Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (23 page)

TWENTY-TWO

I ran up the path so fast, I got a stitch in my side. While I had dined on chicken salad, someone ripped apart my tires, and by the size of the gash on the front tire, they used a very large knife.

I stopped when I hit the picnic benches and pushed the hair out of my eyes. My hands were shaking. This will never do. If I sprinted into the quad in a puddle of fear, Matty would latch on like a bear with a honeycomb. The only words I’d hear for the next six months would be “I told you so.”

With a determined walk, I worked myself from a hysterical panic into an irritated snit, trying to pull off an air of exasperated inconvenience. As if the violent strike was nothing more than petty vandalism. Just what us savvy investigators deal with every now and then. I sat at a picnic table, facing the parking lot. No sense being foolish and turning my back toward a knife-wielding maniac stalking me across campus.

My heart rate returned to almost normal at the same time my rationale did. Travis, that little shit. Who else held a grudge and was also on campus? And had crappy grammar? I guess he didn’t appreciate my advice.

I pulled the phone out of my handbag and dialed the police station.

“Hi, Parker, it’s Elliott,” I said when she picked up.

“Wow, that was fast,” she said. “You
are
pretty good at this.”

“Thank you, I think. But what are you talking about?”

“Wait. What are you talking about? You called me, remember?”

“Right. I’m at Seabrook Prep and apparently a young delinquent slashed my tires. All four.”

“Oh crap, Elliott. Anything else vandalized or stolen?”

I ran my hand through my hair. I hadn’t even looked. I shot out of there as if a bomb was attached to the windshield instead of a scrap of notebook paper. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, stay put. I’ll call dispatch for a patrol car. I think Smitty is in Harborside anyway.”

“Um, Parker, can you not tell Ransom about this, at least for now?”

“Sure, that’s easy. He’ll be tied up for a while anyway.”

My ears perked up. “Yeah? With what? What’s going on?”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll send Smitty over. Stay with your car, Elliott.”

“Fine. But you know I’ll find out.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” she said and hung up.

Now I was genuinely pissed. Something was going down and I was trapped. I quickly made arrangements for the dealership to send a tow truck and rush me to the front of the service line. Matty appeared as I hung up.

“Let me guess,” I said. “No loitering on campus.”

“Two teachers ratted you out in less than ten minutes.”

He sat next to me on the bench and I took his hand. It felt warm on mine. I traced my finger along his thumb. His hands were tanned from hours in the sun. When he wasn’t kayaking or surfing, he was on his brother’s boat, a beautiful thirty-five foot catamaran. They spent many summer afternoons on the sea. I didn’t join them too often. I got all green and wobbly and seasick just thinking about it.

“Before I make things worse, I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. “You could never make things worse.”

I cleared my throat. “Someone slashed my tires in your parking lot.”

“Just now?”

I nodded.

He was off the bench in a flash. “Where’re you parked?”

“Far corner to the left when you reach the end of the path.”

We crossed the campus at a clip just shy of an Olympic record pace and ended up by the Mini Coop before I could catch my breath. I really needed to start exercising. That or ditch the lunch cooler. 

Matty read the nasty note under the wiper, then inspected the tires. The damage was severe, but on closer scrutiny, it probably didn’t take a machete to slash through the rubber. It’s not as if the Mini had steel-belted monster truck tires. They looked more like large stroller wheels.

“This is because of your investigation, right?” Matty asked.

“Probably. I’m pretty sure Travis and his friends didn’t appreciate my threats.”

“You threatened Travis Hirschorn?”

“Well, not
threatened
, threatened.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Me? Look at my car! He’s the one who’s crazy. You should watch that kid.”

“What exactly did you say?” he asked, all tall and lean and unamused.

“My inquiries are discreet, Matty. That means I can’t blab what suspects say all over town.”

“The threat, Elliott.”

I didn’t budge, but Matty’s sturdy stance unnerved me. I sighed and took a step back. “I maybe said if he didn’t tell me where he really was the night his father was murdered, I would drag him and his friends into your office with all their parents and the police and they probably wouldn’t graduate or go to college.”

“Did it work?”

“Apparently a little too well.”

He examined the jagged edges of ripped rubber. “I can’t see where Travis or his friends could get a weapon to do this kind of damage.”

