TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7)

by Lawrence de Maria

  It was a good line, and the woman laughed. A moment later they were thrashing in bed, not knowing, or caring, that they had just committed only the second murder in Bald Head Island’s history.

  The first had occurred almost 500 years earlier, in 1526, when a Spanish sailor washed ashore after the ship captained by the Spanish explorer Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón ran into the treacherous shoals surrounding the island and sank. The sailor, whose name was lost to history, was found, sprawled barely conscious in the sand, by some of the Native Americans who frequented Bald Head’s shores and estuaries to collect the abundance of shellfish available.

  Unfortunately for the sailor, the savages who revived him were sick of eating clams and shrimp, and decided to augment their diet.

  They killed him, and ate the evidence.

  CHAPTER 1 - DESTINATION WEDDING

  Five Months Later

  Somewhere In North Carolina

  I wondered if there was a law against shooting your GPS system and putting it out of its misery.

  I didn’t think that was likely, but I was in North Carolina, so who knew? There are lots of strange laws south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

  It was Thursday afternoon, and over the past half hour “Gladys”, which is what I call my portable GPS unit, had bombarded me with an endless stream of “when possible, make a legal U-turn” and “re-calculating route” invectives as I meandered through the maze that is coastal North Carolina near its border with South Carolina. Gladys was confused by the new highways that had apparently replaced older rural roads. The trouble started on I-95 when she told me to get off at Exit 14.

  There was no Exit 14.

  There was an Exit 13 A and an Exit 13 B, but by the time I realized I should have taken one of them, I passed both and was on my way to Savannah.

  Savannah is one of my favorite cities, and there was no traffic, but I was trying to get to Southport, NC, where I hoped to catch a ferry to Bald Head Island. I was scheduled to give away the bride at a “destination wedding” on Bald Head.

  Hard to do when you can’t find the blasted destination.

  Bald Head Island was one of those places where the choice between flying and driving was not so simple. The nearest major airport that serves the area apparently has not been built yet. Raleigh, Charlotte and Fayetteville were still hours away by auto on roads that, as I discovered, could confuse satellites. To endure the inevitable airport delays, first in New York, and then at one of those airports, only to face a four-hour drive, was not appealing. I estimated that I could drive the whole way in approximately the same time. I also suspected that had a modern-day Sherman been forced to plunder the South by air, the Confederacy would have a chance. Someone probably would lose his luggage.

  I broke up my trip by stopping in Washington, D.C., for a long-overdue visit with Dave Stewart, a pal from high school with whom I’ve kept in touch. Dave is a white-shoe D.C. lawyer who writes historical non-fiction books on the side. It’s a pretty good side. An acknowledged expert on early American presidents, Dave has hit The New York Times bestseller list twice. I spent an enjoyable and enlightening day and night with Dave and his equally talented wife Nancy, a city commissioner in nearby Alexandria, before resuming my journey to Bald Head. But I was happy to leave Washington. Late August can be brutal in D.C., and it was. In the nation’s early history, European diplomats considered a posting to the American capital, with its sub-tropical and malarial summers, a hardship post. Air-conditioning made inside better, but outside was another matter altogether.

  My troubles with Gladys aside, long-distance driving did not bother me. I liked to drive and finally had the car for it, after a succession of vehicles that were at best adequate and, at worst, unlucky. When I got back years ago from my hopefully last tour of duty in Sandland — I say hopefully because I don’t think Uncle Sam needs a shot-up veteran when there are so many un-shot studs around, many of them running for elective office and trying to start more wars — I was financially challenged. My private investigation business, never all that healthy to begin with, had withered even further. A friend, Al Lambert, who was both a used-car dealer and one of Staten Island’s premier entertainers, somehow managed to find some cars I could afford.

  The first was a rental-fleet Chevy Malibu whose car carrier had been caught in a vicious Indiana hail storm. The other cars on the carrier looked like golf balls, but the only-slightly-damaged vehicle Al sold me at a steep discount performed yeoman’s service for years. After that, I upgraded to a Fusion hybrid until my penchant for taking on cases that cost me more money than I made forced me back to Al, who put me in a four-year-old Hyundai Santa Fe SUV that I adored — until somebody blasted it with a shotgun during my last big case and killed an innocent kid who had borrowed it. The SUV was totaled in the subsequent crash, but even if it hadn’t been I would have gotten rid of it after that.

