Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (9 page)

I pitched into my chair. I needed different evidence. Something more than the nothing I had or the busybodies would pollute the jury pool before Jane was in handcuffs.

NINE

I called my good friend Sigrid Bassi. She was tapped into the island gossip network tighter than a shampoo girl at a downtown salon. We set a lunch date for Thursday, noon at O’Grady’s. She promised to dredge every nugget in the mine regarding Leo and Jane. In this town, no one knows more than the retireds and the realtors. Sid runs with both and doesn’t mind sharing the gold.

I also needed to work on my pitching skills. I was oh-for-two on finding someone to carry on with Leo’s legacy project. Maybe I wasn’t explaining it in enough detail. Or maybe I just needed to ask someone nicer than Chas.

Before I could scoot out for a quick bite, Carla, the kind soul from the kitchen, brought me lunch at my desk—without me asking. Thin sliced roast beef on rye with Swiss and Russian dressing. She dolled up the plate with cups of coleslaw and pasta salad, both homemade.

“Carla, you’re an angel straight from the blue sky,” I said after I took a bite and grunted out a thank you. Carla was hands-down the best chef on the island. Oh crap. I forgot about Chef Carmichael. I wondered if she’d snatch away the sandwich if I told her about him now.

“Um, Carla,” I said. I gripped the sandwich in one hand and the plate with the other. “I need your help on a small matter with Zibby Archibald and the Wharf.”

“Is that why Carmichael’s called me five times?”

“Impatient little bugger,” I muttered. “I leveraged the Gatsby lawn party to release Zibby from a lifelong ban of The Wharf.”

She put her hand on her hip. “What did the old gal do this time?”

“Skipped the last part of the dining experience, the one that involves the check. Accidentally, though. The price of bail was a co-catering assignment with you.” I scooped up some creamy coleslaw before the cup disappeared.

But Carla’s face lit up, her eyes wider than the smile dancing on her lips. “Well, aren’t I the lucky one!”

“Seriously? You’re not mad?”

“Oh no, Elliott. What a proposition, Carmichael taking orders from me.” She drifted out the door. “I know just what to serve. Shrimp gumbo!” She laughed all the way down the hall.

I groaned. I’m pretty sure Chef Carmichael wasn’t going to work
for
Carla. He would probably barely work
with
her. I decided to worry about it later. I dug through my Rolodex and found the number for Whitney Tattersall.

“Hi Whitney, it’s Elliott. I hate to bother you, but I noticed you were seated at Leo’s table on Saturday. This may sound silly, but did he bring a date? Perhaps the hot mama Jeremy mentioned at the meeting?”

She laughed. “No, no date that I saw. But there were lots of pretty girls all dressed up at the party. Everyone at our table was accounted for. I never even noticed Bebe wasn’t there.”

“Did you notice anything different about Leo?”

“Not really. Same old Leo. Talked non-stop through dinner.” She paused. “Wow, I never saw him after that. Hard to think he’d be dead a few hours later.”

“I know. If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“Sure, Elliott. You take care,” she said and hung up.

I might need to speak with other party patrons, but so far Leo’s night seemed normal for Leo: talk incessantly, argue with Jane, dance with all the pretty girls. I was hoping Bebe could fill in the more important blank: what happened
after
the party.

I carried my plate to the kitchen, then hopped into the convertible for the short trip to the Tidewater Inn.

The Tidewater was a boutique hotel located mid-island on six acres of prime oceanfront property. Only two stories tall, most of the rooms were spread out casita style with patios and balconies near the sand, gardens, and a free-form pool.

I parked with valet, stuffing the stub into my bag, then crossed the lobby. The concierge directed me to the Princess Suite at the north end of the property. I found the door and rang the bell.

Bebe answered wearing spandex leggings, high-heel slippers, and a smock covered in paint and glitter. She wore her hair big and teased and it was a color not known in nature. Something between rust and a brass trombone.

“Oh, right,” she said. “I forgot you were coming. Hurry in, don’t let Ivana out.”

I glanced down at an enormous seventeen pound white Persian cat at my feet. She eyeballed the door, but kept walking with her fluffy white butt high in the air. Smart cat. Cleopatra never had it this good. I’m not sure Leo did, either.

The suite was nicer than my house. Designer furniture and a compact kitchen dressed in granite and stainless. Potted palms manned the entrance to an expansive patio with views of a garden blooming with mock orange trees. All the fragrance without the fruit.

I followed the sound of Bebe’s clicking heels to the dining area. A long mahogany table sat beneath a twelve-arm chandelier, pushed directly under a picture window. It smelled like pungent paint and kindergarten paste.

