Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (3 page)

Gilbert nodded, then looked at me. “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”

I nodded back and left. My shoes squeaked on the shiny vinyl floor as I walked down the hall to the lobby exit. I smacked the big metal square on the wall to auto-open the doors and stepped into the sunshine.

Gilbert’s story had definitely got me thinking. An insurance broker who doesn’t insure a fifty thousand dollar Fabergé family heirloom? And why did both he and Jaime want on the Ballantyne board? Something stunk and I was all over it.

THREE

(Day #1: Friday Afternoon)

Island Memorial Hospital was located near the airport, the police station, and a short drive from Oyster Cove Plantation, a gated community housing both the Ballantyne Foundation Big House and my small beach cottage. I grew up in Michigan, but my parents summered in Summerton, just over the bridge from Sea Pine. Not in the same financial league as the billionaire Ballantynes, but Edward and Vivi Ballantyne were sweet and kind and generous and treated me like family, almost more than my parents did. After they died and left me the cottage, I joined the Foundation full time and loved every moment.

Well, almost.

With stained and stinky clothes, I decided to make a quick pit stop at home before going to the committee meeting. I sped down Spy Hop Lane and whipped into the driveway, a mere fifty feet from the sand’s edge. My little street was quiet this time of day—most of the plantation landscaping crews had already come and gone—so the gentle roar of the ocean waves could be heard from the road.

Though my cottage had two bedrooms, it was really built for one occupant. Compact kitchen, living room, half-bath downstairs, and two bedrooms upstairs. A quick shower to wash out the pickle smell was in order, so I stripped down and hit the hot water. Some might say I’m obsessive about my routines. I prefer efficient. I was back downstairs in the Coop in thirty minutes flat. Showered and dressed in linen capris, a white ruffle tee, and bright orange ballet flats for a splash of color.

I drove the mile or so up the road to the Big House, which sits at the very top of Oyster Cove Plantation. The Big House resembled a miniature Biltmore Estate, only less museum and more farmhouse. An enormous flatbed truck, as large as a tractor trailer without walls, backed into the long drive when I arrived, its bed filled with a half-dozen whimsical topiaries tied down with ropes. A giraffe with a monkey on its back, an elephant mom with her baby’s trunk hooked to her tail. Lawn art for the Wonderland Adventures Tea Party we were hosting next week.

Tod Hayes, Ballantyne Administrator, stuck his head out the door as I walked up the brick steps. He was trim and slim and neat and had helped me run the Foundation for the last ten years. “Finally, Elliott. You’ve got scoop and we want it.”

“It has to wait. I’m late for the meeting and Jane’s probably been here since breakfast.”

“She would’ve if she could’ve, but the meeting hasn’t even started yet. You aren’t the only late arrival. Actually, I don’t think anyone arrived on time.”

I stashed my hipster in my office and grabbed a notebook and pen, then hurried to the parlor at the front of the house. Fresh peonies and sweet stargazer lilies sat center on the long maple boardroom table. Carla Otto, Ballantyne chef and resident mother hen, had laid out a spread fit for royalty on the side board. I nearly swooned. While I’m sure most would assume I’d’ve lost my appetite after the earlier Russian dressing and pickle debacle, that was hours ago.

I helped myself to a quick plate of the most scrumptious fried chicken and waffles, Carla’s own recipe, topped with spiced pecan and honey glaze, and a tall glass of Pepsi before sitting at the table.

Tod sat to my right and Zibby Archibald sat to my left.

“Zibby, your hair is spectacular today,” I said as she scooted into her seat.

Zibby Archibald defied the blue hair designation. She liked to dye her hair to match her mood or her outfit. Today’s shade was sunburst orange. Like a magic marker.

“Thank you, dear. I found the most lovely suit for the Tea in poppy and pink stripes, goes so perfectly with my chintz.” Her cup rattled as she set it down, and the fork she used to stir her coffee hit the tabletop. Closing in at eighty-eight, Zibby was the oldest member of the board, but definitely had the most character.

“May we start now?” Jane Walcott Hatting said from the head of the table. While Tod and I ran the Foundation, Jane ran the board. She wore a striking houndstooth blazer with bright Pucci scarf around her neck. “I simply cannot wait any longer. Now, we have yet to—”

“Hello, babies, I’m here!” Busy Hinds entered the room with a swoosh. A chic black feathered hat on her blonde head and a handbag large enough to tote a Great Dane on her arm. Busy wasn’t on the Ballantyne board, but wanted to be, so she volunteered for every committee she could raise a hand for.

“My God, Biz, look at that leopard skirt,” Tod said with so much awe dripping from his voice I thought he would melt. “Tell me it’s Oscar.”

