Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (5 page)

FIVE

It looked as though the board meeting finally adjourned; the parlor was empty and members gathered in the halls. I tracked down Zibby Archibald outside the ladies room on the first floor. I wanted to get her peccadillo settled and move on to the Hirschorn murder right away. Ransom’s investigation was in the fast lane and mine was still in the parking lot.

Zibby accepted my invitation to lunch at Molly’s in an hour. It gave her time to dash home and walk her Pomeranians, and me time to make four quick calls.

I flipped through the Rolodex on the corner of my desk. Tod tried to get me to computerize the index cards, but I had so many of them, the task seemed too monumental. I found the card I wanted and dialed the phone.

“Where the hell are you and when are you coming back?” I asked when Lieutenant Sullivan answered. “By the way, it’s Elliott Lisbon from the Ballantyne Foundation.”

“Didn’t they tell you? I retired. I live in Key Biscayne now.”

“How do you retire from an island? Aren’t you already halfway there?”

He laughed the boisterous laugh of the unencumbered. “Me and Ginny were visiting her sister last month. She’s got a stilt house right on the water. A twenty-two foot Wellcraft ten feet from the house. We had a great time. Fishing like I’ve never seen. Turns out the place next door was for sale.”

“But Sully, why so fast? You may not know this, but we’ve got fishing right here. And boats, too.” I fiddled with a paper clip while I spoke, unwinding it until it was straight.

“Yes, but Ginny’s sister is alone and not doing so great, getting along in years. Likes to have us around.” He cleared his throat. “Now what’s this all about, Lisbon?”

“You’re my go-to guy at the station. I need someone with official access. A silent partner to liaise between crime and the Ballantyne. You sign my papers, Sully. Who’s going to advise me?”

“Well, I hear this new fella is smart as a fox.”

“He’s a fox, all right. And he doesn’t like to play with others. Already giving me a hard time and I haven’t even started.” I tried to put the clip back to its original state and ended up snapping off the ends.

“He’ll come around. Contact Lillie Parker. She’s always liked you. By the book, but not afraid to get things done. Look, I gotta run. We’re going out for conch salad. Best I’ve ever had. Call me if you’re ever down this way.”

“Sure, Sully, take care.” I hung up and spent a good five minutes brooding. I’d forgotten to beg. And ole smart as a fox Ransom was flat out not going to share his spoils with me. At least not the ones pertaining to the murder of Leo Hirschorn. I needed to outwit the fox in his own henhouse and sniff out my own spoils.

I decided to make the next call an easy one. I dialed the number from memory: the
Islander Post
. Tate Keating answered on the first ring.

“Hey Tate, it’s Elliott at the Ballantyne. Just returning your call. Mr. Ballantyne is in India, but he wanted me to tell you how much he admired Leo Hirschorn and his dedication to the community. He’ll be remembered as a champion for the underserved, and the entire Foundation family will miss him.”

“What’s he say about his chairwoman being dragged out of the Big House by the cops for questioning? Why did she kill Leo? I heard it was brutal. Torrid affair, or to cover up a scandal at the Foundation?”

I gripped the phone. “That’s ridiculous speculation and completely untrue. Jane was not dragged anywhere, and there’s nothing to cover up. You know you can’t print gossip.” I started pacing. So much for my grand delusion of a puff piece on Leo’s legacy at the Ballantyne.

Traffic sounds floated through the earpiece. It sounded like a party. Loud music and horn-honking. “I’m just getting a feel for the story. I’ll fact check before we print. Can I quote you on any of that?”

“Just the statement from Mr. Ballantyne. No comment on the rest.” I put a smile in my voice. “Come on, Tate. We’ve worked together for years. The Foundation does a lot of good for this community and doesn’t deserve scandalous press.”

He chuckled. “It’s been only one year and the Foundation didn’t do any good for Leo. Gotta run. If you change your mind on the quote, call me.”

I sank into my chair, slightly numb. Jane’s mortification would be legendary if the world thought she was boinking Leo. Mr. Ballantyne’s embarrassment would be categorical if his life’s work was reduced to a tacky tabloid scandal.

The implications of Leo’s death and Jane’s involvement were beginning to make my stomach sink. Maybe I shouldn’t have antagonized Ransom; that second chest poke may have been unnecessary. I remembered something about catching more bees with honey rather than kicking a hornet’s nest or some such bee wisdom. Either way, I had a feeling I’d end up stung.

