Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (2 page)

“Not quite,” Tod said. “You have three fires to put out, though Jane is more of a firestorm of seething lava and flaming fireballs.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” I glanced at my watch. It was already past eleven, dreadfully late for a party that started at five. How did I miss seeing Nick Ransom for the last six hours? My lips tingled at the thought of him being so close. Traitors.

Tod snapped his fingers. “Hello, Elliott?”

“Right, melodramatic. Things can’t be that terrible, can they?”

“Jane is beheading board members, Mr. Colbert is serving guests from the canapés stuffed in his pockets, and Mrs. Kramer is singing with the band.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“They’re in the men’s room.”

“Naturally. Well, then, you take Jane, I’ll take the other two.” I stepped toward the gallery, where the men’s lounge was located, but Tod stopped me before I lifted my left foot.

“Sorry, Elliott, I’ll be taking the easy ones this time. You already got lucky once tonight.”

At my quizzical glance, he said, “You have lipstick on your chin and your skirt is twisted.”

I felt my cheeks go pink as I straightened my skirt. I hoped no one outside the ballroom noticed or told the Ballantynes about my inability to reign in the cuckoos. Or my inability to maintain my dignity in the face of a twenty-year-old broken heart. “This party is killing me. Literally killing me.”

“Not literally.”

“Yes, literally. Emotionally killing me on the inside, Tod. On the inside.”

He rolled his eyes. “Good luck with Jane. Last I heard, she was on the terrace telling Leo Hirschorn to shove his humanitarian trophy up his ass.” He waved and turned toward the gallery, leaving me to deal with firestorm number one.

Jane Walcott Hatting had been the chair of the Ballantyne board for the last eleven years. She owned an esteemed auction house in nearby Savannah, served as president of the local historical preservation society, and was the most unpleasant person on planet Earth. To find her, I merely had to follow the bursts of indignation through the crowd, like following a trail of burning buildings to locate Godzilla.

After a small detour to get my makeup redistributed to all the right facial features, I found Jane at the bar near the dessert table. She wore a tailored black dress and her expensive salon-cut hair framed her oval face and wickedly sharp eyes.

“Hey, Skippy,” Jane said to the young bartender as she slid a martini glass across the bar top. “Do I look like James Bond? A martini should be gently stirred. It’s a cocktail, not a can of spray paint. Try again, and this time haul out the good stuff. I’m not here for the company.”

Ah, Jane. Such a people person.

“Good evening, Jane. Enjoying yourself, as always?”

She eyeballed me. “What the hell do you want?”

“Please stop harassing Leo Hirschorn. He’s a respected member of the board.”

“He’s an embarrassment to the Foundation. A scheming buffoon with a loud mouth and a crass manner. He’s done.”

I smiled as a wealthy donor walked by. As soon as she was out of earshot, I said, “Keep your voice down, Jane. A Foundation project idea is not a scheme.”

She gave me a look as flat as her tone. “You’re so naïve, it’s almost endearing.”

“I’m not going to fight with you about Leo.”

“This isn’t a fight, Elliott. It’s barely a conversation. As for Leo, he’s off the board.”

“That’s not your decision.”

The young bartender gently set Jane’s fresh drink on a tiny napkin square. She belted it back, then slammed the glass down. The little olive on a stick flipped out and rolled onto the floor. “I don’t care what I have to do, but we’ll be sitting a new board at Monday’s meeting.” She snatched her beaded bag from the bar and stalked away.

This isn’t going to end well, I thought.

I followed her through the ornate archway, but then she marched down the staircase and out the front door. I sighed. It’s always a relief when the party’s worst guest bids adieu without actually setting the place on fire.

Not two seconds later, Ransom appeared in the foyer with his arm around an exotic woman. She had dark hair to her waist and legs to her elbows and wore a clingy short dress that said Hot Damn! He tipped his head toward me, then followed Jane outside.

I snuck down to the library on wobbly legs. Ransom’s cologne lingered in the air, along with a faint musky aroma of Cuban tobacco. I slipped into a tall leather wingback near the window and watched as a crew of valets in short red jackets sprinted to and fro, quickly fetching cars hidden behind the palm trees in the side lot.

A sleek silver sports car slid up to the walk. The valet hopped out as Ransom escorted his date down the path. He slowly kissed her neck, his hand low on her hip, and then poured her into the leather seat.

