Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (15 page)

I laughed. “It’s perfect!”

“Hey, thanks! I thought so. Brooke and I practiced in case he asked.”

“Leo found you through the production company?” I asked.

“They have a database of on-air talent, headshots, videos, voiceovers. Client flips through, chooses who he likes, they send us out to audition. Brooke and I are in at least a dozen talent books in the South, but so are a thousand other girls, you know. It’s a lot harder to get a part than it sounds.” She zipped up the backpack and slung it over her shoulder. “What happens now with the commercial?”

Ransom stood and I followed. My butt hurt from the lumpy sofa with wobbly springs. “I’m not sure,” I said.

“Man, Brooke’ll be so bummed if they cancel it now.”

“Did she get the part?” I asked.

“No, but I bet he would’ve given it to her. You know, if he’d lived.”

Ransom handed her his card. “Will you ask Brooke to call me when she returns? And if you think of anything, please let me know.”

“Sure,” she said.

I smiled and handed her my card, too. Just in case.

Jenna locked the apartment behind us and clamored down the metal stairs ahead of us. She moved at a pretty good clip with that heavy pack strapped on her back. She was down the sidewalk and around the corner in ten strides.

“Well, that was a bust,” Ransom said as he helped me into the car. He shut the wing door and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Except for the sale on blenders,” I said. “I always did want one of those.”

“You don’t have a blender?”

“I don’t even have a toaster. If I have to use an appliance to make it, I’m not eating it. Microwave excluded, of course.”

“Of course.”

He started the engine and the McLaren sprang to life, humming like a jet engine. “I’ll have you to the Big House before eleven. The way you sleep in, no one will even know you were gone.”

“Funny. Look, while we’re all the way out here— ”

“All this way.”

“Exactly. Let’s swing by the River Street Inn and confirm Bebe’s alibi. I’m telling you, she could’ve driven to the island, killed Leo, and been back before the Scrappers even missed her.”

“This may surprise you, but I checked Bebe’s alibi.”

“And?”

“And she didn’t leave the hotel all weekend.”

“Did you actually go to the hotel and speak to the clerk in person?”

“No,” he said slowly. “That I did not do.”

“Well, then. We’re like five blocks away. Isn’t that why you drove out here? It’s much better to talk in person, remember? Phone calls can be so unreliable, isn’t that what you said this morning?”

“I’m sure I didn’t use that tone.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and his phone rang. “Ransom,” he said. Then five seconds later, “What did it say?”

He glanced at me and mouthed “stay here.” He slid out of the car and shut his door tight.

I tried to read his lips, but he saw me and turned his back. A minute later he hung up, then made another call. Two minutes after that, he got back in the car.

“What was that about?”

He ignored my question and pulled away from the curb. He turned left on Montgomery, then a right on Bay Street. “You think you can get information out of the hotel staff?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, this should be fun,” he said and parked near the hotel, a brick building reminiscent of a warehouse with tall windows overlooking the Savannah River.

Ransom let me take the lead as we approached the front desk. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Good morning. May I speak with the manager, please?” I asked a trim man in a gray suit. His name tag said Philip Feeney and he stood in front of a computer terminal and keyboard. Ready to check us in, I presumed.

“I’m the manager. How may I assist you?”

“We’re investigating a homicide on Sea Pine Island.” I elbowed Ransom. “Show him your badge,” I whispered.

Ransom pulled a slim leather case from his pocket. “Lieutenant Ransom, Sea Pine Police.”

“The victim’s wife, Bebe Hirschorn, was a guest at your hotel last weekend. We need confirmation as to her whereabouts.”

He looked down his nose at me. “I’m not sure I can help you. Our guests are free to come and go as they please. It hurts business when we lock them in at night.”

“Cute. Here’s the thing, Philip. I’m the director of the prestigious Ballantyne Foundation. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?” I handed him my business card.

“Of course. I didn’t realize.”

“I thought not. A very distinguished member of our board was bludgeoned to death in his own home, possibly by a guest at your hotel. News like that could also hurt business, yes?”

He nodded slightly.

“I understand discretion. I would never breach confidentiality, from one prestigious organization to another. If you would be so kind as to confirm Mrs. Hirschorn was indeed a guest, with a little cooperation, this matter will practically resolve itself.”

He flicked a glance at Ransom, who simply smiled.

Phillip picked up my card. “Of course, Ms. Lisbon.” He began typing on the keyboard, his fingers flying with the speed and randomness of a ticketing agent. “Here we are. Mrs. Bebe Hirschorn, checked in last Friday, checked out two days later on Sunday early afternoon. She ordered two meals from room service and brought a cat.”

“Does your hotel track guests with their electronic room key?” I asked.

“Yes, but for that you’ll need a warrant. I’m afraid security handles those logs.”

I stiffened my back. “I see.” I turned to Ransom. “A warrant can be so…”

“Public?” he said.

