Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (16 page)

She took two for her plate. “I can’t thank you enough for your help with the Wharf, dear…”

Her voice faded out as I met Ransom’s eyes. He was sitting behind Zibby on a lounge chair near the pool.

“…the best meal yet. The chef even stopped by my table,” Zibby finished.

“I’m happy for you, Zibby. If you have any more trouble, you call me.” I said. I turned my back to Ransom and served the guests to the west of the most annoying man at the party.

Ninety minutes and five tray refills later, I was down to my last three puffs. I spotted Whitney Tattersall at a bistro set in the corner. “Moroccan salmon puff?”

She smiled. “I don’t eat seafood.”

“Really? Me neither.” I joined her at the table, setting my tray down and putting my feet up.

Whitney was what you might call big-boned, or a plus-sized gal. Though I imagine most of her childhood nicknames were much crueler and included some version of the word fat. She had creamy smooth skin and pretty soft brown hair that fell in curls past her shoulders.

She was drinking a bottle of water and offered me one from a galvanized tin on the deck behind her. “Thanks,” I said as I twisted off the cap.

A uniformed server came by with a tray of petit fours and sliced vanilla cake. We both declined, but the girl raised her eyebrows and asked Whitney again before she walked away.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Shock that I passed up dessert. People think fat folks eat cake for breakfast and cream pies for lunch. Sure, I wish I weighed a hundred pounds less. I’ve tried—still trying—exercise, diet, low-cal. Haven’t eaten processed sugar in ten years. It just won’t come off. Big-boned, metabolism, whatever. People are so afraid of being fat, they’ll suck it out, the riskiest form of surgery. It’s nuts. All the while we tell ourselves inner beauty is all that matters.”

She set her water bottle down and laughed. “I don’t know where all that came from. Sorry to unload. I’m passionate I guess.”

“You have a right to be. The server was rude.”

“People can’t help being judgmental. They see you eat a cheeseburger, they think nothing of it. They see me? They think I’m an oinker scarfing down my third one. Nothing subtle about the ridicule either. People figure I deserve it.”

“Well, sure, what with eating all that cake for breakfast,” I said.

She laughed. “Exactly. You know that server is just waiting for me to sneak over and stuff a piece of cake in my mouth when no one is looking.”

“Or shove some in your handbag for later.”

“Five bucks says she comes back by.” She took a sip of water. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about Leo ever since you called.” She looked around. We were tucked away on the top deck. Everyone else was either down by the pool or inside the house. “I’m sure it’s nothing, it’s so small.”

“Any little thing might be important. Honestly, even something totally innocuous.”

“Well, Leo was really happy at the party, like I said. But more than normal. He was sure his seat would be renewed.”

“The meeting was on Monday,” I said. “Most seats are automatically reassigned. Maybe he was just being positive.”

“I don’t know, Elliott. He was certain. He said it was
guaranteed
. I laughed at the time, said we still needed to vote. But he patted my hand, said he might even be vice chair.”

My antenna went up and I leaned forward. “We don’t have a vice chair position.”

“I know, right? That’s what’s bugging me. He was so certain.”

The same uniformed server swung by with a fresh platter of cake, asking if we were
sure
we wouldn’t like some cake.  We declined again, and Whitney stood to leave.

“One last thing,” I said. “Leo put together a fantastic proposal for an innovative homeless center. It’s called the Shelter Initiative and it will have the full Ballantyne support. Could you chair the committee?”

“Sorry, Elliott. I’m swamped with work right now, I just don’t have the time. But I bet anyone else would love to take it over.”

You’d think so. “Thanks for the info on Leo at the party, I appreciate it.” I stood and picked up my nearly empty tray with the now wilted puffs. “Don’t forget to stuff your purse with cake.”

She laughed. “Right. It’ll go great with the chocolate pie I’m having for dinner.”

