The Turtle Mound Murder

by Mary Clay

  He tipped his hat and left. I shut the door and threw the deadbolt.

  “I think he likes you, Leigh. He was giving you the look,” Penny Sue said airily.

  I ignored her comment and headed into the living room where I turned on the Weather Channel.

  “Uh oh,” Ruthie said. “Dr. Steve’s on. This hurricane must be serious.”

  Penny Sue came from the kitchen with a glass of ice tea sat on the arm of the sofa. “Jim Cantore’s my favorite.”

  “Dr. Steve’s the hurricane expert,” Ruthie said. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock. If he’s up at this hour, the storm must have gotten worse.”

  I sat on the end of the loveseat and watched. Hurricane Lizzie had indeed gained strength. A pressure drop and shift in upper level winds meant it posed a serious threat for Puerto Rico. A graphic of the strike zone flashed on the screen. New Smyrna Beach was smack, dab in the center of the high probability range.

  “The waitress said that New Smyrna Beach has never taken a direct hit from a hurricane,” I said.

  Penny Sue nodded. “That’s right. I think it’s because the coast here curves westward. Storms tend to hit south of here or north of Jacksonville. As I recall, the chance of a direct hit is higher for the Carolinas than it is for this area. Which probably explains why Cape Canaveral, which is only thirty miles south, was chosen for space launches.”

  “What would we do if the hurricane does come this way?” I asked. Living in Atlanta, which was 250 miles inland at an elevation of over a thousand feet, I wasn’t used to worrying about hurricanes. They usually petered out before they got close to the city.

  “I certainly don’t want to stay here,” Ruthie declared.

  Penny Sue pulled out a cigarette. “Would y’all be awfully mad if I smoked? Just one. I don’t want to go out on the deck now that the place is all locked up.”

  “Wait.” Ruthie went to our bedroom and returned with one of the scented candles we’d purchased at Chris’ Place. “Sandalwood and sage,” she announced. “We might as well chase away evil spirits while we cover up your smoke.”

  “That’s right, we have to smudge the place. That’ll take care of any smoke residue.” She lit her cigarette.

  “American Indians used tobacco as a sacred herb. The cigarette smoke may actually help the vibes in here.”

  Boy, I wished Ruthie hadn’t made that statement. Penny Sue didn’t need encouragement. At the rate she’d been puffing since Rick’s murder, she’d be a chain smoker before the vacation ended. Except, I had an idea how I could squelch that trend. “There was a piece on the news this morning about smoking. New studies show it causes impotence. Even second-hand smoke can have a big effect on men.”

  Penny Sue stopped mid-drag and exhaled forcefully. “You’re making that up.”

  “No. Everyone’s talking about it. Causes early menopause and wrinkles, too.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, trying to gauge my sincerity. I suppose I passed the test, because she took one more drag, then snuffed out the cigarette. “Lord, I hope that storm doesn’t ruin our party. I guess we should put together a hurricane box just in case.”

  “A hurricane box?” Ruthie repeated with trepidation.

  “Sure, supplies—food and water. We probably have the candle front covered. What did you think I meant?”

  “I thought you were talking about a panic room like the one in the film with Jodi Foster. I’m claustrophobic, I can’t stand being confined.” Ruthie went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. “Why do you call it a hurricane box?”

  “You keep the stuff in a box so it’s easy to carry in the event you have to evacuate.”

  “Where would we go?” Ruthie groaned.

  “If it’s only a Category One, I don’t think we need to go anywhere. More than that, well …”

  “There are shelters,” I said quickly, remembering what I’d seen on the news in previous years. “Schools, government buildings, hotels. We’d go to one of them.”

  Ruthie sighed heavily. “Some vacation this has turned out to be.”

  Though Ruthie would not intentionally hurt a fly, I could tell her remark cut Penny Sue deeply. But, she covered her feelings so well in brazen bluster, it was sometimes easy to forget Penny Sue had them at all. She did, and they ran deep.

  “It has been an adventure,” I said brightly, trying to salve my friend’s injured feelings. “A little NASCAR-style driving, a hurricane, and an eccentric psychic sure took my mind off the divorce.”

  Penny Sue perked up. “Pauline may be eccentric, but she was right. We did see Stinky at the bar tonight.”

