The Turtle Mound Murder (8 page)

The fates were on my side, again. We circled
the lot twice, but the truck was not there. “Damn.” Penny Sue
slapped the steering wheel angrily. “He must have doubled back
while we were making our turn.”

“Yeah,” Ruthie said. “Maybe he took one of
those driving courses, too.”

* * *

The Riverview was
packed. We expected
as much since a tour bus was parked by the door. Penny Sue insisted
that we eat on the deck overlooking the marina even though it would
entail a fifteen-minute wait. She tried valiantly to finagle our
way to the outside bar, but the hostess held firm. We found a table
at the inside bar and ordered wine.

“Hm-m, this is good,” Penny Sue commented
after tasting the golden liquid. “I’ll have to get some of this for
the party.”

The party. Penny Sue had hired Party Hearty
Catering, an outfit specializing in fried catfish and kegs of beer.
I was skeptical. I had a sneaking suspicion most of their business
was done in Daytona Beach during Bike Week and Spring Break.
Actually, Penny Sue didn’t have much choice. The reputable services
were booked for Saturday night—three days was not a lot of
notice—and the only other available caterer’s forté was pony
rides.

I voted for that one. If Penny Sue wanted to
show the neighbors that she was innocuous, the sight of her on a
small pony would do the trick. But, considering her size, an animal
rights advocate might see it as extreme cruelty, in which case the
whole thing would backfire. A person who would torture a little
pony was capable of anything, even murder, the reasoning would go.
On second thought, Pony Parties was not a good idea, at all.
Though, it sure would be a terrific ice breaker.

“Did you hear me, Leigh?” Penny Sue
said.

I turned my attention back to the table.
“Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

“The wine. Do you like this wine?”

I took a sip and held it on my tongue. “Dry,
smooth. Yes, I like it,” I said seriously. Then, stifling a
chuckle, “It should go great with hot wings and catfish
fingers.”

Penny Sue grinned mockingly. “Shirley said
traditional hors d’oeuvres were no problem. She’s studied abroad
and Continental cuisine was her first love.”

“Which continent and whose tradition?”
Ruthie was snickering, too.

“Give me a break. Negative. Y’all are just
negative.”

“There’s a difference between being negative
and realistic,” I countered. “You don’t think it’s strange she was
free on a Saturday night?”

“Shirley got a last minute cancellation. The
groom crashed his Harley—”

I was really laughing now. “Like Ruthie
said: Who’s tradition and which continent?”

Penny Sue shook her head. “Negative and
rude. For your information we’re going to have steamed shrimp, Crab
Rangoon, stuffed mushrooms, red caviar, artichoke dip, a fruit
tray, and strawberries dipped in chocolate.”

“And a keg of Budweiser?” I loved needling
Penny Sue. She was so good at dishing it out, she deserved some
flack. Then there was her reaction—always melodramatic, infinitely
entertaining. Finally, I knew she rarely took any of it seriously.
To say Penny Sue’s self concept was intact was a monumental
understatement. For her, jokes and gibes were like water running
off a duck’s back. I admired that trait in her and wished I could
be more that way.

Penny Sue smiled impishly. “Billy Beer.”

“Is that stuff still on the market?” Ruthie
asked.

“It’s long gone,” I said. “In fact, it’s
probably a collector’s item.”

Penny Sue took a five dollar bill from her
purse and waved for our waiter. “The only beer will be imported and
in bottles.” The waiter arrived and Penny Sue pressed the bill into
his hand. “Hon, would you see if there’s room for us at the outside
bar? It’s a little warm in here.”

“Hot flash?” Ruthie asked after the waiter
left.

“Or hot on the trail of Lyndon
Fulbright?”

The waiter appeared in the doorway and
motioned for us to follow.

“Both,” Penny Sue said as she gathered up
her purse, wine and hurried after the young server.

Napkins were draped over the backs of three
stools at the corner of the bar with a perfect view of both the
marina and the deck. Penny Sue nodded appreciatively and tipped the
waiter another five. She settled onto the stool at the end of the
counter and surveyed the marina. The Ecstasy was still docked.
Penny Sue’s spine stiffened with anticipation.