“Well, that was unnecessary,” I whispered.

He turned his head toward the library as if he’d heard me. I don’t think he saw me behind the glass, but I slouched down anyway. He walked around the car, slammed into the driver’s seat, and sped away. I watched his taillights fade into the darkness, until they were gone.

So long, Batman.

I sighed and stood and went up to the ballroom. It took another two hours for Tod and me to shuffle the rest of the guests out the door. Funny how people are never mindful of the time when lounging around with someone else’s booze. I finally approached the last three couples with a gift of fine wine from the cellar to enjoy once they made it home.

It was close to two a.m. when I climbed into my white Mini Cooper convertible and drove the short two miles from the Big House to my cottage on the beach, a mere fifty yards from the Atlantic. Exhaustion weighed down my limbs as if my bones were made of metal and the road was a magnet. I kept the top down to stay awake. I pictured myself in my striped pajamas, head resting on a fluffy down pillow. It was Sunday; I had a busy morning, but the rest of the day free. No Foundation, no meetings, no Jane. Nothing to do but nap. Maybe I’d even sleep through dinner.

Of course, I wasn’t that lucky.

TWO

I was so tired, it hurt to wake up. I cracked open one eye and focused on the clock: 5:27. I opened the other eye. Dim stars glittered in the dark skylight in the ceiling above my bed. Morning had yet to break.

On paper, my Foundation director duties seemed prestigious. Organize fundraisers, research grant recipients, liaise between the board members and the Ballantyne family. But in reality, I felt less like a charity director and more like a camp counselor, herding misbehaving campers. Cleaning up their messes and breaking up their fights. And today was the worst: early morning mess hall duty for two different board members. First a quick run to Leo Hirschorn’s to set up a breakfast meeting, then back to the Big House to set up the Coastal Conservation brunch.

But if I rushed, I could be back, snuggled under my quilt, before nine.

I threw on sweats, a clean t-shirt, and an old canvas beach hat to hide my snarled hair. It’s red and wavy and hard to tame fresh out of bed. But it’s not as if I have much of a beauty regime anyway. I don’t color my gray (I only have like five strands) and I rarely wear make-up.

After a quick face scrub and swipe of a toothbrush, I gulped down a Pepsi. Even though I like my caffeine cold, let me tell you, gulping down an ice-cold carbonated drink at half-past five in the morning is not all it’s cracked up to be.

In fifteen minutes flat—from alarm to driveway—I was on the road. The sun had begun to peek over the Atlantic as I streaked out the gate and onto the main highway. 

Sea Pine Island is shaped like a shoe—a Converse sneaker, to be more accurate. The bridge to mainland South Carolina is at the high-top part and the lighthouse is at the toe. But rather than canvas—to carry this analogy to its most unbearable conclusion—the island is made up of thick oaks, pines, palms, an occasional shopping alcove, and a dozen or so plantations: housing communities fronted by large iron gates and armed guards.

I sped down Cabana Boulevard to the largest plantation: Harborside. It housed a ninety-foot lighthouse and a marina with the nicest yachts in a five-hundred-mile radius. The kind with onboard helicopters and motorcycles, in case you needed a vacation from your vacation.

The large traffic circle was quiet, as was the guardhouse. Leo had called in a pass for me. Without a resident sticker and a pin number, one generally needed an act of Congress to gain entry. Or at the very least, needed to be the pizza delivery guy.

With the pass tucked securely into the dash, I wound around the drive to Sparrow Road, then turned left on Ravenwood Lane, a curvy street of large stucco homes with manicured lawns, matching mailboxes, and sweeping golf course views. After I parked at number fifty-two, I hauled out a heavy box of brochures, forms, and a detailed diorama. Supplies for Leo’s breakfast meeting. Even though I hated waking before the chickens did, I wanted to be the one to display the diorama. I designed it myself.

I knocked on the door and it slowly swung open.

I stepped in, and something crunched beneath my feet.

“Leo?” I called and flipped on the light switch.

My breath caught in my throat. Broken glass and ripped furniture littered the front room, and a stench from the kitchen nearly knocked me flat. Glops of spilled food from smashed jars pooled on the countertops. Spicy red salsa and pungent vinegar melded together on the bright white tiles. In a word: disgusting. I didn’t know which way to breathe: through my nose and smell it or through my mouth and taste it.