  “She’s a hoot, all right,” I said. “Wouldn’t you love to be a bug on the wall and hear Pauline’s conversations with Alice?”

  “She was pulling your leg, putting you in your place. She heard your impudent remark about bat wings and eye of newt,” Penny Sue said, back to her old, sassy self.

  “I was kidding. Though, you have to admit her place was a little ... strange,” I said. “It’s a shame we don’t have an Alice to keep an eye on things for us. We could use some help.”

  Arching a brow, Ruthie smiled smugly. “I know where we can get something just as good.”

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  “A Furby?”

  Penny Sue arrived at the tail end of our conversation. It was eight o’clock on Friday morning. Ruthie and I had been up for an hour, sipping coffee and watching the Weather Channel. Strong westerly winds had knocked the top off Hurricane Lizzie; it had been downgraded to a tropical storm. Good news for us and the party.

  Penny Sue notched her red robe tighter and shuffled to the kitchen for coffee. “So, what’s this stuff about a Furby?”

  Ruthie took a bite of toast. “I think we should get one to watch the place.”

  “This is a joke, right?” Penny Sue was baffled. “A Furby is a furry little child’s toy.”

  “That talks,” I added.

  “That learns to talk,” Ruthie corrected. She grinned smugly and picked up the newspaper, pretending to read.

  Penny Sue sat at the bar, stirring her coffee. “All right, I’ll bite. How can a Furby watch this place?”

  “Well,” Ruthie sat forward excitedly, “Furbies are like children, they learn language by imitation. They listen to the people around them and pick up phrases.”

  “Don’t chant around it,” Penny Sue teased. “You’ll have the poor thing completely confused.”

  Ruthie turned the page of the paper noisily. “Do you want to hear my idea or not?”

  “I do.” She had me confused, that was for sure.

  “We’ll get a Furby and turn it on when we go out. If anyone comes in and speaks, it will pick up their conversation. That way we’ll know if someone was here.”

  “Yes-s,” Penny Sue enthused after a moment’s thought. “Let’s get one today, so we’ll have it for the party. We’ll put it in the corner where it can eavesdrop on everyone.”

  “That could be dangerous,” I cautioned. I wasn’t sure Penny Sue was ready to hear everyone’s private thoughts. I knew I wasn’t!

  “Oh, it’s a joke. It’ll be fun—an ice breaker.”

  Pony Parties was a safer bet, especially since I didn’t think the Furby idea had a chance of working. I turned to Ruthie. “I’m not sure Furbies are on the market anymore. Everything now is robotics.”

  Ruthie waved off my objection. “I’ll bet they have them at the discount stores. There’s a Dollar General over by the movie theater.”

  “I don’t believe Furbies truly learn. I know they’re supposed to learn English, but it’s all pre-programmed. I’m certain they don’t pick up words from their surroundings.”

  “Sure they do,” Ruthie said. “Why else would the NSA ban them from government offices? They were afraid they would pick up classified information.”

  “NSA?” Penny Sue asked.

  “National Security Agency. You know, the government’s super spies.”

 
I did remember hearing something about that years ago. Yet the kids on my block had Furbies, and I’d never seen signs of real intelligence. Of course, maybe that was more of a comment on the kids than the Furbies. “I guess it couldn’t hurt,” I said.

  “Charlotte’s coming to clean this afternoon. I need to pick up a few things for the party anyway, so we can run by Dollar General for some Furbies. It’s worth a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Penny Sue said.

  “Do you believe someone has been in here?” I asked Ruthie, following up on her earlier comment.

  “I’m certain I put the pole in the track to the sliding glass door before we left yesterday.”

  That had bothered me, too. Though, I’d tried to write it off as Penny Sue sneaking out for a cigarette when we weren’t looking. “Have you noticed anything else?” I asked.

  She glanced up from the paper and thought. “Nothing specific, it’s just a feeling.”

  “That’s the negativity you sensed before,” Penny Sue said, pulling bagels from the freezer. “We never did smudge this place. We should do that as soon as we finish eating; I don’t want any bad vibes for the party. We’ve got to clear it all out. Now, ladies, how about some melon and a bagel?”

