The Turtle Mound Murder (5 page)

I grabbed Penny Sue’s clothes from Ruthie’s
hands and stuffed them into the bottom drawer.

“Wait,” Ruthie protested, miffed at me for
screwing up her system.

“It doesn’t matter.” I slammed the last
suitcase shut and swung it into the closet. “All this will be in
shambles the first time Penny Sue changes clothes.”

Ruthie harrumphed, but didn’t argue. She
knew I was right. Underwear would be hanging from door knobs and
bras draped over lamps. That’s just the way Penny Sue was, not one
for details.

* * *

We finally made it to the beach a little
after two. Laden with cooler, boom box, chairs, and other sundry
comforts, we lumbered down the wooden walkway that protected the
dunes, looking more like an African safari than middle-aged women
on vacation.

“Crap,” Penny Sue said, stopping abruptly. A
large square of sand was roped off at the bottom of the stairs.
“Another turtle nest. What now?”

I put the cooler down and peered over her
shoulder. There was maybe a foot of space between the walk’s
railing and the staked off area. “We can make it. Here, give me
that.” I took the boom box and beach bag from Penny Sue. “Go
through and we’ll hand the stuff over the railing.”

Penny Sue sucked up and sidled through the
narrow opening. Though she ripped a hole in her new
sarong—something she reminded us of all afternoon—we eventually got
ourselves and paraphernalia to the beach without disturbing the
nest, and thus committing a state and federal crime. The last thing
we needed was another run-in with Woody.

The rest of the day proved pleasantly
uneventful. We took a leisurely walk on the beach, sunned
ourselves, gossiped, and generally acted like giggly college girls,
less mature than our own kids. True to form, Penny Sue took center
stage, entertaining us by comparing everyone who walked by to some
form of bird or beast. She was amazingly good at it, had a real eye
for the absurd. Of course, she never turned an eye on herself. Just
as well, she looked remarkably similar to a chubby flamingo in her
hot pink two-piece and feathered sun hat.

We capped off the evening with dinner at The
Riverview, a picturesque restaurant on the Inland Waterway where we
ate outside on the deck that overlooked a small marina of expensive
boats. An imposing yacht named Ecstasy immediately caught Penny
Sue’s eye.

“That cost a bundle,” Penny Sue said, waving
her wine glass in the boat’s direction.

Ruthie agreed. “
Lifestyles of the Rich
and Famous
did a show on yachts. That one must have cost
millions.”

Millions for a boat? My house in Atlanta
Country Club wasn’t worth that much.

“I like sailing,” Penny Sue said
wistfully.

“It’s not a sailboat, Penny Sue. No sails,”
I said, pointing at the radar scope rotating on top of the
bridge.

She looked down her nose at me. “Sailing,
motoring; it’s all the same if the captain is good looking and the
champagne’s cold.”

“What about the Falcon and the Brave?” I
asked.

“They’re in Atlanta.” Penny Sue fingered her
emerald necklace absently. “Ecstasy. Isn’t that the name of a
cruise line? I’ll bet the owner is a shipping tycoon. Greek, maybe.
Europeans are so interesting.”

A busboy leaned forward to fill her water
glass. “He’s sitting at the bar over there.”

“Pardon?”

The young man straightened, looking
embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I overheard your
comment.”

“Never mind interrupting, sugar,” Penny Sue
snapped. “Please repeat what you said.”

“The owner of the yacht is sitting at the
bar. His name is Lyndon Fulbright.” The busboy canted his head at a
smartly dressed man in his fifties.

Ruthie pursed her lips impishly. “Is there a
Mrs. Fulbright?”

“Haven’t seen one.”

Penny Sue smoothed the front of her dress
and grinned. “Well, well, Lyndon. Things are surely looking
up.”

I woke up
early the next day with the
stark realization it was time to get on with my life. For the last
eighteen months I’d been busy getting divorced. I was finally
free—now what? I couldn’t live off my paltry settlement forever.
I’d have to work; heck, I wanted to work. Then there was the issue
of where to go when the house sold.

The kids were on their own. Zack, Jr. was in
Vail trying to decide what to do with a degree in philosophy. Ann
would graduate in December and already had an internship lined up
at the American Embassy in London. I doubted that either would want
to come back to Atlanta to live; at least, no time soon. The
divorce had taken its toll on them, too. They’d come home less and
less over the last year, the tension of having Zack in the house
being more than they could bear.

