Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (27 page)

I had to get out of there quick. I didn’t need a protective mother asking too many questions. The DVD wasn’t part of the wreckage, but sooner or later the police would want it back. “As soon as she gets here, you call the police. Lock the door behind her and wait for them. Do not go back in there, okay? The police will handle everything.”

I walked to the door. “You’ll be okay. What does your mom drive?”

“A tan Cadillac,” she said. “And thanks. Brooke’s mom would’ve totally freaked out when we opened her door.” I hugged her and left. I heard the deadbolt engage behind the door and hustled down to my car. I threw it into drive and whipped a U-turn in the street.

I waited until I saw her mom pull up out front, then I drove over the Talmadge Bridge like a bat out of hell.

TWENTY-SIX

I drove through Hardee’s for a western bacon cheeseburger and a Pepsi to eat in the car as I zipped back to the island. I dripped bbq sauce into my lap, but I didn’t care. I dialed information and the operator connected me to the M.E.’s office.

“Fleet,” Harry groused into the phone.

“Harry, it’s Elliott Lisbon. I think I found another murder, connected to Leo Hirschorn’s. An actress out of Savannah. But I need your help.”

“What the hell does an actress have to do with the Hirschorn case? Was she hit over the head with a trophy, too?”

“Leo interviewed her before he died. Now she’s dead. Run off the road four days ago. They’re connected, I just know it.”

“I’m busy, Lisbon. Got enough troubles without having to track down more, especially a car accident out of Savannah. Have you seen my office? I got more paperwork in here than the damn IRS.”

“Athens, Harry, not Savannah. She was up at the University. Please, please, can you at least make one small tiny phone call and find out what really happened? Come on, Harry, her bedroom was ransacked just like Leo’s house, and then some mysterious unnamed driver runs her off the road and kills her? It sounds suspicious, right?”

He didn’t answer me, but he didn’t hang up, either.

“I’ll owe you.”

“You already owe me, Lisbon.”

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel as I sped over the bridge onto the island. “Come on, Harry, it’s one call. It’s the missing piece. I’m telling you her room was ripped to shreds, not just tossed. It was destroyed.”

I heard papers shuffle on his desk. He grumbled something that sounded like “bust my chops” and “goddamn bellyache.” Then he sighed. “Give me the name. I’ll call if I run out of things to do. But no promises and don’t bug me.”

“Thanks, Harry. The name’s Brooke Norman, killed this past Sunday in Athens. That’s all I know.” I gave him my cell number and begged him to call back as soon as he heard.

I called Ransom. It rolled straight to voicemail.

“Nick, it’s Elliott. I think I’ve found something on Leo’s death. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s important.” I clicked off and called the Island Police station.

Ransom was out and Parker had the day off. The desk sergeant wouldn’t give me her home number, so I left a similar message on her voicemail in case she called in. This whole thing with Brooke might be nothing, but after the red VW disaster, I wasn’t taking any chances.

I pulled into my driveway, dashed inside, threw my handbag on the counter, and put the DVD in the player. I fiddled with the remote until I could find the right channel for it to play.

I watched Jenna’s interview first. She was right, nothing much happened and it lasted all of twelve minutes. Then a bright young girl’s face popped up on the picture. The camera loved her. She had soft brown hair that fell just past her shoulders. She wore it parted on the side with a leather clip in her hair. Her shirt was pink with brown suede fringe and she held a matching cowboy hat in her hand.

I couldn’t see Leo, but I heard him. It was haunting to hear his voice, strong and booming. No hint that in a few weeks’ time he’d be dead. Or a week after that, this lovely girl sitting in front of him would be dead, too.

Leo started the audition by telling Brooke about his plans for a mock Price is Right game show commercial. They chatted back and forth for about twenty minutes, comparing their favorite episodes and prizes, different ideas on how to incorporate the western theme into the show.

Then Leo asked about her experience. “Why don’t you tell me all about yourself there, darlin’. What kind of experience you have with makin’ commercials?”

“Why, all kinds,” she said in a lilting southern drawl. “I starred in a bunch of commercials last year. One was for a new wireless service, I played a waitress in a coffee shop who used her phone to find a better job. It ran for almost six months. I’ve also been in movies. I was an extra for
Sweet Home Alabama
. They filmed up near Rome, Georgia, just north of Atlanta. I was just a little girl then, barely a teenager. But my mama loves Reese Witherspoon and drove me all the way from Mobile to see her. That’s when I first fell in love with acting.”

“Have you done much modeling or improv work? As a product model on the game show, you won’t need to say much, just an occasional squeal as you show off prizes.”

