The Turtle Mound Murder (4 page)

“What planet are you from?” Rick asked,
snickering derisively.

Penny Sue set her jaw, pointed the gun at
the ground and squeezed the trigger. “Georgia.”

* * *

The New Smyrna Beach
police arrived
minutes later. Not only had Ruthie called 9-1-1, but so had both
sets of balcony owners in the duplex behind ours. Sadly, the
neighbors said nothing about the fight, only that a crazy woman was
brandishing a handgun. I could tell from the police officers’ line
of questioning that the situation was serious. Fearing Penny Sue
might end up behind bars, I snuck to the bedroom and called Judge
Parker—had him summoned out of a meeting. He said he’d take care of
it.

I found out later the Judge called a Florida
Supreme Court Justice, who called the Attorney General, who called
the local prosecutor. A half hour after my conversation with Judge
Daddy, the Chief of the Georgia State Police was on the horn asking
to speak to the local officers in charge. The New Smyrna Beach
policemen were real polite after that.

It wasn’t very long before the local
prosecutor arrived. His name was Robert “Woody” Woodhead. Penny Sue
almost fainted when she saw her old flame. Woody didn’t seem
particularly thrilled to see her, either. They eyed each other
through the screen door like prize fighters waiting for the match
to start. I stepped between them, beaming my most fetching smile
and greeted Woody warmly. This was not the time to relive the
past.

Woody listened with a pinched look as Penny
Sue told her story for the third time. With each telling, her voice
got stronger and the dramatics laid on a little thicker. This
version ended with a haughty toss of her perfectly streaked hair
and an emphatic: “I was not shooting at Rick. They were warning
shots, nothing more. I know how to handle a gun; I can shoot the
wings off a fly from twenty paces.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Woody handed back
Penny Sue’s revolver and permit for a concealed weapon. “We’ll see
what Rick has to say. He may want to press charges.” Woody stood to
leave.

“Charges? For what?”

“Reckless display of a weapon, aggravated
assault, discharge of a firearm within city limits, use of a
firearm in the commission of a felony—there are lots of
possibilities.” Woody paused with his hand on the front door and
grinned. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t leave town.”

Woody smirked and jerked the door open. An
attractive blonde woman—hand raised in the knocking
position—pitched forward. A riot of shrieks, mop handles and
pinwheeling arms, the young lady grabbed for anything—the anything
she finally found being Woody’s trousers, which she almost pulled
off.

Jaws slack and eyes wide, Penny Sue, Ruthie
and I were momentarily frozen by the sight of Woody—shirt tail and
boxer shorts completely exposed—with a shapely young woman hugging
his knees. I recovered first and stooped to help the poor girl.

Woody pulled his pants up, making no effort
to tuck in his shirt tail, and stalked out. As the screen door
slammed behind him, Woody shot Penny Sue a look of pure rage which
said:
This is your fault
, and backed into a scruffy guy clad
in jeans and a tee shirt. The stranger grabbed Woody by the
shoulders and pushed him roughly.

“Pete, it’s all right,” the young woman
said. Then to us, “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect anyone to be home.
I’m Charlotte, the cleaning lady.”

Woody wriggled out of Pete’s grasp and held
up his briefcase to display the State Prosecutor’s ID tag suspended
from the handle. “Watch your hands, bud, unless you want to spend a
night in jail.” Shirt tail fluttering, Woody stormed past Pete to
his car.

I handed Charlotte the mop. “That’s all
right. That man was in a sour mood before you got here.”

“Sour? Pissy’s more like it,” Ruthie
corrected, eyeing Pete who didn’t seem exactly cheery.

The corner of Pete’s top lip was puffy and
misshapen, giving him the appearance of a permanent sneer or of a
man who’d been in a fight. The guy had sun-streaked hair, a ruddy
complexion, and wasn’t unattractive, just hard and rough; the type
you’d expect to pick fights in bars. In any case, he didn’t seem to
fit Charlotte, a tanned nymph who looked like she’d hopped off a
surfboard.

Charlotte must have picked up our
questioning look.

“My husband,” she offered. “My car’s in the
shop.”

Penny Sue was perplexed. “What happened to
Mrs. Hudson? She usually does the cleaning.”