I rolled over and looked at the clock radio.
Six o’clock. Ruthie was sound asleep in the next twin bed, lying on
her back, mouth open, snoring softly. I snatched my robe from the
foot of the bed and crept out of the room. I put on a pot of coffee
and drew the drapes in the living room. Instead of a sunrise, I was
greeted by a thick mist. Fitting. The fog matched my mood.

I poured a cup of coffee and headed to the
deck. The mist was cool and wet on my face with a faint fishy
smell. Though I couldn’t see the ocean, I heard it lapping gently.
Low tide, the perfect time to look for shells. And, surely, no one
had beaten me to it in this fog.

I hitched the belt on my robe tighter and
started for the beach. My plans for the future could wait another
hour or two.

I was happy to see that the turtle mound at
the end of the boardwalk had been moved. Relocating nests from
traffic areas was a key function of the Turtle Patrols. Evidently,
they had come through the night before, saving not only the
turtles, but Ruthie and me from extreme mental anguish. Penny Sue
had groused about her torn sarong all through dinner. I made a
mental note to compliment the patrol on their fine work the next
time I saw them.

The fog was so dense, I was standing in the
water before I saw it. I stopped ankle deep and turned slowly. I
couldn’t see a thing. I looked to where I thought the horizon
should be, hoping to spy a glimmer of sunrise. Nothing. I took a
long pull of my coffee. I didn’t have a chance of finding a shell
in this pea soup unless I happened to step on it.

Well, there was always tomorrow.

I turned around and headed back the way I
came. But, the wet, turbid haze had become so thick I kept losing
sight of my tracks in the sand. I stopped, a wave of panic welling
in my chest. I couldn’t see anything. For all I knew, I was walking
north, parallel to the shore, in which case I could go a long
way—in my bathrobe, no less.

I dropped to one knee, frantically looking
for footprints and my way home. Thankfully, I found some close by.
I followed the tracks, bent double to keep the depressions in view.
A moist draft on my bare derrière told me vital parts were
protruding from the short bathrobe. I tugged at the back of the
robe, however, the cotton sleep set had not been designed for
contorted movement. Or, maybe it had. I’d gotten it on sale at
Victoria’s Secret, my only thought at the time being the great
price. It had never occurred to me I might be getting
less
than I bargained for.

I hadn’t gone very far when the beach began
to incline, which told me I was approaching the dunes and
salvation. By following the dune line, I reasoned, I’d eventually
get to a crosswalk and was confident I would recognize the rickety
bridge to our unit. Simple. Success was certain; I couldn’t have
wandered very far from the condo.

I straightened up and took a sip of coffee,
congratulating myself on brilliant scouting. Zack used to say I
could get lost in the driveway. Of course, he used to make a lot of
other stupid, cruel remarks. Well, Zack was wrong and Zack was
gone. Good riddance. I smoothed the robe over my rear end and
resumed my trek—upright, confident, dignified. Two seconds later I
tripped and went sprawling. The coffee mug flew from my hand; my
bed clothes went up around my shoulders.

“Damn.” I levered up to my knees and brushed
myself off. I was covered in sand. The moist grit clung to my skin
like breading on a chicken. I had it on my thighs, my boobs, and
everywhere in between. I spit. The stuff was even in my teeth. I
brushed myself quickly and pulled down my gown.

Thank God for the fog. Now, if I could just
find the mug. It was a wonder I hadn’t spilled the coffee all over
myself. That was my usual MO. It seemed I spent most of my life
cleaning spots off my clothes, which gave me a lot of sympathy for
little kids.

I saw it in my neighborhood all the time.
Little kids covered in dirt, their mommies looming over them
menacingly. “How did you get dirty?” Mommy always asked sternly. “I
don’t know,” the kid whined. I understood.

I really didn’t know half the time, spots
appeared from nowhere. Ruthie said it was because I was always
thinking—lost in thought and not paying attention. Penny Sue
attributed the whole thing to hormones. “Memory loss,
foggy-brained: first sign of an estrogen deficiency.”

“Darn, where is that cup?” I pushed myself
up into a squat. Sand grated in the folds of my crotch, and I was
starting to itch all over. “One pass, that’s it,” I told myself,
running my hands across the sand. “That cheap mug isn’t worth
it.”

