The Turtle Mound Murder (20 page)

“What about the other nest?” Ruthie asked as
they started to leave. “I thought you were going to dig it up.”

“It’s late. We’ll give that nest another
day. If they haven’t hatched by Sunday morning, we’ll dig it up.
Six o’clock, if you want to watch.”

Ruthie and I did; Penny Sue had other
ideas.

“Six,” Penny Sue mused as we headed back to
the condo. “That’s awfully early; we would hardly have gotten to
bed.”

“I thought the party was only cocktails:
three to seven,” I said.

“Oh sure, but we won’t get home from the
movie until three or four in the morning.”

“Movie?” Ruthie asked, looking peeved. “What
movie?”

“
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
.
There’s a special showing at the Beacon. Lyndon invited us all to
go.”

“Lyndon? When did you talk to him?”

“At JB’s last night. I meant to tell y’all
earlier, but it slipped my mind in all the commotion. I told Lyndon
how we used to dress up and act out the movie with the water
pistols and toast. Remember? Wasn’t that fun?”

It was. A camp, cult flick about
transvestites from outer space,
Rocky Horror
was the
midnight show at the campus theater every Saturday night. For our
first two years of college, until we all got hooked up in serious
relationships, a huge sorority contingent would go to the show each
week. People would dress like their favorite characters and recite
dialogue with the cast. They would join in dance numbers and sing
off-key. Basically, it was a big, boisterous bash that took our
minds off heartbreaks, frizzy perms, and failed exams. The elixir
of life, we used to say...

...and why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? It
was the perfect antidote for divorce, treachery, and murder. Now
that Penny Sue was off the hook, what better way to clear the air
and jumpstart our vacation?

* * *

“
You bought that
leather halter top to
wear to
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
, didn’t you?” I said
to Penny Sue the next morning.

She arched a brow and chewed her cream
cheese and pepper jelly bagel without comment.

“You did it to upstage Ruthie and me. Admit
it: a sneaky tactic to impress Lyndon.”

She finished chewing, swallowed and took a
sip of coffee.

It was hard to believe the three of us were
eating breakfast, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock. Judge Parker
could be credited with the early gathering. He had called at six to
tell Penny Sue he was going fishing. His cell phone would probably
be out of range, he said, so she should call the office if she
needed to reach him.

“I wish you’d told us sooner. Ruthie and I
don’t have anything to wear, at least not a costume.” Back in
college I’d always dressed as Nell, a top-hatted, tap dancing
vixen. I had a gold sequined top hat and silver tap shoes with heel
braces: the real things. Walking shorts and leather sandals just
wouldn’t be the same.

Ruthie glanced up from the newspaper. “I’ll
bet only a handful of people come in costume. This is a resort,
tourists don’t pack for a masquerade. But, we could run out and get
a water pistol, just in case.”

“And umbrellas.” A shield against water
pistols.

“Better yet, slickers,” Penny Sue said. “I’m
sure they have them at Walgreen’s. Why don’t y’all take my car and
pick some up,” Penny Sue replied. “You’ll have time. No one will
get here until one-thirty.”

“The party’s supposed to go from three to
seven. What if people don’t leave?” I asked.

Penny Sue shrugged. “They will; the
invitation clearly states that it’s only cocktails. And, if they
don’t leave, well, I’ll kick them out.” She smiled over the rim of
her coffee. “I don’t have to impress anyone now. I can be
myself.”

She’d said that to torture me. Without the
pressure of impressing the neighbors, I knew Penny Sue might do
anything. I suppressed a shudder, recalling her story about the Jim
Williams’ party—the one where she’d instigated (no matter what she
said, I knew she was responsible) a whole flurry of boob-licking
instead of hand-kissing. I looked sidelong and saw her watching me
expectantly. Well, I refused to react. I snatched a discarded
section of the newspaper and started to read. “Federal agents in
Miami busted another international drug ring. This one used young
Hasidic Jews as couriers.”

“Is that the group that wears black hats and
side curls?” Ruthie asked, oblivious to my concerns about Penny
Sue.

“Yes,” I answered, pointedly avoiding Penny
Sue’s gaze. “That’s precisely why they were recruited by drug
lords. The young men looked so innocent and demure, custom agents
never suspected a thing.”

