Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

the glass to my lips when his cell phone chirped. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and checked the incoming number. "They're early," he said, as if I'd know what he was talking about. I didn't have a clue. Who's early?
    As Jon said, "Hi, Wayne," my own phone rang. We exchanged raised-eyebrow glances. I lifted my phone from my waist band. The number seemed vaguely familiar.
    "Ashley, we need you. They're coming out tonight," said a woman with a rich Southern drawl.
    "Hi." I didn't know who I was talking to.
    "It's me. Betty."
    "Oh, Betty! Hi. Give me a minute. The music's loud in here."
    Jon held his phone to one ear, his palm cupped the other. We moved to the exit, away from the noise of the music and the crowd.
    Betty Matthews, I thought. All of a sudden I knew why she was calling and what Jon had meant when he'd told me, "They're early." Turtles don't generally hatch until September, and this was still August.
    Betty said, "Tonight's the night. We need your help. On the beach in front of Gordon Cushman's house. That doggone fool's got every doggone light in his house turned up megawatt high. Wayne's on his way up there now to read him the riot act, and trying to reach Jon Campbell at the same time. Can we count on you?"
    "Jon's here with me. We'll be right there. We're not far."
    "We're on our way," Jon told Wayne.
    Then we exchanged grins, joined hands, and sprinted to his vehicle. "Turtle watch!" we sang as we jumped in.
    He sped over the bridge that crossed Banks Channel, turned left onto Lumina Avenue, then topped the speed limit all the way to Gordon's house. It was well after midnight and there wasn't any traffic. If one of the Wrightsville cops stopped us, he'd be sure to give us a police escort when we explained our mission. On our own, we made it in two minutes flat.
    "Here, take these." Jon unloaded flashlights and two broad industrial brooms from the back of the Escalade.
    We scooted around the side of the house and waded through the sand to the boardwalk. The beach-side lights had been extinguished. From the top of the boardwalk, I spotted Betty and Wayne Matthews down on the beach. I practically skipped down the steps, realizing I'd been humming a tune Daddy used to sing, Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile. It felt good to be doing something useful.
    "I thought Cushman would never come to the door," Wayne complained as we crossed the sand toward him. "He's wasn't asleep. Had every doggone light on in there and outside as well. Place was lit up like a landing pad."
    "We're gonna have to help them," Betty said as we joined her and Wayne on the strand.
    I looked up into the night sky and saw why. Cloud cover. The moon slipped in and out of dense clouds. And no stars. Jon quickly flicked his flashlight over a spot in the sand marked with yellow flags. "There's the depression. They're moving around down there, starting to dig out. The sand's shifting downward." He switched the beam off.
    "Okay, let's all get into position," Betty directed. "Wayne, you take the big flashlight and go down to the water's edge. Shine it across the strand, aim the light up here at me. Ashley and Jon, start sweeping. Go, people!" Even as she spoke, Betty was smoothing the sand in front of the nest, clearing the runway.
    Jon and I took our brooms and ran toward the water, smoothing the sand as we went. Something as small as a human footprint could trap a baby turtle.
    "Val should be here with us," I said.
    "I miss her too, Ashley," he replied, sharing my pain.
    "Here they come!" Betty called.
    More than a hundred baby loggerheads, each no larger than a man's thumb, scrambled out of the nest in what is called "the frenzy" and began their life and death race toward the brightest horizon. This should always be the tide, lit up by moon and stars, but with man's encroachment, on overcast nights turtles often confused the bright lights of cottages and street lamps for the ocean.
    Jon and I were positioned on either side of the runway. We'd swept an obstacle-free path for their escape. Our presence would keep raccoons and other predators away. Wayne held his beam steady, and the first of the marathon runners scrambled swiftly past our feet, heading straight for Wayne's light and the ocean beyond. A hundred or more hatchlings followed in one surge, crawling over each other in their haste.
    Sand near my foot dimpled. A crab. He peeped out of his hole. An early breakfast, he supposed. I moved a warning