  I made a lot of money on that last case, thanks to the woman whose wedding I was about to be a part of, so now I was tooling around in a three-year-old Acura that, because of Al, cost me a lot less than it should have. It is a fast, comfortable and handsome vehicle with a lot of bells and whistles that I have not tried out yet, and should keep me happy for years, unless someone shoots it up or I take on more pro bono cases.

  There was nothing going on in my office, not an unusual occurrence, unfortunately, so I’d decided to take some time off. I’m not a big fan of weddings, destination or otherwise, but Bald Head Island supposedly had good fishing and a world-class golf course. I’m not a fanatic about golf and hate lugging clubs through an airport, but throwing them in the trunk of my car was no problem. I told my office manager, Abby, to hold down the fort.

  Then, I had to figure out what to do with Scar and Gunner.

  Scar is not much of a problem. He is the almost feral feline that roams St. Austin’s Place, the block where I live in West Brighton. I gave Scar his name when he first arrived in my backyard, which is his base of operations and private kill zone. I don’t have a rodent problem, but there is a trade-off. My property is not a place a bird watcher would find rewarding. One look at Scar’s face and skull are enough to explain his name. He is bigger than most tom cats I’ve seen, and if he could talk he’d probably say, “You should see the other cat”. Or dog, or raccoon, or mountain lion, for all I know. His meow sounds like a sink garbage disposal and his purr, when he deigns to purr, mimics a lawn mower.

  For all that, I cherish Scar, although the fact that he seems to prefer me over my neighbors is probably something my psychiatrist would have a field day with, if I had a psychiatrist. My pal, Wayne Miller, used to stop by and feed and water Scar when I was away for any length of time. For short jaunts, there was no problem, in any season. Scar would grub off the neighbors or make do with local puddles and unwary birds and squirrels. Wayne, an actor and director now working off-Broadway, has begged off of late. I now use Freddie Schultz, one of my neighbor’s kids and the first person everyone on the block would blame in case of vandalism or teen-age mayhem. Needless to say, he gets along great with Scar. Birds of a feather, and all that.

  Gunner, my dog, is more of a problem. I took him along on my last sojourn south, and got him shot. It didn’t seem to bother him all that much, but my last-minute rental house on Bald Head specified “no pets”. I could have opted for a pet-friendly mansion at three times the cost, but since my trip was meant to combine my wedding duties with a romantic getaway, I decided to leave Gunner home. Freddie was an option. Both he, and Scar, get along famously with Gunner. But fate intervened when I mentioned my quandary to Maks Kalugin.

  “I’ll take him,” Maks said. “Zhukov will enjoy the company.”

  Zhukov is Gunner’s brother. He is named after the famous Red Army Marshall who was Stalin’s favorite general, the conqueror of Berlin. Gunner is named after John “Gunner” Panetta, a Medal of Honor winner from Vietnam, whose murder I solved a while back. Both dogs are Byelorussian Ovcharkas, a breed that is a mix of East Siberian Laikas
and German Shepherds. “Charkas” are known for their toughness, loyalty and superior intelligence, which came in handy when serving with the Red Army on the Eastern Front during World War II.

  Gunner was a gift to me from Marat Rahm, the patriarch of the Russian family that is the most powerful of the Staten Island mobs, and one of the most powerful in New York City. My relationship with the Rahms is complicated. I’ve known Arman Rahm, Marat’s son, since we played basketball together as teen-agers. He now runs the family with a cold shrewdness that belies his movie-star looks. Maks Kalugin is the family enforcer. He doesn’t look like a movie star. He looks like a fire plug, but tougher. At one time, all three considered having me sleep with the sturgeons and only kept me alive because Marat’s daughter, Eleni, intervened. Since then, we have traded favors when necessary and they’ve always kept their word. Maks has even saved my life occasionally, at first reluctantly, but lately because he is very fond of Alice Watts, the woman I love. She thinks he is adorable, which puts her in a majority of one. I doubt if Kalugin’s mother thought he was adorable.

