Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (11 page)

ELEVEN

I drove over the bridge onto the island shortly before noon. Mounds of oyster beds stuck up from the sea floor as the water receded, the tide slowly heading out into the Intracoastal Waterway. Just like it does every other day. Life continuing on. Whether or not Leo Hirschorn was murdered. Whether or not I figured out why.

After I dropped my new TV at the cottage, I took Cabana Boulevard to Palmetto Plaza, a shopping center at the north end nestled behind pines and oaks. It housed a Sam’s Club, a Bi-Lo grocery, a rehab center, various gift shops, and four restaurants, including O’Grady’s, where I was headed to meet Sigrid Bassi, the secret weapon in my investigation.

I opened the heavy oak door and the familiar pub smells greeted me. Grilled steaks, deep-fried potatoes, and beer on tap. Vinyl booths and square tables were on the right side and a long wood bar was on the left. Framed photographs of sports teams in various stages of victory and defeat dotted the walls, the largest being from the last game of 1984 NBA championship series: Celtics vs. Lakers. The players wore their shorts short and their socks tall. Nothing like athletic hot pants and knee socks to bring the crowd to their feet.

I saw Sid in a corner booth. She resembled a pro on the beach volleyball circuit. Six-two, toned, and light brown hair bleached from the sun. I first met her at a ladies lunch and fashion show five years ago. We were both someone else’s guest and neither of us ever joined the women’s club that sponsored the show. Sid worked in one of the top real estate agencies on the island, managing to cling to the edges when the plug got yanked out and the housing market began circling the drain.

“Hey Sid.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “How are you?”

“Good. Busy. You?”

I slid into the booth across from her. “Good. Busy. Who isn’t?”

Our usual waitress greeted us. “Getcha Pepsi, Elli?”

“Yep, and I know just what I want for lunch.”

“Me, too,” Sid said.

What’s the point of being a regular if you don’t get your favorites every time? I ordered the spinach salad with grilled marinated chicken and tangy bacon dressing, Sid the steak and bleu cheese salad, and we split a basket of hot homemade potato chips with a side of zesty ranch dressing.

“Are you going to the roast tonight? Matty said you might be,” I said.

“I was, but Marco caught a bad cold from a patient at the hospital. He passed it on to Marco, who’s probably half as sick but twice the trouble. I think I’m supposed to play nurse tonight.”

She stuck her hands out. “But I’m clean. No buggy cold germs and I used a bucket of hand-sani when I sat down.”

I love my friends.

I spent the next fifteen minutes catching her up on my current life goal: trying to out investigate Ransom and solve the case myself. Prove I’m an investigator worthy of the Ballantyne and its board. Then our lunches arrived and we dove in with the vigor of those who diet often and were pretending salads drowning in dressing wouldn’t count against us. 

“Did you find out anything about Leo?” I asked.

She sliced into her steak salad. “Yes, sweetie, and you’re not going to like it. A neighbor saw Jane leaving Leo’s house the night he died. Late.”

“What?” I almost spit out a mouthful of spinach. “Are you shitting me?”

“I shit you not. Saw her ‘fleeing the scene with her hair on fire’ is what I heard.”

“Is it reliable?”

“Definitely. I got it from the retireds’ network. You know those folks, it’s like a senior citizen phone tree. Solid as an oak.”

When Sid isn’t selling real estate or dating hot doctors, she somehow squeezes in eight hours a week at the Carolina Hospice Thrift Shop. She sorts clothes, runs the register, and serves on the board.

“Well, crap. You’re right, I don’t like it. Did you hear anything else I won’t like?”

“Tate Keating thinks he’s struck gold, Pulitzer material, I’m sure. Nothing like a charity full of killers and suspects to capture an award. I think you’re on the wrong side of this investigation.”

“Seriously. It’s been two days since Jane spoke with the police and the whole island has her in leg irons.”

“She might be guilty, sweetie.”

“Don’t even say that. Mr. Ballantyne would be heartbroken and I can’t live with that. So no one is arresting her,” I said and put my fork down. “Is that it?”

