Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (7 page)

“I don’t know exactly, I wasn’t recording the damn thing. I may have said something about him running his fat mouth all the time. And something else about his stupid trophy.”

“I heard you told him to shove it up his ass.”

She shrugged. “It’s possible. He didn’t deserve to be Humanitarian of the Year.”

“Did Leo mention his Shelter Initiative?”

“Was that his big committee proposal? He didn’t say what it was, only that he was presenting something at the meeting. I told him I would kill whatever he proposed before the papers were signed.”

“Why kill it if you didn’t even know what it was?”

“Leo was conniving and self-serving. Whatever scheme he planned to disguise as a charitable project would only hurt the Foundation. I’d had enough. Someone needed to protect the Ballantyne from that snake.”

I ran my hands through my hair. No wonder she was Ransom’s prime suspect. Hell, after this conversation, she was
my
prime suspect. “Where did you go after the party?”

“None of your business.” She smoothed on more paste. The silver was now so shiny, I was nearly blind. But she kept polishing. And polishing. The silence stretched from seconds to minutes. I got a bad feeling.

“Did you go to Leo’s house after the party?”

“Nope.”

“So, then, where were you after the party?”

“I said it’s none of your damn business.”

“Jesus Jane, I’m helping you here. Though you’re making me not want to. Please tell me you told Ransom where you were.”

“I told that asshole exactly what I told you.”

“Not like that, I hope.”

She threw down the tarnished rag. “Well, shit, am I supposed to change my personality to please one pushy detective? I don’t care what he thinks. Now wrap it up and get out. I’ve got an auction in a week.”

“Did Ransom tell you about any actual evidence they have?”

“Nope.”

“Did you ask?”

“Gregory did, but they wouldn’t say.” She picked her rag back up and wiped away the excess paste from the edge of the machine.

Whatever else Jane knew, she wasn’t sharing it with me. “I’ll call you in a few days with the date of the new board meeting. If anything happens with the police, or you remember any more about Leo, call me.” I opened the workshop door and was halfway through when she stopped me.

“There’s one more grantee for the roster, a late addition for the meeting. We need to skip the preliminary board review. Make sure it’s on the schedule.”

“What grantee? No one told me,” I said.

“Why would they? Just make the time so we can get it approved.”

She turned back to her shiny old Singer and I left. I may have slammed the door with all my might.

SEVEN

I drove back to the island with the sun high in the sky; the temperature was over eighty-five. Some people don’t like it hot. Me? I love it. I was raised in the freezing miserable bitter nasty snowy cold and was never as happy as the day I packed my bags and left.

I had planned on having lunch at Vic’s on the River in Savannah, but I was too irritated to stop and didn’t want to waste the view on a cranky attitude. Instead I spent the forty-five minutes in the car with a drive-thru cheeseburger (ketchup only) and fries while imagining what Jane would look like in a bright orange jail jumpsuit with her arms painted green with tattoos.

I arrived back at the Big House at ten past noon. I threw my handbag in the drawer, then crossed the hall to Tod’s office tucked beneath the stairs, no bigger than a roomy broom closet. With over seven thousand square feet on the first floor alone, he could’ve chosen a different room, but he liked the tight space. He said the dark corners, crooked chandelier, and lack of windows creeped out the board members. His black suit and dead pan expression completed the effect. Like a young recluse undertaker in a Hitchcock film.

“When was Leo’s fight with Jane?” I asked and plopped into a creaky chair opposite his desk. “How long before you found me in the foyer?”

“Maybe twenty minutes. You think she killed him?”

“Better odds than not after speaking with her this morning, but Mr. Ballantyne wants me to prove otherwise.”

“You might as well try to prove the Earth is flat.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“You want encouragement, go talk to Carla.”

“I’m avoiding her,” I said and picked imaginary lint from my shorty pants. “I sort of promised Chef Carmichael he could co-cater the Gatsby.”

He raised his brow in question. “Sort of?”

“It was the only way he’d allow Zibby back into the Wharf.”

“He kicked her out?”

“Long story. But I worked it out.”

“If you think so,” Tod said and went back to the paperwork on his desk. “Just make sure I’m not around when you tell Carla. I don’t want her to think I had anything to do with this nut roll.”

“It won’t be today. I have to work up to it first.”

I walked back to my office and checked my voicemail. One message. From Matty Gannon, close friend and headmaster of the private Seabrook Preparatory School. We met on a blind date eighteen months earlier, he was handsome and sweet and rugged, but somewhere between the filet mignon and the apple brown betty, his brother joined us. After that, the night slipped from friendly to friendship, and somehow it never flipped back.