“She’s my aunt. I’ve taken over some of her
accounts, now that she’s gotten up in years.”

“We just arrived; the place doesn’t need
cleaning.”

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at Pete
and shifted nervously. “I’ll do a light dusting. Everything on the
beach stays dusty; it’s the salt spray. It’ll only take a minute.”
She turned to get the bucket and cleaning supplies which she’d left
on the front porch.

“That’s not necessary,” Penny Sue insisted,
holding her forehead with both hands. “Get my purse, will you,
Leigh? I have I terrific headache.” Then, to Charlotte who was
standing on the other side of the screen door with a dejected look,
“Wait a moment, hon.”

I returned with the purse. Penny Sue found
forty dollars that she handed to Charlotte. “Thanks, we can manage
on our own. We’ll be here a week or two. Do you have a card? I’ll
call you before we leave.” Charlotte found a rumpled blue card in
her pocket and started to speak. Penny Sue shut the door before
anything got out. “Laa, I have a headache.” She brushed past us to
the kitchen for a glass of water and four ibuprofens.

Ruthie and I followed her into the living
room where Penny Sue stretched out on the couch. No one said
anything for a long time. Ruthie sat with her eyes closed and her
hands in her lap—palms up, thumbs and forefingers lightly touching.
I supposed she was trying to meditate and find her center.

I knew my center was hopelessly lost and
there was no sense looking for it. My world in Atlanta was in
shambles, and now Penny Sue was about to get me—us—locked up.
With friends like her, who needs
—I started angrily, then
caught myself.

I glanced at her lying on the sofa, holding
her head, looking like a pitiful little girl, and my anger
dissolved. Penny Sue was an exasperating flake, but a person would
be hard-pressed to find a better friend. She’d been there for me
when the kids were born, when I broke my ankle, when Zack, Jr.’d
almost died of pneumonia, and other times too numerous to count.
Well, she needed me now and I was going to stand by her.

But, a gun? When in the world did she start
carrying a revolver? And why? I broke the silence. “Geez, Penny
Sue, I didn’t know you carried a weapon. What brought that on?”

She answered without looking at me, her hand
still covering her eyes. “I’ve carried one for ages, for
protection. Daddy gets death threats all the time. He’s locked up
his share of druggies over the years.”

I knew I should probably drop it and let her
rest, yet couldn’t. “What possessed you to wave your gun at those
men? Why didn’t you let them fight it out?”

“Rick seemed like a nice guy. After all,
he’s into saving the turtles and everything.” She spread her
fingers and peeked at me. “Of course, that has proven to be a gross
misconception.” She closed her fingers over her eyes. “I was merely
trying to break up the fight. I thought the redneck was going to
hit Rick in the head with that chunk of concrete.” She sat up and
folded her arms across her chest. “I wish I’d let him do it,
now.”

“I know.” I moved to the couch and patted
her shoulder. Penny Sue’d always had a weak spot for the underdog.
In college she was constantly bringing stray cats, injured dogs and
troubled men back to the sorority house. I’d hoped she’d outgrown
it. Apparently not.

“What were the guys fighting about?” Ruthie
asked.

“The turtles, I suppose. Rick said he was on
the Turtle Patrol that ropes off the nests. They’re an endangered
species and the county has banned driving on the beach to protect
them. A lot of old-timers are angry about the driving ban.”

I nodded. “The ‘turtles-make-good-soup’
crowd,” I said, remembering the pickup’s bumper sticker. “Rick’s
certainly not the average environmentalist. Aren’t they usually
pacifists?”

Penny Sue’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, and they
generally don’t have foul mouths. That’s what set me off. Bitch!
The nerve of that guy.” She puffed up as she spoke, gaining
strength from her indignation, then, just as quickly, deflated like
a punctured balloon. “I don’t suppose being called a bitch is much
of a defense for aggravated assault.” She pulled on her lip
nervously.

Ruthie moved to the couch and hugged Penny
Sue. “Don’t worry, we’ll stand by you.”

“Thanks,” Penny Sue said with a sigh. “I
guess I can always claim PMS. I think it’s a legitimate defense for
murder, now.”

Ruthie and I both did a double take. Penny
Sue was serious.

