Swan Dive

Praise for the Elliott Lisbon Mystery Series

SWAN DIVE (#3)

“
Swan Dive
reunites us with Elli, a delightful amateur sleuth with an aversion to germs, who’s always willing to right a wrong. Using her uncanny cleverness and deep-seated loyalty, she deftly handles whatever comes her way–eventually…in this perfectly delightful cozy mystery series.”

–
Fresh Fiction

“Elli conducts her detecting with confidence and an occasional lack of foresight, but she has the skills and intelligence to pull it off. The enjoyable worlds of professional dance and cooking elevate this mystery, and Elli is an admirable and engaging heroine. Deft writing and clever dialogue further ensure that readers will be looking forward to the next installment in Elli’s adventures.”

–
Kings River Life Magazine

“The book flowed smoothly along, giving me a chance to sit down and dig deep into the mystery right along with Elliott. All in all, an enjoyable mystery that is highly recommended.”

–
Any Good Book

“I loved this book! The location, off the Atlantic coast and typically warm, and the quirky characters that keep showing up really help to make this a delightful and entertaining read.”

–
BookLikes

WHACK JOB (#2)

“The irrepressible heroine is delightful and her ongoing banter is nonstop fun.”

–
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

“Back for another episode of juggling sleuthing, professional responsibilities, and complicated personal relationships…Lynn whips all these ingredients into a tasty southern mash of star-crossed romance, catty but genteel one-upsmanship, and loveable oddballs that should please fans of humorous cozies.”

–
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

“Elli Lisbon is proving herself to be the most lovable OCD PI since Adrian Monk.”

– Maddy Hunter,

Agatha-Nominated Author of the Passport to Peril Series

“A must-read mystery with a sassy sleuth, a Wonderland of quirky characters, and a fabulous island setting that will keep you turning pages.”

– Riley Adams,

Author of the Memphis Barbecue Mysteries

BOARD STIFF (#1)

“A mystery full of humor and the mannerisms unique to the South that combine into a fun-filled ride.”

–
Kings River Life Magazine

“A solid and satisfying mystery, yes indeed, and the fabulous and funny Elliott Lisbon is a true gem! Engaging, clever and genuinely delightful.”  

– Hank Phillippi Ryan,

Agatha, Anthony and Macavity Award-Winning Author

“Kendel Lynn captures the flavor of the South, right down to the delightfully quirky characters in this clever new mystery series. Elli Lisbon is the Stephanie Plum of the South!”

– Krista Davis,

New York Times
Bestselling Author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries

“A cross between an educated, upper class Stephanie Plum and a less neurotic Monk. Put this on your list for a great vacation read.”

– Lynn Farris,

National Mystery Review Examiner at Examiner.com

“Packed with humor, romance, danger and adventure, this is a good mystery full of plot twists and turns, with red herrings a plenty and an ending that I found both surprising and satisfying.”

–
Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

OTHER PEOPLE’S BAGGAGE (prequel novella)

“A cozy triple-scoop that tastes divine…the pleasantly contrasting novellas make it easy to finish off a story in one sitting.”

–
Library Journal

“Lost luggage has never been this fun! With well-drawn characters,
Other People’s Baggage
is your first class ticket to three fast-paced adventures full of mystery, murder, and magic.”

– Elizabeth Craig,

Author of the Southern Quilting Series

“Kendel Lynn’s
Switch Back
is a clever, entertaining mystery with small town flavor and Texas flair!”

– Debra Webb,

USA Today
Bestselling Author

“The mix-ups are a creative theme for tying the stories together, and I loved seeing how each sleuth dealt with the problem. A very fun collection!”

– Beth Groundwater,

Author of the RM Outdoor Adventures Mystery Series

Books in the Elliott Lisbon Mystery Series

by Kendel Lynn

Novels

BOARD STIFF (#1)

WHACK JOB (#2)

SWAN DIVE (#3)

Novellas

SWITCH BACK

(in OTHER PEOPLE’S BAGGAGE)

Copyright

SWAN DIVE

An Elliott Lisbon Mystery

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

First Edition

Kindle edition | March 2015

Henery Press

www.henerypress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2015 by Kendel Lynn

Cover art by Stephanie Chontos

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Related subjects include: cozy mysteries, women sleuths, murder mystery series, whodunit mysteries (whodunnit), humorous murder mysteries, book club recommendations, audio books for download, private investigator mystery series, amateur sleuth books, southern humor, southern living, chick lit.

ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-53-4

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For Georgie

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’ve received many blessings and much love and more support than I could’ve imagined, and I’m most grateful.

Thank you to Hank Phillippi Ryan, Ruth Smith, Barney Lipscomb (Botanical Research Institute of Texas), Pete Radovic (Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department), Sisters in Crime (National, Guppies, and North Dallas), and as always, extra love to my mom, Suzanne Atkins.

Thank you to the authors and staff members in the Hen House, with a special round of chicken hugs to my incredible editorial team: Erin George, Rachel Jackson, and Anna Davis. This coop is stronger because you’re all in it.

Thank you to Art Molinares for keeping the dream close, and to Diane Vallere, the truest friend a girl could want.

ONE

(Day #1: Thursday Evening)

I was sitting front row center of the Sea Pine Island Community Theatre waiting for Act II of
The Nutcracker
when I received a short text:
Emergency
.
Sugar Plum Fairy dead. Dressing rooms. Now.
It was from the artistic director. A drama queen if ever there was one. This was the fifth “emergency” in the last two hours. The fourth text included the words “catastrophe” and “maimed.” One of the nutcracker soldier’s tassels had popped off.

“Another crisis backstage,” I said to Matty Gannon, my second best friend, though we’d recently upped it to dating status. “Be right back.”

I hated leaving my perfectly-placed seat, a perk of being Director of the Ballantyne Foundation. Of course, it’s not that perfect when you have to depart while everyone else is still seated. I tucked my program into one of the deep pockets of my long skirt, carefully lifted it above my ankles, and made my way to the center aisle. It wasn’t without casualties. I stepped on three feet, kicked two shins, and I’m pretty sure I felt up Zibby Archibald, the oldest member of the Ballantyne Board.

A minute later I passed through the backstage door and into a world of harmonious chaos. A juxtaposition of beauty and industry: massive can spotlights, dangling ropes, and dancers swishing by in gossamer costumes with fanciful feathers.

A girl dressed in a fluffy blue tutu and twinkly tiara grabbed my arm and pulled me to the side. “Is my crown straight?” she asked. “One of the mothers jammed it on my head and I’m locked out of the dressing room.” 

“It looks lovely,” I said.

“Courtney! Places. Places now! Stop dillydallying,” Inga Dalrymple said. The artistic director was a thick but tall woman, a mashup between a football linebacker and a basketball forward, and all dolled up for opening night. Black sequined long-sleeve top, matching sequined tuxedo pants and black ballet flats. The store bought kind, not the actual dancer kind. She smacked the foot of a carved wood walking stick onto the hard floor. “Go!”

Courtney skittered away as Inga approached me. “Over here,” she said and turned without waiting to see if I followed.

We walked down a long corridor, past child dancers and their mothers, around rolling trunks and a tangle of cables to a plain brown door. The names “Lexie Allen” and “Courtney Cattanach” were typed on a sheet of paper and taped to the front. 

I peeked inside, glanced around the room. A large lighted mirror with big Hollywood movie star lights dominated the center with an assortment of makeup brushes in shapes I’d never seen before. A vase of pink roses sat on top near a tidy basket of fresh fruit and a platter of cupcakes. Costumes and shoes were scattered willy-nilly around the room, buried by clothes upon clothes, as if a closet exploded, coughing up garments and spitting out hangers. And there, dressed in sweats, nearly blended into the background, was Lexie Allen. Half on the sofa, half on the floor. Clearly dead. Her face twisted in agony, a light ring of foam on her top lip.

I gasped and my hand flew to my mouth. “Oh my God…Oh my God.” The Sugar Plum Fairy was dead. Actually dead.

Inga pulled me back into the hall and snapped the door closed. “The Mouse King found her about ten minutes ago,” Inga said. “I checked, and she’s not breathing.”

“Oh my God. Are you sure? What happened?” I leaned against the closed door with my hand on the knob.

“I don’t know what happened, and yes, I’m sure. She wasn’t feeling well before the show, so Courtney took over as Sugar Plum Fairy. Maybe something Lexie ate? A seizure? Her mouth is foamy and she’s hunched over. She’s not bleeding. I called 9-1-1 already. Said they’d be here...” She glanced at her watch. “Right now. Any minute. I don’t know what’s taking so long. What is taking so long?”

“I’m sure they’re on their way,” I said, slowly nodding as I tried to absorb the situation.

