Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (6 page)

I savored every morsel of that little delicacy. Two more remained and I wondered if I should have another. Seemed rude not to. However, I did refrain from licking the plate.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Lisbon?” He set aside the small plate and selected a particularly large chef’s knife from a rack. He sharpened the smooth blade, swiftly scraping it against a steel rod.

“It’s about Zibby Archibald, Chef.”

The smile left his eyes. “Not a chance. You’re wasting your time and mine.” He returned the metal rod to the rack, then chose a white onion from a large bowl at the end of the island.

“But Chef, surely one small indiscretion shouldn’t result in a lifetime ban.”

“One? Ms. Lisbon, that dotty old broad has skipped out five times. Five! This year.” WHACK! He hacked the onion in two like a Samurai chef in a cooking competition.

“First, please call me Elliott.” I smiled and folded my hands on the table. “Second, Mrs. Archibald may be senior, but she’s a beloved relative of the Ballantynes.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean to be insulting. But that beloved relative will not be dining here. Ever. I’ve alerted the entire staff. The last time the hostess seated Mrs. Archibald, I was on vacation. It will not happen again.” He selected one half of the split onion, then the other, slicing them at a speed that made my fingers itch and my eyes water.

“Chef, there must be something we can do. She isn’t skipping out; she just wants to get home.” I lowered my voice. “For Jeopardy. It’s important to her.”

He scraped the diced onions into a small bowl, then grabbed another onion.

WHACK!

I backed up and leaned against the sink. “How well do you know Zibby Archibald?”

“She dyes her hair to match her clothes. Her husband died and left her a little nest egg. And, oh yeah, she likes to dine and ditch.”

“Chef, I hate to sound crass and discuss money, but Mrs. Archibald’s little nest egg could keep a small country in cheeseburgers for several years. Steaks, even. The Wharf is absolutely Zibby’s favorite restaurant. She dines here once a week.”

“Not anymore.”

“What I’m saying, Chef, is Zibby Archibald is the best advertising you have. She raves over your she-crab bisque to anyone who will listen. And she serves on a dozen boards.”

“I do a brisk business. I’ve built the Wharf into the top-rated restaurant in this state. I don’t need Zibby Archibald’s influence.” He waved his knife around. Sous chefs and prep cooks were chopping, slicing, dicing, peeling, shredding, whisking, and whipping as if the Queen were coming to dinner. “Besides, the Ballantyne isn’t what it used to be.”

“Excuse me?”

“One member is a thief, another’s dead, and your ringleader is in jail. What’s next? A counterfeit ring in the wine cellar?”

How did he hear about Jane? I mentally counted to three and forced a smile. “Jane is not in jail. And Zibby is not a thief. This is just a misunderstanding. Certainly we can find a compromise.”

He swept the loose onion bits from the table. He wiped his knife with a white cloth, then returned it to the rack. Finally, he turned toward me. “I want the Palm & Fig Ball.”

So much for distancing himself from the scandalous Ballantyne.

The Foundation hosted a lavish holiday gala each December. Renowned chefs throughout the South bid to co-cater the event and Chef Carmichael had never been selected. It was decided by committee, not me. But I suspected he knew this.

“I have no influence over the committee that chooses the chef for the Palm & Fig. Though we are hosting the Gatsby lawn party next week, benefitting the middle school. New sports equipment so everyone can play. It’s short notice—”

“Perfect,” he interrupted. “I’m honored you asked.”

“And about Zibby, your most loyal customer?”

“I cannot let her dine for free. Surely, that’s asking too much of me.”

This from the man who just asked me to leapfrog a ten-member review board and hand him the ultimate catering prize. “Of course not. She’d be happy to leave a credit card on file, you can charge her monthly. Will that work for you?”

He unfolded his arms and smiled. “Anything for the Foundation. Mrs. Archibald is welcome anytime. Now about the Gatsby lawn party, I’m available Saturday for menu planning. It will be such a delight to work with Carla again!”