I slowly walked down to the pool. I gathered empty plates and glasses from the short side tables next to teak chaise lounges and reclining chairs. Very few guests remained; most had left while Whitney and I chatted.

I thought about Leo. What was he up to? How could he
guarantee
his seat on the board? Especially when the board chair absolutely despised him.

“Is bussing part of your director’s job?” Ransom said from behind me, leaning on the porch rail.

I was lost in thought and hadn’t noticed him. “According to Reena it is. Serving, bussing. I’m sure I’ll have to scrub the floors before I’m allowed to leave. I’m not an important board member, you know, just the lowly director.”

“She can be slightly snobbish.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” The tray in my hands grew heavy as I stood there. “Well, okay, then,” I said and stepped away.

“Wait. Elliott. I meant what I said earlier. You handled the hotel manager really well. I was impressed.”

I slowly turned back and looked at him. He wore the same snug crewneck shirt and tailored trousers from our trip to Savannah. He looked good. Confident, assured, charming.

“I suppose I should say thank you.”

But I couldn’t. It still stung like a fresh slap and the embarrassment rushed back. I gripped the tray so tight, I feared the handles might snap off.

I saw Reena approaching even though my eyes never left Ransom’s. I smiled wide and raised my voice. “I’m so sorry I ran out of the hotel this morning. You were a devil, but I really did have a wonderful time with you. Breakfast was divine.”

A flicker of confusion touched his face and I winked and stepped right into Reena. “Oh. Reena,” I stammered. “I didn’t see you there.” I shot a worried glance at Ransom and scurried away.

Take that, asshole. They totally deserved each other.

“What are you smiling about?” Tod asked when I set the tray down in the kitchen.

“Oh, just a little petty vengeance. Petty and satisfying.”

Especially when I peeked and saw them in a heated discussion.

By now everyone had left except Tod and me, Reena and Ransom (who probably wouldn’t be leaving), and Jane, who was in her own deep discussion on her cell by the pool.

“I guess we’re on clean up duty as well,” Tod said.

“We’re not washing dishes. I draw the line at crusty plates. She may be our newest grantee, but I don’t like her and I’m not doing her slimy dishes.”

I walked over to the dessert table. “We’ll just gather up the rest of the dirty plates and leftover food and get out of here.”

The heavy, cut-crystal punch bowl I admired earlier from across the room was actually plastic and not so heavy. So I used way too much strength when I lifted it. Throw in my sassy attitude and a pair of new shoes on a slick marble floor and this is the result:

I tipped back, launching a bowl full of bright red punch into the air. Then in an effort to right myself, I slipped on the marble and threw the punch bowl away so I could break my fall. It didn’t work. I landed on the once-white rug, flat on my ass, covered in punch. Just as Ransom walked through the door with Reena by his side, carrying a platter of sliced cake.

“What are you doing?” Reena gasped. “My sofa, my rug.”

Tod rushed over. “Elli, are you all right?”

“Yes, I think,” I said and held up my hands. “Be careful. The floor is really slippery.”

“Slippery? You spilled punch on everything!” Reena cried. “You ruined a fifteen-thousand dollar rug.”

I looked at the rug. Fifteen thousand? It looked like one of those shaggy Flokati things you get at Bed Bath & Beyond.

But ruined is ruined.  I scrambled to my feet. I was dripping in punch, my white pants splattered and stained. My embarrassment deepened and I didn’t know what to say. “It was an accident.”

“An accident? Are you out of your mind? Your job is to clean up the messes, not make them. You…you did this on purpose.” She came closer with a mad scowl on her face.

I stepped forward. “On purpose? Why would I do this on purpose?” I threw my hands in the air and caught the edge of her tray. Two pieces of cake plopped onto the floor.

“Don’t you dare come after me!” She flung the entire tray at me.

Cake went everywhere.

A piece of vanilla cake with rich chocolate frosting hit me square in the chest and slid down my shift into my bra.

