Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (28 page)

“Hi Jeremy, it’s Elliott. Do you remember at the board meeting last week you said you saw Leo dancing with a woman?”

“Sure. That meeting was legendary. Jane dragged out by the police right in the middle. It was awesome.”

“Yes, but about Leo. Was the woman Reena Patel?”

“The Mumbai lady? I don’t know. I never met her, I don’t know what she looks like.”

“Did you read the packet? Her picture’s inside.”

He laughed sheepishly. “Well, I haven’t had time, really. With the new season at the beach opening up and all.”

“That’s okay. Did she have really long hair and tan brown skin like she was from India?”

“Could be,” Jeremy said. “She was totally hot, and yeah, she was definitely exotic.”

“Could you hear anything they talked about?”

“Not really. I was checking her out pretty heavy when my date smacked my arm. She was standing right next to me.”

“Could you think about it? Maybe call your date and see if she heard anything? It would really help my evaluation, Jeremy.”

He said he would and we hung up.

What else did I know about the actual murder? Obviously a big fat frame-up like I thought. Reena drugs Leo with Chas’s Insignia wine (which had no fingerprints), clocks Leo over the head with the Humanitarian of the Year trophy which Jane hated (which also had no fingerprints), and trashed the place looking for the video of Brooke’s audition (a copy of which was now stashed in my cottage). What else happened that night?

Neighbor Owen Dobbs saw Jane speeding away from Leo’s.

I dialed information on my cell and made a series of calls over the next fifteen minutes. I hit pay dirt on the seventh call.

“Sunshine Car Rental, Bianca speaking. May I interest you in a minivan today?”

“Hi Bianca, this is Reena Patel, I rented a black Sebring last Friday. Did I get charged for a full tank?”

I heard the clacking of a keyboard.

“I know I filled it up the day I turned it in,” I said. “But I didn’t check the gauge.”

More clacking. “Sorry, I don’t have a record of the rental,” she said. “Are you sure it was Sunshine?”

“Well, I think so. But it was probably under my associate’s name, she’s the one who drove that day, I was just a passenger. Try Shania Carter.”

I tapped the steering wheel and watched the rain pour down over the bow of a pirate ship on the fifth hole of the mini golfland. It’s nearly impossible to do anything anymore without using your real name, and cash is obsolete. A hundred years ago, you could walk around with a chunk of gold. It would get you a hotel room, dinner in a saloon, a new horse & buggy rig. But in today’s security climate, you need a valid ID and credit card. Unless you lift your receptionist’s valid ID and credit card.

“Sure, here it is,” she said. “No gas charge, ma’am. Says it was full when it came back.”

“Oh great. And that was for the black Sebring convertible, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Could you fax the receipt to my home office, please?” I rattled off the fax number at the Big House and said goodbye.

Hot damn and holy shit. I did a rousing celebratory dance in the front seat. So Reena rented a car identical to Jane’s. When Owen Dobbs saw her turn around and go back, she hadn’t forgotten anything, she was trying to be seen. I’ve got her now! And I’ve got the receipt, baby.

Then my smile faded and I fell back against the seat. I’d been running on adrenaline for an hour and was starting to crash.

I didn’t really have her. So she rented a black convertible. I heard my own taunting words hurtle back at me: It’s an island! Everyone drives a convertible. Doesn’t mean Reena drove hers to Leo’s or that Owen Dobbs was mistaken.

I needed better evidence. I needed more than a rental car receipt and a brochure. I needed to go back to Reena’s office and find that teacher’s list.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The sky had darkened from gloomy to murky and the rain now fell in waves. Tidal waves. We were getting a month’s worth of rain in one day. It’s the trade-off for eight days of sun and blue sky: three hours of torrential downpours wedged between ten hours of sludgy gray clouds and light drizzle. Nothing unusual about that, but the timing sucked. I checked my watch. Almost five o’clock. Had to be close to quitting for Shania. With Reena gone and the hammering rainstorm, she should be locking up any minute.