* * *

The New Smyrna Beach police could not find
Rick or A-1 Pest Control, for that matter. Woody Woodhead
speculated that A-1 Pest was operating without proper licenses (a
serious offense for a business utilizing dangerous chemicals), thus
Rick would never come forward to press charges.

Another round of interviews with the
neighbors also seemed to corroborate Penny Sue’s story of intending
to threaten, not kill or maim, thus Woody agreed to let Penny Sue
off the hook. His reprieve was definitely reluctant; there was no
doubt in our minds that Woody was still furious at Penny Sue for
dumping him twenty-odd years ago, not to mention the incident where
he’d dropped his drawers in front of us.

Following a stern lecture from the Judge the
next morning, the three of us set out to do what we’d come to
Florida for—have fun. First, we had to unpack. We’d been so bummed
out the previous evening, we made no attempt to settle in the
condo. We’d merely supped on snacks from the cooler, fished
nightgowns from our luggage, and fallen into bed. Ruthie and I
volunteered to stow our gear, while Penny Sue went for
groceries.

With one suitcase apiece, Ruthie and I made
quick business of getting ourselves situated. It was Penny Sue’s
belongings that offered the challenge. Three large suitcases, a
small closet, and one chest of drawers presented a problem worthy
of an industrial engineer. We decided to take the approach of an
assembly line, where I unloaded the suitcases and handed the
clothes to Ruthie, who put them away. The system worked fine until
I found a stack of underwear at the bottom of the third suitcase.
“Uh oh.” I held up an amazingly small, iridescent blue thong with
two fingers.

“More underwear?” Ruthie complained. “That
screws up my whole system. I’m going to have to move everything.”
She jerked open the bottom drawer of the bureau and stared. “What’s
this stuff?”

I peered over her shoulder to see what she
was talking about.

The drawer contained a heap of thermally
sealed plastic bags of white powder, with a featheredged note card
wedged between two packages in the center. Ruthie pulled the card
out and held it so I could see.
Mark how he trembles
... was
embossed in bold letters across the top. Below that,
200 @ 6
was scrawled in small letters, followed by
Same time, same
place
in ornate, handwritten script and a smiley face.

Ruthie ran her finger along the ragged edge
of the stationery, then held it up to the light. “This is really
expensive stuff,” she observed, pointing to the watermark. “Italian
Amalfi. Daddy used it years ago. The process for making this paper
dates back to the 1300s.”

As one who’d used Post-It notes for most of
my correspondence since Zack and I separated, I was certain the
embossing alone cost more than my annual paper budget. I pointed at
the smiley face. “That Rick must be schizophrenic. A violent
environmentalist, with a foul mouth, who uses fancy stationery and
draws smiley faces. Go figure.”

“Must be a Gemini,” Ruthie replied
matter-of-factly, lifting the bags out of the drawer and dumping
them onto the floor.

“Be careful,” I cautioned. “I’ll bet those
are Rick’s pesticides. He probably treats the whole complex and
stores his chemicals here. Penny Sue said no one had used this
place in a long time.”

“I’m going to throw them away. Rick won’t be
back.”

“You can’t put chemicals like that in the
trash. There are strict laws about disposing of hazardous
substances.”

She stared at me, hands on hips, as if I’d
lost my mind. “I’ll flush them down the toilet.”

“That’s worse, you’ll pollute the
groundwater. Besides, we should keep them for insurance.”

“Insurance?”

“In the event Rick tries to make trouble,
we’ve got evidence.” I’d learned the importance of evidence, but
good, in my dealings with Zack.

“Well, what should I do with this?”

I grabbed a trash bag from the bathroom,
scooped the packages into the bag, and started to move them to the
closet. The load was so heavy, I feared the sack would break. “This
won’t do.” I dropped the bag and headed across the hall to the
utility room to look for a better container. A bucket with a rag
mop, broom, vacuum and assorted cleaning supplies were stowed in
the space between the clothes dryer and the wall. “This is
perfect,” I said, lifting the trash bag into the bucket. “This way,
if any of the packages break, the powder won’t scatter all over the
place.” I returned the bucket to its place and put the rag mop on
top.

Back in the bedroom, Ruthie had started to
shift things around in the dresser in order to put the underwear in
its proper place.

“Don’t bother—”

“Yoo hoo,” Penny Sue called from the front
door. “I could use some help out here.”