The Turtle Mound Murder Read online

  “Hurricane?” Ruthie echoed, turning toward the television which was tuned to the Weather Channel. Jim Cantore was pointing to a swirling blob west of Puerto Rico. A moment later, arrows appeared indicating the storm’s projected track. New Smyrna Beach was in the red, high probability zone.

  “A hurricane,” Penny Sue wailed. “It will ruin our party.”

  “Yeah,” I said sarcastically. “A hurricane might put a damper on things, especially if they evacuate the island.”

  “Evacuate?” Ruthie moaned. “We can’t leave.”

  “Surely, Woody wouldn’t make us stay in a hurricane,” I said.

  Penny Sue shook her head. “I don’t know. We’d have to have his permission first, that’s for certain. Otherwise, we could be charged with fleeing from a murder investigation. I know that’s serious.”

  “So is being blown away,” Ruthie countered.

  “We’ll get permission,” I said emphatically. “I’m not staying here in a hurricane.”

  My eyes wandered back to the Weather Channel at the exact moment Stinky walked by. The pony-tailed guy from the previous night was with him, as well as a balding man in a tee shirt with Marines in glitter across the back. The trio sat a few feet from the television at a table that had just been vacated.

  We hunkered down and took big gulps of wine.

  “Pauline was right,” Penny Sue said, a trace of awe in her voice. “She said we’d find the angry man in a bar. There he is.”

  “Now what?” Ruthie asked.

  “For starters, we should eat.” I speared a clam. “We need to stay calm and act naturally.” I looked askance at Penny Sue. Natural for her encompassed a lot. Perhaps I’d better clarify. “Normal,” I added hastily. “We want to look like normal people on vacation.”

  Penny Sue raked several clams onto her paper plate. “Okay, how do normal people act?” She doused her clams with hot sauce.

  They both stared at me, expecting answers. “They eat,” I said.

  “We covered that already,” Penny Sue said.

  I scanned the other tables. The couple next to us was watching the Weather Channel. Some kids behind Ruthie were drawing pictures on the Kraft paper covering their table. Young men in the kitty-cornered booth were drinking long neck beers and arguing sports. One of them had a head cold and kept wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Yuck. There was a whole roll of paper towels on their table, so why didn’t he use one?

  What was normal? I recalled my conversation with Penny Sue where she equated normal to being average. That being the case, normal was definitely not something she aspired to be. Neither did I, come to think of it. While I actually might be normal, it wasn’t something I was particularly proud to claim. The terms “normal” and “boring” had an unusual affinity.

  “Normal people don’t do anything in particular,” I said. “Virtually everything goes as long as it doesn’t create a stir.”

  “No chanting, Ruthie,” Penny Sue said mischievously.

  Ruthie folded her arms defensively. “Or getting smashed.” She nodded at Penny Sue’s empty plastic cup.

  Oh boy, I didn’t want to get into that subject, and I could see they were both getting tense. “We should be ourselves ... in a low key way. Right?” I glanced from one friend to the other.

  “Right,” Penny Sue finally allowed. “Let’s not forget that we’re here to get the names of those bikers who killed Rick and tried to run us off the road.”

  That was an unexpected leap. “Killed Rick?” I asked.

  “The guy in the red pickup killed Rick, but Stinky and his buddy are in cahoots with him.”

  I blinked. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Pretty sure. Why else would they try to kill us? Mr. Red Pickup knows we can link him to Rick.”

  I’d actually had the same thought myself. Gerty said the turtle haters were mean, and the guy in the red pickup was clearly a turtle hater, judging from his bumper sticker.

  Ruthie broke in. “Which brings us back to square one. We must get some names for Deputy Moore.”

  “Let’s ask Titan,” Penny Sue said with a big grin.

  I noticed a plaque hanging next to the bar. Do you want to talk to the man in charge or to the woman who knows what’s going on? “Let’s start with our waitress. Here she comes now.”

  Joanne sat a plate of potato skins in the center of the table and passed plastic cups of wine and water all around. Penny Sue glanced defiantly at Ruthie and took a big swallow of wine. I rolled my eyes. Honestly, Penny Sue acted like a kid sometimes—a defiant, devilish one at that.

  “Joanne, see those three guys sitting by the wall?” I nodded toward Stinky and crew. “The table with the bald guy.”

  “The one with Marines on his back? What about them?”

  Good question. What about them? Why was I interested in those skuzzy slobs? I needed to be careful in case she knew them. Three of us; three of them. I sure didn’t want her to think we wanted to pick them up and, God forbid, have her help us out by telling them. No, I had to have a reason to keep our interest secret.

  “I think the guy with the pony tail might be the ex-husband of a woman I know. A bad situation; he used to slap her around. If that’s him, I want to warn my friend that he’s back in town.”

  Joanne frowned as she studied the men. “They don’t look familiar; I’ll ask the other girls.”

  “I don’t want him to know I’m interested,” I said quickly. “If that’s Tom Jones, I sure don’t want to mess with him.”

  “I understand.” Joanne left and went to the bar.

  I sat back, feeling satisfied with my ingenuity. It only lasted a moment.

  “Tom Jones?” Penny Sue cackled. “Is that the best you can do? Talk about fake names! You might as well have said John Doe!”

  “What’s wrong with Tom Jones? It’s a nice, normal name.”

  “It-t-t’s not un-US-u-AL ...” Penny Sue sang off key. Ruthie giggled.

  “It was the best I could do on short notice. Joanne didn’t think it was funny. Look, it seems to have worked.” I inclined my head toward the bar where Joanne was whispering with the other waitresses and motioning toward Stinky’s table. “We’ll have their names in a matter of minutes.”

  “I know how to get their names,” Penny Sue blurted. The young guys drinking the long-necks looked over at us. Penny Sue leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’ll throw my panties at ‘Tom Jones’ and ask for an autograph!” She was laughing so hard, tears streamed down her face.

  “Your panties aren’t big enough to write on,” I countered, thinking of the lacy thongs Ruthie and I had unpacked for her.

  “Whoo-o.” Penny Sue took a deep breath to calm herself and wiped her eyes. “Okay, a bad plan. Those guys probably can’t write anyhow. But, Tom Jones? You must have had a brain cramp to come up with that oldie, goldie.”

  “Brain cramp? Don’t start in on the hormone stuff. I’m not in the mood.”

  Penny Sue was getting wound up. The best policy was to ignore her. So, I turned my attention to the bar and watched as Joanne sidled up to Titan. The handsome hunk had just served a drink to a well-dressed, gray-haired fellow. Titan stooped to hear what Joanne was saying, glanced toward Stinky, then toward us. The gray-haired fellow turned around, too.

  “Uh oh. Talk about goldie oldies,” I said. “There’s Lyndon Fulbright.”

  “Lyndon?” The look on Penny Sue’s face was one of pure horror as she slid down into her seat.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  “What’s he doing here? I don’t have on any makeup.” Penny Sue moaned as she rummaged in her purse for a compact. She was hastily applying lipstick when Lyndon arrived at our table.

  “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 chan
ged 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.”