Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (8 page)

The medical examiner’s office was attached to the back of Island Memorial Hospital in a building that resembled a pretty brick colonial house with shutters on the windows, white raised-panel doors, and black embossed address plates. Most folks didn’t realize the unmarked door at the end of the walk held all the dead people. Sea Pine Island had a full-time medical examiner. Even though we’re a small island of thirty-thousand residents, Harry served the entire county, which added another ninety-thousand people.

I entered the closet-sized lobby and signed my name on the clipboard nailed to the wall, then pushed the button near a plain side door. It had a combination pad and deadbolt lock.

A faint buzzer sounded on the other side. A minute later, an intern in pale blue scrubs poked his head out. “Can I help you?”

I showed him my driver’s license. “Elliott Lisbon to see Dr. Fleet.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”

He looked at me skeptically, but opened the door wide enough for me to sneak through. I followed him down a narrow corridor with vinyl speckle floors and dull beige walls. It smelled medicinal, stringently clinical. Like bleach and ammonia and other chemicals I didn’t want to think about. The intern pointed me to a door on the left and kept walking.

Harry stood facing a barrage of books opposite the door. The shelf spanned the entire wall straight to the ceiling. Hundreds of books, some over four inches thick, were crammed haphazardly, tottering sidewise as if angling for better position on the shelf. 

I knocked on the doorjamb. “Hi, Harry.”

“What the hell are you doing in my office, Lisbon? You’re not allowed back here,” he said without turning around.

“I’m helping with the Hirschorn murder.” I scooped up a stack of files from one of the visitor’s chairs and looked for a place to set them. Files, books, and papers covered every surface: desk, chairs, floor, shelves. I kept the stack in my arms and sat.

Harry selected a book and thumped into his chair. “Helping, my ass. Does the Lieutenant know you’re down here sniffing around?”

“Of course. I spoke with Corporal Parker this afternoon.” Not really a lie. For all I knew, she told Ransom. “I just need a minute, Harry.”

“Do I look like I have a minute?” He gathered some papers and shoved them in a file, then started a fresh sheet. He worked as if I wasn’t there.

I took that as a good sign. “Just tell me about the murder weapon and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Seems to me the police you’re helping would’ve already offered that up.”

I shifted the files on my lap and leaned forward. “Parker specifically suggested I meet with you, get your perspective on the murder, Harry. From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

He raised his head and stared at me.

I smiled to add a little sugar on top.

“Blunt force trauma to the back of his head. Bruising, indentations match a trophy found near the body.”

Shut. Up. Did he say trophy?

“Also found GHB in his system—”

“The date rape drug? On Leo?”

“—mixed with diazepam and traces of oxycodone.”

“Heavy stuff.”

“Whoever clunked Leo wanted a slow-moving target. Looks like Leo was behind his desk, drinking a glass of wine. Probably wobbly when he got up. Chair was pushed back, some papers on the floor. He came around and whack. Killer dragged him by the shirt, drove him straight into the clock.” Harry returned to the notes on his desk. “Now get out, Lisbon. You won’t be getting any more unauthorized information from me.”

I quickly stood and put the files back on the chair. “Thanks, Harry,” I called as I scurried out the door. I think he grunted in return.

Poor Leo. The killer drugged him, clobbered him, and shoved him head first into a grandfather clock. He never had a chance.

EIGHT

Island Memorial Hospital was tucked in a plaza across from Oyster Cove Plantation, so I made it home in less than ten minutes. It took another ten to change into shorts and a tee, then hit the beach for a long walk in the late afternoon sun.

Sun-bleached shells, starfish, and the occasional jellyfish peppered the hard-packed sand along the shoreline as the tide lapped gently at my feet. The warm air smelled briny from the sea foam. I passed groups of tourists and locals, getting in the last rays of sun before heading home. Little children ran into the sea, then ran back out screaming when they got wet.