“Oh sure. I had one job for an infomercial, for a company called Humanitarian something. I played a teacher to help poor kids in Africa, showed programs and brochures with kids living in crooked shacks on mounds of trash. I had to stay in character for the whole interview from the time I got out of my car until I left. Then there was another job where I wore a nun costume, it was hotter than a—”

“Wait, go back a second,” Leo interrupted. “What was that about being a teacher in Africa?”

I held my breath as the hairs on my arm prickled with goose bumps, afraid to hear her answer.

“It was for a charity school in Africa, but we filmed it in Atlanta. In a fancy boardroom full of people, talking about how these poor kids had tiny classrooms and no supplies. I didn’t have many lines. But I showed them all the pamphlets, passed around schoolbooks, stuff like that. The coordinator lady thought I was a natural.” Brooke laughed. “Of course, she had no idea I was a professional.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, one day my boyfriend called up. His roommate’s girlfriend got appendicitis only days before the shoot. The coordinator was pitchin’ a fit because she needed a replacement, but it couldn’t be anyone professional, had to be a student with no acting ambitions.” Brooke leaned forward. “You know on infomercials, they don’t want the audience to recognize an actor, ruins the whole sales pitch. Here you think some nice lady bought a whole set of knives, and she’s really just a plant. So anyway, my boyfriend and I pretend I’m just his small town girlfriend still living in Mobile.”

“How very clever of you, little darlin’! Can you tell me anything else about this meeting?”

She tilted her head and tapped her index finger against her cheek. Then she smiled like a teacher’s pet with the right answer. “Well, did you ever see that movie Slumdog Millionaire? The one where they play the Who Wants to be a Millionaire game in Africa? The pictures in the brochures looked just like that place. There was one of a little boy holding an old can of beans. So sad.”

“Do you remember the coordinator lady’s name by chance?”

“Reba, I think. She was very beautiful, hair all the way to her waist.”

“Could it have been Reena? Reena Patel?”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember. Oh God, do you know her?” Brooke’s eyes went wide and her face dropped. “You’re not going to tell her I’m a real actor are you? She might make me give the money back and I already spent it.”

“No, no darlin’, don’t you worry about a thing. This won’t cost you anything,” Leo assured her.

Only your life, I thought.

I hit pause and sank into the couch. This DVD wasn’t just a missing puzzle piece, it was the picture on the damn box.

Not a teacher in Africa, but one in India. Mumbai, to be exact. I’d bet dollars to donuts the boardroom Brooke mentioned was at the Lafferty Foundation. And I’d also bet Leo thought the same thing. As a board member, he would’ve interviewed Reena about Mumbai Humanitarian before the first meeting—before the May Bash, before he was murdered.

But what did it mean? Was Reena boosting her credentials? The Lafferty had a very rigorous approval process and would’ve insisted on meeting Reena’s teachers. Probably cheaper to hire an actress for the day than to fly a real one to the states from India. Especially a nice southern girl who would say exactly what Reena wanted her to. No need to worry about a real teacher accidentally blabbing about using grant funds for teachers instead of students. Fancy dinners, flying first class, luxury accommodations. If Reena was hiding teachers, she could be hiding anything. I knew I wasn’t crazy for hating her.

If the folks at the Lafferty discovered the Mumbai meeting was nothing more than theatre, they would cancel the grant faster than they could draft the paperwork. Then sue the crap out of her. Damages, fraud, and every penny they originally gave her. Plus, Reena would be blacklisted. No other foundation, including the Ballantyne, would even speak to her, much less consider a grant application. As a board member, Leo knew the impact of this kind of information. Did he tell her about the video? Blackmail her? He was certainly desperate for money to save Buffalo Bill’s. 

I stared at Brooke’s smiling face on my TV. Shit, Leo, what did you do?

TWENTY-SEVEN

I ejected the DVD and popped it back into its case. I grabbed my notebook, handbag, and keys, and left through the garage. Then I stopped.

I didn’t want to keep the DVD with me. What if I lost it or something happened to it? I dashed back inside. But where to hide it? I stuck it in the freezer behind the block of frozen dinners. I was halfway out the door when another thought hit me. Does temperature affect discs? I quickly plucked it from the freezer. I needed a new spot. Cereal box? Underwear drawer? Linen closet? I ended up stashing it in my printer, beneath the stack of paper in the paper tray.

I ran over to Ransom’s house and knocked on his door. No answer. I peeked in the window. The place looked dark and deserted. I ran back to the Mini and sped out of Oyster Cove with no real destination in mind. I left another voicemail on Ransom’s cell. Seriously, the man hounds me for days and then won’t return my calls even though I used the words “urgent,” “important,” and “for shit’s sake, call me already.”