Probably due to the menagerie of craft supplies spread all over the table. Scissors, stickers, beads, stamps, inks, markers, puff paints, glitter, and shoeboxes overflowing with photographs covered the entire surface. There may have even been a Bedazzler and a glue gun in there.

Bebe offered me a chair, then sat down across the table. “Lemonade?”

She poured me a glass of pink liquid from a crystal decanter without waiting for my answer. It was the Tidewater’s own delicious raspberry lemonade, plus a bonus. One part raspberry, one part lemonade, and two parts rum. Unfortunately I’d already taken a nice big gulp when I figured out the recipe.

“You a scrapper?” Bebe cut into a piece of orange construction paper with fancy scissors, the kind that make the edges look like curly cues. “This one here is from our trip two years ago to Coney Island.”

“I’m not really crafty.” The last homemade thing I made was a ceramic handprint in the first grade. It didn’t turn out so hot. I ended up with clay in my hair and paint up my nose. “But thank you for seeing me at such a terrible time.”

“Oh, it’s not that terrible. My massage isn’t for another half hour. I’m just putting this together in the meantime.”

I nodded and pretended to sip my drink. “I actually meant Leo. You mentioned on the phone his funeral is Saturday?”

“Memorial, no funeral. He’s in his Cookie Corral now.” She nodded toward a brown ceramic pot sitting on the sill.

“Cookie Corral?” I leaned over for a better look. It was a squat cookie jar from the forties with raised ranch fencing, a fading decal of a man and his horse, and a fat knob on top.

“That’s a genuine Hopalong Cassidy Cookie Corral. It’s his favorite. We’re holding the memorial at St. Anthony’s in Jersey City. He loves that church. Same one we were married in. You should see the memory book I made. Leo calls it our Happily Ever Hoedown.” She handed me a stamper and a piece of pink paper. “Here, try it. It’s easy. Just stamp along the edges and make a border. It’s a self-inker, so you don’t have to worry about an ink pad.”

I stared at the paper and my inner perfectionist started to whine. How could I get each stamp impression perfectly placed? At the same exact angle? Spaced uniformly, equidistant from the next? I noticed Bebe was staring at me, so I decided to fling away my doubts and stamp with abandon. Stamp stamp stamp stamp stamp. That
was
fun!

I managed to get ink on three fingers, two photographs, and the table cover. Bebe reached over and took away my stamper supplies.

I cleared my throat. “Will you be in New Jersey long?”

She rifled through an egg crate filled with miniature jewels, sorted by size and color. “Well, not long enough. We’ve got so many friends to see again. But Travis graduates in a few weeks from Seabrook. So you know, bad timing…” Her voice drifted and she grabbed her drink.

Swigging a bit greedily, I thought. Drowning her sorrows or her guilt?

I waited until she resumed her cutting. “Do you mind if I ask some questions?”

“About the fund you mentioned? Like to help us with expenses?”

“Not quite. Leo put together a very thoughtful proposal for the Ballantyne to fund the Shelter Initiative. Easily the most compassionate local program we’ve had in years. I’m going to personally find the perfect board member to take it up in Leo’s honor.”

“Oh. I guess that’s nice. So what questions?”

I started with the easy stuff. I pulled out my notebook and discreetly poised my pen. “Tell me about your life with Leo.”

“Well, me and Leo married eighteen years ago. Had to, you know what I mean? But we loved each other, had a nice duplex in the neighborhood. Leo opened his first Buffalo Bill’s in Hoboken right after Travis was born.” She finished cutting out the orange frame and started applying glitter to the outer edges. “Never seen anything like it. Everyone loved that store. Most people never even seen a horse up close and Leo brought one out every weekend. You ever ride one at the store here?”

“No. But I hear they’re very popular with the kids.” And the tourists. The Buffalo Bill’s parking lot was jammed every Saturday during season. Chili cookouts, hot dogs on the bbq. A real hoedown. You know, in an asphalt corral with a grill manned by a TV salesman.

“He grew the company from one store to twelve. Put his sights on expanding to the South. One vacation to Sea Pine Island and his mind was made up. Dragged me kicking and screaming outta Jersey, but Leo wanted it so bad, I finally gave in. He moved the headquarters, including Joseph and the tramp.” She laughed bitterly and snatched up a bottle of blue puff paint.

“The tramp?”

“Leo’s assistant, Cherry. Can you believe that? Cherry Avarone. Don’t know what he sees in that tacky little tart. It’s his business and good help is hard to find, he says.” She squirted out a row of blue dots on top of the glitter.

