The Turtle Mound Murder

by Mary Clay

“Use the feathers to fan the smudge stick and direct the smoke. Rub your hands in it and massage it over your body. That cleanses your aura.”

  Good, no prunes. I hadn’t been able to stomach them since I was about five when I mistook them for big raisins and ate a whole box.

  “Then take the smoldering smudge stick around and through your condo. Be sure to get everything: under furniture, in closets and cabinets.”

  “Should we chant or something?” Ruthie asked eagerly.

  “That’s okay, though not necessary.”

  Ruthie looked disappointed.

  “The key is to hold pure thoughts. It’s your pure intention that will eradicate any—” there was a knock at the door, “—evil.” She glanced at her watch. “Sorry, it’s time for my class.”

  “Wait,” Penny Sue pleaded. “You said we were in danger from a light-haired man. Can you give us some details? Where would we find him?”

  There was another rap on the door. Pauline reached in her pocket and retrieved a card. She paused a moment before giving it to Penny Sue. “At a bar; I see drinks, you know, like beer and wine. And, there’s a coin with two heads … and a wheel. A shiny wheel, spinning.”

  * * *

  “A double-headed coin. Shiny, spinning wheels. What do you make of that?” Penny Sue asked, once we returned to the car.

  “I think the wheels refer to those motorcycles and it’s that greaser who’s angry,” Ruthie said after a moment. “We gave him the cold shoulder and had his drinks cut off.”

  I nodded. “A light-haired man. Everyone we’ve run into has light hair—Zack, Lyndon, Rick, Pete, Stinky. Why, even the guy next door, Al Maroni, has sandy hair with gray streaks.”

  “Rick’s out, unless we’re getting bad vibes from the other side,” Penny Sue said.

  “And Zack’s not here. Though the two-headed coin—two-faced—fits him to a tee.”

  “Which leaves us with Lyndon, Pete, Stinky and Al.”

  “It’s not Lyndon,” Penny Sue declared with a saucy wink. “No bad vibes there, and Pete and Al have no reason to be mad.”

  “Which takes us back to Stinky—and maybe the guy in the red pickup. I don’t care what Moore says, I think Mr. Pickup Truck’s a pal of the two guys from JB’s,” Penny Sue said. “He was trying to run us down, there’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “Maybe Al knows who he is. After all, Mr. Pickup was at Al’s condo when we arrived. He’s probably a maintenance man or something,” Ruthie offered.

  “That’s worth following-up.” I turned to Penny Sue. “Was Al invited to the party?”

  She replied, “Sure, all the neighbors were.”

  “Good. Ruthie and I will work on him. Now, what about the bar?”

  “It has to be JB’s,” Penny Sue said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. We followed the pickup to Gilley’s Pub 44. That’s a big bikers’ hangout.”

  Ruthie’s brows knitted with concern. “Why do we want to find them? I think we should steer clear of those hoods.”

  “Just wait for them to track us down? No one’s going to help us, Ruthie,” I reminded her.

  “Deputy Moore—”

  “If we get something and take it to him. He’s not going to lift a finger to help us on his own.” Like Max Bennett, my worthless attorney. Or Woody. Or even my realtor. I felt my face grow hot. I was sick of being used, stewed, and abused. Not again, I vowed. “I, for one, am not going to roll over like a squashed bug,” I said through gritted teeth, shaking my finger for emphasis. “We’re going to track those guys down and see that they get what they deserve. What are we, Docile-dils or DAFFODILS?”

  Penny Sue started the car and slapped it into gear. “Damn straight. Let’s run over to Pub 44 right now.”

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  It was a beautiful October afternoon, so we found a table in the back room of Gilley’s which overlooked a pond. I’d insisted. We’d spent so much time eating in dark restaurants, I was starting to feel like a roach. Sunlight was what I needed—and no more wine. I was also beginning to feel like a lush.

  A cute girl in short shorts, popping gum, came to take our order. Her name was Haley, like the Comet, she said. I led off with the orders. “A beer mug of ginger ale. No ice. Diet, if you have it.” Penny Sue looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “On duty,” I explained before Penny Sue could say anything. “We need to stay sharp.”