  When I dropped Gunner off at the gabled-and-turreted Rahm mansion on Todt Hill, Marat Rahm insisted I join him for a drink out by his pool, where he was taking the sun. Arman was at a table working on a laptop. He smiled at me and pointed to the computer screen.

  “Facebook,” he said. “You can’t believe what people put on here. I’ve actually found some idiots I was looking for because they really think someone is interested in what they are cooking or how cute their grandchildren are.”

  “I don’t want to hear what happened to them,” I said.

  Arman gave me a frosty smile.

  “No, you don’t.”

  Gunner and Zhukov began to frolic on the huge lawn. Frolic was a relative term; both were now large enough to pull a sled in a Russian proverb. Maks poured our vodkas and Marat asked what I was up to. I told them. When I finished, even Kalugin laughed.

  “You are giving away in marriage the woman we used to entrap you in the Capriati matter,” Marat said. “Are you sure you don’t have a Russian in your woodpile, Alton? Tolstoi or Pasternak couldn’t make any of this up. The woman almost got you killed.”

  “On your orders,” I pointed out.

  “Only fools hold grudges,” Marat said. “I’m glad to see you don’t. So, now she is rich. Maks told me what happened in Virginia. About her father. I must say, you are doing your part in ridding the world of scum.”

  “Maks helped out quite a bit. I think he got mad when they shot Gunner.”

  “It is never wise to make Maks angry.”

  I smiled at the memory, as I now finally located the right road, the Andrew Jackson Highway. I bet that most people think Old Hickory was a native Tennessean. Thanks to Dave Stewart, who knows more about Jackson than Jackson, I happen to know Andy was probably born in North Carolina. Whoever claims him, I hope he stays on the $20 bill.

  Gladys somehow managed to get me off at the right exit toward Southport, but then had a real nervous breakdown, at one point directing me towards Bolivia, which thankfully turned out to be a small town, not the country. Then, she sent me down one road that dead-ended at an abandoned building that looked like it once hosted a Ku Klux Klan meeting.

  It wasn’t Gladys’s fault, of course. I could have followed directions and maps on my iPhone, or used the Acura’s built-in GPS system, but I was used to her. However, after one of her legal U-turns on “Green Swamp Road” put me in the path of a minivan driven by a woman texting on her cell phone with dog on her lap, I pulled her plug and stopped at a gas station to find out where the hell I was. The kid behind the counter at the attached convenience store had a bad case of acne but a good sense of direction. In celebration, I bought a cup of coffee and an apple fritter, and was in Southport 15 minutes later. The town was full of signs to the ferry landing and I made it just in time to miss the 3 PM boat to Bald Head.

  CHAPTER 2 - MOJO’S

  I called Alice on Bald Head, who was to pick me up from the ferry, to tell her I’d be late.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “The ferry runs every hour from the mainland. How was your drive?”

  “If I give you the details, I’ll miss the next boat.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I dropped my suitcase and golf clubs with an attendant who threw them onto one of those rolling carts one sees at airports. I asked him for a bag check ticket and was informed that I did not need one. Everything was on the honor system; everyone’s bags would be waiting for them on the island when they got off the ferry.

  “Nobody steals anything on Bald Head,” he said. “In fact, there is no crime at all.”

  I doubted that, but it did sound like I would enjoy Bald Head.

  A local cabbie directed me to a parking lot and I walked back to the terminal and bought a round-trip ticket on the Adventure, the ferry operating that day. The Deep Point Marina terminal had a large upstairs waiting room overlooking the harbor. It also had a small cafe that served wine and beer. With a half hour to kill before the next boarding, I bought a bottle of a local craft brew called Absalom’s Ale and grabbed a copy of “Haven”, a slick touristy magazine devoted to extolling the history and beauty of Bald Head Island.