“I’m sure she’ll feel the same,” I said. “Thank you, Chef, I’ll see myself out.”

I think I gave in too soon. I certainly gave up too much. What Carla would feel was so far from delight, it would take a dictionary and a picture book for her to recognize it. 

She and Chef Carmichael had a teensy tiny rivalry. It started in culinary school and escalated at a competition in New Orleans with Carla dumping a pot full of shrimp gumbo on Chef Carmichael’s head. It was neither pretty nor pleasant and I had essentially offered to host a re-match.

The sun was starting to sink when I climbed into the Mini. Okay, maybe not sink since it was not yet four o’clock, but it had definitely moved lower and I was tired and wanted to go home. I called Zibby with the good news. She was ecstatic. Maybe things were looking up.

They weren’t.

SIX

I zipped down Spy Hop Lane to my cottage. When I turned into my driveway, Ransom’s prophecy that my day would only get worse rang in my ears.

“No, no, no, no, no. No,” I said aloud.

Ransom stood in front of the house next door. He had two cardboard boxes at his feet and a moving van in the driveway.

“Maybe he’s just helping Mr. Wallaby,” I said frantically to my empty garage. “The police do that sometimes, right?” I hadn’t actually seen my neighbor, Mr. Wallaby, in weeks. This can’t be good, I thought.

I hopped out of my convertible and walked over to Ransom’s—the same slick Mercedes from Saturday’s party.

“Hey, Red,” he said, leaning against the driver’s side door, feet crossed at the ankles. A man without a care in the world. 

“Those boxes wouldn’t be for Mr. Wallaby, would they?”

Tiny lines broke out around his eyes as he smiled. “Nope. He went to live with his brother in Florida. I’m moving in.”

What’s with Florida snatching away my buffers? I’ll need to start browsing brochures for condos in Boca just to get my life back.

“But why here?”

“Oyster Cove is the perfect plantation. Close to the station, the hospital, and the airport. And it’s on the ocean.”

“Uh-huh. One in five houses on this island is vacant, including in this plantation.”

“I like having a friendly neighbor,” he said.

“You knew it was right next door to me?”

“The icing on the cake, Red. I bought it on the spot.”

“You
bought
this place?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You seemed to manage it.”

I squinted at his car again. “Beachfront property, a hundred thousand dollar car. Seems kind of steep for a cop.”

“Five hundred.”

“What?”

“The car. It was five hundred thousand. It’s a McLaren Roadster. It has a racing engine.”

Are you shitting me? “What, no Lamborghini?”

“Too splashy.”

I nodded. “Sure sure. Nothing says subdued like a Mercedes with a racing engine.”

I knew Ransom came from money—his parents were a Charleston power couple who spent Saturday afternoons at the stables, Sunday mornings at church, and Monday evenings at the club—but they didn’t rock this kind of cash. “Seriously, how can you manage this on a cop’s salary?”

“That’s rather personal, don’t you think? We should have dinner first.”

“We’re definitely not having dinner.” I watched as two large men in jeans continued to embed Nick’s life next to mine, one end table at a time. “Why are you trying to get back in my life?”

“Maybe I regret the way things ended.”

“Well, gee, Nick, do you always move this fast? It’s only been twenty years.”

“The message was the best I could do. We both knew the FBI could move me out any time. Just bad timing.”

“Whatever, I’m not pining. I barely even remember you.” Or the sound of your voice on the machine as I replayed those seven words over and over and over again.

A mover carrying a carved mahogany bedpost interrupted us. “Where does the bed go? That’s a beautiful picture window in the master bedroom. You rather it behind you, or do you want to see the beach from bed?”

My thoughts jumped right back to naked.

Ransom grinned at me and I backed up. “I’m not that friendly.”

“See you around the neighborhood,” he said as I walked away.

I hurried back to my cottage. A half-million dollar car? He truly was Bruce Wayne. Son of a bitch. I really did have to give up cupcakes.

