The Turtle Mound Murder

by Mary Clay

  “Motorcycle people wear them,” Penny Sue went on, oblivious to my comment.

  Ruthie’s Furby came to life, laughing. “Ha, ha, ha—”

  “Harley,” Penny Sue exclaimed, slapping the car in gear. “I’ll bet they carry them at the Harley Davidson store over by Pub 44.”

  They did. Thankfully, no bras; but the dealership had a good selection of black leather halter tops, short shorts, slacks, you name it. Penny Sue chose a halter top with a Harley emblem in the center, below the boobs. She wanted to buy leather shorts to match, but Ruthie convinced her otherwise.

  “One continuous yeast infection,” Ruthie pronounced quietly.

  Those four words eclipsed all my arguments about propriety and image. Too bad I couldn’t think of something similar for the top.

  The final stop was at Publix supermarket for limes, mixers, ice, a bag of salad and Stouffers’ lasagna. It took some doing, but Ruthie and I convinced Penny Sue that we should stay home and rest up for the party. (Guess where she wanted to go? It starts with an R.)

  We finally got home at three-thirty. Charlotte was cleaning fingerprints from the sliding glass doors to the deck, and Pete was dusting Penny Sue’s bedroom. Penny Sue enlisted Pete’s help with the liquor which he arranged on the short side of the L-shaped bar next to the sink. I watched his preparations with interest. It was clear he knew what he was doing. I also noticed for the first time that he walked with a limp.

  “What did you do to your leg?” I asked.

  He hiked up his pant leg far enough to reveal the bottom of a walking cast. “Motorcycle accident. Got banged up pretty bad; broke this leg in three places. Almost healed now, this cast is the last of it.”

  An accident. So that’s what happened to his lip. Judge not according to appearance, Grandma Martin’s admonition came to mind. She was right again, bless her soul. Pete would probably be a splendid bartender.

  Charlotte and Pete finished up and left with a promise to return the next day at two. Ruthie helped Penny Sue unpack her Furby. For all the effort it took, you’d have thought they were doing brain surgery. I knew better than to get in the middle of that fray and contented myself with the Weather Channel.

  Former Hurricane, now Tropical Storm Lizzie remained stationary, though was gaining strength. If an approaching front held together, it would steer the storm out into the Atlantic, away from land. If the front fizzled, Lizzie could go anywhere. Stay tuned for the latest coordinates at eight.

  “Me tah Lu Nee.” A little voice heralded Ruthie and Penny Sue’s success.

  “That means her name is Lu Nee,” Ruthie said, looking up from the instructions.

  “Lu Nee?” Penny Sue asked. “My baby’s name is Lu Nee?”

  Lord, a chip off the old block. I could hardly keep a straight face.

  “Little Lu Nee.” Penny Sue positioned the toy in the crook of her arm and stuck her pinkie finger in its mouth. It responded with a stream of yums and gibberish, punctuated by a loud burp. Then, it snored and went to sleep.

  We headed for the beach. We walked south toward the public entrance at Hiles Boulevard, which, counting the trek back, would give us a nice mile stroll. The weather was perfect and the beach virtually deserted at this time of year. We hadn’t gone very far when we encountered Gerty and Robert standing between two turtle mounds.

  “Good evening,” I called. “How’s the turtle business today?”

  Gerty glared at us, clearly not realizing who we were. Luckily, Robert did. He put a hand on Gerty’s shoulder as if to restrain her and replied with a jaunty, “Very fine, thank you. A new brood’s about to hatch.”

  We rushed toward him. “Now?” Ruthie asked, excitedly.

  Robert nodded. “Both nests are due. We came to dig this one up, but it’s already cooking.” He pointed to a tiny flipper emerging from the sand. Looking like a brown Brillo pad with feet, the reptilian tyke struggled free of its eggshell and turtle-toddled toward the ocean. Fortunately, the tide was high, so it didn’t have far to go. Yet that short distance seemed like an eternity. First, he (Penny Sue claimed it was a male because of its pig-headedness) ran headlong into a piece of driftwood. The hatchling bounced back, paused as if dazed, then plowed right back into the obstacle. The little booger did that four times before he found a path around the barrier.