“Yes! Oh my God, I scooped it up and wore it out. Isn’t it bananas?” She wooshed over to the last two chairs at the end of the table and set down her entourage of handbags, shopping bags, and accessories. “Girls, I’m having a day. I almost didn’t arrive. Had the dates mixed up by a week.”

“We need to stay on topic,” Jane said, completely unmoved by the leopard skirt. “The Wonderland is in five days and this tardiness is not helping anything.”

The Wonderland Adventures Tea is the most whimsical and most complicated event the Ballantyne hosted every September. Benefitting the children’s wing at Island Memorial and the Children’s Hospital in nearby Savannah, every sick child well enough to attend brought their parents and their doctors to a delightful tea party befitting Alice and her friends.

“Yeah-yeah-yeah, I hear you,” Busy said.

“How are we on tables? At last count, we’re at two-fifty guests,” I said. “The hand-painted tea sets arrived yesterday.” The most adorable china pots with matching cups and saucers, specially commissioned for this year’s event.

“I’m on it, sweetie,” Busy said. “I’ve arranged the tables, linens, everything. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

“What time shall we be here on Monday, Elli, dear?” Zibby asked. She tucked a pink napkin under her chin and ate a spoonful of French butter. “I’m bringing my best chintz set. Did I tell you or was that at the board meeting?”

“We haven’t had the board meeting, Zibby,” Jane said. “Next week. After the Tea. When the Ballantynes return home.”

“Speaking of the fabulous board, Janie, who’s on the short list for the open seat?” Busy said. “I’m dying to know if I’m on there.”

“No board business, this is not a board meeting. Which is for board members only.” Jane set down her fountain pen and folded her hands on the tabletop. “Carla, I need the complete menu today, surprise or no surprise. Zibby, nine a.m. for the tea set drop off on Monday. Do not be late. Where is Deidre? Where is Whitney? Wait, where’s Carla? And the rest of my committee?”

“It’s Labor Day weekend, Janie,” Busy said.

“You’re the one who wanted to move the Tea up three weeks,” I said.

“I didn’t
want
to, Elliott. The Savannah Food Festival was moved to the week we wanted, then the Jazz Festival after that, then we’re into October on the calendar. The Tea is always in September.”

Unfortunately, most of the Tea committee was phoning it in. Literally. From various spots north of the Mason-Dixon line. Our most affluent residents tended to be the opposite of snow birds, living in the South but migrating north during the summer. Like Canadian Geese.

“Deidre’s running behind,” Carla said from the doorway. She hailed from Nashville, specialized in crawfish gumbo, and held her wild black curls back with a headband. “The Friends of the Library held a bake sale this morning and she had to man the cupcake table.”

“Finally, Carla. Where have you been? We need more coffee.”

“Carla, honey, do you love my idea or what?” Busy said. “Major ballistic, right?”

“Love it,” Carla said. “Love love. I’m already on it.”

“What idea? All ideas must be approved by me,” Jane said. She flipped through her neat portfolio with the speed of an accountant two days before tax day. Her shiny straight bob fell forward as she really put her back into it. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a surprise,” Busy said.

“Not from me, it isn’t.”

“Yes, Janie, even from you.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t like surprises.”

She didn’t like anything she couldn’t control. And by the way her fingers gripped her Monte Blanc, I feared Busy was going to get a surprise of her own.

Carla ignored Jane and waved at me. “Mr. Ballantyne is on the line for you.”

About the shooting, no doubt. A two thousand mile land mass and a five hour time difference was no match for an island filled with retirees with nothing to do but golf and gossip.

“Carla, can you take my spot? I won’t be but a minute.”

I gave her my best smile as I quickly gathered up my blank notebook and rushed to the door.

She patted my arm when I passed her. “Only because I’m supposed to be in the meeting anyway.”

“Those chicken and waffle things were your best yet.”

The door clicked shut behind me and I scurried to my office in the west wing of the first floor. A converted solarium filled with fresh flowers from the garden and windows to the ceiling. I tossed my notebook on the desk and picked up the handset.

“Mr. Ballantyne, how is Alaska?”

“Hello! Hello! Elliott! Can you hear me?” Mr. Ballantyne shouted into the phone as if he was using a tin can on a string.

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“The turtles are abundant! We’ve rescued three so far. And a leatherback, Elliott, right here in Cordova. The most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

Longtime advocates for the local loggerhead turtle population, the Ballantynes, Edward and his adorable wife Vivi, left for Alaska six weeks earlier. They accompanied a research team from Sea Pine Island intent on aiding a recent uptick in turtle migration in the Gulf of Alaska.

