Swan Dive (2 page)

He grunted hello and went straight to Lexie’s dressing room. I got the keys from the theatre manager and went back to the lobby. I locked the entry doors, stuck the keys in my pocket, and rushed backstage. A warm flush crept up my neck and I started to pant. My full-length gown was heavy brocade and the running around was way more exercise than I was used to. Plus, the pins in my hair had abandoned their post and chunks of auburn tresses now flopped against my cheeks.

I found Ransom in the doorway to Lexie’s dressing room, talking to a crime scene tech wearing protective clothing. “You have any idea how long you’ll be?” I asked.

He glanced at the tech who looked over at Harry. “Take her out in about thirty minutes,” he grunted.

“We’ll need about another two hours to process the room,” the tech said. “Who knows how long for the entire theatre.”

“I’ll ask Parker to put some officers in the lobby,” Ransom said. “We’ll get everyone’s name and number, arrange interviews for tomorrow and this weekend if we need to.”

I squeezed his arm. “Bless you. That’s perfect.”

Matty approached from the long hallway. “Elli, Carla’s all set up front. Orchestra’s about done.”

I dropped my hand from Ransom’s arm.

“Gannon,” Ransom said.

“Lieutenant.”

They stared at one another and I looked at them in turn. Repeatedly. Another hot flash hit me. The room was crowded and I was uncomfortable around both men and my heavy dress was suffocating. I pulled the program from my pocket and started fanning myself.

Inga Dalrymple rushed to us. She stepped on my dress and I pitched forward into Ransom. “The dancers left the stage and the orchestra is still playing. Patrons are beginning to leave.”

Ransom gently steadied me. “You’re on.”

I tucked away the program, squared my shoulders, and took a deep breath. Thirty seconds later I stood center stage beneath the dazzling lights. They were as hot as they were bright. A crew member handed me a microphone as sweat rolled down the nape of my neck.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention,” I said. “There’s been an accident backstage.” People turned toward me. Some sat, others slowly retraced their steps down the aisle.

“Lexie Allen, our dear friend, and one of the loveliest dancers to grace this stage, passed away earlier this evening.”

Gasps and exclamations filled the room. Shocked utterances followed soft questions. “What happened?” “When?” “You’re sure?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer your questions. I simply don’t have any answers. But the police would like to speak with you, especially if you saw Lexie Allen immediately before tonight’s performance.” After I gently explained the ongoing investigation, I invited them to stay for coffee while the police took down their information.

As they filed up the carpeted aisles toward the exit, I returned backstage. Courtney sat in the Mouse King’s dressing room. She was crying on the small sofa, seated between the Mouse King and the Cavalier. I recognized him and his costume from the year before. Dancers hovered around them. All crying.

“What happened?” a girl in a pink nightgown asked. “Lexie was fine when she got here.”

“She said she wasn’t feeling well, so she asked me to take the Sugar Plum Fairy,” Courtney said. She plucked at the appliques on her fluffy tulle skirt. “She didn’t look that bad.”

“I checked on her,” the Mouse King said. “She didn’t move.”

“We’ll get their statements later,” Ransom said from behind me. “Right now, we need to clear this area.”

I left the group to their sorrow. “I’ll check with Carla, head to the front,” I said, just as Matty walked up.

“Thank you for helping with the food and drinks and setup in the lobby,” I said. “And for staying so late.”

“Of course,” Matty said. “You’re my date. I’ll take you home however late it is.”

“If you need to get going, Gannon, I can take her home,” Ransom said.

Matty stiffened, but didn’t reply. With words. He simply put his arm around my waist.

I stood between them. Matty Gannon and Nick Ransom. The former, one of my best friends, and the latter, my first love. Matty’s boyish good looks and casual demeanor in contrast to Ransom’s handsome sharp features and polished appearance. One the headmaster at Seabrook Preparatory, the other a lieutenant with the Sea Pine Police. I’d sort of been dating them both for about two months. They made me nervous.

“I’ll be here very late, Matty. You really should go.” I walked three feet away from Ransom, putting distance between the two. “You have morning classes tomorrow, and this will go on for hours. Carla can drop me at home.”

He hesitated, but then leaned down to kiss my cheek. “Okay. But call if you need me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? We don’t have a date tomorrow,” I said and glanced at Ransom.

He, too, looked at Ransom, then back at me. “The tree lighting at the Ballantyne,” he said and walked away.

