The Turtle Mound Murder Page 5

  Ruthie brought out her laptop computer and cast my astrology chart. “You have Mars in Libra, so you hate conflict and have a hard time making up your mind.”

  No kidding. Tell me something I don’t know. “Can you see anything about a job?”

  “Well, your twelfth house shows a need to search for truth and wisdom. You’d probably be good at some kind of investigation.”

  Penny Sue sat up. “Isn’t that what you did after graduation?”

  “I worked for an accounting firm doing audits. I guess that was investigation of sorts.”

  “Ever thought of taking it up again?” Penny Sue asked, munching on her sandwich.

  “It’s terribly demanding. Long hours, lots of travel, I’m not sure I could keep up.”

  “There must be another way to use your expertise,” Ruthie said.

  I rubbed my neck. I was starting to get a headache. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Ruthie smiled. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go to Cassadaga and get a reading—ask the spirits for guidance.”

  “What’s Cassadaga?” I asked.

  “A small village of mediums and psychics. It’s not far. Momma used to come here every year to get a reading. Let’s go, it’ll be fun.”

  I wasn’t particularly anxious to go, since I doubted the spirits did job placement. But, Ruthie looked like an exuberant kid. Mommy, Mommy let’s go to the park, or the fair, or whatever. How could I say no? “Okay, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  * * *

  We were dressing for dinner when the shit hit the fan.

  There was a loud knock at the front door. It was Woody Woodhead, the local prosecutor, and a detective. Could they have a word with us about the body on the beach? Stone-faced and silent, the men sat in the living room while we assembled. As usual, Penny Sue was the last to arrive, her appearance heralded by a wave of Joy perfume which preceded her by a full minute.

  “Good evening,” Penny Sue said breathlessly.

  “Evening, ladies.” The detective slipped several eight-by-ten glossy photographs from a manila envelop and handed them to Penny Sue.

  Her mouth dropped open as her hand flew to her chest. “Magod, it’s Rick.” She handed the pictures to me and covered her eyes.

  Woody leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “That answers our first question.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “He was shot with a small caliber weapon, a .38. We figure he’d been dead for about six hours when you found him.”

  Ruthie glanced at the photos, then looked away. “Why? Who would do such a thing?”

  Woody took the pictures. “Good question. Where’s your gun, Penny Sue?”

  She drew back with indignation. “Surely, you don’t think I had anything to do with that.”

  “I’m not making an accusation. I merely want to know where your gun is. Would you get it, please?”

  Penny Sue went to the bedroom and returned with her purse. Glaring defiantly, she retrieved her revolver.

  “May I see it?”

  She handed Woody the gun and snapped her purse shut. He gave the weapon a cursory examination, then handed it to the detective who placed it in a plastic evidence bag. “You don’t mind if we take this in for a few tests, do you?”

  “Well, no—”

  I broke in. “You won’t find anything. Penny Sue was with us all night. We went to dinner, then came back here and went to bed. All of us. We can vouch for her.”

  “In which case we’ll find nothing,” Woody replied. He nodded to the detective and stood. “Your neighbor saw a woman on your deck at about one o’clock this morning. The woman was wearing a bright red robe.”

  Red robe? Ruthie and I gaped at Penny Sue.

  “I stepped out to smoke a cigarette. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I thought you’d quit smoking,” Ruthie said, surprised. “I gave you that worry stone to rub when you got the urge.”

  Penny Sue shrugged. “I did quit, sorta. I sneak one now and then. Everybody makes such a big deal about smoking, I feel like a criminal. I was outside for all of five minutes.”

  Woody snorted, definitely unimpressed. “We appreciate your cooperation, ladies. We’ll be in touch. Please don’t leave town.”

  Don’t leave town. The third time in two days.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  When I got up the next morning, Penny Sue was out on the deck smoking a cigarette in her red silk robe with an Oriental dragon embroidered on the back. I checked the time. Eight o’clock. Penny Sue was the world’s latest sleeper. The fact that she was up at such an ungodly hour told me Penny Sue was a lot more worried than she’d let on. I poured a cup of coffee and went out to join her.

