The Turtle Mound Murder (13 page)

Penny Sue’s bossy, hurry-up-girls demeanor
instantly shifted to demure Georgia Peach.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.
No more problems last night, I hope?” he said casually.

Penny Sue gushed in the negative.

“I’m afraid I came up empty handed at JB’s,”
Moore said. “Your bikers paid their bill in cash. No one recalled
seeing them before, which means they’re not locals. Most likely,
they were passing through, and you’ll never see them again.”

“But the truck,” I objected. “That was
definitely not a chance encounter.”

Deputy Moore smoothed down his thick, wavy
hair; a nervous gesture which told me that he wasn’t entirely
committed to what he was about to say. “I’ve been giving that some
thought. Red pickups with spotlights are very common in this area
and the truck actually didn’t do anything. It was the bikers that
tried to run you off—”

Penny Sue’s spine got stiffer and stiffer as
he spoke. The Georgia Peach was morphing into a Steel Magnolia.

“—the road. There’s a good chance the truck
was not the same one you saw before and may not have had anything
to do with the bikers. The pickup could have been an innocent
bystander.”

“That was riding right on our bumper,” Penny
Sue said pointedly.

Deputy Moore met her eyes. “That was
following too close.”

Penny Sue folded her arms. “So, where does
that leave us?” she asked icily.

The deputy looked away and cleared his
throat. Another telltale sign he wasn’t comfortable with the
situation, I thought. Though, who wouldn’t be antsy under Penny
Sue’s glacial scrutiny. If thoughts were things, as Penny Sue was
fond of saying, Deputy Moore had just been hit by a bone-chilling
blizzard.

“You need to be careful,” he said, his voice
softening. “Call me immediately if you see the bikers or truck
again.” He opened Penny Sue’s car door for her, then closed it
firmly. She started the car as we got in the other side. Penny Sue
backed away slowly, leaving Deputy Moore standing in the parking
lot.

“What do you make of that?” Ruthie asked as
we turned onto the main road.

“I think our friend Woody got to Moore and
convinced him we are a bunch of hysterical women imagining things,”
Penny Sue said.

“That’s a good sign.”

“How so?” I asked.

“If Woody convinced Deputy Moore we were
hysterical crackpots, then Woody must not believe we’re dangerous
criminals,” Ruthie said.

“Yeah,” Penny Sue said brightly.

Now, that was an entry for my diary: On this
day, Penny Sue Parker freely acknowledged she was a hysterical
crackpot.

“Which probably means the gun test results
have come back negative, proving Penny Sue’s innocence,” Ruthie
continued.

“Right,” Penny Sue said. “And Woody hasn’t
had the decency to let me know or return my gun. He is small, you
know that, small.”

An image of Woody in plaid boxer shorts with
his pale, knobby knees exposed popped into my mind. I laughed out
loud.

“What’s so funny?” Penny Sue asked.

“I was thinking of Woody with his pants
down. That’s the real issue, you know: Woody’s afraid we do think
he’s small.” There was a pause as the meaning sunk in, followed by
a wave of hysterics. “Our problem is that one or more people are
after us for some unknown reason, and the police aren’t going to
lift a finger to help.”

Ruthie objected. “I think Deputy Moore would
help. The emphasis on calling him was pretty obvious.”

“I picked up on that, too,” I said. “The key
is that we have to call him with something. He won’t or can’t
pursue the matter on his own—that was pretty clear. Which all boils
down to one simple truth: If anything’s going to be done, we’ll
have to do it ourselves.”

But then, I thought, wasn’t that the way it
always happened?

* * *

We stopped at
Chases for a grouper
sandwich, then swung by The Riverview on the way to the incense
store so Penny Sue could deliver Lyndon’s invitation. It was
amazing how The Riverview seemed to be “on-the-way,” no matter
where we were going. Lyndon was not at home, much to Penny Sue’s
chagrin and my relief, yet Chef Thomas promised to personally place
the calligraphic invite into his boss’ hand.

We left the marina and took a right on
Flagler, heading east toward the ocean. We hadn’t gone far when we
met a swarm of dancing soap bubbles. “The store’s over there,”
Penny Sue said as she backed the Mercedes into a parking space
across the street from the source of the bubbles. We paused at the
window of Chris’ Place which featured a variety of New Age
paraphernalia, including smudge sticks and candles.

