TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Well, whatever they are, they haven’t been a bother since. I guess because it’s been pretty windy. And I haven’t seen any mosquitoes. They must spray.”

  “I looked at a map of the island on my way over on the ferry,” I said. “It looks like most of the middle of the island is either marshland or forested.”

  “I’ve seen the marshes at a distance, but when we drive through the island there are lots of trees. They make canopies over the cart paths and are very lush. It reminds me of Jurassic Park. I half expect a Velociraptor to jump out. Oh, here’s the golf course. That’s where the condo is.”

  Alice turned off the road and stopped at a gatehouse, where a lady with a clipboard smiled at her and waved her through.

  “Her name is Francine,” Alice said. “You are supposed to show a guest pass, but she knows me now. I brought her a coffee and bagel one morning.”

  “Isn’t that how you got me?”

  “No, you were a cheeseburger.”

  “That reminds me. What are we doing for dinner?”

  “I bought plenty of provisions at the market. It’s quite a place. Reminds me of Gristedes in Manhattan. They have everything. But we are having dinner out tonight with Laurene and Barry.”

  “Where?”

  “The Shoals Club, the country club overlooking West Beach. It’s where the wedding will be. Membership comes with the condo rental. We also have temporary membership in the yacht club and the Bald Head Island Golf Club.”

  From what I could see it was a good-looking golf course, much greener and hillier than I would have expected.

  “Here we are,” Alice said as she pulled into a small garage under a modern-looking, two-story attached condo.

  I got out and she plugged the cart into a charger on the wall. I noticed two bikes hanging on a wall. Then we went inside, through the garage.

  “Drop your bag,” Alice directed, pointing to the bottom of a small stairway. “The bedrooms are all downstairs.”

  She went up to the second floor. There was a large modern kitchen and a great room that had a view of the distant ocean. A large L-shaped couch faced sliding doors that led to a wraparound porch. Alice went to the door and looked out.

  “Not the greatest view in the world,” she said. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”

  I came up behind her and ran my hands up the front of her shirt and cupped her breasts.

  “What view?”

  “We have a reservation,” she said.

  “What time?”

  Her nipples hardened as I tweaked them and kissed her neck.

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “We have time to spare,” I said.

  I noticed that my voice was a bit hoarse.

  She turned around and pushed me down on the couch. She took off her shirt and dropped both her shorts and underwear. I looked up at her.

  “Then we’d better get busy,” she said, straddling me. Her voice was hoarse, too. “Those damn mojitos.”

  CHAPTER 3 - BRIDE AND GROOM

  I was on the deck looking out at the ocean in the fading light waiting for Alice to finish dressing. She always takes twice as long to get ready as I do, but is always worth the wait. I was wearing a tan tropic-weight L.L. Bean travel blazer, khaki pants, and a yellow golf shirt and feeling pretty spiffy. Hopefully, my tuxedo would arrive with the wedding party, which was flying down on a corporate jet to a private airfield in Wilmington, North Carolina, later in the week. That airport was only about a 20-minute drive to Southport and the ferry to Bald Head. I had been offered a spot on the jet, but declined. Nuptials are a struggle for me, and the thought of being locked up in a plane and then some cars or vans with wedding revelers held no appeal. Besides, I wanted to stop off in Washington, D.C., and then have a leisurely vacation with Alice.

  I heard the slider open behind me.

  “Hubba, hubba,” I said when I turned. Alice was wearing a blue lace sheath dress and silver open-toed high-heel sandals. There was a single strand of pearls around her neck to go with her pearl earrings. “I take that back. Hubba, hubba, hubba.”

  “That’s better,” she said, twirling around. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

  We went down to the garage and I backed the golf cart out.

  “I feel ridiculous driving a beautiful woman anywhere in a golf cart,” I said as Alice got in on the passenger side. “You are dressed for a limo.”

  “One must make do,” she said. “Besides, this is a classy golf cart.”

  I drove out of the golf club and Alice told me to take a left.

