The Turtle Mound Murder

by Mary Clay

  Before I’d even caught my breath, Penny Sue had punched the emergency button on the cell phone and was heading the car back to JB’s. The emergency operator would have the police meet us there. We parked close to the front door and waited. A few minutes later, a Volusia County Sheriff’s car showed up. A stocky officer in his forties ambled over to the Mercedes. Thankfully, he was not one we’d met before.

  Deputy Ted Moore took our statement and seemed genuinely concerned. “Let me get this straight. The driver of the red pickup had a fight with the man found murdered one the day before the body was discovered?”

  We nodded.

  “You think that same truck was following you a couple of days ago, and you reported it to Mr. Woodhead.” I thought I detected a suppressed sneer when he mentioned Woody’s name, which told me that Woody wasn’t one of his favorites, either. “The men riding the motorcycles had dinner here tonight and harassed you. Did you see the driver of the truck in the restaurant?”

  “He may have been there, though we didn’t see him,” Penny Sue responded. “The place was packed.”

  Deputy Moore made a notation, then called the station to request a back-up. “I’m going to interview the staff here at JB’s to see if I can get a make on those bikers. They sound like locals, so there’s a good chance someone knew them. In any event, they might have paid their bill with a credit card. I’ll have the other car escort you ladies home, since the guy in the pickup knows where you live.”

  The blood drained from my face. That possibility had never entered my mind. Judging by Ruthie’s slack jaw, she hadn’t thought of it either. Penny Sue was stoic, showing no emotion at all.

  Our escort arrived a few minutes later, and we pulled out of the restaurant’s parking lot for the second time. “So, what do you think?” I asked Penny Sue.

  She stared straight ahead. “Deputy Moore’s kinda cute, and he isn’t wearing a wedding band.”

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  We had just stepped out on the deck with our morning coffee when the old woman screamed. Penny Sue almost swallowed the cigarette she was about to light. “Magod, someone’s hurt.”

  There was a moment of indecision where the three of us stared at one another like wide-eyed fools, each trying to calculate the danger quotient and decide whether we should scurry inside and pretend we hadn’t heard anything, or go to investigate. There was also the problem that each of us knew the other had heard the scream. While we might get away with feigning ignorance to outsiders, we couldn’t fake it with ourselves. It was one of those crazy situations where each knew the others knew, and the others knew we knew they knew ... So there we stood, stuck in fear and circular reasoning.

  The second howl jolted us into action. We raced down to the beach where four members of the Turtle Patrol stood forlorn. The sand was littered with dozens of leathery orbs, pinkish-tan in color and slightly larger than ping pong balls. The wreath the group had placed in Rick’s honor the previous day lay twenty feet away; battered, waterlogged, and half buried in the sand.

  Gerty, the little old lady who’d told us about the Hate Mongers, was the one doing the wailing. I said a silent prayer she wouldn’t say anything about the Hussy taking pot shots.

  “They killed Rick, and now this. I told you they were evil—” Gerty said something else that was garbled by a sob “—call the media.”

  “That’ll only make matters worse, Gerty,” the older gentleman we’d met the previous day responded. “We’ve discussed this before. It will alienate the authorities, make them look bad.”

  She swept her hand at the scattered remains of the turtle nest. A seagull had grasped an egg in its beak and was shaking it violently, trying to get at the precious little critter inside. “Make them look bad? What about my babies, Robert?”

  “Some nests simply never make it,” the man said. “We all know that. This is just one of them.”

  Fists clenched, the old woman backed away. “Look the other way, turn the other cheek, again? Those hoodlums are slaughtering the turtles, wiping them off the face of the Earth. Now, they’re coming after us ...”

  I held my breath, fearing her next statement would be about the Gun Moll.

  “We’ve got to take a stand. If we don’t, where will it end?” Gerty planted her feet defiantly.

  I exhaled. Safe. For now.