“That’s unusual,” Penny Sue said, waving a
jelly-smeared piece of bagel. “I think most drugs come into the
country by water; you know, in those cigarette boats they used on
Miami Vice
. Drug runners bury the stuff on the beach and no
one’s the wiser.”

I skimmed down the article. “It says here
that the Navy and Coast Guard have just about closed down that
activity. Drug prices are beginning to soar.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Penny Sue
said, picking up her Furby. “That drug stuff is depressing. Daddy’s
in constant danger, you know.” She stuck her finger in the Furby’s
mouth; it went, Yum-m. “Is little Lu Nee hungry?” Penny Sue cooed
to the fuzzy toy. “Have you fed yours, Ruthie? They’ll die of
starvation if you don’t feed them.”

While they played with their children, I
checked the Weather Channel. Hurricane, Tropical Storm, now
Hurricane, again, Lizzie had merged with another tropical wave and
was gaining strength. Although it was currently spinning over open
water, Lizzie was expected to begin moving toward the Eastern
seaboard. Where and when it would come ashore was anyone’s guess.
Stay tuned for more details. Great, a hurricane in addition to an
uncensored Penny Sue. That’s all I needed!

Ruthie finished with her Furby and joined me
on the couch. “I hope that storm doesn’t come here,” she said
nervously.

“It won’t,” I said with more confidence than
I felt. “You want to shower first?” I asked, trying to change the
subject. Given half a chance, Ruthie would sit there all day,
watching the Weather Channel.

She took the bait. “Okay.”

I studied my wardrobe. I planned to wear a
black cotton dress to the party. A scooped neck, sleeveless number,
it was one of those indispensable dresses that would fit in
anywhere. By changing accessories, it could go from the grocery
store to a night on the town. Besides, Penny Sue wanted us all to
wear our DAFFODIL pins, and the black dress was the only thing I’d
brought that remotely suited the ornate brooch.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show
was
another matter. I leafed through my side of the closet twice. I
needed something garish that wouldn’t be ruined in the event
audiences still acted out the rain scene with water pistols. I
settled on a pair of tight fitting capris and a very wrinkled tank
top.

I found an iron and ironing board in the
owner’s closet, a storage compartment the size of a small room off
the hall. I was ironing the tank top when the telephone rang. It
was my realtor; the young couple wanted to buy the house. My
house.

The news hit me like a punch in the stomach.
I forced myself to breathe as my perky realtor rattled on and on
about the price and appliances. Most of the conversation was
completely lost on me as my mind raced with all the memories tied
up in that house. So much living. So much pain. Gone, all gone. But
I had my babies’ handprints!

I managed to mumble something about
contacting Zack and hung up. Then I buried my face in the crook of
my arm and cried.

* * *

Fortunately, there was no time for moping or
reliving memories. I resolved to pull a Penny Sue—put the whole
issue out of my mind until tomorrow and act as if nothing had ever
happened. She could do it with a murder—I could do it with a house.
I hoped.

I finished ironing, got dressed, helped tidy
the condo, went to Walgreen’s for rain slickers and to Food Lion
twice. All that before one-thirty when Charlotte and Pete arrived.
Shirley from Party Hearty showed up at two.

Penny Sue, decked out in a backless,
Hawaiian print sundress, watched silently from a corner as Shirley
arranged the food on the dining room table. I could see Penny Sue’s
expression from across the living room and knew she was not
happy.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, sidling
alongside.

She turned her back to the table and spoke
through thinned lips. “Paper plates and aluminum foil platters. I
can’t believe it. What am I going to do?”

Shirley had lined the food up buffet-style
on one side of the table. Red paper plates, blue napkins and white
plastic forks (no doubt remnants from the Fourth of July) were laid
out to form an arrow that pointed toward the food. The logic of the
arrow escaped me, unless Shirley was used to dealing with people
who, through age or ale, were so out of it they literally had to be
directed to the hors d’oeuvres. Or, perhaps the food was often
mistaken for something else. Scanning the rest of the table, the
second motive seemed likely.