Obviously a sore subject based on the velocity of the paint shooting out of the miniature bottle. Blobs and splats landed around the table in big gloppy mounds. “You ever worry something went on between Leo and Cherry?”

“Leo would never cheat on me. He knows he has it good. Besides, Cherry doesn’t like men, plays for the other team.”

“You mean she’s gay?”

“Yep. But she’s still a tart and I don’t like her,” she said. “Wears short skirts to the office. It’s a respectable business!”

“How was business?”

“Business is good, real good. Leo’s got a new summer campaign for the store, filming a commercial for it soon.”

Bebe kept referring to Leo in the present tense and I was beginning to wonder if her demeanor was more denial than guilt. She refilled her glass and I hoped I wasn’t going to hell for taking advantage of her loose lips. She picked up a stamper, so I kept going.

“I heard Leo might be having financial trouble.”

“Not at all. He’s been talking about getting a boat. A big one. After he builds me a new art studio above the garage. Built-in cabinets, light table, the whole works. And next month a cruise out of Miami. A balcony cabin.”

“Did Leo have any enemies? Anybody holding a grudge?”

She dropped the stamp and pointed her finger at my face. “You know who. That bitch Jane Tatting.”

“Hatting.”

She glared at me, then waved me away. “Whatever.”

Her outburst startled Ivana the cat. She hopped off the chair and onto the floor, settling on my feet, then kneaded her clawless paws into my shins; it was like getting punched with cotton balls.

“Listen,” Bebe said. “Leo worked hard to get on that board, but that woman just can’t stand someone more successful than her.”

“Was there a specific incident or merely animosity?”

“Jane called here twice last week. It got really bad the last call, but Leo handed it right back at her, taunting her about the trophy. He won it fair and square. Jane was jealous as a monster and acted like it.”

“Is that why you didn’t go to the party?”

“I don’t care about Jane or the stupid Foundation party. The board members are snobby and I don’t like them.” Bebe stuck her chin out. “No offense.”

“None taken. I’m not a board member.”

Bebe placed the sparkly orange paper frame over a picture of Leo. He wore his ten gallon hat and rode on a colorful carousel horse. She slowly stamped a proper border on the outer edge of the page. The stamper shook slightly, but she didn’t seem to notice. She finished the page with a satisfied nod.

After she dusted glitter from her fingertips, she picked up my glass and the pitcher and carried them to the kitchenette.

I figured my time was running out. “So, were you at home last Saturday night?”

“Oh no, I was in Savannah for a Scrappers weekend,” she said, then added, “It was our annual weekend retreat.”

“Really? How fun. Where do you guys meet? Maybe I’ll join you next year.”

She hesitated, no doubt imagining me in a room full of craft supplies, but in the end my winning smile won out. “I guess. It’s the Island Scrappers and we always stay at the River Street Inn.”

“You guys go up on Friday or Saturday?”

“Friday morning. I came home on Sunday. Early.” The doorbell rang and she sagged with relief. Bebe smoothed her smock and fluffed her big hair. “Sorry to rush you out, but my masseuse is here.”

She clicked over to the door, opening it to a young man in a tight tee and floppy surfer hair. He carried a portable massage table. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hirschorn. In the bedroom?”

She rushed him through a door on the other side of the living room, then turned to me. “It’s such a mess out here, I can’t possibly move my scrapper supplies every time he comes over, right?”

I smiled sweetly and waved her way. “Of course not. Could I use your powder room? I drank two glasses of lemonade and I’ll never make it home.”

“Sure, you just see yourself out, then?” She slipped through the bedroom door before I could agree.

I did a quick check for prescription meds after I availed myself of the facilities. No diazepam or oxycodone. Worth a shot. She probably had a private bath full of pills in the bedroom. I did score some dental floss, though. Apparently I’d conducted the entire interview with a poppy seed stuck between my top two choppers. You think she would have said something.

I went to grab my handbag from the dining room and noticed it sat on a massive glob of puff paint. The entire back side was soaked in blue and stuck to the table. Like dried macaroni on a pencil cup. With a solid yank, the purse came loose but my elbow cracked into the Cookie Corral. It toppled to the floor, hitting the wall on its way down.

Holy shit and OH MY GOD.

Dust floated everywhere and covered everything. The carpet, the drapes, the table, the wall. I started to choke. Air and sound battled for release. Breathe or scream? Breathe or scream? Panic crept from my toes to my fingertips. I stared at a large broken shard covered in Leo dust.

My fingers shook. I couldn’t think and I couldn’t look away. The dust on the floor wasn’t dust. It was Leo. Literally Leo.