  Penny Sue reared back with a glint in her eye. An instant later she’d transformed into Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher or ... Austin Powers. “I’ll have one of those non-alcoholic beers,” she said in a no-nonsense, I-mean-business tone.

  Ruthie glanced up from the newspaper she’d purchased from a box by the front door. “Perrier with a twist of lime.”

  The waitress leaned forward. The front of her floral shirt gaped open, exposing a black leather bra. “Sorry ma’am,” gum popping, “we don’t have Perrier. In case you didn’t notice, this is a pub.” She cut her eyes at Penny Sue and me. Apparently, Comet hadn’t been too impressed with our orders, either.

  Ruthie smiled sweetly. “Sorry. Club soda on the rocks in a short glass with a twist of lime. Think you can handle that?”

  Comet glared contemptuously as she scribbled Ruthie’s request. “It may take a while. We’re kinda busy,” she said over her shoulder as she sashayed toward the bar.

  Actually, sashay might have been a slight understatement. Bump and grind was more like it. What a snide thought, I chastised myself, still watching Comet wiggle across the room. Perhaps the poor girl had on leather panties to match her bra which were digging in the wrong place.

  A young man in jeans and a tee shirt came up behind her and patted her butt. Comet beamed. I thought of Ms. Thong and realized I’d unconsciously clenched my fist.

  “Look, there’s Jonathan McMillan,” Penny Sue said. I followed her gaze to a man sitting at the bar. The gentleman in question sported holey jeans, a tank top, a kerchief tied around his head, and a big tattoo on his arm.

  “How do you know him?” I asked incredulously.

  “He’s president of a bank in Marietta. Yoo hoo, Jonathan.” Penny Sue stood up and waved. The man turned around and grinned. The next thing I knew he was standing at our table.

  “Penny Sue Parker,” he drawled. “How’re ya doing?” They exchanged hugs.

  A moment later a woman our age appeared beside him. She was dressed in stretch jeans and a red leather halter top. “Marie,” Penny Sue gushed. More hugs. “You look smashing.”

  Marie’s lips stretched into a wide smile, revealing movie star teeth (at least eleven millimeters, obligatory for photos according to my dentist) and non-crinkled eyes. An eye-job I presumed, and a good one. Considering her flat abdomen, I suspected a tummy tuck had been part of the package. “It’s been ages, Penny. What are you doing here?”

  “Vacationing.” Penny Sue introduced us and relayed the story of her daddy’s condo. “What brings you to these parts?”

  Jonathan grinned self-consciously. “Can’t make Biketoberfest this year; have a conflict with a board meeting. So, we thought we’d come down early for our semi-annual bike getaway. Our chance to dress up and pretend we’re still young characters in Easy Rider.”

  Penny Sue patted the tattoo on his arm. It was a skull and cross bones surrounded by roses.

  “Fake,” he offered before she could say anything. “I got it at the Harley Davidson dealership next door. A hoot, isn’t it? This is the first one I’ve had. They’re always sold out during Bike Week.”

  I looked to Marie. “Y’all rode motorcycles down from Atlanta?” Talk about crotch rot; I shivered at the thought of eight hours on a motorcycle.

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh no, we drove down in our car and pulled the bikes in a trailer.”

  Smart lady. If I had those teeth, I wouldn’t want them peppered with gnats, either.

  We went on to discuss where they were staying, old friends, old memories (at our age, why does everyone d
well on what was?) and finally the party Saturday night. They promised to come after Penny Sue assured them it was casual. They’d only brought biker garb.

  A man—the manager I presumed from his polite, authoritative demeanor—arrived with our drinks soon after they left. He sat a chilled mug of ginger ale in front of me and a glass of ice. “I know you didn’t want ice,” he said, “but the ginger ale is warm. I put it in a cold mug, but I’m not sure that’ll be enough.”

  The contrast was startling. “What happened to Caustic Comet?” I blurted before thinking. Ruthie’s mouth dropped open, and my cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That came out the wrong way.”

  “That’s all right,” the manager said. “Haley’s new, and she didn’t get a lot of training. Seems to have missed the lesson on customer service.”

  I nodded. A shame more managers didn’t watch their employees and insist on common civility. I looked around the sun-filled room. I liked this place after all, although I wasn’t sure I could go as far as wearing a leather bra.