Knives were strewn haphazardly on the floor. A single butcher’s blade had been slammed into the breakfast room table. I shuffled forward. A piece of glass snapped under my left foot. I kicked something else with my right. Something solid, but malleable. Weighty and dense. I did not want to look down.

I looked down.

My toes were touching a large dark leather sofa cushion, cut across the seam. I almost giggled with relief. I peered past a broken chair into an oak-paneled den with a large desk beneath a bay window. And Leo Hirschorn dead on the floor.

His head was smashed into the base of a grandfather clock, covered in at least a gallon of blood. His eyes were open and he was staring right at me.

In two seconds, I screamed blue murder, whirled around, cracked my elbow on the doorjamb, dropped the diorama on my left foot, and ran.

I didn’t stop until my shaking hands gripped the car door. I dove inside. My thoughts registered like a flashing road sign: Lock the door, start the car, drive like a crazy woman. I scrambled for my keys, finding them deep inside my left front pocket.

My sense finally returned when the key hit the ignition. A wild-eyed maniac had not run out of the house after me. I looked around. The neighborhood was quiet, almost serene, with dewy lawns and potted flowers on porches.

But I’m no fool. I got the hell out of there. I dialed 911 with one hand and drove with the other, eventually coming back around to park across from Leo’s house in view of both the street and the front door. It still stood open and I swore I could smell the slimy food mounds from the kitchen. I grabbed the hand-sani from my pocket and slathered it from my fingers up to my elbows.

Within ten minutes, two police cars arrived. Within twenty, three fire engines, an ambulance, the medical examiner’s wagon, and a handful of civilian cars crowded the street.

I spoke with the arriving officers first, blurting out my discovery in stops and starts. Including how I secured the scene, as required by South Carolina law for a private investigator (even in training), though not including how I screamed like a girl and ran from said scene.

They told me to wait by my car for the detectives, then they went inside. A short while later, I saw a familiar face: Corporal Lillie Parker. She helped out whenever we needed security at Ballantyne functions. She looked more like a cat burglar than a cop. Thin as a piece of string and graceful as a ballet dancer.

“Hey, Elliott,” she said. “Crazy morning, huh?”

“What happened in there?”

“You tell me.”

She took notes while I relayed the same story I told earlier. We walked away from the house while we talked. It helped me pull myself together.

“The Lieutenant will be here soon,” she said. “He’ll want to talk to you.”

Lieutenant Sullivan had joined the Sea Pine Island police department when they still rode horses for patrol, or so it seemed. He advised me when I performed discreet inquiries for Foundation donors. Ones in which they didn’t want to involve the police—or the press. Usually something simple like the maid lifted the silver or a relative got caught joyriding in a golf cart. With an advisor on the local police force, my minor investigations for the Ballantyne Foundation counted toward my required hours to obtain my official PI license. I had no plans to leave my job at the Foundation, but the license held a certain credibility for even the tiniest of troubles I tried to tame.

Parker and I reached my Mini, still parked out front. The street was chaotic, filled with cars, neighbors, and a crowd of specialists here to pick through every detail of Leo’s life. Including the medical examiner, Harry Fleet. A burly black man who looked as though he purchased his antacid tablets in bulk. Rumpled shirt, baggy eyes, permanent scowl.

Harry and I didn’t exactly have a pleasant working relationship. I once needed his assistance on a small matter where a generous Foundation donor kicked the bucket while in flagrante delicto—and not with her husband. Harry didn’t appreciate my efforts to keep the matter quiet. He used phrases like “pain in my ass” and “get out of my office.”

Parker noticed my glance. “Do you want to wait in back? It’s quieter.”

I nodded and walked through the backyard to a cheap patio set looking lonely with neglect. Dust and dried pollen covered the vinyl cushions and metal tabletop. It overlooked a pristine fairway. A foggy mist covered the greens, dissipating slowly as the sun broke over the horizon and began its day-long journey to the other side.

Two technicians with heavy equipment cases scurried out the back door toward a van in the driveway.

