The Turtle Mound Murder Page 3

  Bladders pleasantly low, we could enjoy the scene. With Ruthie’s help, I opened the sliding glass doors that had obviously not been moved for a long time, and stepped out on a wooden deck perched on top of a sand dune. Sea spray hit my face, dousing all thoughts of Zack, money, houses and children. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There is nothing like salt air to clear the mind and invigorate the spirit.

  I surveyed the terrain. Storms had definitely taken their toll since my last visit. Though the beach was wide and flat as always, it was a good ten feet lower than I recalled, not to mention that an entire row of dunes were now missing. And, for a beautiful October afternoon with temperatures in the mid-eighties, the beach was surprisingly vacant except for a four-by-four square marked off by stakes and green tape at the edge of the sand dune.

  “A turtle mound,” Ruthie commented, pointing at the stakes below us. “The tour book said turtle season runs through the end of October. We must be careful to close the blinds and turn off all our beach-side lights after sunset. There’s a strict light pollution ordinance, since bright lights disorient the hatchlings. Every year, hundreds of baby turtles are crushed by cars or die from dehydration and starvation because they are distracted by lights and never make it to the water.”

  Penny Sue appeared with paper cups of wine. “That’s sad,” she said, passing out the drinks. “You’re in charge of the lights, Ruthie. We sure don’t want any turtles dying on our account.” Penny Sue stepped up on the low benches built into the side of the deck and looked out over the ocean. “We’ve had some good times here, haven’t we, girls?”

  Ruthie climbed up on the bench alongside her. “I’ll say. Footloose and fancy free. Though, you never stayed footloose for long; you always got hooked up with someone,” she said to Penny Sue. “Remember the guy you met the summer after our sophomore year? He had a funny name—what was it?”

  Penny Sue giggled. “Woodhead. Woody Woodhead.”

  Ruthie sputtered, spitting wine. “That’s right. What a name! Remember the commotion when Zack showed up. He’d come down to see Penny Sue, and was so ticked off—” Ruthie stopped abruptly, realizing what she’d said. She looked at me guiltily, apologetically ... when angry shouts from the front of the condo cut the air.

  “You’re a real ass,” Rick barked.

  “Stuff it,” a male voice shouted back. Then a dull, slapping sound.

  Penny Sue was off the deck in a millisecond. She grabbed her purse and raced to the front door. Ruthie and I were initially too stunned to move, though finally recovered, and chased after Penny Sue. By the time we arrived, the men were rolling in the driveway, trading punches. Penny Sue was fumbling in her purse, and couples from the two-story duplex behind our unit had come out on their balconies to watch.

  Rick seemed to be getting the upper hand, sitting on the stranger—the owner of the pickup truck, I presumed—until the stranger’s hand found a large chunk of concrete in the driveway. The man swung the slab toward Rick, missing his head, but catching his shoulder.

  “Stop it,” Penny Sue demanded loudly. They ignored her.

  “Stop it! I’m not kidding,” she shouted again, pulling a small, pearl-handled revolver from her purse.

  I gasped so hard, I almost swallowed my tongue. Penny Sue’d always had a penchant for playing roles, but they usually took the form of a femme fatale—Scarlett O’Hara, Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe. I’d never, ever, imagined Annie Oakley was part of her repertoire.

  “That’s enough, boys,” Penny Sue yelled.

  Rick landed a punch on his opponent’s face.

  “Stop! I’m not fooling.” Penny Sue waved the gun in their general direction.

  My heart flopped over with fear. Penny Sue was excitable; how far would she go? I grabbed Ruthie’s arm and whispered, “Go call 9-1-1.” She hurried off.

  “Stay out of this, bitch,” Rick shouted.

  Penny Sue’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?” She aimed the gun to the side and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the ground with a thud. Sand billowed. An elderly couple on the balcony scurried inside. My heart did a triple flip. “Would you like to repeat that last comment?” Penny Sue asked sweetly, beaming her fake beauty-queen smile.

  Rick held his hands up and rolled off his adversary. “Calm down, lady.”

  “That’s better. For a moment I thought you were talking to a dog.”

  Rick’s foe took the opportunity to scramble to his truck. He sped off, spewing sand.

  Rick glared at Penny Sue, hands raised. “He started it.”

  Penny Sue kept the gun angled to the side. “Maybe so, but that’s no call for being rude.”

  “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.”

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  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 an
d 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 m
ost 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—”