I parked around the backside of Reena’s office building. I tucked my handbag under my seat, slid my phone into my pocket, hooked a penlight to my key ring, and made a dash for the glass door around front. I slipped into the alcove beneath the staircase, barely hidden by a potted palm. As long as Shania didn’t look around when she left, I’d be okay.

Five minutes ticked by, then ten. I was soaked. My shirt clung to my skin, my hair was pasted flat to my head, and my feet squished in my trekkers. I squeezed the water from my hair and my tee, adding to the growing puddle on the floor. The air conditioning in the lobby was set to meat locker. I reassured myself that a nasty cold was a small price to pay to nail Reena Patel. Office workers slowly streamed out of the building. Most took the stairs and no one spotted me.

After twenty minutes, I heard the elevator ping. Three people exited: a man and two women. No idle chitchat for this crowd, just hollow footsteps on the marble floor before they dashed out to their cars.

I listened as the elevator rose, paused, then returned to the lobby. This time I heard one man and one woman. “Well, wouldn’t you know it, I’m parked on the other side of the lot,” the woman said.

“Here, use my umbrella,” a man’s voice offered. “I’ve been running back and forth for the last hour, I’m practically soaked anyway.”

I peeked out and watched him hand my brown and white polka-dot umbrella to a young woman. I almost leapt across the foyer. I loved that umbrella!

“Why, thank you,” she said. “But here, we can share.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” he said and they hustled out the door, huddled together beneath the umbrella dome.

What a thief and a scoundrel! I mentally snatched my umbrella from his hands and smacked him over the head until he apologized. I smiled at my victory, then scolded myself. Focus, woman, focus.

Oh crap. A second later I jumped into the elevator car and hit the “2” button.

So here’s the thing. I literally had no way of breaking into Reena’s office. I don’t know how to pick locks, with sharp metal tools or credit cards or anything. And I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have a fake rock with a hide-a-key in the hall. My options were limited to the outside balcony. I pictured myself: shimmy up the outside wall, hoist my legs over the slick wet balcony railing, then stand in a downpour rattling the sure-to-be-locked balcony doors.

New plan. I needed to somehow talk my way into Reena’s private office without raising any alarms with Shania. I’m the Ballantyne Foundation Director. I’m entitled to look at their client list. And I can certainly outwit Shania, the puzzle playing ditz at the door. I hustled down the hall hoping she hadn’t left yet.

I entered the office with a sappy smile on my face, but the room was empty. “Shania?” I hollered. I peeked into Reena’s office, but she wasn’t there either. Ladies room? Or maybe she forgot to lock the door when she went home. Either way, I didn’t care.

I quickly threw the bolt on the main door. If she was in the little girl’s room, her knocking would give me enough time to scoot out of the office and innocently open the door. Of course, she may have taken her keys.

Can’t worry about that now. I went straight for Reena’s desk in the other room. The black sawhorse desk held only three drawers, two matching deep ones on either side of a long slim one in the center. All three were locked.

She had to keep a spare key around here somewhere. Everyone does. And it’s not like these suckers were bank vault quality, probably only needed a bobby pin to pop the lock. Only I didn’t have a bobby pin. I tried every key on my ring, but none fit. I checked on her desk, under a black leather blotter, behind a sleek silver lamp. Nothing.

I looked around the room. The bookshelves, directly across from her desk. She must have had over two hundred volumes crammed into the cases. I skimmed the book tops, but none looked to be bulging due to a key jammed between the pages. I ran my hand along the shelves, then behind the cases. No key, but plenty of dust. I wiped my dirty hands on my wet pants and made mud.

I crawled beneath the sawhorse. It was really dark under there. Heavy drapes edged the balcony doors and the barely visible gloomy sky made it slightly better than working in a cave. I tried to dig the penlight out of my pocket and smacked my head on the center beam of her desk. Tiny stars sparkled in front of my eyes and I had to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from crying out. I rubbed my head. It felt wet and sticky and I got lightheaded. Wet from the rain, I told myself, not blood. I heard a small rustle when my hand scraped the underside of the desk. I readjusted and felt a tiny key held to the rough wood with scotch tape.

I glanced at the doorway. No sounds, no shadows.