Matty wasn’t in his office, so I left him a message in return. Then I opened my notebook to a short list of questions I’d prepared and dialed Lillie Parker at the police station. I got lucky; she was at her desk.

“What’s the deal with Ransom?” I asked after we said hello. “They must pay a lot more in Virginia.”

She laughed and lowered her voice. “Retired FBI, but got his money from stocks, not salary. He invested in one of those search engine sites, then sold his shares before the market tanked.”

I doodled on a fresh page. FBI in 3D. “Retired? From the way he acted yesterday, I’d say he’s forgotten that part.”

“Seriously. He knew a chief who knew a chief. With Sully’s retirement, Captain Finnegan brought him on board. I guess the Lieutenant wanted a slower assignment.”

“I wonder how that’s working out. Listen, you know how I sometimes assist the community in resolving minor indiscretions?”

“Uh-huh.”

“With Leo being a respected member of the board, the Ballantynes have asked me to step up and include this, um, situation.”

Silence.

“I’ve already told Ransom. He didn’t like it, but hey, he didn’t like my hat either,” I said with a chuckle.

More silence.

I started talking faster. “Look, Parker. I spoke with Sully and he thought you might be my sponsor. You know I’m working toward my PI license. Maybe you could even toss me a bone from time to time. Nothing major; just a few scraps to help a girl out. Of course you know I’ll return the favor.”

I held my breath. I added the name Parker to my doodle pad. Made a very sophisticated daisy out of the P. Added some lightning bolts to the FBI drawing.

“Fine, I’ll talk to the Captain,” she finally said. “But you cannot withhold evidence from me. You cannot get in the way, obstruct, hinder, or hamper.”

“Never.”

“I’ll expect full disclosure on your end, Elliott.”

“Absolutely. Always. You bet,” I agreed. “Now, I have just a couple of questions.”

“Make it quick.”

I flipped the page over and jotted notes as I spoke. “What evidence do you have against Jane?”

“No chance. Next.”

“Where was Bebe Saturday night?”

“Out. Ask her yourself, she moved into the Tidewater Inn while her house is a crime scene. Princess Suite. Pretty nice digs for a grieving widow, you ask me. Next.”

I quickly scanned my question list. “Time of death?”

“Between eleven-thirty p.m. Saturday and twelve-thirty a.m. Sunday.”

That explained Ransom and my alibi; I didn’t leave the Ballantyne until almost two. And why he considered Jane an option. She left around eleven.

“How was Leo killed?”

“It’s complicated, and I can’t share,” Parker said. “But we’re not the only department who knows the answer. We got our confirmation from somewhere, right? Now I really gotta go. Good luck,” she said and hung up.

I knew just who she meant. Dr. Harry Fleet. He spends his mornings at the hospital and his afternoons in his office. I checked my watch: 2:05 p.m. If I timed it right, I could stop by in an hour and catch him well before dinner. If I delayed his usual mealtime, his normal grumpy mood could turn churlish. I could call, but he’d hang up on me. With Harry, if it’s important, you show up in person.

Next I dialed the Tidewater Inn. Mrs. Bebe Hirschorn was indeed a guest, but her phone rolled to the hotel’s voicemail. This time I said the Ballantyne wanted to honor Leo with a new fund. Then I called Ocean Blooms and sent her a big bouquet of roses and lilies with a personal note about sympathy and strength. See if that gets a response.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the flower boxes outside the window. Trailing petunias, daisies, and clusters of magenta Sweet William attracted a pair of butterflies. Their lemon yellow wings flapped lazily around the planters.

Parker didn’t give me much; Sully had been way more generous with his scraps. Difference in their personalities or the type of case? I admit murder wasn’t my usual type of case, though some incidents escalate rather quickly.

Last year a former board member asked me to investigate her shoe closet. It rivaled the Nordstrom shoe department. I’d never seen so many pairs in one single place. Well, every day for four weeks, a different pair went missing. Hardly even noticeable, the closet was so vast. Turned out the nanny was selling them on eBay to supplement her salary. After I exposed the nanny as the thief, she stole another fifty pairs and set them on fire on the Big House lawn.

It seemed the more complicated the case, the less cooperation I was going to get. I wasn’t looking forward to questioning Harry. Easier to pull weeds with my teeth than to get information out of Harry Fleet. Then there was Bebe Hirschorn. I needed her to provide the missing details about Saturday night. Like why she skipped the party and why she didn’t notice her husband dead in the den.