I kicked off my shoes and fell onto my couch. How could I live next door to Nick Ransom? I couldn’t move; my cottage was perfect. Galley kitchen, living room, and half-bath downstairs; two bedrooms and a bathroom up. My parents left it to me twenty years ago, which is how
I
ended up living on the beach on an island on
my
salary.

We used to drive down from Michigan every summer. I hated the drive, but only because riding in a car for seventeen hours sucks. We stayed in Summerton, not Sea Pine, in a rental house on the May River. I would read by the riverbank while my parents championed the poor, supported the arts, and sailed the ocean blue.

My parents did their best to include me, but their complete absorption in one another before I arrived post-retirement didn’t leave much room for a third wheel. They remained devoted as love birds until mom died when I was twenty. Dad passed six months later, leaving me orphaned, debt-free, and a cottage on Sea Pine Island I didn’t even know they owned.

I stared at the shelf above the sofa. It held vintage games: wood dominoes, a Batman super-micro Bat radio, a Wonder Woman Bend ’n Flex, and a game of Clue in mint condition.

“Who - Where - How?” the Parker Brothers on the orange box asked. That’s what I needed to figure out. Forget Nick Ransom, I thought. I needed to help Jane Walcott Hatting stay out of jail.

Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear too often.

I pulled out my notebook and created a separate page for each person involved in the case. So far I had Leo, Bebe, and Jane.

Jane was my biggest problem. She was wickedly unpleasant, but that wasn’t the same as being uncontrollably violent. That required a passion I’m not sure she possessed. Mr. Ballantyne expected me to clear her, Ransom seemed determined to arrest her, and Jane could probably give a crap either way.

I spent some quality time with a bottle of Dos Equis Lager and a thin crust pizza. I checked my voicemail. Nothing from Bebe or Jane. Bebe I could understand, but not Jane. I needed to talk to her whether she wanted to or not, so I rang her again. Same result. I left a terse message and hung up the phone.

The next morning I fast-walked along the beach amidst the joggers and dog-walkers. I spent thirty minutes on the sand and returned to my cottage feeling frustrated instead of refreshed. It was already day two of my investigation and I had nothing to show for it but a string of unanswered messages and a front page headline that made me nauseous: Ballantyne Chair Questioned in Murder. Written in bold black letters with Tate Keating’s name as the byline.

I read the article with trepidation, but it turned out the headline held all of bang. Other than saying Jane was being questioned, it talked about Leo’s business, family, and work at the Foundation. I knew better than to relax. Tate’s scent for the sensational made Geraldo look like an amateur.

And Jane wasn’t helping. I decided if she ever did return my call, it would probably be from a pay phone at county lockup. Forget the phone; I needed to go to Savannah.

I sailed over the Palmetto Bridge from Sea Pine Island into Summerton at half-past ten. The tide was still high and the strong smell of the buried oyster beds blew over me as I drove, quickly evaporating as I wove through a mass of traffic, Savannah-bound sightseers off to visit the city’s historic homes, art galleries, ghost tours, and all those gardens of good and evil.

Thirty minutes later I crossed the Talmadge Memorial, a cable bridge suspended almost two hundred feet over the Savannah River. The convention center sat across the bank overlooking the waterfront shops and restaurants. I turned right onto Whitaker and made my way into downtown where the streets were paved in brick and lined with live oaks dripping tendrils of Spanish moss.

I parked on Abercorn Street, a block from the Walcott Hatting Gallery, a fixture in the neighborhood since Jane’s grandfather opened the doors in 1927. I stood outside the arched doorway, under a navy awning that faced Calhoun Square and a statue of General Oglethorpe, staring at my phone. Hoping it would ring. Parker calling to say they caught Leo’s killer. A disgruntled employee, a jealous relative, a random serial killer. Somehow a serial killer was more appealing than poking into Jane’s personal life. I was pretty sure Jane would agree.

