The Turtle Mound Murder (16 page)

“Ladies.” He nodded politely. “I’m sorry I
missed you this morning. It was so kind of you to personally
deliver the invitation. I’m looking forward to your party, wouldn’t
miss it for the world.”

Penny Sue stuffed the makeup back in her
bag. “Lyndon, what a surprise. Join us, please,” she said in her
aristocratic tone, waving at the space beside Ruthie.

Ruthie’s eyes widened into an unspoken:
What the heck are you doing?

I had the same thought. One look at Lyndon,
and Penny Sue’d forgotten all about the murder, Stinky, and our
personal safety. Our big chance to get the thugs’ names, and she
was going to mess it up by flirting.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he protested
lamely.

“You wouldn’t be,” Penny Sue bubbled. Her
foot brushed me as it went for Ruthie under the table. Ruthie
scooted to the side of the booth peevishly.

Lyndon sat down. “I returned minutes after
you left; barely missed you. I had half a mind to jump in the car
and try to find you. Alas, there were some pressing matters I had
to attend to.”

“The condos?” Penny Sue asked.

“That and other details. The storm has
thrown a wrench in my plans. If it makes landfall, I may have to
cut my stay short.”

“Oh …” Penny Sue couldn’t contain her
disappointment.

Fortunately, Joanne arrived at that moment.
Conscious of Lyndon’s presence, she spoke to me in a confidential
tone. “The guy in the Marines shirt is a local fisherman. His name
is Randall Stroski. No one knows the other guys, but they’ve been
in here before. Chuck—”

She must have noticed my confused
expression.

“—the bartender—”

Ah, Titan had a name.

“—says they’re the same guys who created a
scene last night. Had too much to drink, then went out and had a
wreck or something. The police came here asking questions about
them. You probably should warn your girlfriend. Those guys sound
like bad news.”

“Thanks, Joanne,” I said, relieved she
hadn’t connected us to the ruckus with Stinky. Perhaps our no
makeup, dressed-down disguises were working, or she hadn’t been on
duty then. “If they happen to pay with a credit card, do you mind
getting the name?” I added hastily, “I’m not interested in their
account number or anything, just the name.”

Joanne winked. She tapped the table and
turned to leave. “I’ll get you a plate,” she said to Lyndon.

He hardly noticed. Penny Sue was babbling
merrily about Pauline and our past life in a harem.

I mouthed “bathroom” to Ruthie who was
finishing up a potato skin. She excused herself and followed me out
the side door and around to the front of the building. I wanted to
stay as far away from Stinky and company as possible. Anyway, the
place had become so crowded, a trip outside and around the building
was the quickest route to the bathroom. We lingered at the corner
of the deck to confer. A cacophony of televisions and voices wafted
from inside, providing the perfect cover for our conversation.

“Marine’s name is Randall Stroski. He’s a
local fisherman,” I said.

“A fisherman?” Ruthie’s hand flew to her
throat. “Fishermen were supposedly responsible for decapitating the
turtles.”

I got a fluttery feeling in my chest as
thoughts of Gerty, the Hate Mongers and Rick’s foot raced through
my mind. I took a deep breath to force down the panicky wave. I’d
learned the technique from one of my therapists—the frustrated
spinster, I think. She said slow, deliberate breaths would diffuse
all but the worst anxiety attacks. It had worked pretty well for
me. In fact, I’d wondered if Ruthie’s chanting was the Far Eastern
version of the same thing. She made a lot of noise, and I didn’t,
but otherwise, what was the difference?

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I said, as
much for my benefit as Ruthie’s.

“What kind of a person would murder a
defenseless turtle?”

The same kind that would murder a person,
but I didn’t say it. Lord knows, I didn’t want Ruthie to get
nervous and start chanting. “A mean one,” I said. “A Hate Monger.
Yet, that’s for the police to deal with. Our job is to generate
leads, nothing more. We’re making progress. We know the identity of
one guy, and Joanne promised to get the name if they pay with a
credit card.”

“Okay.” Ruthie nodded stoically. “What if
they pay with cash? We still won’t know anything about Stinky and
Pony Tail.”

I glanced through the window. Penny Sue was
talking animatedly, her hands going a million miles a minute. The
young men drinking long neck beers were still at it, though their
discussion had taken on a lot of head shaking and table pounding.
And the little kids at the table next to ours had made a game of
connecting dots with the greasy fingerprints on the Kraft
paper.

What if they did pay cash? I stared across
the room and watched as Stinky and Marine stood and counted bills
out on the table. Damn, no names. I grabbed Ruthie’s arm and pulled
her out of sight as the men ambled onto the porch. We peeked around
the corner and watched as they got on motorcycles and rumbled off
into the night.

“Now—” Ruthie started.