  While this was going on, Penny Sue sipped her O’Douls and surveyed the room for suspects—or hot men. Ruthie was engrossed in her newspaper.

  Penny Sue leaned toward me suddenly and whispered. “Quick, look. No, don’t look, he’ll see you,” she added hastily. “I think that’s Al Maroni behind you at the far side of the bar.”

  “Should I look or not look?”

  Penny Sue scanned the room casually, her rendition of surreptitiousness. Unfortunately, the stealthy maneuver came across as a woman trying to work out a crick in her neck, or perhaps having a slight seizure. A second later, Penny Sue glanced sidelong at the bar.

  “Darn, he’s gone.”

  I turned around to see for myself. “Are you sure it was him?”

  Penny Sue sank back dejectedly. “No, I’m not sure. The guy had on sunglasses, and his hair was combed differently. Sort of down in front, instead of brushed straight back.”

  “Never mind that, listen to this,” Ruthie interrupted with a look of revulsion. “Four loggerhead sea turtles have washed up on the beach in the last few days. One was a female. They all had their heads and flippers cut off.”

  I thought of Robert, Gerty, and the Turtle Patrol. “Magod. The Hate Mongers?”

  “Doesn’t say. Some speculate it was commercial fishermen. Since the turtles weigh 250 to 400 pounds, they’re the only ones capable of catching them with their huge nets.”

  “Why would they cut off their heads and flippers?” I asked.

  “Meanness,” Penny Sue said without hesitation. “There are just a lot of mean sickos in this world.”

  “Sea turtles are endangered; it’s illegal to mess with them.”

  “Says here the perpetrators are subject to state penalties of 60 days in jail and a $500 fine,” Ruthie said. “Federal law is worse: two years behind bars and a $50,000 fine.”

  “Which means nothing to sickos. I’ve learned that much from Daddy. Penalties have no effect on those people. They get a perverse thrill from seeing how far they can go, how much they can get away with.”

  My thoughts turned to Rick, Gerty and the defiled turtle nest. Then an image of Rick’s stiff, mangled toes. I put down my ginger ale and fought back a wave of nausea.

  * * *

  Coming up empty-handed at Gilley’s, we headed back to the condo for a short nap and to change clothes before continuing our investigation. Since Pauline saw the killer in a bar, JB’s was our next, best prospect. We arrived at the restaurant at about seven and waited outside on the deck for a table. We had our eye on a booth in the corner with a clear view of both doors, the bar, and part of the back room. We ordered drinks (the real stuff this time, since teetotalers get no respect) and stood along a wooden railing overlooking Mosquito Lagoon. Two manatees rolled and splashed at our feet. The sun hung low on the horizon. For once, the lagoon’s buzzing namesakes were inexplicably absent. It seemed like heaven instead of a stake-out and murder investigation.

  “I want to make sure we’re coordinated,” Ruthie said. “What do we do if we see Stinky?”

  Penny Sue gave her an exasperated look. “Get his name. Find out where he works, who his friends are, as much as we can. We need something to give to Deputy Moore and Woody.”

  Woody’s name seemed to stick in her throat. Penny Sue still hadn’t heard anything from him about the gun. I figured no news was good news. If she were really a suspect, they’d have taken her into custody by now. Of course, we’d all have felt better if someone—anyone but Penny Sue—had been arrested for killing Rick.

  No such luck. Ruthie combed the paper every day, partly because she was a news freak, but mostly to search for articles about Rick’s death. For a small town, there had been surprisingly few. There had been a short piece on Monday when Rick’s body was found and a longer article on Tuesday which quoted the police as saying they were following several leads. Since then, nothing. Not a peep from the press in a place where DUI’s and domestic disputes made the front page. Strange, to say the least.

  “How, exactly, are we going to get his name?” Ruthie asked. “I thought we were working incognito.”

  “We are,” Penny Sue said, perplexed. She swept her hand down her body in a motion worthy of Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. “Why else would I be dressed like this?”

