Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (3 page)

A tech headed down the driveway pushing an ambulance gurney with a black zippered body bag belted on top.

“I don’t think confidentiality matters anymore,” Ransom said.

How sad for Leo. His dreams, his ambitions, his secrets, all zipped up and rolled away by a stranger. “The Shelter Initiative was Leo’s project. He was forming a committee to build a new homeless shelter program for the county.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“Yes. He was hosting a breakfast to garner support, but only for select members of the board. Very hush-hush.”

“Why would a homeless shelter be top secret?”

“Not top secret, exactly. Think of the Ballantyne board as kids on a playground, and no one chose Leo for their team. Committees would form and he wouldn’t get asked to join them. It’s not that he wasn’t good, but that his personality sometimes got in his way.”

“So the Shelter Initiative was going to change that?”

“Definitely. He came to me with the idea. It was excellent. Thoughtful, compassionate, fiscally sound. Do you have any idea how many families on this island are homeless? They lose a single paycheck, and they’re in serious trouble. Lose two in a row, and suddenly they have no place to live, no place to go, even for a night, shuffling from church to church, relying on the kindness of strangers. This Initiative would save more than their lives, it would save their hope.”

“And this morning’s meeting?”

“Leo didn’t want anyone to find out about his idea and take it away from him. He needed allies on the board to support him. With their backing, he’d announce the Initiative at the board meeting tomorrow.”

“I see. Do you know who was supposed to be here?”

I shook my head. Leo didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. I hadn’t planned to be there when the guests arrived. Just get the diorama displayed and then zip over to the Big House.

Ransom pulled a clear evidence sleeve from his jacket and set it on the dusty patio table. A torn sheet of paper lay encased inside, ripped into ragged pieces. Several splotched in blood, including the one with my signature clearly legible beneath Leo’s.

“That’s the committee form,” I said.

“I found it under Leo’s body.”

Based on the rips and bloodstains, someone wasn’t happy about the form. Someone on the board? Someone who killed Leo? Ransom watched me while I fingered the plastic sleeve. My nerves started to itch. His demeanor had been slowly devolving from warm to cool and I was beginning to understand why. I think he was interrogating me.

Ransom resumed his notebook knee tapping. “I understand you worked closely with Lieutenant Sullivan. Some sort of unlicensed private investigative work.”

“You make it sound illegal and insignificant. Besides, one does not have to be licensed to gossip. You’d have to arrest the whole island.”

More silence.

“I make discreet inquiries,” I said. “Perfectly legal ones designed to keep minor misdeeds from clogging up the police files.”

Ransom raised an eyebrow.

“Look, I don’t need your approval.” My heart skipped two beats. With Lieutenant Sullivan gone, maybe I did need his approval. I needed some kind of advisor to sign off on my work.

I sat up straight, confident. “I’m good at what I do, and I’m quite professional.”

He glanced at my hat. “Do you always get this dressed up for a breakfast meeting?”

“I was here to set up the meeting, not attend it.”

He nodded and sat back against the cushion. Which was coating his expensive suit with garden grit, I hoped. “Maybe you weren’t the first to find Hirschorn dead. Maybe you were the last to see him alive.”

Heat rushed up my neck straight to my face so fast, it felt like a hot flash. “Me? That’s crazy. I did not kill Leo Hirschorn and rage through his house. Some hotshot investigator you are. Do I look like a lunatic?”

He glanced at my hat again.

I flipped up the brim on my fisherman’s hat with a flourish. “It’s an island.” To think I once let him get to third base. “Are we finished? Leo was a colleague and I certainly can’t just chat away while he’s dead in the driveway.”

I stood. He nodded. I left.

“Don’t get involved, Lisbon,” he called out when I reached the walk. “This isn’t one of your
discreet inquiries
.”

I lifted my hand up without turning around. I had no desire to play Catwoman to his Batman. But I did wish I’d taken a shower and worn a pair of pants without an elastic waistband.