I walked along and thought about Jane. It bothered me she wouldn’t give up her alibi. Either she
was
at Leo’s, or what? A thought hit me and I laughed out loud. A booty call? Well, you’re all dressed up, drinking on a Saturday night, it’s close to midnight…if you’re not headed home, then let’s face it, you’re headed to a booty call.

“Was it that simple?” I said aloud. A girl reading a book looked up at me and I smiled. 

Was Jane too embarrassed to admit she’d had a date? She shouldn’t be. Single, over fifty; it’s a free country. Hell, I wouldn’t mind my own booty call. It’d been a long time. A really long time. The closest I’d come in months was Ransom in the library.

But what about the actual murder? The crime scene, the mess, the GHB cocktail. It felt personal, a vendetta against Leo. I ruled out burglary. That’s a lot of trouble to go through to shut up a homeowner just to rob the place. I considered some strung-out kid looking for drugs, or maybe searching for prescription bottles. But who drugs a guy just to steal more drugs?

No, this was love or money with maybe reputation, pride, or ego tossed in. It was personal, and judging by the ripped furniture and smashed glass, they were pissed.

Back at the cottage, I grabbed a lager, and then speed-dialed the Golden Dragon. My dinner arrived right when my friend, Matty, returned my call, so I ate while we caught up. I told him all about Leo and Jane and life at the Ballantyne, and he told me about students and teachers and life at Seabrook Prep. He invited me to the oyster roast at the Tidewater Inn on Thursday. Said a bunch of our friends were going, did I want a ride? I accepted.

Halfway through my egg-drop soup, Bebe Hirschorn called. She said she was flying to New Jersey on Thursday with Leo’s ashes for his memorial, could we meet next week? She asked about the new fund for Leo; I told her if we met the next day, I could tell her all about it. She agreed: two o’clock at her hotel.

After finishing the latest Carl Hiaasen, I flipped out the lights. I slept like the dead until Zibby Archibald crashed into my bedroom with a pith helmet on her head and a bazooka in her hands. She demanded I stitch safari vests on a solid brass sewing machine while Jane polished a pair of sparkly ruby shoes in the bathroom. I blame the cashew chicken. 

I woke Wednesday to clear Carolina blue skies and a mostly clear head. Until I checked the clock and realized my meeting with Mumbai Humanitarian was in twenty minutes. 

Shortening my morning routine made me feel uncomfortable and uptight, like wearing a scratchy wool suit two sizes too small. But I had no choice.

I threw on a skirt, an organic tee, and leather ballet flats. I switched my goods from my hipster to a messenger bag, along with my notes, portfolio, and the Mumbai packet and zipped out of my driveway at half-past eight.

With no time for cereal, I squeezed in a drive-thru McMuffin and a Coke, scarfing it down while I sped to a mid-island office complex off Miller Lane. It may seem indulgent to detour for breakfast, but trust me, no one wants to meet with me when I’m starving.

The letter board in the lobby directed me to a suite on the second floor. I took the stairs to work off the McMuffin and found Mumbai Humanitarian at the end of the hall. I entered a small office with flecked Berber carpet and eggshell walls. A friendly receptionist greeted me, a Shania Carter, as stated on a small brass nameplate. Her desk was neat as a new pin with only a telephone, message pad, and a heavy leather-bound novel. Very staid and cerebral. The gold inlaid title was rubbed into obscurity, so I couldn’t read it. But I did see a Sudoku puzzle sheet sticking out from between the pages. “Good morning. May I help you?”

“Elliott Lisbon. I have an appointment with Reena Patel.”

“Ms. Patel is expecting you, she’ll be right out. Can I get you a coffee or something?” she asked as she picked up her reading glasses.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

She opened her book as I sat on a low sofa. “Did you know your shoes don’t match?”

I glanced down at my feet. One leather slipper was orange, the other red. Same style, though. I pushed my hair out of my eyes and tried to look confident. “I’m trying something new.”