“I did hear something about the Foundation. Came from only one gal at the shop; I asked around, but it’s just a whisper at this point. Have you ever heard of wine futures?”

“No. What are they?”

“I have no idea. Probably why it’s so quiet. No one knows what they are. Apparently someone on your board is putting together an investment group to start a new venture in wine futures. It’s very hush-hush. You know those investment types, don’t want to dilute the market. It might be about Leo, but I didn’t get any names.”

“Sounds vague enough to warrant a little snooping. Also, it looks as though Leo wanted to open a new Buffalo Bill’s location in Summerton, somewhere near the river. Can you find out where?”

“Sure. Commercial’s a small community. Can’t lease a single Starbucks without every agent in town sniffing around. A property the size of a new Buffalo Bill’s would bring out every suitor in a fifty-mile radius to try on that glass slipper.”

The waitress cleared our plates and asked if we wanted anything else. We both declined, though their cinnamon roll bread pudding with rum sauce was worth riding my bike an extra three miles a day for the next week. But not today. Not after this news.

I plopped my credit card down on the check. “On the Foundation today. Thanks for the info.”

“Sure, sweetie. Sorry it sucked. I’ve got to run to a closing. I’ll call you when I know more about the new Buffalo Bill’s.” She pecked me on the cheek and left.

Well, shit. Jane was at Leo’s the night he died? How far behind am I if everyone on the island knows about this witness? But it’s basically gossip-based. Might be nothing. Also might be what convicts Jane and humiliates the Ballantynes. Or worse. Ransom ends up right. I needed to track down this neighbor witness and hear it for myself.

I calculated the time. Matty wasn’t picking me up for the oyster roast until seven-thirty—five hours from now. I paid the bill and scooted out to my car.

I rummaged through my glove box and found the gate pass for Harborside Plantation, good for two weeks. A happy little break.

The guard waved me through when I reached the plantation gates. I again wound around the golf course to Ravenwood and approached Leo’s house. Without the emergency vehicles, it looked deserted. Wide strips of yellow police tape blocked the front door down to the garage, marring the neighborhood of attractive homes like a black marker streaked across the canvas of a Monet.

I parked across the street and studied the neighborhood. Since I was using gossip as my information source, I didn’t actually know which neighbor saw Jane. Allegedly. Ravenwood ran north to south with Leo’s house dead center. The south crossed at Sparrow Road and the north curved into the golf course. I counted seven houses with a direct visual of Leo’s: two on each side and three across the street. Not many neighbors, as each house was situated on a wide lot. The homeowners association probably mandated one acre minimums with extensive berms and landscaping plans for maximum privacy.

I grabbed my notebook, a pen, and a handful of business cards. I started at the first house to the south, on the corner of Ravenwood and Sparrow. Nobody answered, but I saw a woman through the sidelight. She watched me while I smiled and waved, then she turned back to the TV in front of her. I wrote a short note on the back of my card and slipped it into the doorjamb. No one answered next door either, but at least this time I didn’t have to watch them ignore me. I left another note and moved on. I passed Leo’s house, then approached the house adjacent on the other side.

A man of about sixty answered my knock. He wore neat slacks, a crisp oxford, and wire-framed glasses. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon. I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. We’re assisting the police with the Leo Hirschorn case,” I said with confidence. A stretch, but it was better than leading with I heard from a friend who heard through her gossip network that you might be a key witness in a high profile murder and I’m trying to get that alleged-murderer off the hook.

“Yes?” he repeated.

“I understand you were witness to some suspicious activity on the night in question,” I said, using my best police-like words.

“Yes, I was. But I’ve already spoken to two detectives. A man and a woman. I don’t know who you are.”

I quickly pulled out my Ballantyne credentials, the ones I carry to philanthropy summits. They look very official and government-sanctioned. I held them face up so he couldn’t see the coupon for a buy one get one free appetizer stuck in the back. “That would be Lieutenant Ransom and Corporal Parker. We’re working together. Would you mind going over it with me?”

“I would mind, actually,” he said and started to close the door.

I placed my hand on the door and talked faster. “Sir, I understand your reluctance. Honestly, I do. But a man is dead. It’s important we speak. I won’t take up much time. Just one quick question and I’m gone.”