I stalked down the driveway and saw Corporal Parker and a technician standing by the Mini, clearly waiting for me.

“The Lieutenant asked me to search your car,” Parker said. She had the good grace to look embarrassed as my jaw unhinged.

“Search my car? You want to search my car? Do you have a warrant?”

“Do I need one?” Ransom asked from behind me.

I whirled around and faced him with both hands on my hips. “I’m just wondering how serious a suspect you think I am. Did you get a judge involved in this ridiculous notion?”

He stared at me and I stared back.

“No warrant,” Ransom finally said.

I turned to Parker. “Have at it. Then I’d like to leave.”

I felt Ransom move behind me; his arm brushed against mine.

He leaned in close and whispered, “As long as you don’t leave the island without telling me. First.”

THREE

Monday morning bloomed sunny and clear, the perfect day to launch my two-pronged plan: forget Nick Ransom by ignoring him, and remember Leo Hirschorn by having another member lead the Shelter Initiative in his honor.

Normally I’d ride my bike over to the Big House, but today was the first board meeting of the new season and I was wearing my good clothes: a dobby voile blouse with three-quarter ruffle sleeves and blue cuffed capris. I didn’t want to risk a wipeout and show up with ripped pants and bloody palms. Of course, my bike is a three-wheeler, but it wouldn’t be the first time I tipped over.

The side lot was jammed full, so I parked near the front walk. Probably the largest turnout for a board meeting since we stopped serving liquor three years ago. Officially, there are seventeen seats on the board; unofficially, the Foundation needs only seven members for a quorum. However, with the news of Leo’s murder spreading faster than warm honey on a hot biscuit, you can bet every seat would be filled. 

I waved to Zibby Archibald, the oldest member of the board at eighty-seven. She wore a lovely wide-brimmed hat with flowers around the rim. I’m pretty sure it was on backward. The bow faced front with the ribbon tails hanging down, one over each eyeball.

I opened the heavy door and headed to my office at the back of the house. Mr. Ballantyne converted the music room when he officially gave me the directorship eight years ago. I loved the high ceiling and tall windows with white plantation shutters. A vase of pink hydrangeas and soft yellow roses as big as softballs sat center on my desk. The gardener delivered fresh flowers to my office every Monday morning.

I sank into my chair just as Carla Otto, Ballantyne head chef and resident mother hen, walked in carrying a platter of fluffy croissants with blackberry jam, sweet butter, and a large sprig of plump red grapes. She believed in infusing her food with both love and soul. I’ve eaten her pastries and I can say it works.

She handed me a plate and a tall glass of Pepsi. “Good Lord, woman, did you see the parlor?” Carla asked.

“I know! I’m expecting bedlam.” I took a bite of croissant. Soft flakes rained down on a small stack of messages piled on my desk. I brushed them off and took a quick peek. Mostly calls regarding Leo Hirschorn—his murder and the seat he left vacant on the board. Including one from a reporter at the
Islander Post
. Probably needed a quote from Mr. Ballantyne. Nothing that couldn’t wait. “What have you heard so far?”

“Wait for me,” Tod said as he crossed from the doorway to my desk. He slathered a croissant with butter and jam, then settled into the chair across from me. “Okay, go.”

“You first, Elli, you were there,” Carla said.

I told them a quick version of the events from Leo’s house: the mess, the murder, and the missing Bebe.

“I hadn’t heard that yet. Where exactly was she, if she wasn’t home with her husband?” Carla said.

“With somebody else’s husband?” Tod asked. “Kidnapped for ransom? Hiding in Switzerland? Buried in the backyard?”

“Easy, Clouseau. I sat in that backyard,” I said and shuddered. “I can’t believe I found Leo.”

“Well, you almost didn’t,” Carla said. “Joey dropped off the fruit from Fresh Market this morning, said he saw Tim Hanson at the Gullah Café for Sunday brunch. Tim works for Palmetto Propane and was supposed to drop off a tank for Leo at six, but was running late. Could’ve been him to find Leo dead in the den.”