  Robert shrugged. He had the presence of a man who’d been a mid-level executive, who’d seen his share of conflict and strife, which he’d hoped to escape by coming to Florida and ministering to turtles. Exercise, sun, doing a good deed; idyllic, he’d probably thought. Now Gerty was throwing a wrench in the works. “The news media blows things out of proportion, we’ve talked about that. We’ve finally found some allies in government, but they won’t be allies long if we sic reporters on them. No, Gerty, we’ve got to take the long view, follow the path of least resistance.”

  They glared at each other; two stubborn septuagenarians, each intent on running the show. I imagined this wasn’t the first time Gerty and Robert had squared off. The fact that no one else in the group uttered a word spoke volumes: they knew better than to get caught between these two.

  Ruthie broke the impasse. She dropped to her knees and scooped up a handful of sand with an egg on top. “Can’t we put them back?”

  “They will never hatch now. The nest was already moved once, they’ve been exposed too long,” Gerty replied.

  Robert followed Ruthie’s cue. “Maybe not. At least they’ll have a chance.”

  I could tell Gerty was annoyed by Robert’s opposition, yet couldn’t argue with his logic. She reluctantly agreed. “Don’t touch them if you can help it.”

  We all went into action scooping up the leathery spheres. I was crawling around on my hands and knees, shooing birds and gathering eggs, when a big foot appeared out of nowhere. A big foot, just like Rick’s. To say I almost fainted is an understatement. My heart did a triple flip followed by a belly flop.

  “Hey, you all right? I didn’t mean to startle you,” a male voice said.

  Crouched on all fours, I forced my face skyward. It was the guy from the bar at The Riverview, our next door neighbor. I let out a long sigh and sat back in the sand. My heart was still racing. “I’ll be okay,” I mumbled.

  He squatted beside me. “We met at the bar the other night, right?”

  I nodded. My pulse was finally beginning to slow.

  “What are you guys doing?” he asked, looking around.

  Penny Sue answered. “What does it look like? We’re reburying these turtle eggs.”

  The man stood to face Penny Sue. “Al Maroni,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m staying in the condo next to yours.”

  Her demeanor changed instantly. Penny Sue brushed her hand on her shorts and smiled demurely. She took his hand and answered in her sultry, Southern voice, “Penny Sue Parker. These are my friends Leigh Stratton,” she motioned at me, still sitting in the sand, “and Ruthie Nichols.” She swept her arm in a wide arc at the rest of the crowd, “And this is Gerty, Robert and the Turtle Patrol. Vicious vandals destroyed this nest. We’re trying to save the poor little critters.”

  “Can I help?” Al asked.

  “That’s very kind.” Penny Sue knelt in the sand. “Scoop up the egg with sand under it, so you don’t touch it. See.” She plunged her hand into the sand and carefully lifted an egg which she placed in the nest.

  Al nodded and did as instructed. With his help, we finished in less than five minutes. Robert thanked us for our assistance, and the patrol headed up the beach. Al said goodbye and jogged off in the other direction.

  “Nice guy,” Penny Sue mumbled, watching his trim form retreat into the distance.

  “Yeah, I just hope this isn’t an omen for the rest of the day,” Ruthie said when we got back to the deck.

  “Why?” Penny Sue countered. “He’s good looking and nice.”

  “I didn’t mean Al—I meant screams and disasters,” Ruthie said.


  “I for one have had about all the excitement I can stand. Much more and I’ll have to take up smoking.” I nodded at Penny Sue who’d just blown out a long drag of her cigarette.

  Ruthie frowned. “It’s almost like we’re cursed. There’s a dark, heavy feeling around this condo. Negative vibes.”

  Penny Sue flicked her ash and took another long pull. “That’s your department, sugar. Can’t you do an exorcism or something?”

  Ruthie’s brows knitted. “I’d need a smudge stick.”

  “An eyeliner? I think I have a brown one by Chanel.”

  “Not an eyeliner—incense. It’s a Native American tradition for purifying places. Sage removes negative energy, and cedar attracts positive.”

  “We need a barrel of both. Check the kitchen, Leigh. Maybe there’s some sage in the spice rack. Would that work?”