“You’re so jealous, you can’t stand it,” Reena said. “I saw you drooling over my boyfriend. As if a man like that would ever settle for a glorified lackey like you.”

I saw red. I scooped a fistful of petit fours from the dessert table and flung them at her perfectly made up face. “Boyfriend? What, did he give you his letterman’s jacket and ask you to the prom?” Then I threw a thick slice of cake and it smacked her in the head, knocking the orchid from her hair.

She wiped away the icing and flicked it at me, then grabbed her own slice of cake and hurled it at me with the speed of a major league pitcher. “You throw like a girl. With such an inappropriate name, you should at least try to live up to it.”

Within twenty seconds, Reena and I had completely decimated the dessert table, trays, and scraps from the floor.

“Have you lost your mind?” Jane said. She slammed the sliding glass door behind her. “Jesus, Elliott.
You’re
the one helping me beat a murder rap?” She turned to Ransom who was grinning in the corner next to Tod. “You might as well take me now, Detective.”

“Oh stuff it, Jane,” I said.

“Get out of my house,” Reena said through clenched teeth. “I will be calling Edward Ballantyne to immediately withdraw my grant application.”

I stuck my chest out, my chin up, and strode to the front door. The frosting on my palm made it difficult to turn the knob, but it finally twisted. I made sure to slam the door hard enough to shake the house.

“Son of a
bitch
,” I said as I stomped to my car. I ripped my shoes off and tossed them on the grass.

“Elliott, wait,” Tod said. He came out of the side gate. “Here, take these.” He handed me a beach towel and laid another one over the driver’s seat.

My hands shook so badly, I dropped my shoes twice trying to wipe them off. “Thanks.”

“I’ll give you points for originality. She now has a hell of a lot more than dishes to wash.”

I climbed into the Mini, careful not to smear icing on the door. “The funny thing is, Tod, this wasn’t even my most humiliating moment today.”

He pulled a chunk of cake from my hair.

“Okay, maybe it was. But not by much.”

“To live in your shoes for a day,” he said wistfully.

He looked at me with such pity, tears sprang into my eyes. He went to pat my goop-covered hand, and settled on a small spot on my left wrist. “I’ll talk to Reena about her grant. She won’t call Mr. Ballantyne.”

“Did you see her, Tod? She’s furious. Rip-off-my-head, get-me-fired furious.”

“Yes, well, furious or no, she’ll never pass up the opportunity to lord this over you for the rest of your life.”

“Perfect.”

I backed out before anyone else came out of the house. I took First Street to Ocean, then cut over to Palmetto Drive. As I sat at the light, hot tears streaked down my cheeks. I touched my beautiful shift, now splattered with punch and chocolate and raspberry sauce. It was ruined. My pants and shoes, too. No amount of soaking or dry cleaning could save them.

It broke my heart. I checked out my face in the mirror. The tears left matching tracks of mascara, pudding, and sticky sauce on my cheeks. What a disaster. I had destroyed my best clothes. Ones I couldn’t afford to replace.

“I’m a fool,” I said as I passed through the Oyster Cove gate. I had hoped Ransom would be at the party. I wanted him to see me as a professional, not an amateur to be toyed with. Now he’d never consider me a colleague to be taken seriously. I made a fool of myself again. While he watched, laughing at me in the corner. Not to mention hurling handfuls of petit fours at his girlfriend. 

That bitch made fun of my name. Who over the age of twelve makes fun of someone else’s name? I didn’t choose my own name, for shit’s sake. Having been told they were having a boy, my parents chose the name Elliott. When I popped out a girl, they decided not to hassle with choosing something different.

I parked in the garage, but walked around the outside to the patio. I didn’t want to add insult to injury and ruin
my
rugs, too. I unlocked the sliding door and grabbed a towel from a shelf behind the quilt rack. I also grabbed my robe. I kept them there in case I needed an outdoor shower. Usually from a day at the beach, not a food fight.

