Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (12 page)

I pulled out my cell and dialed the Island Police department.

“Hi Parker, it’s Elliott. Did you happen to notice a dog at Leo Hirschorn’s on Sunday?”

“I didn’t, but let me check,” she said.

I heard papers rustling in the background.

“Nope, no animals in the house. A cat dish, but when we spoke to Mrs. Hirschorn, she told us the cat was with her. Why?”

“Leo’s neighbor mentioned a dog, but I don’t see one.”

“It could’ve died or run away.”

“It’s possible. I’ll keep digging. One more thing, do you have a Dee on your list?”

I heard the papers shuffle again.

“Nope, who is she?”

“A customer, I think. I only have a first name”

“Sorry, Elliott. No Dee, no dog. It doesn’t sound like much, but keep me posted, okay?”

“Sure,” I said and hung up.

I agreed it didn’t sound like much, but it was something. I called Bebe at the hotel, but it rolled into voicemail.

“Hi Bebe, it’s Elliott Lisbon. I have a quick question. Could you call me when you get in?” I left my number and clicked off. She was probably already in New Jersey. For all I knew, she put the dog in a kennel or he’s been at the vet getting dipped for fleas.

I dusted off my pants and went back to Owen Dobbs’ house.

“Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Dobbs, but when did you last see Leo’s dog?”

“He peed on my newspaper last Saturday morning.”

“Are you sure about the day?”

“Always on Saturdays, like clockwork.” He started to close the door. It ricocheted off my foot wedged in the doorway.

“What kind of dog is he?”

“English Bulldog. A disgusting, slobbery, smelly bulldog named Donald,” he said and nearly slammed the door on my foot.

I settled into my car and made notes. I started a fresh page for Donald the Bulldog. It was a big loose end and it didn’t make sense. Especially since female dogs usually leave yellow urine patches, not males. So either Donald was a female or the lawn problems were caused by another dog.

Enough about the dog. Jane was at Leo’s the night he was murdered and the police could prove it. I decided I’d better question the rest of the residents on the block before I left. The way the case was shaping up, one of them probably saw Jane kill Leo—caught it on video with surround sound and special effects.

I hit the first house across the street from Leo’s. A gentleman of perhaps seventy-five answered. He had a full head of jet black hair streaked with white, and his skin was tan and wrinkled from years spent hunched over a golf club.

“Good afternoon. I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. I’m assisting the police with the Leo Hirschorn case.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. We’ve been in Wisconsin. Got home on Tuesday.” He nodded to Leo’s house. “It was already sealed up with tape by then. We were sorry to hear about it, though.”

“Were you friends of the Hirschorns?”

“Not really. Enough to wave when we passed, say hello at Publix, that kind of thing.”

I handed him my card. “If you think of anything, please call me.”

He stopped me before I left the porch. “If you’re headed next door, they’ve been in Martha’s Vineyard since the first of April. Won’t be back until September. But now Mrs. Jones on the other side, she’s always home. Stays up late, too.”

I put a card in the doorjamb next door in case they had popped home over the weekend, then headed to the last house near the corner.

A little lady answered the door, not a day over ninety-nine. And when I say little, I mean tiny. I could’ve picked her up and put her in my pocket. She wore a pretty pink sweater set with pearl buttons and a long skirt covered in pink and lavender flowers. She carried a large shiny black pocketbook on her arm.

“Hello,” she said. “May I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation—”

“Oh yes,” she interrupted. “I recognize you. My sister, Marge, brought me to a tea party last fall at the Big House. It was delightful.”

“The Wonderland Adventures, one of our most successful events. I’ll have to make sure you receive an invitation to this year’s party.”

She lit up and clapped her hands. “Really? What a lovely surprise.” She opened her door wider. “I’m Mrs. Olivetta Jones. Do come in, dear.”

I gestured to her purse. “Are you on your way out? I won’t be but a minute.”

“Oh this? I always carry it with me, that way I don’t forget where I set it down.”

She showed me into the front room and I entered a Victorian dollhouse. Wallpaper with hearty pink roses and celadon stripes covered the walls and soft pink carpet covered the floors. Petite end tables, I counted nine, were placed around the room with Limoges boxes and figurines on top.