Crab Rangoon and stuffed mushrooms were
arranged on the first pizza-sized platter. Next to that was a
decidedly lopsided fruit tray, an apparent casualty of the ruts in
our unpaved driveway. Steamed shrimp on a mound of crushed ice
formed the centerpiece—too bad the shrimp were so small, two or
three would fit on a toothpick. Next was a platter of crackers,
cheese, and artichoke dip, followed by strawberries dipped in
chocolate. The strawberries looked good. I snatched one and bit
down. The hard chocolate coating shattered and fell to the
floor.

Shirley stooped down and cleaned the mess
before I could get to it. “Those strawberries,” she said. “This
always happens.”

Always happens.
I thought Penny Sue
was going to explode. I took her arm and steered her toward the bar
Pete had set up in the kitchen. “Let’s have a drink.”

She ordered a double martini. Much to my
surprise, Pete knew what he was doing. “I can’t serve that food;
Lyndon will think we’re a bunch of hicks,” she complained between
long sips of her cocktail.

I looked back at the table; it was pitiful.
I, like Penny Sue, had expected the caterer to provide china and
silverware. Ceramic plates and metal forks, at least. “Are there
enough dishes here?”

She shook her head.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do. It’ll be
fine; this is the beach. No one will think anything of it. Besides,
it’s only cocktails, not dinner.”

Penny Sue sighed ruefully. “I hope you’re
right.” Then to Pete, “Pour the drinks heavy.”

The doorbell rang. It was Jonathan, the
biker banker, and his wife Marie who wore leather shorts and a
skimpy bandeau top. Penny Sue shot me a look that said, “See,” as
she escorted them to the bar.

Lyndon and Al were the next to arrive
followed by several sets of neighbors, though the older couple from
the balcony behind us was conspicuously missing. Penny Sue took
their absence as a sure sign that they were the culprits who’d
stirred up trouble with Woody. I tried to soothe her with a string
of lame excuses, yet deep down, I knew she was right.

By four o’clock the party was in full swing.
Pete poured a steady stream of drinks while Shirley spent most of
her time wiping chocolate shards from the floor. For once Penny Sue
was not the center of attention; her backless sundress was no match
for Marie’s leather shorts or Charlotte’s youth, long legs, and
ample bosom.

A gray-haired neighbor with a handlebar
mustache homed in on Marie and followed her like a puppy. Clad in
shorts and a low-cut shirt, Charlotte got stares from everyone,
especially Al and Lyndon. Early on I saw our neighbor corner her in
the hall. Minutes later, Lyndon did precisely the same thing.
Thankfully, Penny Sue did not see that tête-à-tête, though Pete
did. And, Pete definitely had a mean streak. At the first lull in
his duties, I saw him herd Charlotte down the hall and push her
against the wall. His fist was clenched, and I feared he might
strike her.

I headed for the corridor, I had to do
something. “Charlotte, could you help me put out some nuts?” I
stopped, realizing the statement hadn’t come out quite right. No
matter. Pete dropped her arm and backed away, heading toward the
master bathroom.

“Okay,” Charlotte answered, watching his
back and rubbing her forearm.

She followed me into the kitchen where I
made a pretense of searching for cashews. “I guess we forgot to buy
them,” I finally said. “Oh well, why don’t you see if the guests on
the deck need anything.” She nodded and brushed past Pete—who’d
just returned—without a word. I handed him my glass and smiled as
sweetly as I could. (Sorry, Grammy, my initial opinion of Pete was
correct. He was not to be trusted.) “Vodka tonic, please.”

“Make that two,” a deep voice said.

It was Al. This was my chance to find out
what he knew about the man in the red pickup. I smiled invitingly,
trying to mimic Penny Sue. “So, you come to New Smyrna Beach
often?” I asked, taking my drink and backing into the hall, where
we could talk undisturbed.

“Every chance I get. I like it here—quiet,
not much traffic.”

I nodded. “This is the first time I’ve been
back since college. I’m amazed how much New Smyrna’s grown.”

“New Smyrna’s grown all right, but it isn’t
in the league of Jersey. It’s beautiful there in the summer, but
the traffic is a killer.”

“Same for Atlanta. It takes thirty minutes
to go five miles, and I live in the suburbs.” I took a sip of my
drink for courage. “Say, we’re in the market for a handyman to fix
a few things around the condo. Can you recommend someone who’s
good?”