I carried them to the side of the house. In the center of the walk, attached to the house, was a lava rock shower larger than a decent walk-in closet. The walls were only six feet high and the top wide open to the sky. It was blocked from view by a high hedge along the back and side lot lines, and a gate at the front.

After hanging the towel and robe on a hook, I stripped off my sticky clothes, and took my third shower of the day. I kept the water turned on hot. I washed the pastry from my hair and the frosting from my cheeks, but couldn’t do anything about the humiliation in my heart.

I cried for the first half of the shower. Mourned my beloved floral shift and fabulous red slingbacks. Poured out my sorrow for the Batman hero who crushed me, letting me interview a hotel clerk as a joke. Who laughed at my humiliation. Tears of frustration over a woman who launched a tray of desserts at me and threatened my life at the Ballantyne, whom I hated but was stuck with for years to come.

But man, that last custard tart slapped her right in the nose. My tears turned to laughter for the second half of the shower. I giggled and enjoyed the freedom. Of being naked under a warm sky. Of kicking ass with that hotel clerk—I so got the information I wanted. And for letting the cake fly. She definitely had more than just dishes to wash.

“Fifteen thousand dollar rug, my ass. You better get yourself on over to Bed Bath, & Beyond, babe. I should’ve slung a little cake at Batman. See what you think of that!”

I danced around until the water cooled. I put on my robe and snuggled on the back deck with a six pack of Dos Equis and a hot dog. I updated my notes on the investigation, omitting the unladylike incidents, of course. The day wasn’t a total bust. I had glommed one interesting piece of information on Leo: his confidence on keeping his seat. Not sure if it was worth getting pudding up my nose, but it was something.

FIFTEEN

I spent Saturday morning cleaning the cottage. The last week had been messy. Both emotionally and literally. I took stock of my life with a wet sponge in one hand and a can of gritty cleanser in the other. My verdict: who cares about a few embarrassing moments? I can’t possibly be the first person to hurl a pastry tray during a luncheon. 

And it doesn’t matter that Ransom witnessed both of my downward spirals. He even caused one of them. He’s an ex-crush. A man, no, a boy, I once knew. Once loved. Who made my heart pound and my insides tingle. Stop it. I have a fabulous cottage on the beach and a fantastic wardrobe. Both of which are equal in value, by the way. I don’t wear the fancy dresses every day and I don’t have much money left over, but I don’t need it. I ride my bike to work. I have friends who love me. I live on an island. Who doesn’t want to be me? 

So I scrubbed, vacuumed, washed, and mopped the entire place from baseboard to ceiling fan. It was cathartic. It restored my balance to physically scrub my life clean.

I showered and dressed for my meeting with Carla and Chef Carmichael. I tucked a bottle of water into my bike basket and rode the two miles to the Big House. Ten miles of bike paths wound through Oyster Cove Plantation, skirting the landscaped roads and golf course greens from the Big House to the beach cabanas to the country club clubhouse, and all paths in between.

I parked near the side door and entered the mudroom. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drifted over me. I may not drink it, but I do love the rich nutty smell of roasted grounds.

Walking into the kitchen, I faced the battle of the seafood soup: she-crab bisque vs. shrimp gumbo. Fighting for team bisque was Wharf head chef Paul Carmichael, two-time award-winner. In the other corner—or on the opposite side of the steel island wielding a butcher knife—was renowned Ballantyne chef Carla Otto, holding her own for the survival of the gumbo.

“It’s my kitchen and I decide. I’m all for sharing the love, Carmichael, but I’ve decided on gumbo,” Carla said.

“I’m co-catering, Carla, so I get to co-decide. My name is attached. The guests will be expecting my signature bisque.”

“Attached to what? The party’s in four days. No one even knows you’re here. You can co-decide the salad. Maybe I’ll let you choose the dressing.”