  “Can’t we help him?” Ruthie asked after what looked like a particularly painful head butt.

  “No,” Gerty replied sternly. “A certain amount of flailing is good; it builds up their lungs. This little guy’s developing the coordination he’ll need to survive in the ocean.”

  “Like a child learning to walk,” I observed.

  “Exactly,” Robert said.

  By then the nest had transformed into a pot of boiling, roiling sand as miniature heads and flippers struggled free. Each struck out across the sand. Most seemed to sense the ocean and headed for the surf. Some went in circles, while others struck off in the wrong direction. Contrary to Gerty’s stern admonition that we not touch them, I saw her stealthily nudge a few toward the ocean with the toe of her shoe. Eventually, all but one had made it into the water.

  The straggler had had a particularly rough time of it, wandering in circles and being rammed and trampled by his siblings. Several times Gerty nudged him with her toe; each time he started out toward the ocean, but veered off course. We watched in horror as his motion got slower and slower.

  Tears welling in her eyes, Ruthie dropped to her knees beside the hatchling. “He’s too exhausted to go on. Can’t we help him?” she looked up at Gerty. The old woman shook her head grimly. A tear streaked down Ruthie’s cheek.

  “We’re going to let him die?” I asked, feeling a lump form in my throat.

  “We can’t pick them up,” Robert responded stoically. “We can’t interfere.”

  Penny Sue had watched the exchange in silence, hands on hips, her jaw getting tighter and tighter. Robert’s comment sent her over the edge. “Horse hockey,” she exploded. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” She dropped to the ground and plunged her hands into the sand. “Damn, I broke a nail.” She paused, sucking her finger. “Well, help me. Are y’all just going to sit there?”

  “What are you doing?” Ruthie asked, blotting her cheek with the back of her hand.

  “I’m digging a canal, what does it look like? If we can’t take the turtle to the water, we’ll just have to bring the water to the turtle.”

  Brilliant! She’d surprised me again. Ruthie and I started scooping sand. In a matter of minutes the trench was finished and filling with water.

  “Come on, sugar,” Penny Sue purred to the hatchling. “Get in the water.” A seagull swooped low, circling our heads, clearly anxious to intervene in his own way.

  Ruthie covered her mouth, eyes welling up again. “I think we’re too late.”

  Penny Sue glared defiantly—the same mixture of anger and determination I’d seen on her face when she tried to stop Rick’s brawl. Lord, I was glad she didn’t have the gun. If she had, the seagull was a goner and possibly the Turtle Patrol, too. Not that Penny Sue would shoot them; I was confident of that, unless of course, her hormones are seriously out of whack. But, she might warn them, which was the same as a threat with a deadly weapon, according to Woody.

  “Come on, baby cakes; move it. Get in the water,” Penny Sue called to the turtle. The critter still didn’t budge. Penny Sue’s face got red. “Get out of here,” she shouted to the seagull, waving her fist overhead. Gerty, Robert, and I all took a step back.

  And then the universe intervened. (At least, that’s how Ruthie would have explained it.) A big wave overflowed the trench and splashed the baby turtle. He sprang to life, stroking frantically. The water washed over him, and he started to float.

  “That’s it, baby. Swim,” Penny Sue cheered.

  The receding wave sucked him into the trench. We followed him, shouting encouragement, as the tiny tyke paddled furiously toward the ocean. Another good wave, and our bab
y was gone. Gone to find his mother, his brothers, and a big meal, we hoped.

  “Live long and prosper,” Ruthie whispered.

  Penny Sue yelled, “Stay away from fishermen.”

  Gerty checked her watch and nodded to Robert who removed the stakes from the now empty nest.

  “What about the other nest?” Ruthie asked as they started to leave. “I thought you were going to dig it up.”

  “It’s late. We’ll give that nest another day. If they haven’t hatched by Sunday morning, we’ll dig it up. Six o’clock, if you want to watch.”

  Ruthie and I did; Penny Sue had other ideas.

  “Six,” Penny Sue mused as we headed back to the condo. “That’s awfully early; we would hardly have gotten to bed.”

