TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) Read Free Page A

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