“Hi guys,” I interrupted. “Getting the menu worked out?” I walked around the island until I stood with Carla on my left and Chef Carmichael on my right.

“I am,” Carla said.

I held up my hand before Chef Carmichael could speak. I came prepared for this particular standoff, considering it’s the same one they launched three years ago.

“Picture this,” I said. “It’s summertime. Late afternoon, outside on the lawn. A bright sun still blazing like a red devil in a blue sky. Now I ask you, why are you serving hot soup?”

Carla opened her mouth, then shut it. A full minute of silence followed. “Well, huh,” she said. “I guess crisp salad greens might make a better first course.”

“Maybe not salad greens. I’d serve spinach leaves with wine poached pears and applewood smoked bacon,” Chef Carmichael said.

Carla started scratching notes on the pad in front of her. “We could go Southern lowcountry. I’ve got a fantastic blackened catfish with Carolina dirty rice.”

“It needs my habanero chutney,” Carmichael said.

“Don’t forget us non-seafood folk,” I said.

Carla snapped her fingers. “Buttermilk fried chicken.”

“With collard greens and cracked pepper biscuits,” Carmichael added.

Carla pulled a bottle of wine from a wine cooler beneath the counter. The Ballantyne has a large wine cellar, but Carla keeps the kitchen stocked with her favorites. For cooking, and for drinking while she’s cooking.

Carmichael examined the bottle, then exchanged it for a different one. He started to uncork the sleek black bottle, using a complicated silver corkscrew thingy while Carla grabbed a crystal decanter with a fat base and skinny neck.

“Okay, then. My work here is done. I’ll be in my office if you need me,” I said, but they weren’t listening. It seemed as if they were finally able to work in some sort of harmony.

“Pecan pie for dessert, I think,” Carla said. “With bourbon caramel.”

“Too blasé. My apple cobbler with brown sugar ice cream is much more impressive.”

“Blasé?” Carla snapped back.

So maybe not harmony, I thought as I walked to my office. But at least I didn’t have to hide the knives before I left.

The Big House was quiet. Yellow sunlight streamed through the windows, warming the empty rooms. It was peaceful with no one around, almost lazy. Until I reached my office. I had six messages from varying media outlets, from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution to the Miami Herald. All wanting quotes regarding Jane’s imminent arrest. I jotted down phrases about Jane assisting the police as opposed to being wanted by them.

On the bright side, I had only a single piece of mail. An invitation to Jane’s sewing machine auction on Tuesday, addressed to Mr. Ballantyne. I sank into my chair and stared out the window, watching a butterfly and a bumblebee jockey for position on a pink daisy.

I needed progress on the case, and soon. I couldn’t avoid the press or Mr. Ballantyne or Reena Patel’s threat to tattle. But I had no answers. Just random tangents with nothing to tie them to. Ransom liked Jane as the killer, but I wasn’t so sure. Though maybe he wasn’t either since he hadn’t arrested her. What was he waiting for? More evidence?

He had the trophy and Jane’s flip words for Leo to shove it up his ass. Not exactly a death threat. He also had the ripped form for the committee Jane swore she’d kill, and at least one eyewitness saw her at the scene. Well, near the scene. There’s certainly a difference.

Maybe the red vee-dub stood in Ransom’s way. A late night visitor actually at the murder scene was stronger than one driving a block away. Since he so dramatically confirmed Bebe was not home, the car belonged either to a friend of Leo’s or Travis’s.

Was it the mysterious Dee’s, Leo’s lover? It fit. But who was she? A customer, a member of the country club, a local vendor? What kind of business associate stops by at midnight? The kind who sells more than appliances, I bet. Drugs? Sex? A truckload of stolen toasters? 

And why not a high schooler? Travis was out with someone, it just wasn’t Derek. Maybe Travis has a girlfriend. She could’ve zipped him over there. Travis argues with his father, then kills him. Travis lied about his alibi, why not the murder?