Ten seconds slid by, then twenty. I stared in horror, torn between doing the right thing and the wrong thing. Only I had no idea which was the right thing and which was the wrong. Other than Bebe simply could not find out about this. Nor could Mr. Ballantyne. Or any person I ever met, saw, or even thought about.

Ivana the cat brushed up against my leg. I jumped back and nearly kicked her.

She started to creep forward. One fluffy clean white paw, then another.

“No kitty, bad kitty,” I said and shooed her away.

She hopped on the couch, circling in from a different angle. She squatted on the arm and watched me.

I glanced at the clock by the window. Bebe wouldn’t be massaging forever. There was a glue gun plugged into the wall. A large spoon near the jewel box. I threw my handbag back onto the craft table and snatched up supplies. I emptied out a clear baggie of sparkly foam letters and grabbed the spoon.

“Okay, Leo, I have to say, I’m pretty freaked out right now,” I whispered as I scooped him into the baggie. There was so much more than I ever imagined. “But I guess you’re not too pleased, either.”

I scraped the carpet to get as much as I could. When I stirred up more dust than I could handle, I gently set the baggie on the table along with the pieces of the cookie jar. I used the glue gun to stick them back together. I got wispy glue strands in my hair and on my blouse, but I did okay with the jar.

I checked the clock. Twenty-two minutes had passed and I wondered how long massages take. Or how long gun glue takes to dry.

The jar seemed solid enough, as long as no one touched it. I poured Leo back into his Corral. Popped on the lid and stuck him back on the sill. Snagged a paper towel from the roll and doused it with water. “So so sorry about this Leo,” I said as I soaked him up from the carpet and walls. “I swear on all things mighty, I will make this up to you.” 

I tossed the towel, snagged my purse, and headed for the door. I reached for my keys and saw dust on my fingertips. I stopped breathing. Don’t freak out, I thought. You made it this far. Just walk over to the sink and wash it off. Think of it as sprinkling his ashes in the sea. One step, then another, just like the kitty. I slowly made it to the sink.

“Who are you?”

I jumped a foot off the ground and splashed water on the floor. I was shaky and teary and nearing a breakdown, but good Lord in Heaven, my hands were clean.

A teenaged boy stood in the kitchen doorway. He looked fresh from the beach in bright blue swim trunks. His dark curly hair was wet and he had a towel on his arm and an iPod around his neck.

“You must be Travis. I’m Elliott with the Ballantyne. I just finished talking with your mom, and was washing up, um, from our crafting.”

He looked around. “Is she here?”

“Masseuse.”

He nodded so slowly, and looked so sad, I wanted to hug him. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

He nodded again and walked into the living room. He sank onto the sofa, spraying sand all over the pretty floral fabrics.

I leaned against the edge of the sofa. “I know how you feel. I lost my dad when I was about your age.”

“Really? Was he murdered by a lying bitch, too?”

He stared at the blank TV screen and I said nothing. I knew the pain of death, but not the red hot anger that accompanies it when it arrives at the hand of someone else.

He picked up the remote, but didn’t click the buttons.

“We don’t know who killed him, Travis. But we’ll find out,” I said softly. “At least you weren’t home when it happened.”

“I’m so lucky.” His bottom lip started to shake.

He really was lucky. He could’ve been collateral damage. Unless, of course, he was lying about it. Great. Now I needed to ask where he was on Saturday night. But how? I just stood there, racking my brain for a decent way to be an indecent human being. Considering I just wiped up his father with a paper towel, I decided it was too late for that.

“Were you with your mom at her Scrappers weekend on Saturday?”

“Are you serious?” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and flipped on the TV. “I was with my friend Derek, spent the night at his house. Dinner at Cheeseburger Paradise and a movie afterwards. Here’s his number, call if you want.” He rattled it off while I jotted it down. “Is the interrogation over now?”

I nodded and slunk out before Bebe emerged.

The Hirschorns stayed on my brain for the rest of the night. I settled onto the patio and ate cake for dinner. Double-layer chocolate fudge with enough devil’s food frosting to soothe my soul. I felt bonded to Leo; a new obligation to make things right. And while Travis’s grieving touched me on a visceral level, his alibi was too handy. Why offer up every detail of his Saturday night on the first question? Especially to a stranger who had no right to even ask. He gave me places, times, and a phone number without hesitation or argument and that bothered me.

And Bebe’s altered reality made me uneasy. Though she sure snapped back for Jane and Cherry. Called one a bitch and the other a tacky tart. I agreed with her on the first count and planned to find out about the second.