  I clicked off the television, and Ruthie brought her newspaper to the counter as Penny Sue dished up the food. The melon was good, a refreshing contrast to the heavy appetizers from the night before.

  “The Pierson student will be allowed to wear a dress to homecoming after all,” Ruthie said. “The superintendent reversed the principal’s decision.”

  “A dress? What’s wrong with a dress?” Penny Sue asked.

  We filled her in on the controversy surrounding the gay student.

  “The county attorney told the superintendent they were on shaky legal ground,” Ruthie said.

  “Quicksand is more like it,” I remarked.

  “He’s going to wear a red gown with spaghetti straps.”

  “Red? That reminds me,” Penny Sue said between bites of bagel. “Marie’s leather halter top was cute. Let’s look for one while we’re out.”

  “You’re not going to wear a leather bra to the party, are you?” I asked. “Remember, the whole point of the shindig is to show people that you’re normal.”

  Penny Sue rolled her eyes. “Marie’s normal. Her husband’s a bank president for godssakes.”

  “Don’t do it, Penny Sue,” I warned.

  She took a cigarette from her purse and headed for the deck. “We’ll see.”

  While Penny Sue smoked a cigarette, Ruthie and I prepared to smoke up the house. We pulled out the smudging instructions Pauline had given us. As Ruthie unwrapped the candles and other paraphernalia, I read.

  “Hmm, native American people burn herbs to cleanse the energy,” I read out loud. “The botanical name for sage is Salvia, which means ‘to heal.’ It’s used to drive out bad feelings and negativity. Some tribes spread it on the ground in the sweat lodge.”

  “Have you ever been to a sweat lodge ceremony with all the drumming?” Ruthie asked as she unwrapped one of the smudge bundles.

  I once chaperoned a Cub Scout outing where the kids danced around a campfire with tom-toms, but I didn’t suppose that counted. “No, have you?”

  “A retreat at Stone Mountain. It was a powerful experience—really puts you in touch with your inner goddess.”

  Which deity was that? All that came to mind was the chubby comedienne with her Domestic Goddess skit. After twenty-odd years of marriage, I’d had a lot of experience with that Muse. Too much. My Domestic Goddess was one sleeping dog I hoped would slip into a coma.

  “Cedar is burned while praying,” I continued reading, “its smoke carries wishes to heaven. Indians in the Pacific Northwest believe it attracts positive energy. Sweetgrass also draws good influences and benevolent spirits.

  “The procedure is to burn the smudge stick, and let the smoke permeate our auras first; that makes us a pure channel for the good energy. Then, we take the smudge stick all around the place, making sure the smoke gets in every nook and cranny. Finally, we flood the condo with candle light, to light up the place, so to speak.

  “As we’re doing all this, we should pray silently ... or aloud. It doesn’t matter.” I personally opted for silence.

  Ruthie thought otherwise. “Chanting is a form of prayer. I know y’all think I’m crazy, but I’m going to do it. Sounds are important, they set up sympathetic vibrations. After all, the Mozart Effect has pretty much been proven.”

  I glanced sidelong at her. “What’s that?” I asked, almost dreading the answer.

  “You know, classical music. Music therapy. Psychiatrists have used it for decades. Upbeat music stimulates depressed patients. Soothing music can calm hyped-up types and rap music actually creates a predisposition to violence, drug addiction, and materialism. Universities have done studies on it and found that classical music, particularly Mozart, synchronizes brain waves. It also seems to have a beneficial affect on Attention Deficit Disorder.”

  ADD, I’d often wondered if that could be part of Penny Sue’s problem, the way she flitted around at a million miles per hour. I thought of our trip to New Smyrna Beach on the interstate. Perhaps we should buy a Mozart CD before we started home. It couldn’t hurt. “If you want to chant, it’s fine with me. I just don’t know any—”

  “Vowel sounds.” Penny Sue strode in from the deck holding a feather, having purified her system with tobacco. “Plain old vowel sounds are as good as anything. Deepak Chopra said so.”

  Penny Sue knew about chanting? How did I miss it? Where had I been? In a depressed funk, I guess. Made me wonder what else I’d missed. “Vowel sounds? You mean A, E, I, O, U, and som-metim-mes Y-Y-Y,” I crooned, mimicking her jibe about Tom Jones.