“He looked pretty crafty to me.”

“You’re making a very serious accusation against Travis,” Matty said. “Just the suggestion of his involvement could get him kicked out of Duke.”

“I’m not going to tell the police it was Travis,” I scoffed. “They’ll drag my entire interrogation into the light. Discreet, remember? Besides, Ransom would pop out a kitten if he heard about this.”

Matty stiffened at the sound of Ransom’s name and turned back to the tires.

A black and white patrol car rolled into the lot followed by a flatbed tow truck. Over the next twenty minutes, I answered questions from Smitty while the tow truck driver hoisted the Mini onto the bed of the truck. Matty pecked my cheek and went back to his office around one-thirty.

Smitty tucked the threatening note, now wrapped in a plastic baggy, into his book and climbed into his car.

“Hey, Smitty,” I called and hustled over to his door. “So is Lieutenant Ransom still wrapped up with that earlier problem? Crazy thing, right? Any updates?”

“Sorry, Ms. Lisbon, Corporal Parker warned me about you. You’re on your own. Good luck, though. Smart girl like you, I bet you figure it out before the day ends.”

“Me, too.”

I waved as he pulled out of the drive, then climbed into the tow truck. As it turned out, I only had to wait another hour and forty minutes before I heard about the big break in the case.

I was pacing around the dealership waiting room, eating my third bag of peanut butter M&Ms when my phone rang. Pacing makes me hungry.

“Elliott, thank God you answered,” Cherry cried into the phone. “Someone tried to kill Joey.”

“What!”

“Yeah, tried to murder him just like Leo,” she said. “The police questioned me like it might be me. You gotta talk to them. You said you’d help me.”

“Where are you?”

“At the hospital. The one on the island.”

“Stay there, I’ll be over—” I dashed out of the lounge to the service bay, my hand over the phone. The Mini was still up on a lift.

“Hey Bobby,” I yelled. Bobby and I became friends when he removed the slashed tires. It was the first assault he’d seen on a Mini. “How much longer? I have to go.”

“Just finishing now, Elli,” he hollered back. He wiped his hands on a stained rag and lowered the Mini.

“I’ll be over in twenty minutes or less,” I said to Cherry. “Which room?”

“Two-ten,” she said. “I guess I can wait twenty minutes. The police are still talking to Joey anyway.”

“Don’t tell them I’m coming—it’s important. I’ll talk to the police later, okay?”

“Whatever, Elliott. Just get over here.”

Fifteen minutes later I whipped into the parking lot of the hospital, sliding into a space in the back row. In an effort to avoid a collision with the police, including a particular lieutenant who was trying to track me down of late, I entered through the clinic lobby near the M.E.’s office. I breathed in the scent of alcohol—and not the fun kind. I appreciated the antiseptic nature, but not the medical undertone of sterile instruments and hygienic syringes.

I used the stairs, cut through two waiting rooms, and popped out at the nurse’s station. The germy hospital made my palms itch, but seeing (and using) the giant bottles of hand-sani mounted on the walls around every corner relaxed me enough to open doors with my hands instead of my elbows. It sped things up and I finally caught my first break of the day: I saw Ransom walking away from Joseph’s room as I turned the corner. I waited until I heard the elevator bing, then snuck into the room.

Joseph Hirschorn was in the far bed. He had layers of thick white gauze wrapped around his head, a black eye, and a nasty gash on one cheek. The strings on his cotton hospital gown hung loose around his neck. Cherry sat at his side, holding his hand. She jumped up when she saw me.

“Elliott, you have to help us,” she said. Her eyes were puffy from crying, her artful makeup smeared on her face like an abstract painting, all streaky and random. She sat, then stood again.

“Sit,” I said. I dragged a chair over to the end of the bed and joined her. “What happened?”

She twisted her hands in her lap, shredding an already tattered tissue. “Joseph went to the office on Sunday night—”

“Sunday? You said he wasn’t coming home until Monday or Tuesday.”

At least she had the decency to blush. “Well, he came home early. I didn’t know he was going to do that. It’s not my fault he took an early flight home.” She stared at her hands and plucked tissue lint from her skirt.

“So, he comes home early Sunday and goes to Buffalo Bill’s…” I prodded.