“Wonderful! I hope you’re taking pictures. The
Islander Post
wants to do a special feature for the holidays.”

“Vivi has taken so many, we may be shareholders with Kodak by now! How are things for the Wonderland Tea? I’m hearing great things from the hospital.”

“On schedule. We’re hammering out the final details now. The topiaries were being unloaded as I arrived.”

“Yes, yes, seems you’ve had a busy morning so far. Spoke with Gilbert Goodsen a bit ago. Shameful to hear such crime on the island. But I do suppose one must be diligent when dealing with strangers, even those on our conversant community.”

I shook my head as he spoke, remembering Gilbert taking a bag full of cash to a bar with a banana as a plan. Gilbert needed to have his head examined while he was at the hospital. Pop up to psych and see what’s shakin’.

“Gilbert says you’re enthusiastic to help him with Jaime. Getting started lickety split, he said. Is that right, my dear?”

I rankled at Gilbert using Mr. Ballantyne to push me. It’d only been an hour since I agreed to find the egg. “I’m already on it, Mr. Ballantyne. With Jaime’s name on the short list, I was already scheduled to speak with her today, as a matter of fact.”

I wasn’t actually, so I grabbed my Rolodex as we spoke, flipping through the cards marked “G.”

“Brilliant! Right up your alley! One last thing. The Labor Day Regatta is tomorrow and Vivi sponsored one of the junior yachts. She’s just blue over not being there to see her favorite little sport come in. You’ll step in and take her place?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Ballantyne. I’m on the case. Both of them.” I abandoned the Rolodex in favor of my calendar. Yes, an old-fashioned spiral-bound paper one with big boxes for each day of the month. I tried using a PDA, but all that thumb-typing and tiny print made my forty-year-old eyes hurt.

“We’re headed south today to Kayak Island. We’ll be home next week, Elli. Be well!”

“Be well, sir,” I said, but he had clicked off. “Well, shit.”

“Sounds like that went well,” Tod said as he plopped into the seat across from my desk.

Carla sat in the other. The true heart and soul of the island. She placed a fresh plate of fried chicken and waffles in front of me. She’d added a pile of warm homemade potato chips topped with melted parmesan.

“You don’t need to bribe me,” I said with a mouthful of crispy pecan chicken. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Details, chicken, details,” she said.

I quickly told them the short version of the shooting, skimming over my brief meltdown in the ladies’ room. No need to bore them with every little detail.

“How did Gilbert ever get on the short list?” I asked.

I’m supposed to be the only one compiling candidate names, but the scuttlebutt over the vacant seat (and how it was vacated by Leo Hirschorn’s murder four months ago, my biggest case as director-turned-PI to date) seemed to bring out the crazies from nooks and crannies. Which meant everyone on the Ballantyne payroll was currently fielding requests.

“Gil’s insurance co-op sponsored the Loggerhead Research Team’s trek to the last frontier. The very one Edward Ballantyne is on right now,” Tod said. “Then he gets shot and needs your help, giving him lots of Ballantyne attention. Coincidence?”

“No such thing,” I said. “The team left two months ago. How’d Gilbert know he’d get shot?”

“So Gilbert Goodsen knew his wife hired an assassin to kill him?”

We all three turned toward the familiar voice. Tate Keating, the
Islander Post
’s lead reporter. He leaned against the doorjamb with a combination of greedy excitement and tempered cynicism etched on his tan features. “‘Wife Kills Husband for Ballantyne Seat.’ Sunday’s headline. Care to quote?”

“Gilbert isn’t dead, Tate,” I said. “He’s barely wounded.”

“I’ll add ‘almost’ and ‘suspected.’ I let you off easy with the Hirschorn murder.”

“Easy?” I scoffed. “‘Board Stiff at the Big House Slaughterhouse’ is not a headline I consider ‘easy.’”

I grabbed my hipster from the bottom drawer of my desk. I needed to track down Jaime before Ransom squirreled her out of reach. With any luck, she’d confess to snatching Gilbert’s treasured egg, hand it over, and I’d be done with the Goodsens before dinner. How’s that for lickety split?

“And he wasn’t shot over a seat on the board,” I added on my way past him.

“He’s on the short list,” Tate said.

I whirled around. “How do you know who’s on the short list?” I glanced at Carla and Tod.

Tod shrugged and Carla shook her head. I knew they’d never tell.

“My lips are sealed,” Tate said. “Call me if you want to go on the record. Deadline’s tomorrow at five.” He waved at the three of us and waltzed across the foyer and out the front door.

“You’re a little shit,” I said. “Put that on the record.”