Which reminded me of Tim Hanson, the propane delivery man who might have discovered Leo’s body if he wasn’t running late. Time to throw out a line and see what I could catch.

I reached for my Rolodex, found Palmetto Propane, and dialed the main office. Five minutes later, the receptionist connected me with Tim.

“Hi, Tim, I’m Elli with the Ballantyne Foundation, and I’m on the committee for the meeting Leo was hosting the other morning. Actually, I think you and I almost ran into each other out front. But you know, I can’t find a single order for propane, especially for a Sunday delivery. This paperwork’s a mess.”

“Yeah, last minute rush. Hirschorn wanted a new set of larger tanks, had to have them that morning. Some special breakfast or something. I wouldn’t have even gone out there if he hadn’t promised he’d pay in cash, plus a bonus.”

“Cash?”

“His last two checks bounced and Sally in accounting said it was cash or go without. Guess he found the cash.”

“Thanks much, Tim. I’ll make a note for the file. You have a great day now,” I said and hung up.

Interesting. But what was more significant? The fact that Leo couldn’t cover his checks or that he was suddenly flush the day he died? What was special about the day he died? 

I rifled through one of my desk drawers until I found the folder for the May Bash. Since it was a formal dinner, I had created a seating chart for the guests. I skimmed the names of Leo’s tablemates trying to find someone to question. The key to a discreet inquiry lies in the whole discreet part. I couldn’t grill every guest from the party, that was a luxury for the police. I had to be more selective.

Leo wasn’t the only board member at his table, Whitney Tattersall was, too. Another interesting tidbit. She didn’t mention it at the board meeting. At least while I was there. I added her to my call list just as my phone rang.

“Elliott Lisbon,” I said.

“Elli! My dear, how wonderful to hear your voice,” Mr. Ballantyne shouted into my ear.

“Mr. Ballantyne, how are you? How is India, sir?”

“Fantastic, Elli. We’ve met a dashing young couple. Australians! We’re bringing them home for the Gatsby next week.” The line crackled with light static. “Are you there, Elli? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I’m here. We’re preparing for the party now. Tod mailed the invitations three weeks ago. He told me all the grantees have RSVP’d.”

“Speaking of, my dear girl. I’ve moved one up the list: Mumbai Humanitarian. I don’t want Mumbai to wait another day! Very close to my heart, very close.”

Mr. Ballantyne likes to choose causes that mean something personally. He went on to tell me about the poverty-stricken areas in Mumbai. Of fifty-foot trash heaps and contaminated watering holes. They sounded dreadful. “But you call Reena Patel; her office is on the island. She’ll fill you in on this tragic state. Tod has an extra packet for you. This should be on the books for approval at our next meeting, Elli.”

I wrote down the organizer’s name and a note to make an appointment. “I’ll take care of it, sir!” I found myself shouting back, even though I’m pretty sure he could hear me just fine. “But on this other matter of Leo Hirschorn, can you use some of your connections to find out some things for me? I’d like information on his financial situation, business and personal. His debts, life insurance, who inherits his estate. It would be a big help.”

“I understand, my girl, I understand. I’m on the case! I must ring off now, time for bed. I stayed up late to make this call. Tally-ho, Elli!”

“Tally-ho, sir.”

I made a note to add two more guests for the party, the Ballantyne’s Australian friends. Carla generally cooks up plenty of extra food—no one passes up an invitation to Big House, especially the Gatsby lawn party—but  I wasn’t sure about Chef Carmichael.

The annual Gatsby at the Big House was a throwback to lazy summer days of the roaring twenties when the wealthy gathered for simple games and fancy libations. Ladies wear cloche hats, low-waisted dresses, and buckle shoes. The men don knickers, soft caps, and dress shirts with rolled-up sleeves. I, myself, had a darling dress I couldn’t wait to wear. But that was next week. I first had to get through this one.

I popped over to Tod’s office for the Mumbai file.

“Top priority, Elliott, top priority,” he sang.

“I know, thank you. All my assignments are top priority. I have no bottoms.”

I shuffled back to my office and called the number for Mumbai Humanitarian listed on the application. The young receptionist informed me that Ms. Patel was unavailable to speak with me, but I could leave a message. I booked an appointment for nine o’clock the next morning instead. A top priority couldn’t wait for a return call.

And neither could Harry.

I shoved my notebook in my hipster, grabbed my keys, and hollered goodnight on my way out the door.