I leaned forward to examine the magazines on the small coffee table. Back issues of
National Geographic
and
Time
. I read the covers, but no way was I picking one up. The jumbo jar of hand-sani in my office isn’t the only one I own. I keep mini bottles in my pockets, purse, car, and bike basket. I’m not a germaphobe, more like germ conscious. Who knows who’s coughing on the magazines, wiping their germy fingers on the glossy pages? I studied the artwork instead.

Two black and white photographs hung on either side of a large original painting. The photos depicted miles of metal shanties resting on a tower of garbage. The crooked shacks looked one cardboard box away from collapsing into a landslide of despair. An artist recreated the grim conditions in vibrant color in the center painting. At the base of the mountain of slimy trash, in a narrow muddy road, sat a little boy in tattered clothes holding a rusted can of green beans.

I gripped my hand-sani and blanched. Those people saw more germs in a single day than I’d see in my entire lifetime.

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

I looked up at a stunning Indian woman. A Bollywood socialite in a sleeveless silk tunic dress with delicate appliqués. Her necklace had turquoise and polished wood beads. It probably cost more than my whole outfit. She wore her long hair loose and I recognized her even without the Hot Damn! dress. Ransom’s date. So this is what his league looks like. She wasn’t as tall as I remembered from the party. She was petite; her four-inch heels brought her even with me.

She held out a slim hand. “Reena Patel.”

“Elliott Lisbon. Nice to meet you,” I said, except it wasn’t all that nice to meet her. I swallowed a twang of jealousy at this sultry creature who drove away with the ex-man of my dreams.

“Shania, hold my calls please,” Reena said.

“Yes, ma’am,” the receptionist replied without looking up, sneaking a pencil from the desk drawer.

I followed Reena into her private office. It was intimate. Dim and cool, almost refreshing, with an undertone of exotic spice like orange and cloves. There was a balcony across from the door with velvet drapes framing the long windows. Heavy bookshelves lined the left wall while Reena’s desk dominated the right. A black sawhorse desk with masculine chairs covered in smooth black leather. We faced each other across the wide desktop.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet at the party,” she said. “Such a magnificent house.”

“Yes, it is. I’m afraid I didn’t see you until you were leaving with Ransom.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Ransom? You mean Nick?”

“We’re old friends. We go way back,” I said with a smile. “Dated in college.”

She matched my smile like a bet in a poker game, then raised me: my history for her present. “He’s a lovely man. Strong, intelligent, kind. It’s interesting he never mentioned you. Not even when he tells the most wonderful stories of his time in college.”

“That is interesting.” Not as interesting as the kiss he laid on me, I thought. She looked all self-satisfied as if she were holding aces and I the Old Maid. I decided to fold.

I opened my portfolio and put her application packet on the desk. “Why don’t you tell me about Mumbai?”

“Of course. The art on these walls illustrates the Dharavi slums in Mumbai. An estimated sixty percent of the Mumbai population, over seven million people—almost twice the population of the entire state of South Carolina—live in this filth.” She leaned forward as she spoke, passion vivid in her voice. “Poverty isn’t an ugly enough word. No running water, a toilet for every two thousand people. My country is being drowned in human waste.”

I looked at the pictures on the wall, and they came to life. “It’s so tragic. How does Mumbai Humanitarian help?”

“We provide education for the children. When we can convince them to attend. The parents, and the children, too, are unable to grasp the necessity of education. We set up schools, but they’re different from the ones here in America. Ours have cramped classrooms without desks, kids sit on the floors. We supply books, pencils, lunch if we can, inoculations if we’re lucky.”

Reena sat straight behind her desk, hands folded on top. Her posture perfect, her long hair clean and shiny. I hadn’t showered and my shoes didn’t match. I skimmed through her application. Fancy Ph.D., generous with her time and her loads of money. Perfect. I’ll probably get to watch her sip champagne on Ransom’s back porch. I flipped past the personal bio. “How did you choose the Ballantyne Foundation?”

“Research. The Ballantyne Foundation demonstrates a willingness to serve international causes. It seemed an excellent match. After I checked your references, of course. Then a colleague in Mumbai phoned last week, absolutely charmed by Mrs. Ballantyne.” Reena smiled. “Apparently they share a love of orchids. He told her about the application we submitted many months ago, and things have been moving rapidly ever since.”