  Penny Sue had on beige shorts, a white sleeveless shirt, and casual sandals. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and she had on approximately half the makeup she usually wore. And, for the first time in her life, she wore no scarves, belts, jackets, shawls, caps, or jewelry except, of course, the two-carat diamond ring, which didn’t count, since it had been her Momma’s. For Penny Sue, that truly was incognito. Heck, she looked like me. Or Ruthie, whose drab, baggy, designer clothes would go unnoticed by all but the most discriminating eyes. Which meant Ruthie had nothing to worry about from Stinky. Discrimination of any kind did not appear to be one of his faults.

  The fact that Penny Sue had stooped to looking plain was lost on Ruthie. “Yeah, but how do we find out who he is?” she asked again.

  At that moment a waitress tapped Penny Sue on the shoulder and pointed toward the corner table that was being vacated. “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.”

  Penny Sue and I took the side of the booth facing the room, which left Ruthie looking out the back window. She didn’t mind. Although she was concerned about our situation, Ruthie was definitely not gung ho about our undercover exercise.

  Ruthie kept remembering Pauline’s prediction that we’d meet the angry light-haired man at a bar. When Pub 44 had turned out to be a dead end, Ruthie’d grown increasingly anxious about coming to JB’s. In fact, she recommended that we hire a private detective and volunteered to pay for it herself. She called two P.I. agencies whose yellow page blurbs boasted FBI connections, but got no answer. After five on a Thursday, what did she expect?

  I wasn’t thrilled about playing detective, but only half-believed Pauline’s prediction, so I wasn’t on tenterhooks, either. I definitely didn’t intend to do anything crazy like confront Stinky, or even follow him. I was willing to make a few inquiries; that was all. Period. No matter what.

  A tall man appeared at the table a few minutes after we sat down. While virtually all men, except Zack, Jr., were on my shit list at that moment, I had to admit that this guy was a real hunk. With a deep tan, chiseled jaw, and solid build packed on a six-foot-four frame, this man would stand out in any crowd. “Your waitress is up a tree.” The guy ripped a large piece of Kraft paper from a roll on the wall and slid it over our table top. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?” he asked.

  Penny Sue lit up like a firefly spying a flame. She had the inside seat, next to the wall, and nearly pushed me off the bench as she leaned toward him. Batting her lashes several times, she answered “Chardonnay” in a syrupy, Southern drawl. Ruthie and I ordered the same.

  “Three Chardonnays. It’ll just be a minute.” He smiled (nice teeth) and left.


  Even I watched his back as he strode away, and Ruthie actually turned around in her seat.

  “What a Titan,” Penny Sue mumbled.

  “Titan was the son of Uranus and Gaia,” Ruthie said softly, eyes riveted on his retreating form.

  “Whoever he’s kin to, he’s got nice jeans,” I said, grinning. Neither of them got the drift. So much for genome wit, I thought wryly.

  To our extreme disappointment a waitress, Joanne, delivered the wine. She was about our age and nice enough, but a letdown, nonetheless. Titan was a tough act to follow.

  In order to prolong our surveillance, we’d already decided to stretch out dinner as long as possible by ordering a succession of appetizers. If we did that again and again, eventually we’d be full and a couple of hours would have passed. We started with one order of Buffalo Shrimp, to split. Penny Sue assured the waitress we were big tippers, hoping to assuage the woman’s natural desire to turn the table. The server nodded politely, as if she’d heard the line more times than she could count.

  We settled back, eating, chatting, and trolling the restaurant with our eyes. I couldn’t help but notice that Penny Sue homed in on the Titan bartender after each pass of the room. About a half hour into the gig she got a bite.

  “Look who’s talking to Titan at the bar,” Penny Sue whispered suddenly. “That’s definitely Al.”

  I squinted in their direction. It was almost eight, and the room was getting dark. “I think you’re right,” I finally said.

  “Should we say something to him? Ask if he got the invitation to the party?” Ruthie asked.

  “No. We don’t want to call attention to ourselves. We’ll track him down tomorrow to make sure he got it.”

  Our second appetizer, clams, arrived. We ordered another round of wine and some water, but our waitress was not listening. Her eyes were fixed on the television at the far end of the room. I repeated our request.

  “Sorry,” Joanne said. “I was checking out the storm. I live on the beach. New Smyrna has never taken a direct hit. Even so, hurricanes always make me nervous.”