  “Out of the closet?” I said, nodding at the cigarette.

  Penny Sue blew a smoke ring. “This is my third. I want to make sure those nosy neighbors see me out here smoking. I hope they’re watching. The nerve of them, pointing the finger at me.” She panned the two-story buildings behind our condo. “I wish I knew which one it was. I’d give them a piece of my mind.”

  “That won’t solve anything and will make matters worse.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stay cool.”

  I was worried. None of this would have happened if Penny Sue hadn’t waved her gun around. What in the world possessed her to do it? I used to describe her as high-strung, even flighty; but her behavior lately had been down right erratic. Maybe it was a hormone problem. Perimenopause: that phase where a woman’s hormones started the downhill slide. PMS run wild, and it could last for as long as ten years. The thought made me shudder.

  “I know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s ridiculous. But the neighbors, whoever they are, don’t know. As far as they’re concerned, you could be a mass murderer.”

  Penny Sue stared at the building behind us where the balconies overlook the parking lot. “I’ll bet it was one of them. Someone up there called the police about the Rick row, we know that. Nosy old bags, they’re probably spying on us at this minute.” She snuffed out the cigarette angrily.

  I put myself in the line of view between Penny Sue and the building. I wasn’t taking any chances. Under normal circumstances, Penny Sue was far too refined for angry outbursts, or God-forbid, rude gestures; but, these weren’t typical times. “The best thing we can do is be ourselves; let them see what nice, normal people we are.”

  Penny Sue tilted her head back and looked down her nose. “Normal? As in average? Pu-leeze, I am not normal.”

  Brother, that was the truth. “Bad choice of words,” I added quickly. “How about not dangerous? Not nutty? Not a homicidal maniac?”

  “Better.” She pulled her robe up around her neck and tightened the belt. “You’re right, though. I didn’t kill Rick, and I’m not going to let Woody intimidate me. He’ll find out soon enough when they test the gun. He’s jerking me around because I dumped him back in college. He’s on a power trip now and lording it over me.”

  She lit another cigarette. That made what, four or five? To say she’d fallen off the no-smoking-wagon was an understatement. She hadn’t fallen, she’d barreled over the cliff.

  “Little twerp,” she went on. “I won’t give Woody the satisfaction of seeing me sweat. I absolutely won’t allow that nerd to ruin our vacation. This is your time, Leigh. Your respite from worldly cares.”

  It certainly had taken my mind off my troubles, though I wasn’t sure I’d call it a respite. Debacle seemed more fitting.

  Penny Sue folded her arms, eyes narrowed, thinking. “So, the neighbors don’t know me? Don’t know what a nice person I am?” She took a long drag of the cigarette. “Maybe we should throw a little party. A mixer for the neighborhood, wouldn’t that be nice? Apologize for causing a stir. Let them see how nice I really am.” The last comment was uttered through gritted teeth, as if she wanted to bite their heads off. She took another pull on her cigarette, then grinned mischievously. “I think I’ll invite Lyndon.”<
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  “Who?” Penny Sue’d always had a grasshopper mind, but that switch was too fast for me.

  “Lyndon Fulbright. The good looking yachtsman at The Riverview.”

  I stared at her, stunned. Under suspicion for murder, yet concerned about getting a date. I’d tossed and turned half the night worrying about her, and she was planning a party. “You beat all, you know that.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t a game, Penny Sue; we’re talking about a murder. Woody could make your life miserable. I think we should call your father.”

  She stomped her foot. “We are not calling Daddy. I’m not guilty, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Come on, innocent people get convicted every day, especially if they don’t have good legal advice.” It was hard to believe that I was suggesting that anyone see a lawyer. After my experience with Zack and PH&S, I put lawyers at the bottom of the human hierarchy, right next to rapists, child molesters and murderers. Murderers. Hm-m, it takes one to know one, we used to say as kids. “You absolutely need to consult a lawyer.”