“You checked
us
out?”

“Of course, we cannot afford to be associated with a questionable organization. Though the recent violence with your board is quite disturbing.”

Questionable organization? I flipped through her packet with growing irritation and found a surprising detail on the last page. “You received a Lafferty Grant?” It was one of the most difficult grants to receive; their application process can take years.

She straightened her back and shot me cool gaze. “Again, of course. We are very reputable and I resent the insinuation in your tone. Perhaps you should read the information I have provided. It might allow us to move forward without wasting time.”

My face flushed with embarrassment, which only rankled me further. So maybe I should have, but she didn’t need to be so snotty. “Just crossing my T’s,” I said as I skimmed the rest of the packet, pretending I knew it all by heart. “That about wraps it up, then. I will let you know when we make a decision.”

Her phone buzzed softly. “My next appointment.”

She waited patiently while I gathered up the stack of paperwork and shoved it into my portfolio. It didn’t fit properly with all my shoving and I had to slap the top to get the clasp to snap. Then the strap caught on the chair and I nearly tipped over sideways.

“
You
are not actually on the board, correct?”

I swear I’m a total professional, but right then, I really wanted to pull her hair. I smiled instead and calmly walked out of her office and right into Ransom.

“Hello, darling,” Reena purred. She kissed Darling right on the lips and placed a possessive hand on his arm.

He squeezed her hand in return, but spoke to me. “Hello, Red. Staying out of my investigation?”

“Investigation?” Reena asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Elliott is conducting a discreet inquiry into Leo Hirschorn’s murder, trying to get Jane Hatting off the hook. Quietly, of course.”

“Not with all your blabbing,” I said.

“Oh, is this a side job to earn extra money? How odd,” Reena said. “What can you possibly do, you’re not even a professional.”

“I’m working on that,” I said and tucked my portfolio in my bag. “So I guess I’ll see you tonight, neighbor,” I added as I slipped out the door.

“You live next to
her
?” I heard Reena say as I walked down the hall.

“What kind of detective. Doesn’t understand. Words like quiet. And private. And discreet!” I shouted as I drove back to the Big House. I swerved around a slow-moving sedan and slammed the gas. “I mean,
come on
. A side job? Oh, for shit’s sake!”

Traffic moved from leisurely to you’ve got to be kidding me, and it really really really frustrated me. Usually I’m okay with it. One-third of the island population is over eighty and can’t see above the steering wheel, and another third consists of temporary residents trying to figure out how to get to the Bi-Lo.

After a brief detour to my cottage to rectify my shoe mistake, I skidded into the drive at the Big House at twenty past ten. Parked right out front and ran into Chas Obermeyer in the foyer.

“Nice hours, Elliott, glad you could stop by. Tod said you’d be here an hour ago,” he snapped. “When’s the next board meeting? I’ve got a busy schedule. You can’t just pussyfoot around Jane all summer and keep the rest of us waiting.”

“Good to see you, Chas. We’ll have a new meeting in two weeks, three tops.” I took a breath and forced a smile. “Which reminds me, Leo was starting a new project called the Shelter Initiative. I have a solid proposal. You haven’t chaired a committee in a while. Would you like to hear it?

“No,” he said. “But tell me when you set the board meeting. I have to run. I’ve been waiting for you all morning and now I’m late for an important client.”

I bet, out at the first tee, I thought as he turned his back to leave. “Wait, Chas. Do you remember anything about Leo from the party Saturday?”

“Just the fight with Jane. Her telling Leo to shove that trophy up his ass. He was pretty pissed. But other than that, I didn’t know him very well.” He walked off without another word.

That trophy was going to be tabloid nirvana. Forget blunt-force trauma and enough rage to slam his head through a clock. Tate Keating would salivate when he heard, probably sprain his fingers typing the headline so fast: Jealous Killer Jams Humanitarian Trophy Up Victim’s Ass.