I peeled the tape back and climbed into the leather desk chair. I slipped the key into the large drawer on the left. I clicked on my tiny penlight, but the drawer was mostly empty. Must be her purse drawer. There was a makeup bag, hand mirror, two scarves, and a pair of sunglasses. I closed and relocked it, then tried the large drawer on the right.

It was filled with files. Each had a neatly typed label on the top tab. Teachers, Educational Materials, Vaccination Supplies, Donation Requests, Travel and Accommodations. I quickly leafed through the pages. They looked very organized and professional. Until I read the file marked Sanitation.

The top sheets detailed plans for toilets, irrigation, sump pumps, and other equipment. Another sheet explained (in depth) the concern over diarrhea and disease caused by the fecal matter running into the water. Wedged in the middle of the file, tucked between the poop report and a budget analysis for a sanitary system adjacent to the classroom, was a list of teachers names. I scanned the list.

Bingo.

My finger stopped at Brooke Norman, age thirty, Master’s Degree in Education from the University of Alabama, two years internship at Seabrook Preparatory School, currently on a teaching mission in Mumbai.

Brooke was no more thirty than I was. She was barely twenty-two. I wondered how many names were legitimate. I studied the sheet behind the teacher’s list. It was taken from a financial ledger with a dollar figure next to each item on a very long list of items.

Even with my mediocre math skills I figured out Reena was cooking the books. Two sheets later I found the articles of incorporation for a company called RP Enterprises with Reena Patel as sole proprietor. So not just phony teachers, but the whole shebang was a fraud.

Why you bitch, Reena Patel. Threaten me with cancelling your grant application. Who’s in trouble now?

I needed those papers, but I didn’t see a copy machine out front. Shit. Take them or leave them? Take them or leave them? How much longer would I be left alone to snoop?

My phone rang and I jumped straight up out of the chair. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it would pop. I dug the phone out of my pocket to hit the ignore button, then saw Harry Fleet’s name.

“What did you find?” I whispered excitedly. Had to be good if he called me so soon.

“What the hell did
you
find? I want to know how this is related,” he barked into the phone.

I started pacing. “First tell me about Brooke Norman.”

“Same chemicals in her blood as Hirschorn. Same everything: GHB, oxycodone, and diazepam.”

“Man oh man. That’s a specific cocktail of drugs. No way it’s random, right?” I peeked out the window into the parking lot. I saw my Mini through the rain sitting alone in the back lot.

“Now you tell me, Lisbon. How is this death related to Leo Hirschorn?”

“I’m not sure, Harry, but I have an idea—”

The phone was knocked from my hand and my face slammed into the wood frame on the balcony door.

TWENTY-NINE

It was dark. It smelled rank and tangy. Gasoline. Bobby the mechanic? Was I still at the dealership fixing my slashed tires? My thoughts swirled and bounced, disconnected and jagged. I couldn’t string two together. My eyes adjusted to the lowlight. My face hurt. I tasted blood on my lips, in my mouth.

Then I remembered my face slamming into the door. Reena’s office! I struggled to get up, but something heavy pinned me down. I tried to push up with my hands and push off with my feet, but I had no strength. I used my elbows and squirmed forward. I freed my back and twisted my head around. A bookcase was on top of me. It was ridiculously heavy, like concrete block instead of wood.

“I see your investigative skills have improved since you were last here,” Reena said.

I whipped my head around and nearly passed out again. Nausea crept up my throat while my head spun round and round. My vision slowly cleared. Reena stood behind her desk across the room. With a box of matches in one hand and a gun in the other.

I tried to scramble forward. I flailed my arms and bumped into a red gas can with a yellow spout. From the hollow sound, I figured it was empty.

“Let’s not play games,
Red
,” Reena said and lifted the gun toward my face. “As much as I enjoy watching you squirm, I like you right where you are. Not so funny now, is it? You fight with cake, I fight with fire.”

“So, how much money did Leo demand?”

“That greedy little fuck wanted half the Lafferty money. Half!” she said. “He said he wouldn’t take a dime of the Ballantyne grant.”

“How noble.”

