TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) (3 page)

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.”

“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.”