“Just what we need,” Penny Sue said,
starting for the door.

“Wait,” Ruthie ordered, pointing to the
brick sidewalk. Flagler Avenue, like many restored districts, had
apparently sold commemorative bricks to help finance the street’s
restoration. While most bricks contained family names and
proclamations of undying love for people and New Smyrna Beach, two
positioned in front of the shop were real standouts. The first
proclaimed “Starpeople Landing Zone!” while a second said “Good
Vibes.” Ruthie grinned. “This is a sign. I think we’ll find exactly
what we need in this shop.”

We stepped through a cloud of bubbles into a
world of sweet smells, lilting music, and a wide array of incense,
oils, candles, books, imported coffee and New Age accessories. The
shop was empty except for a pleasant blond who identified herself
as Chris, and a round-faced, gray-haired woman standing by the
window sniffing candles. As Chris helped Ruthie with smudge sticks,
Penny Sue and I gravitated to the candle display.

“Smell this.” Penny Sue thrust a wax
cylinder into my face.

I took a whiff. The sweet scent of
gardenias. “Nice,” I responded, consulting the candle’s label.
“‘Sensual Nights.’ Who do you plan to share this with?” I asked,
handing the candle back.

Penny Sue tittered. “Lyndon, who else?”

Who else? I didn’t respond. We’d been in New
Smyrna Beach less than a week and already Penny Sue had shown
interest in an exterminator (rest his soul), a policeman (briefly),
a yachtsman, and a neighbor on the beach. All the while, she had an
Atlanta Brave and a Falcon on the hook back home—although with
Penny Sue, it was hard to tell who was the hooker and who was the
hookee. However that worked, she had two big jocks in the
picture.

The gray-haired woman smiled. In her
mid-sixties, the woman was slightly stooped, yet still cut an
imposing figure. Her short gray hair and pixie bangs fringed a full
face of porcelain skin. She wore a flowing lavender blouse over
black stretch pants; and though her upper body was substantial, her
legs looked childlike in the tight-fitting slacks. “That scent fits
all of you, you’re like sisters,” she stated in a knowing tone.

“Sorority sisters,” Penny Sue corrected.

The lady replied, “You’ve been together
before—a harem in the Middle East.” She turned away to study the
book display. Penny Sue did a double take.

There’s a good come on, I thought. Throw out
a pithy comment, then look away. Reverse psychology. Make the
unsuspecting mark ask for more. From the look on Penny Sue’s face,
she was about to do just that. “Are you going to buy any?” I asked
Penny Sue to distract her from the strange woman.

“Sure,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the
old lady as she raked the entire stock of Sensual Nights off the
shelf.

Ruthie appeared with an armful of what
looked like broom straw bound with blue twine. “These are our
smudge sticks,” she announced. “Guaranteed to ward off hexes, evil
spirits and other nasty stuff.”

“Visualize a white light surrounding your
condo when you smudge it.”

It was the strange old lady again.
Condo?
That remark got our attention. The woman smiled
sweetly and went back to perusing the books.

Ruthie looked to Chris and mouthed the
words, “Is she psychic?” Chris winked and nodded in the
affirmative. Ruthie wasted no time in introducing herself. “I’m
Ruthie Nichols,” she said, juggling the smudge sticks to offer her
hand.

“Pauline Gilbert,” the woman answered,
taking Ruthie’s hand in both of hers. She stayed that way for
almost a minute before she released Ruthie with a sigh.

The gesture was not lost on Penny Sue, who
rushed to Pauline’s side, almost knocking over a display of
Egyptian Pharaohs in the process. “Have you used smudge sticks
before?”

Pauline raised her chin to bring her
eyeglasses into focus on us. “From time to time.”

“Do you think they work?”

“They do if you believe they will.”

Penny Sue smiled complacently. “See. Just
what I always say: you create your own reality. Right, Ruthie?
Thoughts are things. What man can conceive, man can achieve. Shoot,
we could probably burn oregano and get the same result.”

“No, you couldn’t. Oregano wouldn’t have the
same vibration,” Pauline stated imperiously, shutting down Penny
Sue’s self-congratulatory prattle.

I was impressed. Anyone who shut down Penny
Sue couldn’t be all bad. Ruthie flashed Penny Sue an I-told-you-so
smirk.

Ruthie wasted no time trying to drive home
the advantage. “Don’t cedar and sage have a higher vibration which
bridges the gap between the Earth plane and the spirit world?”

