The Turtle Mound Murder by Mary Clay Page A

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