She sipped her wine demurely and scanned the
area. Suddenly, her eyes locked on target like a laser-guided
missile. I followed her gaze. Lyndon sat at a table on the far end
of the deck, alone. Penny Sue checked her lipstick and misted her
neck with a few squirts of Joy. As if she needed any more. I knew
sweet smells are supposed to be a lure and aphrodisiac, but I’d
contend Penny Sue had passed right through attraction and was well
on the way to asphyxiation.

“What are you going to do?” Ruthie
asked.

“Introduce myself, of course.”

I said, “What? Saunter up and say: ‘Hi, I’m
Penny Sue, and my medium told me we’re going to get married?’”

“Don’t be silly, I’d never be so brash. I’m
going to ask him about his boat. Tell him I’m thinking of buying
one.”

I scoffed. “Well, don’t call it a boat.
That’d be a dead giveaway.”

“Uh oh,” Ruthie said, putting her hand on
Penny Sue’s shoulder to hold her down.

“What are you doing?” Penny Sue shook
loose.

“Look.”

A waitress stood by Lyndon’s table. Clad in
the restaurant’s uniform of Hawaiian shirt and white shorts, the
woman was a stunning specimen of youth with shapely legs, a perfect
tan and sun-streaked hair (the real stuff—not the exquisite,
expensive variety Penny Sue so loved to toss carelessly.) We
watched as she leaned over, exposing large breasts in the cleft of
her shirt. We also saw Lyndon smile broadly.

“Now see what you’ve done,” Penny Sue said,
turning on Ruthie. “That girl beat me to the punch.”

“Me?” Ruthie shot back. “I was trying to
keep you from making a fool of yourself. But go ahead, do it your
way. Race over there and shove her out of the way like Roller
Derby.”

“Wait a minute,” I said as I took out my
eyeglasses. “That’s the cleaning lady, er, Charlotte.”

Penny Sue squinted at them. “You’re right.”
A smile stretched her cheeks. “This is perfect. I was going to ask
Charlotte to help out with the party. Now I can talk to her and
invite Lyndon at the same time.” She took the last sip of wine.
“When you get a table, don’t wait on me to order.” Penny Sue draped
her purse over her shoulder and sashayed across the deck.

We watched as Penny Sue talked animatedly to
Lyndon and Charlotte. A moment later she sat down and Lyndon was
ordering her a drink.

Ruthie and I toasted her chutzpah. “She’s
got balls,” Ruthie said.

“I guess that’s why she always goes for the
macho sports types. She’d run right over a normal guy.”

“After three divorces, you’d think she be
gun-shy.”

“She’s definitely not that.”

Ruthie chuckled. “Right. Shy in any way,
shape or form is not one of Penny Sue’s shortcomings. But, you have
to admit, she’s made a royal mess this time. Do you think Penny
Sue’s truly under suspicion for Rick’s murder or is Woody just
jerking her chain?”

I took a sip of my Sauvignon Blanc. “I think
she’s on the list, though not at the top. Woody isn’t going to do
anything rash; he knows the Judge’s connections. Remember, Woody
got a call from the Attorney General over the brawl in the parking
lot. A murder charge would bring the whole state down around his
shoulders. Woody’s no fool—he’s going to be careful and thorough.
The thing that bothers me is that pickup truck. I sure don’t like
the idea that we’re being followed.”

Ruthie signaled the bartender for another
round of drinks. “Me, either. Maybe we should go home,” Ruthie said
nervously.

“We can’t. We’re stuck here until the
investigation’s over.”

“I’d forgotten that. Did Penny Sue get in
touch with Woody about the truck?”

“He was out, so she left a message.”

The bartender arrived with peanuts and more
wine. The nuts were a bad sign. I had a feeling we weren’t going to
eat any time soon. “No word on our table?” I asked hopefully,
flashing a big smile.

He looked uncomfortable. “A few more
minutes. A large party should be leaving shortly.”

He was lying, I thought, remembering the bus
parked by the front door. Twenty or so senior citizens were seated
at a long table in the middle of the deck. They were eating dessert
and having a high old time, so I doubted they’d leave soon. I
downed a handful of peanuts.

“I think I’ll call home and check on Poppa,”
Ruthie announced suddenly.

I nodded. She was still bothered by her
psychic reading. The thought of losing a parent was unsettling, to
say the least. I was fortunate that both of mine were alive and
going strong. I was the oldest, and Mom had me when she was twenty.
In their sixties, Warren and Barbara Martin weren’t old by anyone’s
standards. In fact, a scientist on
Good Morning, America
said that one hundred forty would be the life span for our
children. By that gauge, Mom and Dad weren’t even middle-aged, and
I was still a youngster. Zack, Jr. and Ann were mere infants. I
liked that idea a lot.