  “I thought the party was only cocktails: three to seven,” I said.

  “Oh sure, but we won’t get home from the movie until three or four in the morning.”

  “Movie?” Ruthie asked, looking peeved. “What movie?”

  “The Rocky Horror Picture Show. There’s a special showing at the Beacon. Lyndon invited us all to go.”

  “Lyndon? When did you talk to him?”

  “At JB’s last night. I meant to tell y’all earlier, but it slipped my mind in all the commotion. I told Lyndon how we used to dress up and act out the movie with the water pistols and toast. Remember? Wasn’t that fun?”

  It was. A camp, cult flick about transvestites from outer space, Rocky Horror was the midnight show at the campus theater every Saturday night. For our first two years of college, until we all got hooked up in serious relationships, a huge sorority contingent would go to the show each week. People would dress like their favorite characters and recite dialogue with the cast. They would join in dance numbers and sing off-key. Basically, it was a big, boisterous bash that took our minds off heartbreaks, frizzy perms, and failed exams. The elixir of life, we used to say...

  ...and why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? It was the perfect antidote for divorce, treachery, and murder. Now that Penny Sue was off the hook, what better way to clear the air and jumpstart our vacation?

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  “You bought that leather halter top to wear to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, didn’t you?” I said to Penny Sue the next morning.

  She arched a brow and chewed her cream cheese and pepper jelly bagel without comment.

  “You did it to upstage Ruthie and me. Admit it: a sneaky tactic to impress Lyndon.”

  She finished chewing, swallowed and took a sip of coffee.

  It was hard to believe the three of us were eating breakfast, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock. Judge Parker could be credited with the early gathering. He had called at six to tell Penny Sue he was going fishing. His cell phone would probably be out of range, he said, so she should call the office if she needed to reach him.

  “I wish you’d told us sooner. Ruthie and I don’t have anything to wear, at least not a costume.” Back in college I’d always dressed as Nell, a top-hatted, tap dancing vixen. I had a gold sequined top hat and silver tap shoes with heel braces: the real things. Walking shorts and leather sandals just wouldn’t be the same.

  Ruthie glanced up from the newspaper. “I’ll bet only a handful of people come in costume. This is a resort, tourists don’t pack for a masquerade. But, we could run out and get a water pistol, just in case.”

  “And umbrellas.” A shield against water pistols.

  “Better yet, slickers,” Penny Sue said. “I’m sure they have them at Walgreen’s. Why don’t y’all take my car and pick some up,” Penny Sue replied. “You’ll have time. No one will get here until one-thirty.”

  “The party’s supposed to go from three to seven. What if people don’t leave?” I asked.

  Penny Sue shrugged. “They will; the invitation clearly states that it’s only cocktails. And, if they don’t leave, well, I’ll kick them out.” She smiled over the rim of her coffee. “I don’t have to impress anyone now. I can be myself.”

  She’d said that to torture me. Without the pressure of impressing the neighbors, I knew Penny Sue might do anything. I suppressed a shudder, recalling her story about the Jim Williams’ party—the one where she’d instigated (no matter what she said, I knew she was responsible) a whole flurry of boob-licking instead of hand-kissing. I looked sidelong and saw her watching me expectantly. Well, I refused to react. I snatched a discarded section of the newspaper and started to read. “Federal agents in Miami busted another international drug ring. This one used young Hasidic Jews as couriers.”

  “Is that the group that wears black hats and side curls?” Ruthie asked, oblivious to my concerns about Penny Sue.

  “Yes,” I answered, pointedly avoiding Penny Sue’s gaze. “That’s precisely why they were recruited by drug lords. The young men looked so innocent and demure, custom agents never suspected a thing.”

  “That’s unusual,” Penny Sue said, waving a jelly-smeared piece of bagel. “I think most drugs come into the country by water; you know, in those cigarette boats they used on Miami Vice. Drug runners bury the stuff on the beach and no one’s the wiser.”