For most, living on an island means natural gas is a luxury. For Sea Pine Island, it’s non-existent. If you want to cook on a gas stove, you need propane.

“Why was Tim there so early in the morning?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” Carla said.

Tod glanced at his watch. “Elli, we’d better get to the meeting. Jane’s liable to lock us out.”

“Not today,” I said. Leo worked his butt off for the Shelter Initiative and I was getting it on the agenda.

Carla went to the kitchen and I followed Tod into the parlor, the formal boardroom in the Big House. Sixteen men and women mingled near a dark oval table in the center. Its polished wood surface gleamed smooth as glass. It had intricately carved feet and matching high-backed chairs with silk cushions. The last few members quickly took their seats.

Jeremy Turco sat midway down the table. The youngest member of the board, but with the oldest money. Like before they printed it on paper.

Chas Obermeyer sat at the far end of the table. He worked at Charter Bank, Vice President of something. He was good-looking in an aging ex-Prom King sort of way. Wavy blond hair, but thinning on top; wide shoulders, but a doughy middle.

Deidre Burch chose a chair on the right side of the table. She had a bouncy gray bob and kept a pair of orange reading glasses on a beaded string around her neck.

And Jane Hatting, she of the flaming Godzilla firestorm, towered at the head of the long table wearing a tailored pantsuit in a striking shade of fuchsia. She wore a flower pin on her lapel and pearls around her neck.

Every seat was filled, save Leo Hirschorn’s. I remembered Jane’s threat of sitting a new board at this meeting and wondered if she knew something I didn’t.

I sat in my usual armchair just behind Jane to the left; Tod sat in his on the right. We weren’t actually on the board. We were more like observers. Or, as with our party hosting duties, referees. I took a deep swig of Pepsi and prepared for Jane’s opening remarks. I wasn’t sure if she would assume her usual acerbic attitude or opt for some measure of grief over Leo’s death. However, I was so ill-prepared for the boundless joyful song that sprung from her lips, I snorted Pepsi up my nose in an attempt to avoid spitting it across her backside. Carbonation bubbles dribbled down my throat. I coughed and Tod thumped my back as if I was a child choking on a chicken bone.

All the while, Miss Sunshine pattered on, her voice so cheery, I expected blue birds to dance above her head. “—this  glorious day. I’m excited to seat some fresh new blood. Shall we begin?”

Fifteen faces stared silently at this creature in a bright pink suit.

“What have you been drinking?” Jeremy Turco said.

“So, I’m in a good mood. It happens. No need for a roll call, I see we’re all here,” Jane said. She flipped open a wide leather portfolio. Humming.

“Oh no, dear, poor Leo isn’t here,” Zibby said and adjusted her backwards hat.

“Nope. I guess he won’t be getting his seat renewed,” Jane replied. “Now, any nominations? I have a short list prepared.”

“Jesus, Jane. That’s cold, even for you,” Chas Obermeyer said.

“Maybe we should say something about Leo first,” Zibby said.

“Like who killed the man,” Deidre Burch chimed in, her readers now perched on her head. “Anyone know who did the deed? You’re looking particularly chipper, Chas.”

“Yeah, and you’re a little green, Deidre,” Chas replied, sounding even more like an old football star, biting back at the nerd in the class.

I put my hand up to stop the blithe banter, but Deidre interrupted me before I could speak. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, sugar. We’re all thinking somebody here is guilty.”

I dropped my hand and thought she might be right. I studied the faces around the table. Who here knew about Leo’s Shelter Initiative? Did they kill him to stop it? But why stop a homeless shelter?

“Could’ve been Leo’s wife,” Jeremy said. “He was swinging some major babe around the party. Red dress, serious arm candy, man. Definitely not Bebe Hirschorn.”