Pauline shook her head. “I don’t know about
it being higher; cedar and sage are pleasing scents to the kind of
spirits who will help you out. With oregano, you’d probably get a
bunch of Italians.”

Penny Sue elbowed Ruthie smugly.

Pauline went on, “Not that Italians wouldn’t
help you, especially if you’re making spaghetti. It’s just not the
mind-set for clearing negativity. With the murder and all, you need
some powerful spirits …”

Our jaws dropped as one. None of us had
mentioned the murder.

“… Have any candles with jasmine and
sandalwood? That combination stimulates the pineal and pituitary
glands, which strengthens intuition and the connection with the
angelic realm. That would be good, especially now.”

Penny Sue dumped her armload of Sensual
Nights on the counter and consulted Chris, who led her to a shelf
of cream-colored candles. Penny Sue added all of them to her
pile.

While Penny Sue’d focused on the jasmine and
sandalwood, Pauline’s last statement struck me. “What did you mean
by ‘especially now?’” I asked.

“There are discordant forces around you.
They come from a light-haired man. He’s angry.” Pauline closed her
eyes, then nodded and frowned as if talking to a phantom.

“What do you see?” Ruthie asked anxiously,
as a group of chattering tourists entered the shop.

“Can you get his name?” Penny Sue
pressed.

Pauline’s eyes popped open, and she
consulted her watch. “There’s too much commotion here for me to get
a clear picture, and I have to get home. I’m teaching a class in
less than an hour.” She hooked her purse over her arm. “I have
something that will help you with the smudging, if you want to walk
over to my place.”

Penny Sue snatched the smudge sticks from
Ruthie and plopped them on the counter. “What do I owe you, Chris?”
she asked in a rush. Then to Pauline, “Yes, any help you can give
us would be terrific.”

I was surprised by Penny Sue’s intensity,
not to mention her sudden interest in the occult. Though she
continuously parroted Ruthie’s sayings, I’d never taken Penny Sue
seriously. I figured metaphysics was simply another lark, a
colorful eccentricity, a fun role to play. Yet, I began to doubt
that judgment as I watched her fumble with her wallet and credit
card. Maybe Penny Sue did believe in metaphysics, or perhaps she
was more concerned about the murder than she let on.

Pauline stood by the door, shifting from
foot to foot impatiently.

“Be right there,” Penny Sue called as she
gathered up her purse and purchases.

Pauline walked out the door. We caught up
with her on the street.

“Sorry to hold you up,” Penny Sue said with
uncharacteristic humility.

Pauline waved off the apology. “I figured
I’d get a head start.” She shifted her oversized macramé purse to
the other arm. “My legs get stiff when I stand too long, start to
have spasms. I knew you girls would catch up.”

We followed her down the street for a couple
of blocks. Pauline waved and traded niceties with everyone we met
along the way. They all greeted her with a reverent, almost
deferential, tone. They also gave us the blatant once-over as if
we’d just dropped in from Mars. Little wonder—even I got a surreal
feeling from the spectacle. Pauline lead the procession like a
pontiff dispensing absolution. I was close on her heels, followed
by Penny Sue and Ruthie who bore a striking resemblance to native
bearers in an African safari with their colorful clothes and
voluminous cargo of purses and packages.

“Here we are.” Pauline pointed to a blue
bungalow in need of a coat of paint. We followed her up splintered
steps into the small house and another world. It was then that I
knew we weren’t the aliens, she was!

To our left was the kitchen that was
unremarkable except for an old-fashioned chrome and Formica table
(it had to date back to the fifties) and the fact that the counter
was lined with dozens and dozens of jars: Mason jars, mustard
containers, catsup bottles—an incredible hodge-podge of half-filled
vessels with hand-lettered labels.

“Bat wings, eye of newt ...” I whispered.
Penny Sue glared: shut-up.

To our right was the living room and
unequivocal alien territory. A faded colonial-style sofa occupied
one wall, with a threadbare recliner angled alongside. A coffee
table covered with rocks and candles was in the center of the room,
while a miniature waterfall gurgled on a table in front of the side
window. In the far corner, a four-foot blonde angel stood like a
sentry. Probably a remnant of a Christmas long past, the angel held
an electric candle which she raised and lowered rhythmically as her
head rotated with a swishing sound.