I rotated on the balls of my feet, patting
the ground. Ninety degrees, one-eighty; I found nothing. I
stretched my arms as far as I could manage and still keep my
balance. Then, my fingertip touched something cold and hard. I
leaned forward and grabbed ... a cold, stiff foot!

It was like a bad dream—the one where
someone is chasing you, and you try to scream but can’t. You open
your mouth, straining, yet no sound comes out. You try and try,
your heart thumping furiously until you finally wake yourself up.
Only I didn’t wake up. I was frozen in place, my mouth open, breath
coming in staccato bursts.

I have no idea how long I stayed in that
state. Seconds, a minute, an hour—it seemed like an eternity.
Finally, a single note escaped from my throat. A woosey peep that
even I could barely hear—a sound, nonetheless. And, if one could
get out, why not two? That thought broke the stupor. My throat
unclenched, and a cacophonous torrent emerged.

My screams woke up the whole neighborhood.
Spotlights flashed on, and I could hear voices. I half crawled,
half ran across the dunes toward the lights. Hell with my pantiless
butt, let the whole world see it! I was getting out of there. Sand
burrs embedded in my feet and legs, but I didn’t care. “Call an
ambulance. Call the police,” I shrieked at the top of my lungs.

An EVAC ambulance arrived first, followed by
a fire truck and police car. By then the fog had cleared, and the
neighbors poured out of their condos and onto the beach. Penny Sue,
Ruthie, and I watched from the deck. I was shaking so hard, my
teeth literally chattered. Even two of Penny Sue’s tranquilizers
did not calm my racing heart. I sat on the lawn chair watching the
commotion as Ruthie picked burrs from my feet with tweezers. Penny
Sue sat next to me rubbing my back, then hugged me to her side as
the EVAC crew carried a stretcher with a yellow body bag across the
deck and through the condo to the ambulance.

“A helluva way to start the day,” Penny Sue
drawled.

By ten o’clock it was over. The police had
carted off the body, taken my statement, and photographed the crime
scene. My statement was brief, very brief, since I truly knew
nothing. I had not even looked at the corpse. All I remembered was
the bare foot. The big toe had a gash on it and the one next to it
was bent at a crazy angle. It was a big foot, definitely a man’s,
since it was connected to a hairy leg. That was all I knew.
Period.

For the second time in two days the police
instructed us not to leave town. I collapsed on the sofa.

At ten thirty my realtor called. She was
showing my house to a young couple for the second time. Things
looked promising, could I stay close to the phone in case there was
an offer? I said “Sure.” I was too bummed out by the morning’s
events to do much, anyway.

We ate a light breakfast and stretched out
on the deck for some sun. Penny Sue perused a Cosmopolitan magazine
while Ruthie read astrology. I just lay there in a tranquilized
daze, grateful for the peace and quiet, until Ruthie bolted out of
her chair, shrieking. My heart all but stopped from fright
again.

“I’m allergic,” Ruthie threw her book down
and dashed inside, a wasp hot on her tail.

Another bug appeared which went after Penny
Sue. She swatted it with her magazine. By this time I was on my
feet and saw the problem. A wasp nest was lodged in the space
between the glass pane and molding on the sliding door. We’d
knocked it loose when we opened the door and the wasps were none
too happy about the intrusion.

“Om-m-m.” Ruthie, safe behind the screen
door, started to chant while Penny Sue batted the air wildly.

“What the heck are you doing, Ruthie?” Penny
Sue screeched.

“Om-m-m. I’m setting up a protection field.
Om-m-m.”

“Protection for who? Us or the bugs? Scoot,
scoot.” Penny Sue grabbed her beach towel and put it over her
head.

By then the vermin had started to buzz me.
But I was calm, collected ... heck, sedated. “Your force field
isn’t working, Ruthie. Go get the Hot Shot Wasp Spray. I saw some
under the sink.” Still chanting, she found the insecticide. As
Ruthie opened the door to hand me the can, Penny Sue bounded
through, leaving me to face the vicious vespids alone.

“Kills on Contact from Twenty Feet,” the
container read in bright yellow letters. I intended to put it to
the test. Draping a towel over my head, I backed up and pushed the
button. A stream of foul smelling poison spewed forth. The bugs
exploded from the nest like shrapnel as Ruthie’s chanting grew
louder and more frantic. I clutched the towel around me and dashed
down the boardwalk toward the beach. When I returned a few minutes
later, the wasps were writhing pitifully in the final throes of
death.