“Oh, right, sure, tomorrow, then,” I said smoothly and half-waved at his retreating back. I put my hands on my cheeks and sighed. Two officers cut in front of me while three more dancers fluttered by. The soft orchestra playing in the background had been replaced by the industrial racket of clanging equipment.

Ransom took my arm and led me to a quiet corner. We stood barely six inches apart, and he spoke softly. “Sorry this evening ended the way it did. It’s difficult when you know the deceased.”

“Did you find her parents?”

“At home. The captain spoke to them about a half hour ago.”

“I’ll call Mr. Ballantyne as soon as I leave.” I sighed deep, from the bottom of my soul. To lose a loved one was tragic. To lose a child at Christmas was cruel.

I left Ransom backstage and walked through the theatre. It was vacant. A heavy velvet curtain covered the stage, its bottom puddled on the floor.
The Nutcracker
was over, the patrons were leaving, and Lexie Allen would dance no more.

TWO

(Day #2: Friday Morning)

I woke the next day from a troubled sleep. The skylight over my bed showed a clear Carolina blue sky. Not a reflection of my mood. I replayed the night before in my mind. The sight of Lexie on the sofa. Her parents getting a knock on their door from the captain of the Sea Pine Police. The crying dancers. Nick Ransom and Matty Gannon.

Staring up at the bright sky, I organized the day in my mind. Today was the annual Christmas tree decorating at the Big House. Every year we chose a theme, then commissioned custom ornaments from artists around the country. The first grade class from Seabrook Prep would trim the tree. As headmaster, Matty Gannon would supervise (and hang most of the ornaments). We almost postponed decorating a week because of a flu outbreak, and I was nervous not enough time had passed for the germs to have lost their potency. There’s only so much I can do with hand-sanitizer. But everyone from Matty to the teachers to the school nurse assured me the children were well, and I couldn’t just lie around my cottage all morning and be mopey and blue. A luxury for another day.

I showered and dressed in white capris and a red linen tunic, a privilege of a warm-climate December, then walked down the stairs of my beach cottage. It had whitewashed walls, rag rugs on the floor, and a compact kitchen. I ate my cereal over the sink and watched the lights twinkle on my tiny Christmas tree. Beyond the tree were several vintage Santa carvings, each dolled up in a beach theme. One with a surfboard, one in sunglasses, one on a bike. Beyond that was the sliding glass door that led to the deck that led to the sand that led to the ocean. After a brief internal pep talk, I rinsed my bowl, grabbed my hipster handbag, and went out the door to the garage.

Normally I would ride my bike the two miles to work, but it was already after nine. And morning exercise would not improve my mood. I put the top down on my Mini Coop and tucked my hair beneath a colorful canvas hat so the stray red curls wouldn’t blind me while I drove.

The Ballantyne Foundation’s Big House was exactly that: a big house. It sat on a hill overlooking all of Oyster Cove Plantation, situated squarely between the ocean, the golf club, and the heavy iron entrance gates. The Ballantynes had owned their South Carolina land since the sea mountains formed Sea Pine Island however many million years ago. Of course, I’ve only worked there for the last fifteen. I’m not that old.

I parked in the circular drive and entered the grand foyer. A custom silk beauty of a spruce rose eighteen feet between two curved staircases. The perfect size for the two-story entry. The Big House was almost fifteen-thousand square feet–and that didn’t include the Ballantynes’ private residence on the third floor, only the public spaces, offices, ballroom, kitchen, library…

We put up the tree two weeks before Christmas Day and took it down one week after. No eight-week-Thanksgiving-until-January endless holiday season. This wasn’t Disneyland. But our dedication to splendor and fantasy rivaled those Imagineers. The annual Ballantyne Christmas tree always bore fresh ornaments, never the same theme as another year. We’d commissioned everything from porcelain partridges and pears (along with the other eleven days of Christmas) to hand-forged silver bells. That’s not to say every idea was successful. The year we did snowflakes (no two alike), it took six months to rid the Big House of all the glitter. Those little sparkles were everywhere.

Enormous boxes sat in front of the spruce, their lids stacked in the far corner. Each box was divided into four inch squares with a single ornament tucked in each one.

“Last night sucked,” Tod Hayes said as he walked up beside me. He was the Ballantyne administrator. He wore his hair trimmed, his clothes neat, and his expression droll.