She snorted in the most unladylike manner. “Ain’t that the truth. But how could I trust a blackmailer? He’d want more and more, stick his grubby hand out every time I received new grant money.”

“No honor among thieves.” I slowly tested my strength against the bookcase and felt it give a little. It wasn’t as heavy as I thought, I was just weaker. Both from the blow to the face and a lifelong avoidance of exercise.

“Hey,” she snapped. “I worked hard to get where I am. This entire operation is mine. What the fuck do you own?”

The gasoline fumes made me lightheaded. I shook my head to clear away the fog. “And Mumbai? What about your people?”

She barked out a laugh. “My people are from Cleveland, genius.” She set down her gun and held up the file I’d found in her desk. She stuffed it into a wastebasket sitting in the middle of her desk. “My last mistake. After that dumb bitch Brooke. She lied straight to my face, said she’d never acted once in her life. Not even a school play.” She pulled a match from the box.

“What are you doing?” I yelled. “This place is full of gas fumes.”

“No, just you, and I can’t wait to roast you like a pig,” she raged. “You think you can just trot all over town, spread lies about me? Try to wedge between me and Nick? Steal my life and call me a thief?” She struck the match.

I covered my head and squeezed my eyes against the explosion, but none came. The folder flashed into flames. The fire consumed the wood basket in seconds. I started to doubt her assertion that I was the only source of gasoline in the room. I began breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell, but then I tasted the gasoline and my thoughts bounced around my head like a pinball.

“You’ll burn, and I’ll waltz out of here the victim,” Reena said as she picked up the gun. “Crazy Elliott Lisbon tripped over the bookcase while burning down my office. Can’t do anything right, can she?” She walked around the desk, then toward me.

Smoke and flames rose from the wastebasket. Searing hot fire quickly spread to the desk, racing across the flat top, down the legs, then jumped to the chairs. “And why would I burn down your office?” I wiggled under the bookcase. I had to get out of there before the fire scorched a trail across the carpet.

“Don’t move!” she screamed. “I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

She stepped closer. Her back was against the balcony drapes, only ten feet away from me now. The fire jumped to the wallpaper behind the desk. “Jealousy, of course,” she continued as if we were chatting over tea and crumpets. “Everyone can see how crazy jealous you are of me. Refused to approve my grant application, threw yourself at my fiancé. You attacked me in my own home. You attacked Nick just last night, tried to drown him in the pool.” The gun bounced while Reena ranted. At the bookshelf. At the carpet. At my head.

My left arm lay outstretched in front of me, slightly to my left, while I kept my right directly under me, palm flat on the carpet.

Reena inched closer, now only five feet away, her voice scratchy and shrill. “And then I found you in my office, trying to burn it down. I had to shoot you in self-defense.”

I needed her closer, and more unstable. “You’ve lost your mind if you think anyone, including my sweet darling Nick, will believe you.”

She stomped forward, her gun arm swinging. The thick smoke grew heavier. The air hotter. Crackling, burning, choking.

One more step. Then the gun bounced from my head to the floor.

I braced with my right hand and reach out with my left. I latched on to her ankle and yanked as hard as I could.

Reena let out a short scream, more surprise than anything. She hit the ground in a crash.

I scrambled up, kicking at the bookcase as I tried to stand. It flipped over and blocked the doorway. I stepped toward it, but Reena grabbed my foot.

I screamed at her to let go. Mistake. My throat filled with smoke. Burning soot choked me. Reena twisted my ankle, but I clamped onto her arm, scratching and clawing. I couldn’t stop coughing and tears streamed down my cheeks.

Reena yelled into the black air. Mad, insane words. She pulled at my leg and punched my thigh. Flames shot up the wall and engulfed the room. Time was measured in seconds. 

With my fists clenched onto her shoulders, I slammed my knee into her face and she tumbled backward, directly into the flaming balcony drapes. Her scream lasted only a second before fading into the flames.

Like a streak of lightning, a line of fire spread from the curtains to the carpet to the case to the books—all in a flash of a single second.

I ran for my life. I crashed into Ransom as he burst through the outer door.