  “Yes, though it would be good to have the cedar, too. I’ve seen combinations of cedar, sage, and sweetgrass; we probably could have gotten some at Cassadaga. A shame we didn’t think of this earlier.”

  I returned to report that oregano was the only spice in the kitchen and it looked dried up.

  “Naa,” Penny Sue said. “That would probably only work for Italians. We don’t have to go all the way to Cassadaga, I think there’s a New Age incense and candle shop on Flagler Avenue. I saw it on the way to Lyndon’s for lunch. We’ll try there first, it’s only a few miles away.”

  The rest of the morning was a blur of piddling stuff. Ruthie said it had something to do with Mercury, Mars, Uranus, and gravitational fields like the Moon’s effects on tides. The explanation was too deep for me so early in the morning. The discussion was definitely one which required a drink, or two, to make sense.

  A call from Deborah, my next door neighbor in Atlanta, was the first manifestation of the mischievous planetary alignment. We’d been friends for years and had always made a point of keeping each other informed of our respective whereabouts, in case of an emergency. Everyone that mattered knew to call Deborah if they needed to find me. And that’s what my daughter, Ann, had done when she couldn’t reach me and I didn’t return her phone calls.

  “Sorry to bother you so early,” Deborah led off. “Ann just called sounding pretty upset. She said she’d been trying to reach you for days. I told her you were vacationing with your old sorority sisters and gave her the phone number down there, but you may want to give her a call.”

  The dreaded phone call—I couldn’t put it off any longer. The kids knew the divorce was imminent, yet it was still going to be hard to tell them it was final. Eighteen months of sadness, shame, and regret were all jumbled up in making that admission. I’d discussed this with one of my therapists, who’d pointed out that Zack was the one who had ended the marriage. He had broken the marriage vow, I hadn’t, so I had no reason to feel ashamed.

  But I did. I felt responsible for not making the marriage work. The nagging doubt that something I’d done or hadn’t done had driven Zack over the line and deprived the kids of their happy home remained, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise. My rational mind knew that wasn’t true—if anything I’d been far too deferential with Zack. Yet, that female, old-fashioned, role-conscious, guilt-ridden part of my brain didn’t buy it and gave me no peace, at least until recently. Truth be told, the craziness of the last few days had actually been a relief—

  That realization hit me between the eyes. What was so special about the last few days? Chaos, danger ... my mind was off myself!

  “While I’ve got you,” Deborah went on, “I think there’s something wrong with your sprinkler system. I haven’t seen it running, and your lawn is getting awfully brown.”

  The sprinkler? It had been running when we left; in fact, we’d had to dodge water as we loaded the car. What could have gone wrong? The realtor. “I think I know what happened. I’ll take care if it. Thanks for calling, Deborah. I owe you one.”

  Ruthie noticed the exasperated look on my face. “Everything all right?”

  “Can we smudge my realtor?”

  The call to Ann went better than I expected. She wasn’t the least bit shaken by the news that the divorce was final. If anything, she sounded relieved. Figuring I should finish it all while I had momentum, I dialed Zack, Jr.’s number in Vail, catching him before he left for work. I eased into the subject on the pretense of telling him where I was and how I could be reached. I’d given him the phone number when he took the bull by the horns.

  “Isn’t the divorce final yet?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, it was. Last week.”

  “So you’re down in Florida celebrating? Good for you, Mom. Gotta run, or I’ll be late for work. Love you.” He hung up. I sighed. I had great kids—why didn’t I give them credit?

  The next call was to my realtor. “That young couple is still on the hook,” she bubbled. “It’s down to your house and one other. But there’s a small problem. They drove by the house yesterday and noticed the lawn was awfully brown. Do you think you could have cinch bugs?”

  The positive wave I’d been riding crashed into a wall. I wanted to reach through the phone and grab her scrawny neck. At the very least I wanted to jump down her throat verbally. Fortunately, I remembered Ruthie’s admonition about Mars, Uranus, and being hasty. I swallowed my initial response (It’s brown, you fool, because you turned off the sprinkler) and opted for, “My neighbor called to say the sprinkler wasn’t running. Is it possible,” butter-melting-in-my-mouth sweet, “someone turned it off by accident?”