  Penny Sue poked my arm as she breezed into the kitchen for a diet soda. “Not sometimes Y, smarty. Just A, E, I, O, U. Deepak says it will harmonize your chi, revitalize your body. So, where do we start?”

  Ruthie raked an armload of candles off the counter and started placing them around the condo.

  Penny Sue pulled out a pack of matches. “Which candles are jasmine and sandalwood? Pauline said they worked on the pituitary or something. I think we want that stimulated before we start. Doesn’t hurt to have the old MoJo working,” she said, wiggling her fanny.

  I wasn’t sure whether the heinie action had to do with her reference to MoJo, pituitary, or stimulate. In any event, I decided against an anatomy discussion. Who knew where Penny Sue’s pituitary might be. Ruthie, busy distributing our prodigious stock of waxware, was oblivious to the whole thing. She merely pointed to candles on the coffee table and an étagère beside the front door.

  “We have to visualize a white light around this place,” Penny Sue called out as she lit the taper in the hall. “And, be sure to keep a pure mind.”

  A pure mind? That from Ms. Leather-Bra-Swishy-Butt. If the exercise depended on her thoughts, we were doomed. Hopefully, Ruthie was sufficiently imbued with “The Force” to compensate.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Penny Sue called.

  We gathered in the living room and held hands. I glanced out the window at the walkway to the beach.

  “Wait,” I said. “I don’t think we want anyone to see this. We’re trying to look normal, remember?” I ran around the condo and closed the blinds. Except for the flickering flames of two candles and a few shards of sunlight which slanted through the shades, the place was completely dark. Eerily so, for nine o’clock in the morning.

  We joined hands again. Ruthie gave a brief invocation, then nodded at Penny Sue to light the smudge wand. I intoned A-A-A-A.

  “Hold it,” Penny Sue broke the spell. “Which end do I light? The pointed side or the fat one?”

  She handed the straw bundle to Ruthie who shrugged ignorance and passed it to me. I took a whiff of each extremity and pointed to the blunt-cut end, which seemed more fragrant. We bowed our heads solemnly and started over. Penny Sue lit the smudge st
ick and fanned it with the feather. Ruthie and I started chanting the vowels. The smoke curled around our circle, spiraling up, up ... my nose. I whirled away, sneezing.

  “Darn,” I exclaimed. “That stuff smells like marijuana. We’ll stink up the whole place.”

  Penny Sue sniffed the air. “It does, doesn’t it? Do you suppose it’ll make us high?”

  I couldn’t tell if she hoped for a yes or no response to the question.

  Ruthie interrupted, “It’s the sweetgrass you’re smelling. Burning grass is burning grass; the scent’s pretty much the same for all of them.”

  I watched the smoke coil toward the ceiling. “Do you think we should continue? We’re in enough trouble without people thinking we smoke dope. All we need is to be raided for drugs! Your daddy would be real thrilled with that.”

  Penny Sue bit her bottom lip, considering. “No, let’s keep going. Pauline said it would help. We’ll air the place out later. We’re going to burn all the scented candles to light up the place, anyway.”

  So we smudged. AA-A, EE-E, II-I, OO-O, UU-UUU. A conga line of middle-aged women, we snaked through the apartment, chanting softly and fanning smoke into all the corners. After everything had been thoroughly smoked, including ourselves, we assembled in the kitchen and ceremoniously plunged the smoldering wand into a beer mug of water. The straw hissed and sizzled, and Ruthie let out a loud OOM-MMM.

  My heart did a swan dive as, for a brief moment, I wondered if an evil spirit had emerged from the straw and taken possession of Ruthie. The look on Penny Sue’s face told me she’d had the same thought.

  Thankfully, Ruthie grinned, returned to normal. “That was nice, wasn’t it?” she said serenely. I mumbled a banal affirmative as she passed out candles. She lit hers and called to the ceiling, “Let light replace all darkness.”

  Ruthie angled her candle toward mine and nodded. I ignited my taper from her flame and racked my brain for an appropriate incantation. I finally whispered, “Let there be light,” and tilted my candle toward Penny Sue. She didn’t respond. Her face was screwed up in excruciating thought. My candle started to drip on the tile floor. I finally reached over and lit Penny Sue’s candle myself.