Sweet, vibrant Lexie Allen, college student and Sugar Plum Fairy, lay dead ten feet away. She was the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Allen, who were dear friends of Mr. and Mrs. Ballantyne, of the aforementioned Ballantyne Foundation, where I worked. To make matters more emotional, the Ballantynes were the closest thing I had to family. To make matters more complicated, the Ballantyne Foundation had sponsored this production of
The Nutcracker
.

The orchestra played the first bars of the second act and Inga smacked her stick on the floor.

I stopped nodding. “We need to cancel the performance,” I said.

“Impossible. The second act just started, the dancers are on the stage,” she said. “We can’t stop. We already went on without her.” Her face paled to the color of milk and she looked visibly shaken. “You need to handle the police. You’re one of them, right? Some kind of volunteer? I’ll handle the dancers until it’s over.”

People would be mortified when they found out we carried on as if we didn’t care. But what could we do? Run on stage and broadcast the news to a theatre filled with families?

I thought about all the children in the audience. Every third patron had a grandchild with them. It was opening night, not a seat empty. I didn’t want to traumatize them by announcing the Sugar Plum Fairy was dead. She held a special place in their hearts this time of year, only two or three notches down from Santa and the Elf on the Shelf.

I put my palm out in the stop position. “Let me think.” There were hundreds of people in the theatre. The police would need statements. At least I thought so. I wasn’t actually one of the police and I wasn’t a volunteer. I was a PI-in-training and my training had yet to involve a dead ballerina on opening night. “Okay, let’s do this,” I said. “Keep the show going. I’ll work with the police to coordinate interviews once they arrive.”

“Coordinate interviews with whom? You can’t mean the entire theatre? Over food poisoning?” She clutched her throat. “Of course. If she ate something spoiled, others might, too. Like bad sushi? She always eats sushi from that market on the corner.”

“I don’t know.” I pictured the look of agony on Lexie’s face. Her foamy lips and crumpled body. I doubted a box of gas station sushi did that.

The oversized exit door in the very back swung open. A burst of evening breeze blew in ahead of two Sea Pine police officers. I recognized one of them, Corporal Lily Parker. She was tall, leggy, and if she switched her uniform for a tutu, one might mistake her for a principal dancer in the company. Parker held the door as two paramedics hurried in pushing a gurney.

“Over here,” Inga said. She led them to Lexie’s dressing room and they rushed inside.

I pulled out my cell as Matty Gannon walked up. “Everything okay?”

“One of the dancers died,” I said softly.

“One of the dancers died?” Matty asked.

I held up a finger. “Give me two seconds.” I dialed Carla Otto, head chef for the Ballantyne. “Bring hot chocolate and cake to the Sea Pine Community Theatre. We’re hosting an after-party for three hundred people in less than one hour.”

“What are you talking about? The benefactor’s benefit party isn’t until next week.”

“Lexie Allen passed away in her dressing room and the police just arrived and we can’t let anyone leave until the police interview each of them,” I said. “Unlimited funds for whatever you need. Just get here.”

“On my way,” she said. 

I wasn’t worried about what she could produce in thirty minutes. I once watched her turn out a gourmet spread with only a jar of pickles and can of spam in ten minutes flat.

“It’s awful,” I said to Matty after I hung up. “Lexie Allen. A friend of the Ballantyne family. I knew her. I just talked to her like two days ago.”

“What can I do?” Matty wrapped his warm hand around mine.

“Help Carla when she gets here. I’ll try to keep the backstage chaos from spilling into the theatre. Perhaps one of the crew can get tables for the lobby?”

The back door opened. Another cool breeze swept in, this time bringing the spicy scents of sandalwood and Cuban tobacco. Nick Ransom. The ex-love of my life and the current lieutenant of the Sea Pine Police.

Matty squeezed my hand and nodded at Ransom, who nodded back. Matty walked up the long side corridor toward the front of the building and Ransom walked straight to the dressing room and spoke with Corporal Parker.

I walked over, my long dress swishing with each step.

“…not breathing when she found her,” Parker said and checked her notebook. “Inga Dalrymple. With a y. Says she called 9-1-1 right away. Then spoke to Elliott about finishing the show.”

“The show must go on?” Ransom said.

“Until you absolutely need to speak to the audience,” I said. “Carla’s on her way with cake and coffee to serve after the performance. This theatre seats three hundred. That’s a lot of interviews. Going to take some time, and that’s after you finish working back here and talk to the crew and dancers. I’m assuming since she died alone, and not accidentally, there will be a full-scale investigation.”

The door to the dressing room next to Lexie’s opened and a young dancer came out, tears streaming down her face, streaking her glittery makeup. “Is Lex, um, is she really? Were the ambulance people able to help her?”

