  Dumb comment. Penny Sue was the person whose favorite refrain was: Chickens get up early, civilized people don’
t. In college, she wouldn’t take a class that met before ten o’clock even though it meant she had to go an extra semester to get enough credits to graduate. She was late to her first wedding because she’d overslept. (An eleven o’clock wedding, what was she thinking?) No, if the Turtle Patrol was going to be contacted, Ruthie or I would be the ones to do it. Besides, it was probably advisable that we keep Penny Sue and Gerty as far apart as possible.

  “I went to one of those parties.” Penny Sue bent forward and thumped the back of my book.

  “What?” Another one-hundred-eighty degree turn. The workings of Penny Sue’s mind were a marvel. Either a few neurons were missing or her lobes had connections and cross connections that nobody else possessed.

  “Jim Williams’ Christmas party. Sydney knew him,” she said smugly.

  Jim Williams was the subject of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, played by Kevin Spacey in the movie. Renowned throughout Savannah for his lavish lifestyle and impeccable taste, invitations to Williams’ parties were a coveted prize. That Jim murdered his gay lover made no difference. Right up until Jim’s death from a heart attack, Savannah’s privileged elite clamored to be among the chosen few at Williams’ parties. Sydney had apparently been chosen. He was Penny Sue’s second husband, the movie producer who turned out to be bisexual.

  Ruthie broke in, “Before or after the murder?”

  Penny Sue stroked her forehead as if trying to conjure up the memory the way a stranded castaway might summon a genie from a bottle that washed up on the shore. Maybe that was the answer to Penny Sue’s mind, I thought. There was someone else inside her head!

  “In the middle, I think. Seems like the murder had taken place, but everyone still thought Jim was innocent.”

  “Was he as charming as they say?”

  Penny Sue smiled—that thin, crooked smirk that said she was thinking of something devilish. “Absolutely. But he had this friend, Attila, who was the master courtier.” Her smile grew wider.

  “Come on, Penny Sue. What happened?”

  “I had on a particularly low-cut dress. That was during the period when I couldn’t understand why Sydney wasn’t more affectionate. I’d bought a lot of sexy underwear, wore tight clothes, rented porno flicks—generally made a fool of myself trying to get his attention. Little did I know Sydney preferred three-piece suits. Anyway, my dress had a plunging neckline and I had on one of those push up bras ...” She stopped, a wide grin plastered on her face.

  “And ...” I prodded.

  “I guess Attila had had a few drinks. He leaned over to kiss my hand, but licked my breast instead.” She giggled. “That man was a real trendsetter. Before the night was over men were licking women’s boobs left and right. One of the best parties I ever went to.”

  “Which reminds me, I’ve got to call Party Hearty to see if they have the invitations. Shirley was going to have a high school student take them around to our neighbors. They need to get them out. Two days isn’t much notice for a party, though this is only cocktails. It’s not like a Jim Williams do.” She turned to go into the house.

  The party. I’d forgotten all about it. “Wait,” I called after her. “What are you going to wear to the party?”

  She replied over her shoulder, wiggling her fanny. “Something low cut.”

  * * *

  Every ocean resort has to have a few seafood restaurants. New Smyrna Beach is no exception. On beachside (the narrow strip of barrier island sandwiched between the ocean and Intracoastal Waterway) there are two longstanding favorites: Norwood’s Fine Seafood and JB’s Fish Camp. The names say it all.

  The first thing visitors see when they hit the island from the South Causeway Bridge is Norwood’s, a sprawling stucco and stone structure with a tin roof nestled in a stand of pines, palms, and oaks. Known for its extensive menu and 1,400 varieties of wine, Norwood’s is almost ways packed with patrons who drive Buicks, Continentals, Mercedes and SUV’s. Further down Highway A1A in Bethune Beach, JB’s Fish Camp is perched on Mosquito Lagoon. It, too, is a sprawling building with a tin roof, though it is known for its ample selection of beer. The parking lot is littered with oyster shells (whole) and typically full of motorcycles, pickup trucks, boat trailers and utility vans.

  We decided on JB’s for dinner. Penny Sue wanted to go back to The Riverview (wonder why?), but Ruthie and I convinced her it would look like she was chasing Lyndon and desperate to boot. Desperate was the word that finally won her over. Thank goodness. I, for one, had enjoyed about all the rich food I could stand for a while. Plain, simple fare; that’s what my system needed.

  And I got it. JB’s decor was old time, fish-camp rustic. We sat at a picnic table covered in Kraft paper with a roll of paper towels in lieu of napkins. Tartar sauce, ketchup, and cocktail sauce in plastic squirt bottles rounded out the traditional setup of salt, pepper, and hot sauce. Our wine was served in plastic cups. Greasy fingerprints dotted the menus.