  “I can handle it. I’m not going to run to Daddy like a child. ‘You’re a big girl, Penny Sue. Now act like one.’ That’s what Daddy said about the Rick mess. Anyway, it would embarrass him, again, in front of his important friends. I’m simply not going to do it. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  Ah, the lecture from Daddy must have been tougher than she’d let on. Still, I hoped she wasn’t being foolhardy. Ignorance might be bliss for the Judge; I just hoped it didn’t have the opposite effect on Penny Sue.

  She crushed her cigarette in a flower pot. “Come on, Leigh, let’s go in. I need some more coffee.”

  Ruthie came out a few minutes later, and we had breakfast. Penny Sue acted as if she didn’t have a care in the world. I studied her hard, trying to decide if she was putting up a front or really felt nothing. I finally decided she was on the level. She’d simply dismissed the murder from her mind.

  Live in the present, the self-help books said. The past is gone, the future isn’t here, and the present moment is all that exists. I guess that’s what Penny Sue was doing. But how? My mind was a hopeless jumble of shoulds, if-onlys, and what-ifs. What happened to all that stuff in her mind? Was it simply forgotten? Had she always been this way, or was it an acquired skill? With three divorces, perhaps her brain circuits had been burned out. Or, maybe it was the hormone thing. Memory loss was supposedly one of the first symptoms. However it occurred, I found myself envying Penny Sue. For the first time in my life, I wished my mind worked like hers—and that was a scary thought!

  I called my realtor before we left for Cassadaga. The water heater checked out okay; she guessed they didn’t let the water run long enough to get hot. The service call cost fifty dollars—should she send the bill to me or Zack? The young couple was definitely interested in the house, but they were bothered by its age. Would we consider buying a major repair insurance policy? Though it would cost close to a thousand dollars, she thought a warranty would cinch the deal.

  I said, “Fine, no problem.” I picked up her card and paused. “Let Us Take The Worry Out Of Selling Your Home.” Yeah, right.

  Ruthie called, “Ready?” Then, I heard the twang of the rusty spring on the screen door. I pocketed the card and hurried out.

  Penny Sue was waiting impatiently, car in gear, and started moving before I even had a chance to close the door. “What’s the rush—” I started to complain, but caught myself mid-sentence. A New Smyrna Beach patrol car was parked at the edge of the lot, and a ramrod officer with a clipboard was talking to a sandy-haired man next door. That surprised me—I’d thought the condo was vacant. I hadn’t seen any cars there since the red pickup truck on the first day, which I’d assumed belonged to a workman.

  “Getting the daily report on our activities,” Penny Sue muttered tightly, as she guided the car to the street.

  “I’m sure it’s routine; they’re still taking statements on the murder,” I said.

  Penny Sue harrumphed and tuned the radio to a rock station which was playing Bob Marley’s song “I Shot the Sheriff.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I said. We all laughed. Penny Sue’s face muscles relaxed, and I could see she’d banished the incident from her mind. She amazed me—I would still be stewing.

  We rode in silence for a while, Ruthie reading Places to Go in Florida, while I spotted license plates. Ontario, New York, Illinois, even a Missouri. While the season had not officially started, New Smyrna Beach was already bustling with tourists driven south by an unusually early winter. A tractor trailer pulled out at the New Smyrna Beach Speedway, a dirt-poor relation of its big time cousin in Daytona Beach, and we slowed to a crawl.

  “What is Cassadaga, again?” Penny Sue asked Ruthie. “A bunch of astrologers?”

  “It’s a Spiritualists enclave. You know, mediums. People who channel information from entities on the other side.”

  “Dead people?”

  “Yes.”

  Penny Sue chuckled. “Spooks speak, huh?”

  Ruthie shook her head with disgust. “Stop that. You’ll offend the spirits, and none of us will get a good reading.”

  “I was just kidding. Surely, the spirits are not so thin-skinned. They know we call them spooks. If they used to be human, they probably called spirits spooks, too.”

  Ruthie folded her arms. “Maybe so, but there’s no sense in taking chances.”

  I could see that Ruthie was getting pouty, so rushed to change the subject. “How do these readings work? Do the mediums go into a trance, or can we ask questions?”