“Your night sucked? Dude, it was nothing compared to mine,” I said.

“I went with the captain to see the Allens.”

“You did?”

“It was agreed someone from the Foundation should be there and Lieutenant Handsome felt you were indispensable at the theatre.”

“Oh, Tod, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Must have been awful.”

“Awful, awful, awful,” Zibby Archibald said as she slowly entered the foyer. At eighty-seven, she may have been the most senior member of the Ballantyne board, but probably had the youngest spirit. She wore a wide brim straw hat with gigantic hot pink poinsettias pinned to every visible surface. She’d dyed her hair to match the flowers. She took one look at the ornaments and shook her head. “Dearie me.”

Tod glanced down. “You said it, sister. The children will be here at two sharp.”

“We better get the rug,” Zibby said. She walked across the foyer and grabbed a corner of the twenty-foot hand-loomed wool rug that covered the floor, then hauled it toward the ornaments. She moved faster than I would’ve thought possible. That sucker was heavy.

“Whatcha doing, Zibs?” I asked.

“These
Nutcracker
sugar princess ornaments are little Lexie lookalikes,” she said and heaved the rug over the boxes. “The ballet chief was parking in the lot when I came in. Wouldn’t be decent for her to see these.”

“The boxes have lids,” I said.

Zibby patted my arm. “Well, if we didn’t have the rug.”

The foyer door opened and Inga Dalrymple walked in. “Elliott, I was hoping to talk to you.” She paused, looked at Zibby’s hat and hair, then cleared her throat. She raised her voice as if speaking to a large crowd instead of three people standing seven feet away. “We all know losing Lexie was tragic and terrible and I can’t even think about it. But I’m here to assure you, our main sponsor, the performances will continue.”

I started to speak, but she tapped her stick on the bare hardwood floor and continued. “It was a hard decision, but it’s done. It’s a distressing situation, but I’ve got a distraught troupe, frantic parents, and hundreds upon hundreds of ticketholders all calling to find out what’s going on. So this is what’s going on. The show.”

“Even tonight’s?” I asked.

“Especially tonight’s,” she said. “Which brings me to the second reason I’m here. We need to dedicate this evening’s performance to Lexie. And let the audience know a scholarship, sponsored by the Ballantyne, will be named in her honor. Is that possible?”

“To do, yes, but not for tonight’s performance,” I said. “I’ll need to present it to the board—”

“It has to be today.” She lowered her booming voice to a normal octave. “Please. I can’t stop to think about Lexie. Or what happened. Or the show going on without her. I need to get this settled and move on to the next thing. And the next and the next.”

Zibby ambled over and pattered her hand. “A lovely gesture, Inga. I’m sure the scholarship will get undisputed approval.”

She was right. Who would turn it down? “We can make the announcement and say it’s in the works,” I said.

Inga nodded once, then cleared her throat again. “Thank you for your support.” She turned on a heel and walked out.

“I’m not sure keeping the performance schedule is such a good idea, but the scholarship is,” I said.

“You have bigger fish to fry.” Tod gestured toward the rug-covered ornament boxes.

“Right, the ornaments.” This year’s theme:
The Nutcracker
, featuring replicas of the Sea Pine Community Theatre’s production costumes. Including the star of the show, Lexie Allen as the Sugar Plum Fairy. “These hand-painted ornaments took weeks to commission, craft, and ship. We need a Plan B for the decorations before the children arrive at two this afternoon.”

“Yes, I do believe that’s the situation,” Tod said. “It’s almost ten now. In case you need a recap.”

“What are we recapping?” Carla said. Light patches of flour speckled her white chef’s coat and she held a large stainless mixing bowl filled with cookie dough.

“I have an idea,” I said.

Three hours later, I emerged from the kitchen frazzled, but triumphant. I don’t usually spend so much time in the Ballantyne’s kitchen. Or any time in any kitchen, including my own. But an emergency calls for all hands on deck. Even my perfectly sanitized ones.

I carried a tray of cookie dough ornaments through the sunroom and out the double doors to the terrace. The sun was high and the sky was clear and the lap pool sparkled in the most delightful way. My childhood holiday vacations were spent peering out the window at snow-covered streets. Freezing, frigid, ridiculously cold wish-I-could-go-play-outside holidays. White Christmases were totally overrated. I’ll take sun and sand, thank you very much.