  “Food must be good,” Penny Sue observed.

  “How can you tell?”

  She held up her menu that was mottled with thumb prints and streaks of a brown substance, probably cocktail sauce. “The person who had this was really chowing down. Wonder what they had.”

  “Probably seafood,” I said dryly. Penny Sue curled her lip in a mock sneer.

  The meal would have been perfect except for two inebriated rednecks at the next table who kept trying to flirt. One had dark curly hair pulled back in a pony tail, the other had stringy blonde hair, brown teeth and needed a bath in the worst way.

  “Whew, that boy is stinky,” Ruthie said under her breathe as she scooted as far away from him as possible.

  “The catfish is the best thing on the menu,” Stinky declared loudly. We all pointedly ordered something else.

  “Where are you girls from? There’s a good band down at the Breakers. How long y’all staying? Wanna take a ride on my motorcycle?” There was an endless stream of inane remarks. We started out responding with clipped, polite statements. Then, “You look like a girl who loves hush puppies,” that said to Penny Sue. I was glad she didn’t have her gun. She shot Stinky a look that would have killed a sober person. That’s when we started ignoring them all together. But it was hard.

  The food was greasy and good. I pressed my thumb on the Kraft paper when I finished. It left an oily spot in spite of the fact that I’d already gone through a half dozen paper towels.

  We finished eating and called for the check. Penny Sue disgustedly counted out two twenties and a ten. “I think you’d better cut them off,” she whispered to the waitress as we pushed past.

  We made a quick stop in the ladies’ room (Ruthie absolutely could not pass one without going in) then headed out the door. The parking lot was packed. Rows had appeared where none existed before and we paused to get our bearings. Clearly none of us had had past lives as Indian scouts, because it took a fair amount of wandering around for us to find the bright yellow car.

  Penny Sue hung a left on A1A/Turtlemound Road and headed back toward the condo. We were chattering happily when Penny Sue broke in with a “Crap!”

  “I’ve got two motorcycles right on my bumper,” she said angrily. “People talk about cars following motorcycles too closely, half of them are just as bad. Idiots. If I were to suddenly stop those guys wouldn’t have a chance.”

  Ruthie was sitting in the front seat and turned around to look. “One’s pulling out. I think they’re going to pass.”

  “Good,” Penny Sue said. The motorcycle pulled alongside and stayed there. Penny Sue slowed down, but rather than dart ahead, the bike held back. “What the—” She glanced at the bike from the corner of her eye. “Darn. It’s the redneck with the pony tail from JB’s.”

  “The restaurant must have taken your advice and cut them off,” I said.

  “And now they’re ticked off,” Ruthie added.

  Penny Sue tightened her grip on the steering wheel and set her jaw. The motorcycle traveling abreast of us had started to dri
ft toward the car. Penny Sue edged over. The cycle moved closer still. “He’s trying to run us off the road,” Penny Sue said and floored it. The Mercedes lurched ahead, yet the bike kept pace. Stinky, on our bumper, pulled alongside, too. They were hooting and hollering and acting like drunken fools. Our speedometer crept up to sixty-five.

  Then, four bright lights appeared from gods-knows-where, illuminating the back of the car. I turned around and squinted to see. It was a pickup truck with spotlights mounted on the bumper. And, the truck was red! “Oh no, that red truck is behind us,” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God,” Ruthie cried nervously. Then, “Om-m-m. Om-m-m.” The sound bounced around the interior of the car. Ruthie was chanting.

  “What the heck are you doing?” Penny Sue demanded.

  “Setting up a protection field.”

  “Tone it down, will you? I need to think.”

  “Let her think, Ruthie. Let her think.” My heart was racing, pounding in my throat. Turtlemound was a two-lane road with numerous cross streets. At any moment a car could pull out and at our velocity—the speedometer was approaching seventy—we’d all be goners.

  Stinky must have thought the same thing. He pulled in front of us and started to slow down. Pony Tail was still beside us, and the truck was on our bumper. We were hemmed in; we had to slow down. “They’re making their move,” Penny Sue said through gritted teeth. “Hold on.” She pulled the steering wheel right. I braced for a crash.

  “OM-M-M,” Ruthie screeched.

  The car skidded across a side street and into the unpaved lot of a bait shop. Caught off guard, the motorcycles and truck flew by. A wave of relief swept through me, then my eyes grew wide. We were headed for the front door of the store! Spewing a rooster tail of sand, the car pulsed spastically as the antilock brakes battled to halt our forward progress. I braced myself for the second time—the glass storefront was coming up fast. But Penny Sue drove like a stock car pro. She took her foot off the brake pedal and jerked the steering wheel hard left. The car did a three-hundred-sixty twirl and stopped dead. Ruthie squealed.