Which reminded me that I needed to give the
kids a call. I doubted they’d talked to their father, and I
supposed they deserved to know the divorce was final. I had to tell
them I was selling the house, too. I’d be happy to leave it, I had
nothing but terrible memories from the last year—yet it was the
only home they’d ever known.

Damn Zack. He cheated me out of my marriage,
assets, and memories. The kids grew up in that house, yet I could
hardly stand the sight of it. Ann took her first step there. Little
Zack had his Cub Scout meetings. The kitchen had always been full
of the kids and their friends eating cookies and discussing their
troubles with school or sports or the bully down the street. Zack
had robbed me of all that, for what? Money. Some legal-smegal
nonsense about abandoning the home. Translation: Zack was terrified
I’d end up with the house if he left. He didn’t give a damn that it
put me through hell, or ruined the kids’ holidays, or anything
else. Himself, that’s all he thought about. How had I married such
a selfish shit? Why hadn’t I seen his true colors sooner? All the
small—and not-so-small—indignities from our marriage flooded my
mind. I gripped the stem of my wine glass tightly. If Zack had been
there, at that moment, he’d probably have gotten the contents in
his face.

A good looking guy motioned at Penny Sue’s
chair. “Is this seat taken?”

My first inclination was to take his head
off. I was still wrapped up in my not-so-fond memories of Zack and
the look I gave the newcomer must have been ferocious, because he
backed away before I said a word. I caught myself and forced a
smile. He was not Zack. He was harmless, and in fact, he looked
kinda familiar. A quick glance at Penny Sue told me she was not
returning in the near future. In any event, our table should be
ready soon, the bus people were finally preparing to leave. “Help
yourself,” I said, picking up the car keys from the counter.

He sat down, and ordered a beer. “Nice
night, isn’t it?”

I cut my eyes at him. Was this guy trying to
pick me up? I took a sip of wine to buy time and gather my
thoughts. Damn, what was keeping Ruthie? The ink on my divorce
decree was barely dry, so a relationship was the last thing I
wanted. Yet, that was making quite a leap. Nice night was hardly a
blatant pass. It’s not like he’d whispered: ‘Hey, sugar, I want to
jump your bones.’

“It’s been beautiful all day,” I finally
replied.

“I hope it stays that way. I’m down from New
Jersey. It was snowing when I left.”

I remembered seeing something about a freak
winter storm on the Weather Channel. “It’s supposed to be sunny
here for the next few days.”

“How about you? From the north?” he
asked.

My antenna went up. Where are you from?
What’s your name? Want to come back to my hotel for a drink? Maybe
this was a come-on, the guy was following the typical script.
Though, I could be wrong. “Yeah, if you call Georgia north,” I
replied.

He laughed. A nice, full chuckle—something I
never heard from Zack.

“Not unless it’s snowing there. Al,” he
said, extending his hand.

“Leigh,” I replied, accepting it. A crisp
handshake—no fingering my palm or rubbing my wrist or other sleazy
maneuver to indicate bad intentions.

“Do you live here permanently?”

I took a nervous sip of my wine. Where was
Ruthie? I’d sure feel better if she were with me; it’d been a long
time since I’d done the dating scene. “No, just visiting with some
old friends. You?”

His beer arrived, and he took a drink. “Got
a few days off and hated to schlep through snow so early in the
season. I come here a lot, so figured this was the perfect time for
a visit.”

Ruthie appeared with a waiter in tow. “Our
table’s ready,” she said.

Relieved, I took my wine and stood. “It’s
been nice talking with you. I hope you have a good visit,” I said.
As Ruthie and I threaded our way to the table, it hit me. Al was
the guy next door, the one the police had interviewed that
morning!

Our table was at the back of the deck,
several stations away from Penny Sue and Lyndon, who seemed to be
hitting it off fabulously. Every time I glanced that way, Penny
Sue’s hands were waving theatrically. I always said she couldn’t
talk if her hands were tied behind her back. We actually tried it
once in college. She only managed two sentences before stopping
cold. I thought she’d bust from frustration before we got her hands
untied, and it was something I teased her about when she got
particularly excited.