She sniffed back more tears. “Yes. He stopped by the office on his way home from the airport. His flight was late so he didn’t get by the Bill’s until after ten.”

“Why did he stop at the office so late?”

“He’d been out for a few days, wanted to see what was going on,” she said without looking at me. “What’s it matter? That’s not the important part.”

“Go on,” I said.

“He heard something in Leo’s office. He goes to check it out and wham, he’s hit over the head. No one even knew until the next morning when the receptionist opened up the offices. She thought he was dead!” Tears spilled out onto her cheeks. She wiped them with the crumbly tissue in her hand.

“What makes you think it was Leo’s killer?”

“The place was trashed,” Joseph said in a low scratchy voice. “I never seen such a mess. It looked like a tornado blew through there. Tables turned over, couch cushions slashed apart, papers ripped like goddamn confetti. This was no robbery, lady. They wanted something.”

“Only in Leo’s office?”

“No, everywhere. The whole office, even Cherry’s.”

“You lied, Joseph,” I said. Even though it wasn’t to me, it was still a lie. “You said you and Leo were best friends, like brothers.”

He struggled to sit up. “That’s no lie.”

“We’re past that part, Joey,” I said. “You’ve been out of it. Out of town and out cold. I know you two were arguing the week he died. Heated arguments. Care to tell me about them?”

“No,” he said. “It had nothing to do with Leo’s death. We worked it all out before he died. Just ask Cherry.”

“So I’m supposed to believe your girlfriend? Sure, that’s reliable.”

“What? There’s nothing going on between me and Cherry,” he said all indignant as if he’d never heard such a ridiculous accusation.

Cherry held his hand. “It’s okay. I told her.”

“Jesus, Cherry, what’d you do that for? Bad enough we told the police, now everyone will know.”

She threw down his hand. “Is it so bad everyone knows? You act like I’m a piranha.”

“You mean pariah, I think,” I said, though piranha was probably more accurate.

He reached out for her hand. “I’m only thinking of you, Cher. You know how gossipy everyone is at the Bill’s.”

She squeezed his hand and started to cry again. “What would I do without you?”

“Okay, guys, back to me,” I said. “I know you lovebirds want to protect each other. Which is why you make really bad alibis for one another.”

“I didn’t do this to Joey. I could never hurt him.”

“Not
this
, Cherry,” I said. But thought, why not? “I’m talking about the night Leo was killed.”

“Cherry was with me all night,” Joseph said.

“See Joey, there you go lying again. How can I believe anything you say?” I grabbed my handbag and stood.

“Wait,” Cherry said. She turned to Joseph. “Leo’s neighbor saw my car in the driveway the night he was killed. I had to tell Elliott why I was there and that I went to your place afterward.”

“Dammit, Cherry,” Joseph said. “Did you tell the cops this? I’ve been lying all over town to protect you. Least you coulda done was tell me.”

Cherry leaned over Joseph and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry. She’s gonna help us though, that’s why I called her. She’s gonna explain everything to the detective.”

I cleared my throat. “Um, no, I’m not. I’ve got nothing to explain. You two could’ve killed Leo together. Your alibis are wafer thin.”

Joseph squirmed in the bed, pulling the thin blanket up to his chest. “Look, lady. Our alibis are solid. We didn’t kill Leo. Cherry came by my house at eleven forty-five.”

“You’re awfully specific about the time. Were you staring at the clock?”

“Kinda. I’d ordered a pizza and was waiting for the driver. Guy pulled in right behind Cherry, walked her to the door. Call Antonio’s, he’ll tell you. I order all the time, driver knows me.”

I took out my notebook and jotted down the pizza information. “What did you and Leo argue about?”

“I’m not telling you. I don’t even know you.”

“Fine.”

“Wait!” Cherry said. “You said you’d help.”

“I can’t help if I don’t know what happened,” I said, looking at Joseph.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. His skin was the color of putty, and the bags beneath his eyes only added to his bleak appearance. “Money,” he said. “We argued about money. The store was in trouble, real trouble. Leo wanted to expand and I didn’t. We fought for weeks. He finally admitted he had no intention of opening a new store, he was just scamming that chair lady to keep his seat on your stupid board. I was furious.”

“But you made up? How’d that happen?”