I grabbed the phone and left a message with Jane’s assistant. I needed to speak with Jane immediately and said so. While she probably wouldn’t divulge her private attorney conversations, I needed to know what happened with Ransom. Why he singled out her for questioning. Other than everyone knew she hated Leo and half the party-goers heard her threaten him.

I flipped through the pages in my spiral notebook, stopping at what I’d written regarding Leo’s ransacked house. I underlined the word “shambles” twice. The symphony of destruction in the kitchen was more than a ransack, it was pure rage. And where was Bebe? She makes plans for the night of the May Bash, a party specifically honoring the board members, and her husband also ends up murdered? Quite a night to be away. Why wasn’t she being dragged to the police station?

I found Bebe’s number in the Ballantyne directory and dialed; it rolled straight to voicemail. I silently debated whether or not to mention Leo. I wasn’t sure she even knew he was dead. In the end, I simply asked her to call me.

My stomach gurgled and I realized it was time for my lunch with Zibby Archibald. I grabbed my hipster handbag and left the Big House.

Molly’s by the Sea was tucked behind a row of sand dunes in Sugar Hill Plantation, a large rambling residential community with hotels, condos, restaurants, and two bike rental shops. I sped up to the guard house for a day pass. It’s much easier to enter a plantation when they have a restaurant behind the gates. I drove down Sugar Hill Drive two miles to the sea, arriving at the three-story Victorian house-turned-restaurant only five minutes late.

The hostess escorted me to a table for two on the back porch with long views of the ocean. Zibby was waiting for me. She had placed her hat on the railing and tucked a pale pink napkin under her chin.

“Zibby, I’m so happy you were free,” I said after I scooted in my chair.

“Always for you, dear. Lovely day to lunch by the ocean.”

“I haven’t been to Molly’s in months. I’ve forgotten the selection.” I scanned the three-page menu. Everything sounded delicious.

A waitress appeared with a bread basket, then rattled off the specials. I ordered a honey roasted turkey and brie on brioche with raspberry mayonnaise; Zibby tried the catch of the day: fresh fillet of flounder. Deep-fried.

“What an exciting meeting today! Can you imagine Jane being dragged in? Maybe they put her in handcuffs. Here we are dining by the beach, and she’s probably being served bread and water,” Zibby said. She grabbed two pumpernickel rolls from the basket. Buttered one, stuck the other in her purse.

“Jane wasn’t arrested. They only needed to ask a few questions. With her being the board chair, it’s probably routine,” I said, trying to dampen the gossip the best I could. I also didn’t point out that they stopped serving bread and water to inmates in the 1800s.

I steered the conversation to safer territory once the server delivered our lunch. Zibby was an old Southern luncher—gossip over lunch, business over dessert. I ate quickly.

“Were you friends with Leo?” I asked.

“Oh, not really. Nice young man, though. Promised me a good deal on a new refrigerator. I never did get over to Buffalo Bill’s. And now I’m not sure I ever will,” she said. She stirred her iced tea with a fork and ate her catfish with a spoon.

“Did you see him at the party Saturday night?”

“You know, I don’t think so. Mr. and Mrs. Fetterbush kept us entertained with stories of the pirates off Sullivan’s Island near Charleston Harbor. We hardly even left the table.”

We settled into a comfortable conversation, chatting about the rise of piracy in the Atlantic and how the island needs more shopping trolleys and a better surf shop.

The waitress finally arrived to clear our plates and offered dessert. I wanted to pass—I did, really—but I needed to get on with Zibby’s tiny transgression. I chose something light: lemon cookies with a thin layer of white icing. Barely any calories, I’m sure.

“Mr. Ballantyne tells me you need my assistance with a small matter,” I said.

“Oh yes, dear. I’m so happy you brought that up.” She leaned in conspiratorially and whispered loudly. “It’s the Wharf. I’ve been banned! Escorted me right out the front.”

It hurts to swallow a cookie whole. “Banned you? Whatever for?” Who bans an eighty-seven year old woman? She might be eccentric, but she had more money and manners than necessary, even for the South.