  “The Shoals Club is on the other side of the island. But we can take a short cut inland.”

  A few minutes later we were traveling along a narrow path through a dark, forbidding forest. There were a lot of strange animal noises

  “Pretty spooky, isn’t it?”

  “I’m beginning to regret leaving my gun back at the condo,” I said.

  A few minutes later we came to the end of the road, which split in two at right angles just before some sand dunes. A sign with an arrow pointing to the right said “Shoals Club”. Alice pointed down the road to the left.

  “Alt, do you see that old house, the one all by itself at the end?”

  It was a large, three-story structure that fronted the Atlantic Ocean. It was getting dark, but even from a distance I could tell it was weatherbeaten.

  “What about it?”

  “Ashleigh Harper lives there.”

  I momentarily drew a blank.

  “She wrote To Bury a Turtle Dove,” Alice prompted. “She’s been in all the papers lately.”

  “Oh, yes, she just published a sequel, didn’t she? After 40 years, or something.”

  “Yes. I just bought it. The Lighthouse Chronicles.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “Haven’t started it yet. Reviews are mixed. But I’ll withhold judgment. Probably anything would pale in comparison to her first book, which was a masterpiece. Almost required reading for kids in high school, because of its environmental theme. I bet I’m not the only one who cried at the scene where the developers destroy those nests.”

  “I remember. It was a combination Silent Spring and Bambi.”

  “You read Turtle Dove?”

  “Saw the movie, too. But I didn’t cry.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I don’t know. I was in grammar school.”

  “You cried.”

  I laughed.

  “Well, I may have sniffled a bit when the developers plowed over the nests with the new chicks in them. But I thought Harper was a recluse now.”

  “Probably no more than the other permanent residents on Bald Head,” Alice said. “All 200 of them.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I read that in the Chamber of Commerce brochure. The island is pretty deserted much of the year. Harper was born in a small town in western North Carolina, but moved here after she became famous. She’s just a very private person, I guess. There were all sorts of rumors that she was an invalid, senile and the like, but apparently her publisher has insisted that she come out of her shell a bit, to prove she’s got all her faculties.”

  “Yeah. It’s hard to promote a book if the author has turned into a root vegetable.”

  Alice gave me a look.

  “Anyway,” she said, “there is even a small reception for her the day after the wedding at the Shoals Club. There is a notice in the lobby.”

  “Are you planning on going?”

  “We can’t. It’s invitation-only.”

  That made me happy, since the “we” meant I would have had to sit through a book lecture from someone older than a Galapagos turtle.

  “What a shame.”

  Alice gave me another one of her looks. Sometimes I think I say things just to get one of them. She looks so cute doing them.

  “It’s just that I’d love to see her,” she said, with a sigh. “I have an old copy of To Bury a Turtle Dove at home. I picked
it up at the Strand, second hand, years ago. I’ve read it so many times, it’s falling apart.”

  The Strand was the bookstore in Greenwich Village famous for its collection of old books, many of which now reside in my bookshelves at home. I love the place, too. Alice’s apartment is not far from it and we invariably wind up there at some point when I stay over.

  I unbent. Alice really wanted to meet Ashleigh Harper.

  “Maybe I could shoot our way in,” I suggested.

  “Save that thought.”

  Alice traversed the interior of Bald Head Island, with its twists and turns and now barely visible road signs like she was born there. I was impressed, and said so.

  “I was often lost my first day,” she said, “but once you realize all the roads basically lead to one end of the island or the other, it’s a snap, even at night. I’ve been here almost four days now.”

  Alice had spent much of the summer teaching philosophy at Duke University in Durham. We’d met at Wagner College, where she taught and coached the swim team. I’ve grown to admire her mind, but I have to admit I first admired how her body looked in a swim suit when I spotted her at the Wagner pool. She was surrounded by nubile and lithe co-ed swimmers in skin-tight racing suits, and still stood out. Our relationship has since deepened, but her body, in and out of a bathing suit, still takes my breath away. Duke was one of several top schools that have tried to steal her away from Wagner, and I’ve been a nervous wreck thinking she might move far away. So, when I found out that she had settled on Barnard College in Manhattan, I rewarded both of us with a week on Bald Head Island. She had taken a bus from Durham to Bald Head on Sunday, a trip that she described in such excruciating detail I kept my own GPS troubles to myself.