“Exactly. But if we must…”

Phillip’s fingers again flew across the keyboard. “Wait. This may help. Mrs. Hirschorn had a roommate. A Ms. Gina Beckendinga.” He rattled off the address while I took notes. “Perhaps you can extort some cooperation from her.”

I smiled. “Perhaps I can. Thank you, Phillip.” I was elated. No warrant necessary. And thank goodness, because I’m pretty sure no one would give me one. I tucked away my notebook and walked away.

“Any other favors, Lieutenant?” I heard Phillip say behind me.

I kept walking, not stopping to hear Ransom’s answer as I crossed the lobby. I whirled on him when he joined me on the curb in front of the hotel.

He smiled and said, “Not bad, Red. I’m impressed.”

“What did he mean about favors?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What kind of favor? Like talking to me?” I studied his face. His grin was a shit-eater and I remembered the second phone call outside Jenna’s fifteen minutes earlier. “Did you call the hotel and tell them we were coming in?”

“It’s no big deal, just a head’s up.”

My face flashed red with hot blood and embarrassment. “What about Gina Beckendinga? Was that even real?”

He didn’t seem to notice the change in my demeanor. Or that my face now matched my hair color, tone for tone. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He smiled wider. I think he was going for charming, but all I saw was gloating. “I got her name from security and spoke with her three days ago. Bebe’s alibi is solid.”

“But you said you didn’t talk to the hotel.”

“I said I didn’t speak to the clerk. I spoke with security, then the Scrappers coordinator, and then with Ms. Beckendinga.”

“You are such an asshole.” I turned on my heel, and marched down the street mortified. I blinked back tears. My emotions run very close to the surface. Anger, hurt, humiliation, bliss. All launch the waterworks whether I want them or not.

Foot traffic on the sidewalk was heavy, crowding the narrow walks as lunchtime closed in. I turned down one street, then another. I slowed near a row of antique shops and a sidewalk café.

“Elliott, wait,” Ransom said. He touched my arm to stop me, then stood in front of me. “Hey, don’t overreact.”

“You set me up to make a fool of myself, Ransom.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Of course it was. Did you enjoy my amateur interrogation? Get a giggle watching me sweat the old hotel clerk? I thought you at least respected me. Why did you even bring me? To see how big an idiot I can be? Well, you hit the jackpot.”

A tear escaped and rolled down my cheek. “Shit,” I said and sat on stool at the café. “Honest to God, this just keeps getting better.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he said and put his hand on my arm.

I slapped it away. “I’m not hurt, asshole, I’m pissed.” And embarrassed. I should’ve recognized it right away. Ransom looking all smug as if he was doing me a big fat favor while I questioned the hotel manager.

“Elliott, stop. You’re making too much of this. You wanted to talk to the hotel, and I didn’t see any harm in letting you. So I gave him a heads up. No big deal.”

Letting me? “I should’ve known you would never let me lead if you weren’t up to something. I overestimated our relationship and I underestimated you. It won’t happen again.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

“I can’t help you with that.” 

I stood and walked down the sidewalk not waiting for him to follow. I stopped at the window of an small antiques shop. It wasn’t the fancy kind like Jane’s gallery, but the other kind, with retro collectibles and chic vintage kitsch: a matching tin canister set in faded mint green from the thirties, a genuine Brunswick bowling pin from the forties, a black and white houndstooth coat from the fifties.

“Are we still friends?” Ransom asked. He stood close and put his hand on my elbow.

Matty’s words about friends and lovers came rushing back. “We were never friends. Apparently we’re not even colleagues,” I said, without turning from the display.

He tapped the glass window. “See the red pen in the cherry wood case? That’s a Parker Duofold from the 1920s. See? No arrow on the nib.”

“You shop antiques?”

“Now and then. I collect vintage pens, clocks, things like that.”

I studied the window a few minutes more, then walked toward Bay Street where the car was parked. Ransom walked by my side.

“Elliott, about the hotel. I admit, you asked the right questions. But I’ve got this investigation covered. I’m very good. You’re not going to uncover anything I don’t already know.”

He may have been apologizing in his own Batman I’m-the-hero way, but all I heard was the clanging sound of a gauntlet being thrown down.

FOURTEEN

We sped back to the island in twenty-six minutes. That’s from downtown Savannah, over the Talmadge Bridge, along the two-lane highway, through Summerton, over the Palmetto Bridge, and to my cottage door in twenty-six minutes. Since we didn’t waste time on scenery or pleasantries, I had plenty of time to get ready for the luncheon at Reena’s.

I took another shower. I wanted to start my day over. It was already lousy and only noon. I was still ignoring the implications of Matty’s kiss. I was cranky from being dragged out of bed at dawn. I was embarrassed from my humiliating interview with the hotel manager. I didn’t want to go to Reena’s, who I simply did not like after meeting her a total of one time. And it all circled right back to Nick Ransom, who was probably going to be at the party. I hadn’t asked; I didn’t want him to think I cared.