I didn’t give her time to finish. “Get the
car keys from Penny Sue,” I ordered. She hesitated only a moment,
then rushed through the side door. I ran across the deck and
through the front entrance. The waitress was clearing Stinky’s
table. I shoved the last plate onto her tray and whipped the Kraft
paper off the table. “I need this,” I said, heading for the front
door, trailing the paper like a flag. The stunned waitress didn’t
say a thing.

Shrouded in darkness, I waited for Ruthie in
the parking lot. I draped the paper over my extended arm like a
sheet. Ruthie arrived just as I thought my shoulder would break
from the strain. She handed me the car keys and took the paper.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

I unlocked the car and snatched the cell
phone from its cradle. “I’m going to call Deputy Moore.”

It took some doing, but the switchboard
operator patched me through to the officer who was miraculously on
duty. He agreed to meet us at our condo.

Penny Sue stomped over as I hung up the
phone. “Are you all right?”

“I told her you were sick—throwing up in the
parking lot,” Ruthie explained.

“You’re not sick?” Penny Sue asked with
annoyance, looking first at me, then at Ruthie.

“How else was I going to get you away from
Lyndon?”

“Get me away from Lyndon? Why, he wanted to
take us—” Penny Sue stopped mid-sentence, noticing the huge sheet
of paper for the first time. “What is that?”

I opened the trunk and slipped the paper in,
being careful to keep it as flat as possible. “Drive, Penny Sue,
drive. Deputy Moore is meeting us at the condo.”

“Deputy Moore. What is going on?” she
demanded.

I slid into the backseat. “While you were
sparking, we were gathering evidence. Now, drive!”

She did. Deputy Moore was waiting when we
pulled into the parking lot. A thick cloud cover obscured the
three-quarter moon making the night as dark as pitch.

“We should have left the porch light on,”
Penny Sue said.

“I did,” Ruthie protested. “The bulb must
have burned out.”

We took Deputy Moore and the paper inside
where there was light. I spread the paper on the floor, half
holding my breath, not sure how many of the spots had been water
that had now dried, and how many were greasy fingerprints. Deputy
Moore watched with a combination of interest and amusement.

“Turn on the reading light; will you,
Ruthie?” I pointed to a lamp beside the fireplace.

She headed for the lamp, stumbled on
something, and almost went down. Luckily, Deputy Moore was close
enough to catch her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, turning on the
light.

Deputy Moore stooped to pick up a long,
thick pole. “Don’t tell me. This is your security system,
right?”

Penny Sue smiled sheepishly. “It goes in the
track for the sliding glass door. Keeps it from being opened.”

He went to the door and fit the stick in its
place. “I know. Everyone on the beach uses these things. They work
pretty well,” he looked up at Penny Sue, “if you use them. You
ladies should be more careful. All the evidence in the world won’t
do any good if you don’t keep your doors locked.”

I changed the subject before Penny Sue or
Ruthie started sniping at each other. I could tell they were
winding up for a volley of recriminations. “Do you think you can
lift any fingerprints from this?” I pointed at the Kraft sheet
spread across the floor.

As he squatted beside me to examine several
of the spots, I caught a whiff of Aramis cologne. I used to love
the scent—Zack had worn it in his sane days. Later, when he took up
with Ms. Thong, he’s switched to some trendy cologne like Drakkar
or Chanel or High-Testosterone. That should have been my first
clue, I realized; wish I’d paid attention.

“You might have something, there,” the
deputy said, indicating two spots next to a glob of grease. “These
prints look fairly good.” He grinned at me. “You’re pretty
sharp.”

I stood up, feeling self-conscious. He rose,
too, and took a notebook from his back pocket. “Okay, let’s get the
details.”

We filled him in on Randall Stroski and the
fact that the three men all left on motorcycles. Then I helped him
take the paper to his car, which we carefully spread across the
backseat.

He paused to look at us standing on the
front stoop, silhouetted by the light from the hall and shook his
head. “You ladies must be careful, understand? Keep your doors
locked. Under no circumstances should you open the door to anyone
you don’t know. Don’t have pizza delivered—that’s a favorite ploy.”
We all nodded dutifully like first-graders getting instructions for
a fire drill. I guess we looked pitiful, or at least contrite,
because Deputy Moore sighed and said, “Do you have a light
bulb?”

While Penny Sue rushed inside to find one,
he reached up into the dark plastic cylinder suspended from the
porch ceiling. A moment later the fixture glowed yellow.

“A loose bulb,” he commented as Penny Sue
returned with a new bulb. “Here on the beach, bulbs get corroded if
they’re not screwed in tightly and wind gusts can shake them
loose.” He brushed his hands off and strode to his cruiser. “Now go
inside and lock the door. Keep the light on … and be careful! I’ll
call as soon as I find out about these prints.”

“Thank you, Deputy.” Penny Sue’s voice
dripped honey. “We’re so grateful for your concern.”

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?”