I set the tray on a patio table and cranked open the large market umbrella. Two dozen children chased each other around the back lawn, dodging around the oak trees and towering magnolias.

Zibby spread out ornaments on two other tables while Tod set out paints.

“How clever you are,” Deidre Burch said as she walked down the steps to the deck. Another longtime board member, Deidre wore her gray hair in a swingy bob held back by orange readers on a beaded chain. “I worried about those ballerina ornaments. Horrifying to see hundreds of little Lexies on that tree.”

The kids scurried up to the tables on the deck. A young boy coughed and I moved two steps to my left. Away from the kid. “Not sure how long it will take to both paint and hang, but probably more entertaining for the children,” I said.

Matty came out from the house carrying a five foot bag of popcorn. “Who wants popcorn?” As the kids screamed they all wanted popcorn, Matty directed one to grab the box of thread and another to set up an assembly line.

“You pop all that?” Deidre asked.

“Are you nuts? We called the movie house and Matty picked up a bag of pre-popped.”

I watched Matty with the children. Kind and patient, easy-going and good-natured. Throw in tan and athletic with soft brown hair and warm brown eyes, and there wasn’t a reason that boy was still single. 

Once he had a handful of kids stringing buttery garland, he came over. “Hey Elli,” he said and leaned over to kiss my cheek. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m okay. A long night and all that, but this decorating should keep me busy.”

“This is just phase one,” Tod said. He carried another tray of cookie ornaments. “We still need to get them on the tree.”

“Let me just say that I got this dilemma fixed in less than three hours,” I said. “I’m on my game, people.”

“And what a dilemma,” Deidre said. “So sad. So much wrong. Those poor dancers. You know Lexie was staying at my rental in Sugar Hill? Her and her three friends. Breaks my heart.”

“By the way,” Tod said to me. “Lieutenant Handsome is in your office.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, that would be why I’m telling you. Right now.”

That was unusual. Ransom didn’t normally visit me at the Big House. I brushed my clothes with my hands in case random kitchen dust had landed on me and my glance caught Matty’s. “Be right back,” I said with a tentative smile.

Mr. Ballantyne had converted the music room into my office when I officially became director nearly nine years earlier. Tall windows dressed in wide plantation shutters ran along the entire side wall, leaving sunshine stripes on the dark wood floors.

Nick Ransom sat in a side chair in front of my desk, one leg of his tailored suit casually crossed over the other. He was the first boy—man—guy?—I ever loved. We met in college and he broke my heart when he left without a word. Actually, he left seven words on my answering machine. He went on to the FBI and I went on without him.

I breathed in his familiar cologne. Some days I just wanted to reach out and touch his face. Make sure he was really here.

“Hey, Nick. What a surprise.” I took two quick squirts from the hand-sani pump on my desk and plopped into my chair. “It’s nice to see you.”

“You, too. But this is a business visit, not a personal one. To fill you in on the Lexie Allen case. As a courtesy.” He took out a small notebook and leafed through the pages as if checking his notes. “It looks like an accidental poisoning.”

“Accidental?”

“Could be suspicious, but likely Lexie accidentally poisoned herself. Turns out she was quite the cook. She was into baking recently, especially exotic ingredients. She used toxic berries in a batch of frosted cupcakes. Ate one before the performance and it killed her.”

“Toxic cupcakes?”

“Looks that way. She had several similar-looking berries in jars on the kitchen countertop. Mixed up one nightshade with another. Ended up with belladonna. We checked fingerprints on all the containers. Only Lexie’s. Her roommates confirmed she’d been baking lately, nearly every single day. Two of them got sick from something she made two days ago. Wouldn’t eat anything after that. Too risky.”

“Belladonna jars?” I shook myself. Accidental poisoning? That made no sense. He was throwing information at me rapid-fire and I barely kept up. Though I wasn’t actually asking smart questions. “Why would she have toxic berries? Why would she make such a thing? Why would she eat cake?” I assumed dancers had some sort of health ritual that did not involve berry-filled frosted cupcakes.

“Another possibility we’re exploring, though not publicly, is suicide,” he said without answering my questions and closed his notebook.

“Suicide?”

“Made for a very dramatic scene, which is not unusual for a young adult. Especially an artistic one. She bakes the cupcakes, gets dressed for the performance, dies right before going onstage in front of all her friends.”