  “Oh my, I don’t know how that could have happened,” she said in a sing-songy voice. “I do recall that Todd, the husband, was looking at it. I’ll try to check into it today.”

  “Thanks, you do that.”

  Todd was looking at it. That was the last straw. I called Barkley Home Improvement, a Marietta outfit that had always done the repairs Zack never had time to do. Adam Barkley was a prince of a guy, a real Southern gentleman. I asked him to cut out the handprints on the patio and repair the hole. Adam said he’d get on it right away. Satisfied, I hung up the phone. Whatever happened, no one was getting my darling children’s little hands.

  The door bell rang as Ruthie emerged from our bedroom fully dressed. “Mars and Mercury,” she said portentously.

  I checked the clock. It was almost eleven, and I was still in my sweats. I scurried to the bedroom as Penny Sue answered the front door. It was Shirley from Party Hearty with the leftover invitations.

  I showered and dressed in record time. I’d gotten some color on my face, so a little mascara and lipstick was all the makeup I needed. I pulled my hair back in a headband and put on a peach-colored, cotton short set. Reef Rider sandals completed my casual ensemble, as Penny Sue would say.

  Though Penny Sue’s concept of casual and my idea, like most other things, were as different as night and day. By Penny Sue’s standards I was almost naked. No scarves, hats, or fancy belts. A gold chain and modest sapphire ring were my only jewelry. Accessories, accessories, Penny Sue harped at me all the time. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford those niceties, all that stuff just bugged me. Superfluous clutter; things to clean, keep up with, pack, and haul around.

  I stuffed my lipstick and powder into a blue leather bag and went into the living room. Penny Sue regarded me as if I’d just dropped in from outer space. “What?” I asked.

  She motioned from the purse to the sandals.

  Mercy me, they didn’t match. “It’s the beach, Penny Sue. Nobody cares.”

  She pinched her nose up in that haughty I care expression.

  I stuck my tongue out at her and went to change purses. I hated giving in, but knew she’d hound me to death if I didn’t. A small concession for a large return in peace-of-mind. I changed to a woven straw shoulder bag which earned a nod of approval from Her Highness, when the doorbell rang again. Ruthie was right—Mercury, Mars and Uranus were certainly in high gear today. Now what? I wondered.

  It was Federal Express with
a large package for Ruthie. She opened the box on the dining table and stared at the contents.

  “What is it?” Penny Sue and I asked in unison, peering over her shoulder. The box contained what looked like a child’s toy water cannon—the pump action kind kids play with in pools and on the beach. Only this one was gray and made of a material that was definitely not cheap plastic.

  “What is it?” I asked again.

  Ruthie opened a neatly folded letter with the corporate letterhead of Taser Technology, Inc. She read the letter then let out a loud sigh. “Mr. Wong and Poppa are worried about our safety,” she said quietly. “I mentioned Rick’s murder to Mr. Wong. He promised not to tell Poppa, but apparently did. This is for our protection.”

  “We’re supposed to protect ourselves with a Super Soaker squirt gun, a child’s toy?” Penny Sue said.

  “Not a squirt gun—a state-of-the-art liquid Taser. According to this,” Ruthie thumped the letter, “this thing is cutting edge technology. Instead of shooting barbed probes on wires which deliver a shock that knocks attackers on their butts, this gun uses an electrified saline solution. That means it has multiple shots, a range of 25 feet and can stun more than one person. It’s a prototype that isn’t even on the market yet.”

  Penny Sue took the letter from Ruthie’s hands, read it quickly, then handed me the letter and took the gun from the box. It was about a foot and a half long with a typical water cannon nozzle, trigger and bulbous reservoir for the fluid. She hefted it to test its balance. “This is really neat.” Penny Sue’s eyes shown with excitement. “How did your Dad get his hands on it?”

  “Poppa supplied the start-up capital and was on the company’s board. He must have called the president to ask this favor.”