  The Shoals Club sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. It was still light enough for some beachgoers and swimmers, and a couple of kite surfers weaved in and out of the waves. There was a stiff breeze and occasionally one of them bounced high into the air. It looked like fun.

  I parked our cart in one of several small lots near the club and started to take the key out.

  “Leave it,” Alice said. “Everyone does.”

  I glanced at nearby carts. All had their keys in them. Most of the carts had names, either of their owners or presumably of the house they were garaged at, displayed on their front or rear bumpers. Many of them were decked out with ornaments, rear-view mirrors and decals from various sports teams. I looked back at our cart, which had no displays of any kind. Alice was right. It was classy. On the way into the club we passed a large pool adjacent to an outdoor cafe and bar. I spotted lighted tennis, badminton and bocce courts, and a horseshoe pitch. All were busy.

  The dining room inside faced the ocean and a maître d' led us to a table by the window. Laurene and her soon-to-be husband were already seated. Both rose at our approach. Laurene rushed over to me and gave me a kiss and a hug. I introduced Alice to her.

  “Jesus, Alice, you are gorgeous,” Laurene said. “No wonder I couldn’t seduce Alton. Tried like hell.”

  Alice laughed.

  “Piece of cake,” she said.

  Barry looked a bit confused, but was smiling. He knew he was getting a firecracker. And he knew Laurene’s history. Nothing could surprise him.

  Laurene introduced him and we sat. I had never met Barry Lewinsohn in person, though we’d spoken on the phone. He was a short, balding, bespectacled fellow who could have afforded to lose a few pounds, but he had a pleasant, intelligent face. He was also very rich and adored Laurene. I knew he had a good heart; he was not only supporting her mother in a nursing home but was so appalled by conditions there that he spent his own money fixing the place up for all its residents. When I found that out, I’d told him he was giving Wall Street a bad name.

  We ordered drinks, and the women put their heads together to talk about the wedding.

  “I can’t tell you how much it means to Laurene, and me, that you are giving her away,” Barry said. “We don’t have any secrets from each other. I know how you two met.”

  I told him how amused the Rahms were about the whole situation.

  “You don’t burn any bridges behind you, do you, Alton?”

  “No Russian bridges, anyway.”

  “I understand one of the Russians came in handy when you helped Laurene out last year.”

  “Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to tell Barry just how useful Maks Kalugin had been. It might have ruined his dinner. “Very handy.”

  Our drinks came, and then we ordered from a menu that was heavy with local seafood. I suspected that I was in for a week of snapper and grouper, so I opted for a Porterhouse steak, as did Barry. The ladies had fish. Barry insisted on buying some expensive champagne, and who was I to object? Champagne goes with everything and anything. Barry and I talked politics and sports, and found very few things we agreed about on either subject, which made for an enjoyable time. By the time dessert came — Alice and Laurene insisted on trying something called “Warm Pina Colada Bread Pudding” — Barry and I were pretty good friends.

  The ladies had apparently exhausted wedding and weekend topics because Laurene turned to Barry.

  “Alice tells me that she’d like to get into the reception for Ashleigh Harper on Sunday. You can help her out can’t you?”

  “Sure, no problem, honey.”

  “I thought it was invitation-only,” Alice said.

  “It is,” Barry said. “I’ll get you a couple of invitations.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “It will just take a phone call,” Barry said. “Godfrey Benedetto, a guy who works for me, does investment banking for Albatross House, Harper’s publisher.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Alice said.

  “Be my pleasure. Albatross isn’t in the best financial shape. They were having a hell of a time raising money to keep afloat. Godfrey pulled a rabbit out of a hat for them. They owe him big time.”