I jumped onto Cabana Boulevard heading south, piecing together my theory. Reena Patel killed Leo Hirschorn in a blackmail scheme gone awry. In a freak act of serendipity, Leo discovers Reena used fake teachers to get the Lafferty grant. He demands money in exchange for silence, maybe even offers to secure the Ballantyne grant. She denies his outrageous claims, but Leo explains the audition with Brooke Norman and Reena wants proof. She sees the video with Brooke, recognizes her as the student she hired, and freaks.

But the video isn’t exactly ironclad. Brooke never mentions Reena’s name or even Mumbai, repeatedly saying the children of Africa. The only solid clue is a description of a picture on a brochure of a boy playing with a can of beans. And I couldn’t even be sure she meant the same one. I decided to visit Reena’s office and see the painting again, maybe pick up some new reading material, and for the first time in my life, hope the lady in question was off gallivanting with Nick Ransom.

About the time I pulled into the parking lot for Mumbai Humanitarian, the skies let loose with a deluge of rain. Thick heavy drops spattered my windshield and within ten seconds, rain fell with the intensity of Victoria Falls, buckets of water cascading straight down in solid sheets.

I parked as close to the door as I could get. I grabbed my umbrella from behind my seat. I hopped out and ran to the entrance, flying through the glass door and skidding across the marble floor. I shook myself off, tucked the umbrella in a corner by the door, and climbed the stairs. I plastered on a big fake smile, the one I reserve for Ballantyne functions when the night has dragged on too long and the guests are reluctant to leave.

Shania, the receptionist, quickly shut her book when I entered.

“Hi Shania, I’m Elliott Lisbon with Ballantyne Foundation.”

She looked at me blankly and tapped her pencil.

“I’m working on Reena’s grant application?”

Still no recognition. Okay, then. “Is Reena in?”

“No, ma’am. She’s out until tomorrow. You want an appointment?”

My fake smile turned genuine and I was giddy with relief. “No, no. I can catch up with her later. Maybe you can help me. Do you have any brochures about the program, something I can read over and stick in the file?”

She nodded and walked into Reena’s office. While she was gone, I spun around and examined the picture on the wall. I stubbed my toe on the coffee table and almost fell over. The picture was just as I remembered it: piles of garbage, lopsided shanties, and a little boy in a dirt road holding a can of green beans. I quickly snapped a picture with my cell phone. Shania returned a millisecond later.

“This is quite compelling,” I said and pointed to the picture on the wall.

“Oh yeah. Disgusting, right? Who wants to live like that?”

Nobody, I thought. That’s the point.

She handed me a thin color pamphlet with the same picture of the little boy on front. It was narrow, with only two slim pages on the inside and information on back. No pictures of Brooke, but there were other teachers. It wouldn’t have really mattered, most brochures are staged anyway. I tapped it on my hand and racked my brain for more questions. I glanced at the teacher on the inside.

“Do you have a list of teachers you currently employ?” If I could prove she hired Brooke, some kind of record to tie them together, I’d have her for sure.

Shania nodded, but looked uncertain, almost nervous. “Yes, but I’d have to check with Ms. Patel on that. She keeps all the records private. Why would you need something like that?”

I backtracked, trying not to arouse her suspicions. “Oh, just part of the evaluation. See how many teachers on staff, that kind of thing,” I said casually and smiled.

She picked up her book, but continued to stare at me.

“Well, thank you for this.” I waved the brochure and left. I clattered down the stairs. The rain had lightened for the moment, but my umbrella was missing from where I’d left it in the lobby. Crap. The rain wasn’t
that
light. And who steals an umbrella?

I ducked my head, sprinted to my car, and dove into the front seat. I cranked the engine and drove out to Cabana Boulevard. After three miles of aimless driving, I pulled into a deserted parking lot next to Captain Blackbeard’s Mini Golfland.

I studied the Mumbai Humanitarian pamphlet closely, looking for any clue possible. Nothing seemed unusual or suspicious. At least it had stayed dry in my handbag.

What else did I know about Reena? Not much. I’d barely even looked at her file. Which I’d left back in my office. I grabbed my phone and dialed the Big House.

“Tod, who told you Reena had family money?” I asked when he answered the phone. But then I realized he hadn’t answered, it was his voicemail. Where the shit is everybody today, I thought, as I waited for Tod to finish his oration on leaving a message.

I heard the beep and repeated my question about her family money, then added strict instructions. “Call and verify this information, Tod. Don’t just take their word for it, get somebody else’s word for it, too. This is important,” I stressed.

Then I called Jeremy Turco, the youngest member of the Ballantyne board. During the board meeting, he made an obscure comment about seeing Leo dance with a lady in a red dress. I was betting it was a Hot Damn! dress.