  “Every medium has their own system, but they all give you an opportunity to ask questions.”

  “I’m going to ask if Lyndon Fulbright is married,” Penny Sue declared airily. “I sure liked the looks of that boat. I can see myself sailing around on it.”

  “It’s not a sailboat,” I said.

  “Sail, float, what difference does it make? It’s the Lyndon and me going off into the great blue yonder that counts. Sail to Cancun. Cruise the Caribbean. Flit over to Monte Carlo.”

  “I don’t think you flit to Monte Carlo. The trip would take weeks.”

  “I’m sure he’d hire someone to sail—”

  “It’s not a sailboat.”

  “—it across the ocean. We’d fly.”

  “My, you do think big,” I quipped.

  “Thoughts are things, right, Ruthie? You can’t have what you can’t imagine.”

  The comment stopped me. Just when I’d almost concluded that Penny Sue was a empty-headed hedonist, she’d come up with something profound. It happened every time, and she was right.

  Thoughts and attitudes do determine our lives. Depressed people see a dismal world. Happy people see humor in almost anything. So, what did that say about me? What did I see? I thought of Penny Sue, the spirits, Woody with his pants around his ankles ... nuts. I must be nuts.

  We parked the car in front of the Cassadaga Hotel. Typical of resorts from the turn of the century, the hotel was a stucco and wood structure ringed by a wide porch with white rocking chairs and worn wooden benches. Only a handful of people were outside, most having a cigarette. We entered through the front door, and Ruthie’s face lit with delight. An ancient sofa and old-fashioned upholstered chairs complemented the lobby’s polished hardwood floors and ornate tray ceiling. A wooden telephone booth, complete with folding door and corner seat, stood against the wall. A New Age shop offering books, incense, rocks and Indian paraphernalia was off to the right. To our immediate left was The Lost in Time Cafe, a pleasant room with lace curtains, a delicately carved bar and tables decked out with white tablecloths, small vases of flowers, and bottles of the house wine, Delicious Spirits.

  Everything about the place was reminiscent of a long past, slower era. I could almost see women in long dresses having tea in the cafe. Or men with handlebar mustaches in white linen suits milling around the lobby. The place truly was lost in time,
maybe that’s what the spirits liked about it.

  We went to the front desk and inquired about readings. Several mediums were available. Who was the best? we asked. The receptionist refused to comment, recommending that we use intuition to make our choice.

  “I’ll take Horace,” Penny Sue said instantly.

  Ruthie regarded her quizzically. “You get good vibes from him?”

  “No. He’s available now, and he’s the only man. I like available men.” Penny Sue smiled, counted out her money and sashayed across the lobby to find Horace.

  Illumina, Sally Ann and Reverend Angelina were the other choices. Ruthie took a deep breath and touched each of their names, trying to divine their energy. A minute later her eyelids fluttered and she pronounced, “Angelina.”

  That left me with Sally Ann or Illumina. As Ruthie toddled off to her appointment, I stared at the names, hoping to hear a voice, feel a tingle, something. I got absolutely nothing. The reservationist started to fidget, and I felt like a dense putz. Choose one, I told myself, it’s fifty-fifty. “Sally Ann,” I blurted. Illumina sounded too much like a car.

  After our sessions we had lunch; checked out several bookstores where Ruthie bought the book Cassadaga, The South’s Oldest Spiritualist Community; and took a walking tour of the village. It wasn’t until we were in the car headed back to the beach that we compared notes on our readings.

  “I’m going to get married again. A man with light hair who’s involved in sports,” Penny Sue announced as she sped down Route 44. “A true Prince Charming, Horace said.”

  “Who fits the bill?” I asked. “The Falcon or the Brave?”

  “Neither. The Falcon’s bald; what little hair he has, he shaves off. Jimmy, the Brave, has brown hair. I think it’s Lyndon. Yachting’s a sport, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, they have races and stuff; it must be considered a sport,” Ruthie replied.

  “How about we go to The Riverview for dinner tonight?” Penny Sue said.

  “Not wasting any time, eh?”