Forty-five minutes later, I dressed in a floral tunic over white cigarette pants and slipped on a new pair of strappy slingbacks. I styled my hair and even wore makeup like a big girl. 

Reena Patel lived off-plantation in an enclave of homes directly on the water in South Pebble Beach. A tourist beacon of restaurants, shops, and plenty of public access. Several hotel chains bordered the plaza. Their pools were packed during the day and their bars took over the night.

I turned on Ocean Boulevard, then made a right on First Street. Reena’s house was about a mile and a half down, enough distance from the tourist hub to afford privacy. Or at least lessen the risk of a family of five parking their beach chairs, umbrellas, coolers, fishing gear, boogie boards, pails, buckets, and beer three feet from your million-dollar deck.

Cars lined the street around her house, but I squeezed into a spot right in her driveway. My left tires rested on the front lawn, but I doubted she’d notice and I didn’t care if she did.

Reena answered the door carrying a platter of canapés. She wore a leaf-green sundress with twisted spaghetti straps and her hair hung loose with an orchid tucked behind one ear. She looked like a Hawaiian princess.

“Elliott? What are you doing here?”

I’ve never been greeted by a hostess quite that way before. “Tod invited me,” I said.

She relaxed. “Oh, good. You’re late, though.” She stepped aside so I could enter.

She thrust the canapé platter into my hands. “The guests are either on the terrace or the deck by the pool. When you’ve finished passing these, check the punch bowl, it might be low.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and clacked away in her super high heels.

I should’ve shoved the tray back at her, but I didn’t want to create a scene. Instead, I carefully stepped across the expansive marble floor. Miles of marble floor: sleek, shiny, and slick. And I wore new shoes.

The house was fresh from the pages of a magazine. The first floor was practically one open space. The living room, dining room, foyer, and kitchen blended together with only furniture to define the rooms. Like a fancy furniture showroom, it was nice to look at, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

I met Tod in the kitchen. “Apparently I’m serving the hors d’oeuvres,” I said and set the plate on the black granite countertop. “Your note failed to mention I’d have to work for my lunch.”

Tod arranged shrimp and cocktail sauce on a crystal tray. “Do I look like I knew?”

I glanced at his outfit: gray slacks, linen shirt, and a smooth black belt around his slim waist.

“It’s Armani, Elliott. Armani. Apparently Reena sees this as a Ballantyne function, so naturally, we’re the help. But we’re only supplementing. She hired two uniformed servers to help us.”

“She’s too kind.” I admired the catered spread. Trays of canapés, hors d’oeuvres, and sandwiches covered the granite island. A heavy, cut-crystal punch bowl with dozens of matching cups worked as a centerpiece for the array of desserts in the living room. I helped Tod place the shrimp on a bed of ice cubes.

“Why do we do this?” Tod asked.

“We’re doing this for the children of Mumbai. I can pass salmon puffs for a prima donna princess because our organization will help her organization keep those families from sleeping in the trash.”

“And it fills us with a secret superiority. He who controls the food rules the world.”

“Amen.” I lowered my voice. “I, for one, plan on glomming information about Leo. Someone here knows more than they’re telling.”

I looked out to the open room beyond the kitchen island. A white sofa with matching chairs and rug made up the living room straight ahead. It faced an enormous glass wall, forty feet of windows overlooking a long terrace, brick deck, swimming pool, and the Atlantic. The ocean sparkled in the sunlight as a thin white line of surf gently rolled to the sand.

“Pretty nice view,” I said. “Where does she get the money?”

“Did you even read her application packet?”

“I may have skimmed.” It was still tucked in my messenger bag. The only time I actually cracked it open was during the meeting with Reena.

“Daddy’s money,” Tod said.

I finished with the shrimp and washed my hands twice, then dosed them with hand-sani to get the shrimp smell off. It almost worked. “I thought her people were poor, living in slums.”

“Not quite. It seems in Mumbai, you either live in a slum or a palace. No bothersome middle class to confuse things. She is of the palace people. She wanted to give the family money to help the poor, daddy did not. This is their version of a compromise.”

“Donate somebody else’s money to the poor.”

“Exactly. It’s the way of the wealthy. Daddy sets her up with a house and an allowance while she gathers grant money to give away.” Tod picked up a tray. “Shall we earn our keep?”

“I live to serve.” I picked up a platter and followed Tod to the patio where the guests mingled on the multi-level deck, several holding Mumbai Humanitarian brochures.

A sight Mr. Ballantyne would enjoy. He liked to work with local groups. It allowed board members and loyal donors to meet grantees, learn about their causes and how they can help.

“Why Elliott, don’t you look pretty!” Zibby Archibald said. She had dyed her hair to match her blouse, a lovely shade of turquoise.

“Walnut chicken summer roll?” I offered.