“It’s a bunch of twaddle, Elli. One time I left without paying. One time!” She ripped open a sugar packet and sprinkled the crystals into her water glass, then stirred it with a knife. “I told the nice waiter to bring my check, but he never came back. I’d have missed Jeopardy if I waited any longer.”

“It sounds pretty harsh for such a small incident, Zibby, especially the Wharf.”

Nestled on the Intracoastal Waterway, Wharf patrons were treated to spectacular sunsets over the Palmetto Bridge while they dined on French-fusion cuisine. Certainly not the type of establishment to toss little old ladies out the front door.

“I know, dear. Called me a flibbertigibbet, of all things. I knew I had to pay, I just couldn’t wait. It’s my favorite restaurant. What ever shall I do if I can’t go back?”

Tears spilled onto Zibby’s cheeks and she sniffed back a sob. She dug into her enormous leather pocketbook, pulling out a pack of tissues. “It’s George. We ate there every Thursday night for eight years. Every single Thursday, Elli.” She dabbed her eyes and tucked the tissue up her sleeve. “It’s been two years since my George passed, but I still go to the Wharf on Thursdays.”

I patted her hand. “I’ll talk to them.” I’d met the head chef and owner, Paul Carmichael, years earlier at a cooking competition. This didn’t sound like it would be too difficult to fix. Wouldn’t take but an hour, then I could get back to Leo and Jane.

“Would you really? George and I never skipped an episode or a dinner at the Wharf. I already missed last week. Two in a row would be unbearable.”

“Don’t worry. I can fix this,” I reassured her.

“You’re a dear. If you ever need a favor from me, you just ask. I’m not one to take and not give.”

“I do have one thing that would be a big help. Leo was forming a new committee for the board. It didn’t make the agenda at the meeting and I need someone to take it over.”

“How sweet of you to ask, but I’m afraid I gave up chairing committees for Lent this year.” She tucked her pink napkin into her purse and smiled.

I nodded as if that made perfect sense.

After I paid the check, we walked to the parking lot and said our goodbyes. She climbed into a very large Cadillac sedan, one built for a family of ten and modified with a crank-down convertible top. With a wave and a honk, she zipped out of the lot.

I checked my voicemail. Nothing from Bebe or Jane. Jane might still be at the station. But if she was there much longer, I was going to start worrying about how much evidence Ransom actually had. I stuck a straw hat on my head to keep my hair from whipping into my eyes and drove down Cabana Boulevard with the mid-afternoon sun hot on my face.

The far north end of the island was as beautiful as the rest. Where most cities have main roads clogged with shopping centers and acres of asphalt parking lots, Sea Pine’s are not. Every center, development, and drive was bermed by fields of trees, grass, flowers, and plantings to rival the Amazon. It can be frustrating at first—take you ten minutes before you realize you passed what you were looking for two miles back. But once you get used to it, it was a snap.

I turned onto Old Pickett Road, then drove the three miles along the sound to the Wharf. It was only two-thirty, but I figured the staff would be prepping for dinner, the only meal they offered during the week. I parked beneath a sprawling oak and hoped I wouldn’t come back to a seat full of Spanish moss and squirrel poop.

The hostess station was vacant, so I wandered into the main dining area. One staffer was laying stiff white cloths across a series of four-top tables while another staffer folded tan napkins into pretty little fan designs. Their color reminded me of the caramels Carla makes every Christmas, the homemade kind cut from a pan and wrapped in wax paper. Maybe I should’ve had the caramel cake for dessert.

“Excuse me, is Chef Carmichael in?” I asked the busser with the napkins.

He nodded toward the kitchen.

I stepped through the swinging door and walked around the back side of a baker’s rack. Pots and pans rattled as two sous chefs manned an enormous commercial stove. The room smelled of rosemary and zesty garlic sizzling in a pan.

I spotted Chef Carmichael in a dark blue chef’s coat. A stocky man, built like a wrestler and bald as an egg. He was arranging bite-sized appetizers on a tray with a grace that belied his build.

“Excuse me, Chef Carmichael? I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. We met in New Orleans a few years back. Do you have a moment?”

“Ah, the lovely Ms. Lisbon. Come in. Here, you must try the amuse-bouche for this evening. Prosciutto, arugula, sweet melon, and aged balsamic.”

He placed several on a plate in front of me before I came to a complete stop. I smiled and obliged, trying to gain favor where I could find it.

It was fantastic.