He opened his eyes and tried to smile. It didn’t quite work; the bloody gash forced his face into a grimace. “He smoothed it over the day he died. He said he was coming into some money that would solve all our financial problems.”

“And you believed him?”

“I did. He was really excited. For real, you know? Happier than he’d been in months.”

“Do you know where he was getting the money?”

“He said it was a new investment. Something to do with the future of the Foundation,” he said and closed his eyes again.

A nurse walked in with the determination of a drill sergeant. “What are you doing in here? This patient needs his rest,” she said to me and pointed at the door with a sharp snap. “Out, now.”

I stood and touched Joseph’s leg. “Take care.”

I left the room before Nurse Ratched could admonish me further. I wandered down the hall toward the elevator, my rubber soles squeaking on the vinyl tile floors. The ransacking of the office was bigger news than the attack on Joseph (no offense to Joseph). Too much damage to be a robbery. All those TVs and they break into the office? But why bust in an entire week after Leo’s murder?

I dashed back to the hospital room. The nurse was taking Joseph’s vitals while Cherry slumped in the visitor’s chair. I waved at her and she met me at the door.

“Who knew Joseph was out of town for the weekend?” I whispered.

She shrugged. “Everybody, I guess. There’s a notice on the big Bill’s sign that Leo was headed home to Jersey for his memorial. Anybody driving by would see it. You’d have to assume Joey would be going, too.”

“Thanks,” I whispered and walked back to the elevator.

So maybe the killer’s frantic search at Leo’s house resulted in a big goose egg. Had to wait until Joseph was out of town to search the Buffalo Bill’s office, but Joseph comes home early. Picks the worst time possible to stop in and the killer shuts him down. Hard to believe Cherry thrashed him. She had to have known when Joseph was returning, and she could have searched the office anytime. But what was the attacker looking for?

It all went back to the missing money. Did Leo spend the money on a new investment? What did Joseph say about the future of the Foundation?

I stepped off the elevator and walked down the long hall toward the entrance. Future, I thought. Like wine futures? I picked up my pace and nearly knocked over an orderly who flew around the corner.

Chas mentioned a cellar during his fight with Jane at the Delafield House. Around here, he could only mean a wine cellar. It’s called the lowcountry for a reason. Most of the land is at or below sea level. You dig under your house, you won’t get a basement, you’ll get a lake. Maybe Chas wasn’t only upset about the land. Maybe Leo was scamming him out of wine futures.

TWENTY-THREE

I considered calling Chas to finagle an invitation to see his new wine cellar, but an invitation might be overly optimistic. Chas didn’t like me. A peek through the windows and the trash would probably net more information in less time. Between a quick call to Tod for the address, and studying the island map in my glove box, I found his house.

Chas Obermeyer lived in Pelican Beach, a small plantation tucked between Oyster Cove and Sugar Hill. It took less than fifteen minutes to get to the gate from the hospital parking lot. I found an old pass in my glove box from a trip to Deidre Burch’s Easter egg hunt last month.

I tucked the pass in my windshield and cruised through the gate in the outside lane, waving merrily at the guard as I passed. He was busy with a family in a mini-van and didn’t notice the lapsed date typed in the corner of my pass. I zipped down Ibis Lane toward the shore, turning left on Heron Way. I passed Chas’s house on the left. A neocolonial beach house with blue-gray siding and black shutters. A white van with “Domestic Bliss” written in fluffy pink script on the side sat in the driveway.

I parked one house down, then scooched down in my seat and watched Chas’s front door from my rearview mirror. It was almost five o’clock. I pulled out my phone and called his office at Charter Bank.

“Chas Obermeyer’s office, Ann speaking,” a perky voice said.

“Hi Ann, is he in?”

“No, ma’am. He’s gone for the day. Would you like his voicemail?”

“Maybe you can help me. This is Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne, and I really need to reach him. It’s about the Gatsby lawn party at the Big House tomorrow.”

“Oh sure. He just left with his wife for an early dinner party on the beach. You can probably reach him on his cell.”

“Perfect, you’ve been a big help,” I said and clicked off. With Chas gone for two hours at least, I could snoop at my leisure, assuming the Domestic Bliss crew finished soon.