I quietly stood and inched closer, studying the activity from the comfort of the brick patio, away from the stenchy mess inside. Another tech carried out several clear evidence bags. A wine bottle with a short burgundy label. A fat wine glass. Maybe a long silver letter opener or an ice pick.

I’d always dreamt of being a hotshot investigator, but it didn’t quite work out. I’d taken two years of criminology classes in college before I realized I’d never make it to graduation. I fainted twice in one forensics class and had to close my eyes during most of another. The smell of blood, death, and loose body parts would either gross me out or freak me out. Neither reaction impressed the professors.

I graduated with a Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice, then started working at the Ballantyne. A few years later, as my discreet inquiries became more frequent, I decided to make my standing more official with a license to investigate from the State. They required six thousand hours of on the job training. I’d managed to accumulate just over four hundred. Apparently I’m more of a tortoise than a hare.

I sighed and glanced back inside. Then I choked.

Nick Ransom stood in the dining room. And he looked as tempting as he had the night before. Tailored dress slacks, a sport jacket, and a snug black polo.

Oh shit. I’m wearing sweatpants.

I turned around, dashed down the patio steps, and ran straight into Parker.

“What is he doing here?” I whispered and nonchalantly tilted my head toward Ransom and the back door.

“Lieutenant Ransom? It’s his case,” she said. “Lieutenant Sullivan retired to Florida last week.”

“Him? He’s a lieutenant with
our
Island Police department?”

“He’s a looker, all right. But a pill. He asked for you first thing,” Parker said and left me standing in the grass. She walked up the patio steps, opened the glass door, and called to Ransom.

I sank into one of the grungy patio chairs and tried to remember if I’d brushed my teeth. What is wrong with me? First my pants, now my teeth. Leo’s dead, for shit’s sake.

Ransom joined me a few minutes later. Relaxed, but guarded. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. Island’s smaller than I remember.”

“Like a Southern Cabot Cove.” 

He pulled out a slim notebook and silver pen. “Tell me about this morning.”

I followed his lead and kept things professional, recounting my story for a third time, trying not to cringe as I remembered Leo’s puffy face and the blood glops in his hair. I told Ransom the house looked a wreck and no one else was home. Which brought up an interesting question.

“Where’s Leo’s wife?” I asked. I hadn’t seen Bebe here or at the party last night.

He ignored me. He scratched down a few words in his black book. His letters were dark and bold and impossible to read. Especially upside-down. “What can you tell me about Leo Hirschorn?” 

I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair, considering how much I could politely share. I didn’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but Leo was not what you would call well-liked. Or even liked. He was loud, pushy, and a brash on his best day. But still a member of the Ballantyne board, and an underappreciated one at that.

“Leo owned Buffalo Bill’s, a chain of discount appliance stores,” I said. “The one with the brightly colored super sale stickers in the shape of sheriff stars. He relocated the main office from New Jersey to Summerton about five years ago. Active in the community. He accepted a seat on the Ballantyne board two years ago.”

“Anything else?”

“He wears a ten-gallon hat.” I winced. “Wore.”

A golf cart zipped by on the small path at the edge of the lawn and parked.

“Did Mr. Hirschorn have any trouble at the party last night?”

I thought about the party. Ransom’s hands under my dress. Mrs. Kramer in the men’s room. Jane telling Leo to shove a trophy up his ass. “No, not really.”

I looked away, torn between helping Ransom’s investigation and protecting the Ballantyne’s reputation. A tiny thwock echoed as the golfer took his swing. Within minutes, he was back in his cart, zooming out of sight.

The golf course grounds were immaculate, but the same could not be said of Leo’s. His had an air of casual decline. All the trappings of wealth without the grace to care for it. Clusters of weeds gave the flowerbeds a trashy look, and small yellow circles of dead grass dotted the lawn like a game of single-color Twister.

I leaned forward. “What happened to Leo?”

“He’s dead.” Mr. Information.

“I noticed. And the mess in the house?”

He tapped his notebook against his knee, then looked at me for a full ten seconds. I thought he might actually answer my question. He didn’t.

“Why are you here, Ransom?”

“Sea Pine Island needed an experienced, high-ranking investigator and I’m an experienced, high-ranking investigator. Seemed like a perfect fit.”

I stared at him. He stared back.

He glanced at his notes. “What’s the Shelter Initiative?”

“It’s confidential.”