  In the section devoted to ferry service, I learned that my ferry, the Adventure, was named after a Spanish sloop that was captured by Blackbeard off Honduras in 1717 and was involved in a battle off the North Carolina coast in which the dreaded pirate was killed. I was not sure if a sloop was bigger than a frigate, but I could guess that Blackbeard’s last words might have been a variation on “we need a bigger boat.”

  When I finally boarded my ferry, I was surprised how crowded it was for a weekday. I mentioned that to a passing crewman. He explained that most schools in the South ended their summer vacations in mid-August, and after a short lull there was a surge in visitors as Bald Head filled up with people going to weddings, as I was.

  “I also work part-time at the Shoals Club,” he said, “and I think we have something like 20 weddings booked through October.”

  The Adventure was fast and modern, with a comfortable seating lounge. The ride across to the island took only 20 minutes. Many of the passengers went outside to “ooh” and “aah”, but I buried my head in the guidebook. I came from Staten Island. Ferries, about 10 times larger than the one I was now in, are old hat.

  I did go outside when we pulled up to the dock, and was standing next to two young men. One of them punched the other on the arm.

  “Look at that,” he said. “I hope she’ll be at the wedding. She’s hot. I would swim across for a shot at her.”

  “What wedding are you fellows going to,” I casually asked the man who spoke, following their gaze to a beautiful, long-legged woman wearing a mint-colored sleeveless sundress.

  “Friend of ours from Wall Street. Barry Lewinsohn. How about you?”

  “Yeah. Me, too. With that hottie you are looking at.”

  Alice Watts saw me and waved.

  “Oh, shit man, I’m sorry,” the guy said.

  “Don’t be. Truth is a defense.”

  If there is anything better than walking down a ramp from a boat into the arms of a beautiful woman — other than the promise of what is to come later — I can’t imagine what it could be.

  After a long, lingering kiss, I said, “I feel like a sailor on VJ Day.”

  “Looking for a good time, swabbie?” Alice said.

  “No, just happy to have someone like you waiting for me.”

  “What a lovely thing to say.”

  “Of course, I’m not ruling out a good time.”

  She kissed me again.

  “You bet your bippy, sailor.”

  All around us people were meeting and greeting, while “golf” carts and trams pulled up. My luggage was where they said it would be and after I collected it we walked over to our cart, which like most of the others I spotted dockside could accommodate at least six passengers.

  �
��Want a quick tour?”

  “Sure,” I said, knowing that with Alice behind the wheel, even of a golf cart, we would be at maximum speed momentarily.

  I had to admit that the marina area was charming, with restaurants and quaint little shops surrounding the harbor. We stopped at a place called Mojo’s On The Harbor and had a couple of “Mojo’s Mojitos” at an outside table. They were quite good. I looked at some of the other drinks people were being served. They all seemed to have cucumbers in them.

  I looked at Alice.

  “Cucumbers?”

  “Yes, I know. It seems to be the ‘in’ thing. I tried a cucumber martini the other night.”

  “What did it taste like?”

  “Cucumber.”

  “Enough said.”

  “Other than some strange drinking habits, I love this island,” Alice said. “Especially now that I have the lay of the land.”

  “I know. I just got off the boat.”

  “Oink. Just for that remark, I want another mojito.”

  “Hey, you’re driving, lady.”

  After leaving Mojo’s, we drove along the shore, past large houses, some of which were on stilts. I could see, and hear, waves breaking on the beach perhaps a hundred yards away.

  “Stilts or no stilts,” I said, “a hurricane Sandy comes through here, those houses are toast.”

  Most of the land we initially drove through consisted of scrub brush and sand dunes.

  “How are the bugs?”

  “Not too bad,” Alice said. “My first day here there was very little wind and the gnats were bad. At least I think they were gnats. I got some nasty bites on my ankles walking to the beach.”

  “No-see-ums.”

  “What?’

  “They are sand flies, called ‘no-see-ums’ down here. Bloodsuckers. So tiny they are hardly visible, but they bite and itch like crazy. I remember them well from the Army. Drove us nuts in Afghanistan. Some of my men hated them worse than the Taliban.”