They did. Five minutes later, Chas’s front door opened and three women stepped out. One carried a bucket filled with typical cleaning supplies: brushes, bottles, and rags. Another carried a tall purple vacuum. The third carried a plastic bag. I twisted in my seat for a better look. She turned her back toward the street (presumably to lock the front door), then walked past the van to the side of the house. The other two gals loaded the van, then climbed in. The bag lady returned sans bag, hopped in the driver’s seat, and pulled out of the drive.

I looked around. A landscaping truck and trailer were parked up the street. A tree-trimmer another six houses over, across the street. The neighborhood had more service personnel than residents. It was after five, perfect for twilight golf and early-bird dining. I rolled the Mini forward and parked another house down. The lots were large, considering properties this close to the beach were usually jammed in like a pack of PEZ, and only one house had a clear view of Chas’s front drive.

I rummaged in the backseat, emerging with an official-looking clipboard in my hand. I dialed Chas’s home number just to be sure no one else was inside. After a dozen rings, I clicked off.

I walked purposefully up the sidewalk to Chas’s drive as if I belonged there. I’d seen this on TV, so obviously it had to work. I rang the bell on the front door. I didn’t think anyone would answer, but wanted to play through the charade in case a nosy neighbor was watching the show. I pretended to write on my clipboard, then walked to the side of the house along a narrow path in the grass.

A stack of wooden crates leaned against the utility gate. I peeked around the gate, inside the utility room. More crates sat next to dual HVAC units and a pair of rubber trashcans on wheels. The crates were made from pale wood with winery names burned into the sides. The room smelled like rancid meat and rotten eggs. I changed my mind about digging through the trash. It may be another trusted TV investigative technique, but no way was I sticking my hands in those slimy cans without a hazmat suit and three layers of rubber gloves.

I closed the gate and checked around the back door for a hidden key. Took all of two seconds. Sitting alone on the grass next to a large clay pot filled with bright red geraniums was a rock. Or a fake rock, as it turned out. Very secure and not obvious at all. I slid the bottom compartment open and a square nickel key dropped into my hand. I unlocked the side door, then stuck my clipboard behind a hydrangea bush near the geranium. I didn’t want to drive home and remember I left it on the kitchen table.

I tiptoed into a mudroom past a shiny turquoise washer and dryer set. The frontload Electrolux ones with Wave Touch controls and Perfect Steam drying technology. Not that I was jealous or anything. Stacks of freshly laundered towels, t-shirts, and men’s boxers were neatly folded on top of a white tile countertop. The clean smell of dryer sheets was a nice reprieve from the stink of the garbage pails. I slipped into the kitchen. It held a stunning array of appliances: a six burner gas stove with double oven, two drawer dishwasher, a warming drawer, and a microwave larger than my real oven. The stainless steel sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. No clutter on the granite, not a spoon in the sink. Those Domestic Bliss gals really knew their stuff.

I wandered into a casual living room. A staircase climbed to my left, but I continued down a narrow hall. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Certainly not the murder weapon, since it wasn’t missing. Probably not a note detailing a confession. A dozen empty crates of wine didn’t prove anything, other than the man likes to drink. I needed something to tie Chas and Leo and wine futures.

I spotted a pair of tall oak doors at the end of the hall. They opened into a wine cellar like I’ve never seen. I haven’t seen that many, but I’m going out on a limb here to say this one was a masterpiece. We’re talking seven hundred square feet, easy, with slate floors and a high tray ceiling with tiny lowlights. The walls were lined with natural redwood in diamond-shaped slots to hold a thousand wine bottles. Or more. The room was cool and smelled like blackcurrant and dry wood. Six rows of tall racks jutted into the room, three on each side of a long table in the center. A crystal decanter sat on top with a variety of wine bottles and openers.

I picked one up to examine its swirly parts when a door slammed shut somewhere in the house. I dropped the opener and it clattered on the table. Crap.

I ducked behind the first short row on my left. I barely fit. I think the edge of my left shoe stuck out into the aisle. I inched over to the right, squishing against the slots. It didn’t help. I was about to make a dive for the next row over when a hand gripped my arm and yanked me forward.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Ransom asked.

I looked up into his scowling face, only inches from my own. My heart was in my throat as adrenaline flashed through my veins. “You scared the shit out of me,” I croaked out.

“This is illegal, Elliott. You can’t just break into someone’s house.”

“You did.”

“To stop you.”