Behind her in the open room sat two more dancers. A little girl in a white snowflake costume and a guy in gray velvet pants and royal purple vest. A mouse head with a severely long nose and enormous crown sat on his lap. He stared at Ransom and me, his face drawn in sorrow.

Corporal Parker led the girl back into the room. “I’m sorry, she’s gone,” she said. “Did you know her well?”

Before I could hear the answer, Ransom turned to me. “How about you? Did you know her? Isn’t this a Ballantyne production?”

“Yes and yes. Though I didn’t know her well. Her parents are friends of the Ballantynes. I’ve seen Lexie a few times over the years. Kind, sweet girl. We just held a luncheon last week. She’s a student at UNC Charlotte, I think. She used to dance here on the island at a local studio. Inga Dalrymple’s Dance Company, next to the Bi-Lo on Cabana Boulevard. Lexie and her friends have done this production three years running now.”

A group of dancers rushed by and a crewman with a headset barked orders into his mic. I stepped over two long cables to get out of the way.

Inga marched down the long side corridor from the lobby. A woman with highlights to the point of actual multi-colored blond stripes marched behind her.

“Unacceptable,” Inga said to the woman. “It’s opening night.”

“I want to know why my daughter isn’t dancing in the Land of Sweets,” the lady said and blocked Inga’s path. “She should’ve been promoted from a gingerbread soldier last year. She’s better than that other girl.”

“Now is not the time,” Inga said.

“It’s the perfect time because I need an answer.” She raised her voice to be heard over the applause. Music once again drifted from behind the thin wall.

Two crime scene techs carrying blocky cases excused themselves between the two women. Inga pointed them toward Lexie’s dressing room. “They came in through the lobby,” she said to me. “Wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t have SPPD slapped all over their jackets.” Inga was a yell-talker, her volume two notches higher than suitable social standards. In a cartoon, the imaginary power of her voice would’ve blown back my hair.

“Did someone notice?” I asked.

“Everyone noticed. At least the front house personnel and four patrons using the ladies room.” She put her hand to her forehead. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. The performance is nearly over. Courtney just started the Sugar Plum Fairy dance.”

“Wait,” the mom said. “What’s going on?”

“How many people are allowed backstage before the show?” Ransom asked.

“Dancers, choreographers, crew, lighting, orchestra, staffers, and well, just about anyone,” Inga said, then pointedly glared at the mom. “And the parents. They’re everywhere.”

“Oh my God, her parents. Are they here?” I asked.

“Whose parents?” the mom asked.

Inga leaned on her stick. “They’re second row. I spoke to them before the curtain went up. Told them she wasn’t feeling well. They said she’s been working too hard with this production and school and got up to speak to her. I don’t think they stayed.”

“Lexie Allen,” the mom said. “You’re talking about Lexie. I saw the Allens leave right before curtain. Everyone was already seated. Quite rude. Who leaves before the production starts? They walked straight out the front door.”

The music from the pit swiftly changed and Inga blanched. “The last dance. The curtain is going to fall in minutes.”

“I’m going to need everyone to stay in the theatre,” Ransom said to Inga.

She pointed her stick at me. “That’s your job.” To the mom, she said, “Come with me. We’ll talk out of the way. It’s about Lexie...”

My phone buzzed and I read the message. Carla had arrived. “I’ll be in the lobby,” I said and hurried to the front of the theatre.

Carla was in a flurry. Her wild black curly hair was held back by a scarf and her chef’s coat was misbuttoned. She and a half dozen helpers hustled around several long tables that spanned the entire length of the lobby. They were laying out a dream spread straight out of
The Nutcracker
playbook: sugared plums, bon bons, candy canes, decorated cakes, colorful tarts, large coffee urns, and hot cocoa with marshmallows and shaved chocolate bits. Down at the far end of the lobby, Matty and two crewmen were setting up a high bar and rows of folding chairs.

“Carla, how did you ever do this?” I said.

“Unlimited funds and no less than five favors.”

“It’s perfect. And now we need to hold hundreds of patrons hostage for the next two hours.” I figured I’d better grab the keys before anyone snuck out early. I hurried down the carpeted corridor in time to see the medical examiner, Dr. Harry Fleet, drag in the back door. He had dark skin, baggy eyes, and his clothes were rumpled as if he slept in a hamper. One might think he had been summoned to the theatre from a deep slumber, but I’ve seen him during the day. He looked the same.