I shoved my silent phone into my pocket and entered the main gallery room. Fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, it resembled a turn of the century sitting room. One in a really big house. Petite settees and wing chairs were grouped down the  center of the room, facing walls decorated with heavy silk wallpaper. Paintings (of both the heirloom and local artist variety) covered nearly every inch of paper. Armoires, writing desks, and antique tables held valuable antiquities: jewel boxes, Fabergé eggs, first edition leather bound books, and porcelain plates.

No one greeted me, so I wandered through the auction area and eventually found Jane in a back workshop stuffed with old sewing machines. She wore paint-stained cargoes and a light denim smock. I couldn’t have been more surprised if I found her naked. And she seemed pleased to see me, too.

“What the hell are you staring at?”

“I’m not staring, just admiring your outfit.” Add some yellow rubber gloves and a bandana and she’d be perfect for a 1950’s Pledge ad.

“I’m supposed to clean all this machinery in a silk suit?” She continued to scrub an old black Singer sewing machine. Its golden decals shone under her polishing. The bobbin looked brand new. At least I think it was a bobbin. It’s the only technical sewing language I know.

“These seem a little street for your swanky shop.”

She glanced at me. “I’m surprised you know the difference. They belonged to one of my father’s first patrons. I’m doing a favor for the family, raising money for the ladies guild she founded. Coincidentally, these same ladies will be the ones purchasing.” She went back to polishing. “Are you here to discuss my business or apologize for the headline in this morning’s paper?”

“Neither. I didn’t write the headline.”

“I believe ‘media’ falls under your job as director. You’re supposed to keep the reporters from slinging mud at the Ballantyne walls.”

“I’m working on it. I have many duties as director. Like helping with Leo’s murder. What happened at the police station?”

Jane barked out a laugh. “Jesus, Elliott, you can’t be serious. Edward said something about getting you involved or some such nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. And yes, Mr. Ballantyne asked me to look into Leo’s death.”

“What does it matter? Whoever killed him did the Foundation a favor.” She rubbed the same spot so hard, I thought she might sear through the enamel finish and crack into the cast iron.

“It matters because the police think you did it.”

“Quit being such a drama queen. Questioning me was just for show. Drag in members of the Ballantyne, make a splash in the paper, let the public see those tax dollars at work. No stone unturned and all that crap.”

“Not ‘members of the Ballantyne,’ Jane. Just you. Lieutenant Ransom considers you the prime suspect. And by prime, I mean only. They’ve got something and they’re trying to make it stick.”

She stopped scrubbing and looked me right in the face for the first time since I walked in. “Suspect? They actually think
I
killed that loudmouth weasel?”

“Yes. Despite your obvious grief over his passing.” I leaned against a splintering wood worktable covered in old paint splatters, resting half a butt cheek on the sharp corner. I didn’t want big fat tarnish stains on my rear end all day. “What happened at the police station?”

She walked over to a large hutch in the corner where she perused several stacks of tin cans, each with a different kind of polish or cleanser. Neatly lined up, labels facing out. “I can’t tell you everything, I was with my attorney,” she said with her back to me.

“Preston Wilde won’t mind if you tell me.”

“Yes, well, Preston might not, but Gregory Meade will.”

“Gregory Meade, the
criminal
attorney?”

“Of course, the criminal attorney. I was at a police station, Elliott. I’m not an idiot.” She eventually selected a fat black can from the shelf and carried it back to the table. She untwisted the wide lid before setting it aside.

“Jane, as much as I enjoy your company, can we please move this along?”

“You can leave any time. I didn’t ask you here.” She scooped out a dollop of white paste and began smoothing it on all the silver parts of the Singer.

“Did Lieutenant Ransom tell you why he brought you in?”

“Someone told him Leo and I argued at the party. I told him he heard wrong.”

“You can’t lie to the police. Half the guests heard you arguing with Leo on the terrace. How do you think I found you at the bar?”

“I assumed you used your stellar investigative skills. But I didn’t lie. Leo and I weren’t arguing. Just a normal conversation. He wanted a guaranteed renewal for his board seat and I told him over my dead body.”

I mentally slapped my forehead. “Geez, Jane, what else did you discuss during this normal conversation?”