A child’s rocker sat in the corner with a porcelain doll in the seat. Several more dolls sat around the room. All had hand-painted faces and elaborate dresses. I examined the blonde doll in the rocking chair. “She’s beautiful, Mrs. Jones. Did you make her yourself?”

She flushed. “I did. All of these. I painted their faces, except for the eyelashes. Marge is much better at those. I sewed their dresses, too. Even that one with handmade lace on the collar.”

I put the doll back on her tiny chair and joined Mrs. Jones on the sofa, a mauve loveseat facing a picture window dressed with silk drapes in pink plaid.

“Would you like tea, dear? I was just about to have some.” She pointed to a tea set, matching bone china in a delicate chintz pattern.

“I would love some.”

She scampered to the kitchen and returned with a cup and saucer for me, plus a three-tiered tray with cookies, crustless sandwiches, and miniature scones. Mrs. Jones took her tea seriously. “We’re having Assam today. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s perfect.” It was stronger than steel wool. If I drank the entire cup, I wouldn’t sleep for two days. I sipped slowly. “I’d like to ask you about Leo Hirschorn if I may.”

“Of course, dear, what would you like to know?” She buttered a scone and gently broke it in half.

“Were you home last Saturday night?”

“Oh yes, the night he was murdered. I definitely was. I don’t go out much anymore. Marge takes me to lunch once a week, but we never go at night. Neither of us can drive after dark.”

“Did you happen to see anything strange that night?”

“Nothing strange, I would say.”

“Were you up late Saturday night?”

“Yes, I find it difficult to sleep. I worry in the dark, you know. I feel safe with the guards here in the plantation, but I keep an eye out for myself. We all try to, a Neighborhood Watch of sorts.” She pointed to a baseball bat in the corner. “In case I need protection.”

“Of course.” I nodded solemnly. If she swung that thing, she’d topple over like a toddler. “So nothing out of the ordinary. No cars or people?”

She set her cup down. “Well, now, like I said, nothing strange.”

I leaned forward. “How about ordinary. Did you see something ordinary that night?”

She smoothed her skirt and folded her hands in her lap. “I know how this looks, with the big window and me staying up late at night. I’m not a Nosy Parker. I’ve lived on this island thirty-two years, and I know how folks in a small town get to gossiping. I’m not like that.”

I refilled her tea cup. “I would never think you a gossip, Mrs. Jones. I’m sure you don’t wish to tell tales out of school. But in this instance, you could be assisting me with Mr. Hirschorn’s murder.”

She fiddled with her pearl buttons. I ate another scone (raspberry white chocolate, either homemade or bakery fresh) while she debated with herself.

“This is confidential, whatever I tell you?”

I did an internal fist pump and back flip. “Absolutely. And you may be confirming what I already know.”

“Okay, then. I saw a red Volkswagen Beetle parked in Leo’s driveway on Saturday night.”

“Are you sure about the make?”

“Definitely. It’s been there before. See? Nothing strange.”

“You’re right, very ordinary. Do you remember what time?”

“Definitely after eleven, maybe eleven-thirty. I was watching a movie on TV. It ended at eleven. I made a late snack, a slice of warm banana bread and hot cocoa. Helps me sleep. I came in here to check out the neighborhood. That’s when I saw it, parked in the drive.”

Could this be a line on the elusive Ms. Dee? Sounds like a mistress-type situation. A car parked in the drive late at night while the wife was away. I surreptitiously took one more sip of tea and finished the last scone on my plate. “Did you tell the detective about the red car?”

She set her cup on the tray. “Of course. A nice young lady detective came by.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. For everything. The tea was lovely.” I stood and she walked me to the door, her pocketbook on her arm.

“I appreciate the company with my tea. So much nicer for two.”

“Indeed. I will make sure your name is on the invitation list for the Wonderland at the Big House.” I handed her my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“I will. You’re welcome anytime, dear.”

I practically skipped to my car. Jane may have been with Leo the night he died, but so was someone else. Who’s to say the neighbors remembered the timing correctly? Maybe it was the other way around. Jane was there first and the red car came second. Jane may have even seen the driver.