  “I hear they are making good money with the new Harper book,” I said. “Alice told me they had an initial print run of two million copies.”

  “They need a couple more home runs like that before they are out of the woods,” Barry said. “Albatross is like all the old-line publishing houses. Amazon is eating their lunch with ebooks and the Kindle.”

  “I have a Kindle,” Alice said. “And I also read ebooks on my iPad. But I still like print books. I’ll buy a copy of Lighthouse at the reception. I hope I can get her to sign it. I only wish I had brought my copy of Turtle Dove. She might have signed that, too.”

  “Don’t worry about buying her new book, Alice,” Barry said. “I’ll make sure the people running the reception know who got you the invite. They’ll comp your copies, and there shouldn’t be any trouble about an autograph.”

  “That’s not necessary, Barry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They will think it is.”

  CHAPTER 4 - HOOKER BRIDESMAIDS

  I had hoped to sleep in the next morning, but Alice had other plans. Those plans included something called “cardio-tennis’, which did not sound very promising for someone, like me, who was nursing a mild hangover. Alice had looked her usual chipper self when she bounded into our bedroom decked out in a white tennis outfit and batting a racket against her hand. She was wearing a light-blue bandana around her forehead.

  “Let’s go, sleepyhead,” she said.

  “I didn’t bring a tennis racket,” I said hopefully.

  “I’ve arranged one for you with Jeff. There’s coffee and juice in the kitchen. Please hurry up, we have a 9 AM game. It will be fun. It will get the cobwebs out.”

  The next thing I knew I was riding a bike, rather unsteadily, to the tennis facility at the club, where we joined a group of tennis buffs awaiting the lesson. Half of them were bouncing up and down on their feet in anxious anticipation. I did not take that as a hopeful sign.

  Jeff turned out to be a tanned tennis instructor of almost limitless enthusiasm, similar to that of the Japanes
e guards who forced their prisoners to build the Bridge over the River Kwai. He had the group — 20 of us — break down into teams of two. Then, he stood near the net and hit a ball to one team, which then played it across to another until one team won the point. That seemed simple enough. Except that the winning team then was required to sprint, at full speed, to the other side of the court to face a fresh pair. There were soon no fresh pairs, since after about 15 minutes everyone had sprinted around the court at least twice. This went on, nonstop, for a solid hour. Jeff, who barely moved, looked cool and collected. He kept up a steady patter of encouragement, urging us on to faster court changes, and alternating his serves with line drives and drop shots, just to keep us on our toes, or in my case, occasionally flat on my face.

  It was hot, and we were soon all soaked with perspiration. I surveyed our little band. I appeared to be the oldest in a group that had several teen-agers, who, though dripping with sweat, were having a swell time. I did not see any senior citizens. I presume they would have to rename the lesson “cardiac-tennis” for that age group.

  I’m in pretty good shape. I run, swim and work out regularly at the gym. But after about 10 minutes I was seriously thinking about killing Jeff. The cobwebs had been replaced by spots drifting in my vision, some of which resembled tennis balls.

  “What are you swinging at?” Alice said at one point after we were trounced in an early game.

  But plenty of water and Gatorade was available and I soon got my legs. Alice and I began winning more than we were losing and by the end of the lesson Jeff praised us as one of the better teams. But I noticed that no one was bouncing up and down on their feet anymore, and I still wanted to find out where he lived so I could kill him later.

  Afterward, we went up to a small terrace that had a serving bar and we ordered banana-and-strawberry smoothies. I’m not a fan of smoothies, but I think the one I had saved my life. Then we rode our bikes back to the condo to shower. The rehearsal party for the wedding was scheduled for 7 PM. Alice’s plan for the rest of the day included shopping in the trendy boutiques in the marina area, lunch and then a long, languorous afternoon on the beach. I liked that plan. After cardio-tennis, anything short of the Bataan Death March would be welcome. I’m sure that was Alice’s intention. Torture me first, then I’d be putty in her hands.