“Do you think Bebe iced him?” Zibby asked.

Several board members leaned forward. Whitney Tattersall was so transfixed, she put her elbow in a pat of soft butter.

“Well, I didn’t see Bebe at the party,” Whitney said. “Do you think she left him?”

“If she saw Leo with a babe, she would’ve been pissed,” Deidre said.

“Who wasn’t pissed at Leo?” Jane said. “He was an ass and now he’s dead. His loss, our gain. Now we can put someone more deserving on the board and I never have to see that ridiculous cowboy hat again.”

“Well, gee, Jane, tell us how you really feel,” Chas said.

“At least I’m honest.”

“But Jane, dear, the hat was part of his business,” Zibby said. “It made Buffalo Bill’s famous.”

“Oh, please. They don’t have cowboys in Hoboken,” she replied. She placed her hand on the table and cleared her throat. “Look, my concern isn’t Leo Hirschorn. Not anymore. My concern is this Foundation. Keeping it strong, keeping it focused. We need to devote our time to the important things.”

“Yes, I agree,” said Preston Wilde, a semi-retired tax attorney. He looked down his nose in disapproval. “This gossiping is highly inappropriate. We should move on.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I have an important Leo item I’d like to present. One in his honor.”

“Thank you, Preston,” Jane said, ignoring me completely. She pulled a neatly-typed agenda from her portfolio. “Finally, on to board business.”

The door swung open and Carla quietly stepped in with a wave to get my attention.

“Not now, Carla,” Jane said. “We’re in a closed-door meeting. In case you didn’t notice, what with the door closed and all.”

Carla ignored her. “I hate to interrupt, Elliott, but you’ve got visitors. The kind who carry guns.”

She stepped aside as Nick Ransom and two uniformed officers entered the room. Ransom wore his badge on his belt, his gun under his arm, and his shirt clung to his chest for dear life. He looked at me for a full five seconds and my palms started to sweat. Then he slowly surveyed the rest of the room. The bountiful breakfast, the curious upturned faces around the table, and finally, his target.

He approached Jane while the two officers remained in front of the parlor doors. They looked like sentries guarding the palace entry. “Jane Hatting?”

“Yes, I’m Jane Walcott Hatting. What can I do for you?”

“Lieutenant Ransom.” He unclipped the leather case from his belt and showed her the gold and silver shield. “I need to ask you about Leo Hirschorn. Down at the station.”

Jane didn’t so much as blink toward his badge. “As you can undoubtedly see, I am otherwise engaged. If you leave your card, I’ll have my assistant set an appointment for later this week.” She turned back to face the board.

“Ms. Hatting, I’m not asking.”

No one said a word. Every face frozen in such rapt attention, I could’ve sold popcorn and chocolates. 

“Am I under arrest?” Jane asked.

“Should you be?” Ransom said.

He reached out to take her arm, but Jane was having none of that. She whipped her arm out of his reach and her elbow smacked me right in the face.

My eyes pinched shut in pain. I saw stars. Tiny pinprick-sized glowing shooting stars.

Tod rushed over. “Elliott, are you okay?”

I nodded and held my hand over my mouth, hoping blood wasn’t dribbling onto my blouse. It cost three hundred bucks.

“I’ll get ice,” Carla said and rushed to the buffet bar in the corner.

Preston Wilde marched over. “Answer the lady’s question. Is she under arrest?”

Ransom looked down (a good foot and a half). “And you are?”

“I’m her attorney, Preston Wilde.”

Ransom raised his eyebrow at Jane. “That was fast. She’s a person of interest in the murder of Leo Hirschorn.”

Ransom nodded to one of the officers, who then stepped forward and led Jane from the room.

She didn’t say a word.

Carla handed me a napkin filled with ice cubes, which I gently placed on my face.

“Well, today sucks,” I said.

Ransom leaned down and pulled back the ice pack. His finger softly touched my cheek. “It’s only going to get worse.”