TWELVE

I stopped at the gatehouse on my way out. I watched dozens of cars zip through an automatic gate while I waited for the director on duty to step out of the hut. The car line was so long, the reflective arm rarely went back down. I listened to the high-pitched whistle of air escaping from my clever balloon of a theory about a killer forced to stop for a gate pass.

The security director joined me on the curb. She was my height and had lots of gear on her utility belt.

“How does the auto-bar work?” I asked after I introduced myself, one director to another.

“A resident buys a clicker through the association. It speeds them through so they don’t have to wait in line with the visitors and tourists.”

“But it never goes back down. Can’t a car simply slide in behind?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“But it happens,” I said.

“A resident risks a violation if they’re caught.”

I glanced at the cars whipping past the upright security bar, then back at her. “What about paper passes? Do you keep an official logbook?”

“I can’t give out that kind of information, ma’am.”

I put my hand on my chest and leaned in conspiratorially. “Look, I appreciate having rules, I really do. You wouldn’t believe the rulebook for the Foundation, thicker than a dictionary. But Leo Hirschorn was such a beloved member of our board, and one of your residents, certainly you can tell me something about the night he was murdered.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “No logbooks, no databases. We had no names or descriptions to give to the Lieutenant, either. I’m sorry.” She nodded to the auto-bar. “Like you said, it happens.”

I thanked her and left. With my theory balloon sufficiently deflated, I returned to my office at the Big House. There were two notes on my desk. The first from Carla. Chef Carmichael would meet us on Saturday at eleven-thirty to plan the party menu. I definitely needed to be here for that. Probably should bring helmets and padded vests. The second note was from Tod inviting me to a luncheon at Reena’s. A grantee mixer with board members and donors the next afternoon. He left the address with a P.S.: “If I have to go, so do you.”

I stuck the address in my purse and called Jane. After a three minute wait, I finally heard her voice.

“Jane Walcott Hatting,” she said.

“Hi, Jane, it’s Elliott. Do you have a minute?”

“No, Elliott, I don’t.”

“Great. I spent the afternoon with Leo’s neighbors. It seems you neglected to mention you were at Leo’s house the night of the murder.”

“Are you still pretending to be an investigator? I’m going to talk to Edward. You have too much time on your hands.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask one, Nancy Drew. Care to try again? I should warn you, I may hang up at any time.”

I spoke slowly. “Jane. Why didn’t you tell me. You were at Leo’s. On Saturday. After the party?”

“Because I wasn’t there. If you’ll excuse me—”

“No, I won’t excuse you. Leo’s neighbor saw you, Jane. Saw. You. Black Sebring, scarf in your hair, speeding away from the murder scene. A witness.”

“That’s ridiculous. That police detective tried to pull this same stunt at the station. The neighbor is obviously lying. I wasn’t there. Period.”

“Then where were you?”

“Look, Elliott, I’m not interested in playing this game with you.”

“It’s not a game. I’m trying to help you. I’m the
only
person trying to help you.”

“You’ll have to try harder than this,” she said and hung up on me.

No shit, I thought. I spent the entire day running around picking up scraps of information Ransom already had. Hell, he questioned Jane on this three days ago.

I flipped through my book and decided to follow-up on Travis’s alibi. A woman answered the phone.

“May I speak with Derek, please?”

“He’s not here. Who’s calling?”

“I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. I wanted to talk to Derek about a new project we’re working on with Seabrook Preparatory.”

“Oh, how nice. I’m his mother. Derek’s with his dad for a long weekend, fishing. They’ll be back late Sunday.”

“I’ll catch him next week then. By the way, do you happen to know Travis Hirschorn? He’s next on my list.”

“Sure, they’ve been friends since freshman year. Nice boy. Tragic about his father.”

“Devastating,” I said. “It must have been hard for you to tell him.”

“Me?”

“Wasn’t he at your house over the weekend?”

“No, he hasn’t spent the night in months,” she said.

“Oh, my mistake. I heard he was at friend’s house and assumed. I’m sorry.”