His face pinched, but I could tell his ingrained sense of duty prohibited the snappy dismissal he was itching to spout. He waited a beat, but I stood firm. I really needed his information and official police types don’t back down.

“Fine,” he finally said.

He stepped outside and I followed him down the drive.

“What did you see on Saturday night?”

“I was walking Sophie, my lab. We were on our way to the corner.” He pointed to the south end where Ravenwood crossed Sparrow Road. “That’s when Jane Hatting sped by me like her hair was on fire.”

Ah, the right neighbor witness. I wondered how many times he’d repeated this story. “What makes you think it was Jane?”

“I recognized her. My wife purchased antiques from her gallery last year. Jane often visited here to assist in choosing the most appropriate pieces.” He turned to me. “Jane was driving her black Sebring when she raced past me on Saturday night. The top was down and she had a pink scarf over her hair like she always does.”

“What time was this?”

“After midnight. Maybe twelve-fifteen. My little Sophie’s getting on in years. She sleeps better if I take her out a third time.”

“I see. But it must have been very dark out here. It was late, you were busy with Sophie…”

“And I know what I saw. This is a quiet neighborhood. Mostly seniors who eat dinner at four-thirty and go to sleep before the sun goes down. If there’s a car driving around at midnight, I’m going to notice it.”

“Did you notice anything else? Anything odd or different?”

“Not really. She sped past me. I talked to Sophie as we walked.” He stared down the street. “Wait. Jane came back. That was different.”

“She came back?”

“Yes, now that I think about it. She swung around Sparrow, made a wide U-turn, and sped back down the road. I remember thinking she must have forgotten something.”

“Did you actually see her at Leo’s house or only driving in the street?”

He shook his head and walked over to the mailbox. “No, only driving. I didn’t look back; I wanted Sophie to make it to the corner, her favorite spot. I didn’t want to stay out all night. I never saw Jane after that.”

I wrote a few notes in my book, including his address on the mailbox. I didn’t want to ask his name, a detail someone assisting the police would already know.

“So how was Leo as a neighbor?”

“Leo was a rat bastard.” He snatched his mail out of the box and his electric bill fluttered to the ground.

I quickly stepped forward and picked it up. “Harsh words about a dead man.”

“Leo was an obnoxious s.o.b. who went out of his way to be a jerk. He’d throw his junk mail in my box. When I complained, he blamed the mailman. And then continued right on doing it.” He walked up the drive and pointed at his lawn. “See these patches? His disgusting dog. He walked him over in my yard so I’d get these yellow spots instead of him. I didn’t wish the man dead, but I’m not all torn up about it either.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dobbs,” I said, courtesy of the fallen electric bill made out to Owen Dobbs. I handed it to him, along with my business card. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

I walked down the street, up Leo’s driveway, and into his backyard. I crept around the deck, peeked in the back windows. The furniture was still broken. The dishes were shattered and the place was in shambles, but someone had cleaned up the spilled food. Something bothered me. A wispy notion fluttered in the back of my brain, just out of reach. I scanned the kitchen again, but nothing registered.

I went over to the same dusty patio set from Sunday and plopped into a chair. So the killer raged through the place with Leo dead in the clock and no worries about being interrupted. Took her time. Must’ve known no one was home, even came back. But
why
did she come back? Forget something? Maybe in her hysterical raging frenzy she dropped something. An earring, her purse?

Why am I saying “she?” It cannot be Jane. Can it? As damaging as it was to Jane, at least I found the witness. He seemed reliable, solid, unimpeachable.

There had to be more than this. “What am I missing, Leo?” I looked across the shabby lawn. Something big, something obvious. It clicked and I sat straight up.

Where’s the dog?

I didn’t remember seeing a dog on Sunday, nor anyone talking about a dog. I went up to the patio doors and peeked in again. No dog dish in the kitchen. Since someone cleaned up the spilled food, I’m sure they would’ve noticed a dog prancing around. Maybe they called animal protective services, or whoever takes in pets when dad’s been murdered.