  I skimmed down the article. “It says here that the Navy and Coast Guard have just about closed down that activity. Drug prices are beginning to soar.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Penny Sue said, picking up her Furby. “That drug stuff is depressing. Daddy’s in constant danger, you know.” She stuck her finger in the Furby’s mouth; it went, Yum-m. “Is little Lu Nee hungry?” Penny Sue cooed to the fuzzy toy. “Have you fed yours, Ruthie? They’ll die of starvation if you don’t feed them.”

  While they played with their children, I checked the Weather Channel. Hurricane, Tropical Storm, now Hurricane, again, Lizzie had merged with another tropical wave and was gaining strength. Although it was currently spinning over open water, Lizzie was expected to begin moving toward the Eastern seaboard. Where and when it would come ashore was anyone’s guess. Stay tuned for more details. Great, a hurricane in addition to an uncensored Penny Sue. That’s all I needed!

  Ruthie finished with her Furby and joined me on the couch. “I hope that storm doesn’t come here,” she said nervously.

  “It won’t,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “You want to shower first?” I asked, trying to change the subject. Given half a chance, Ruthie would sit there all day, watching the Weather Channel.

  She took the bait. “Okay.”

  I studied my wardrobe. I planned to wear a black cotton dress to the party. A scooped neck, sleeveless number, it was one of those indispensable dresses that would fit in anywhere. By changing accessories, it could go from the grocery store to a night on the town. Besides, Penny Sue wanted us all to wear our DAFFODIL pins, and the black dress was the only thing I’d brought that remotely suited the ornate brooch.

  The Rocky Horror Picture Show was another matter. I leafed through my side of the closet twice. I needed something garish that wouldn’t be ruined in the event audiences still acted out the rain scene with water pistols. I settled on a pair of tight fitting capris and a very wrinkled tank top.

  I found an iron and ironing board in the owner’s closet, a storage compartment the size of a small room off the hall. I was ironing the tank top when the telephone rang. It was my realtor; the young couple wanted to buy the house. My house.

  The news hit me like a punch in the stomach. I forced myself to breathe as my perky realtor rattled on and on about the price and appliances. Most of the conversation was completely lost on me as my mind raced with all the memories tied up in that house. So much living. So much pain. Gone, all gone. But I had my babies’ handprints!

  I managed to mumble something about contacting Zack and hung up. Then I buried my face in the crook of my arm and cried.

  * * *

  Fortunately, there was no time for moping or reliving memories. I resolved to pull a Penny Sue—put the whole issue out of my mind until tomorrow and act as if nothing had ever
happened. She could do it with a murder—I could do it with a house. I hoped.

  I finished ironing, got dressed, helped tidy the condo, went to Walgreen’s for rain slickers and to Food Lion twice. All that before one-thirty when Charlotte and Pete arrived. Shirley from Party Hearty showed up at two.

  Penny Sue, decked out in a backless, Hawaiian print sundress, watched silently from a corner as Shirley arranged the food on the dining room table. I could see Penny Sue’s expression from across the living room and knew she was not happy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, sidling alongside.

  She turned her back to the table and spoke through thinned lips. “Paper plates and aluminum foil platters. I can’t believe it. What am I going to do?”

  Shirley had lined the food up buffet-style on one side of the table. Red paper plates, blue napkins and white plastic forks (no doubt remnants from the Fourth of July) were laid out to form an arrow that pointed toward the food. The logic of the arrow escaped me, unless Shirley was used to dealing with people who, through age or ale, were so out of it they literally had to be directed to the hors d’oeuvres. Or, perhaps the food was often mistaken for something else. Scanning the rest of the table, the second motive seemed likely.

  Crab Rangoon and stuffed mushrooms were arranged on the first pizza-sized platter. Next to that was a decidedly lopsided fruit tray, an apparent casualty of the ruts in our unpaved driveway. Steamed shrimp on a mound of crushed ice formed the centerpiece—too bad the shrimp were so small, two or three would fit on a toothpick. Next was a platter of crackers, cheese, and artichoke dip, followed by strawberries dipped in chocolate. The strawberries looked good. I snatched one and bit down. The hard chocolate coating shattered and fell to the floor.

  Shirley stooped down and cleaned the mess before I could get to it. “Those strawberries,” she said. “This always happens.”