Swan Dive (11 page)

“Sounds lovely,” I said. “But the Ballantynes are due home from their humanitarian trip to Guatemala soon. Not sure what we’ve got planned.”

“I’m sure we can squeeze something in. We haven’t celebrated Christmas together since college.”

I stood back and punched his shoulder. “We didn’t celebrate it then, either, hotshot. You left me the week before.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the number, then slipped it back. “I’ve got to run.”

“Pretty darn convenient, Nick.”

“Yeah, I do what I can.” He placed his hands on both sides of my face and kissed me. His lips were soft and sweet and I lost my train of thought. It felt good to let go. To let the wall ease down, if only by a brick or two. To imagine a second chance at that Christmas celebration. The kiss deepened. His hands moved to my waist, then my hips. He pulled away after another soft kiss and rested his forehead on mine. “Have dinner with me tonight,” he said. “I’ll grill those kabobs you like. Drink some wine, walk on the beach…”

I nodded and he kissed me again. Quick this time, one on the lips, one on the forehead, then opened my car door. “You be careful out there. I know you’re searching for suspects.”

I smiled. “I’ve got a good one, too.”

“Oh? More than a kid who likes target practice?”

“Yep…”

“Ah, the ‘something good’ you’re on to?” Slightly arrogant tone, completely patronizing smile. “Not like you’ll find out anything I don’t already know.”

“Is this an I can do anything you can do better moment?”

“I’m a pro, Red.”

“Well, I’m a pro-in-training. I find things out. Like Vigo Ortiz’s mother keeps a garden where she grows the deadly berries.”

“Mamacita. Yes, we’ve met. Gorgeous tomato plants.”

“Then there’s a certain set of sketchbooks filled with Lexie Allen–”

“The death poses,” he interrupted. “Bergin Guthrie. He’s a choreographer and those are for his new routine. Lexie even helped him with the sketches. Her idea. I found that out two days ago.”

“So did I,” I said, my competitive fire burning bright. “What about her rival at the Wharf?”

“Check. Rory Throckmorton, the other sous chef. Though rival is overstating. Both are young cooks, up and comers, but it’s not as if they’re fighting over a head chef position in the Wharf kitchen.”

“Ah, but did you know they were vying for the one coveted spot on a national cooking competition show? And the final audition was today?” By the surprised look on his face, I knew I had him. “Cooking, Lieutenant Ransom. As in food, as in berries, as in poison berries.”

“A cooking competition? Today?”

“Yep.”

“They really were rivals,” he said. “Elli, that’s good information.”

“I don’t mean to brag, but you know, just doing my thang.” Silence. Did I just say thang? “Anyway, you owe me now, Ransom.”

“What’s the name of the show and where is it taping?”

“Say it.”

“I owe you. Now tell me.”

“I’m serious. Anything big breaks in this case and you share with me. Deal?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You’re no scout.”

“We could go camping and I’ll show you. Though they don’t issue badges for some of my skills.” He leaned down and kissed my lips softly.

My competitive fire began to smolder. “The Stream Kitchen in Savannah. Mark Malone is the producer.” I rattled off the address and he jotted it in his notebook.

“I mean it, stay out of trouble,” he said. “I can take this from here.”

“Take what, Ransom? I thought it was an accident.”

He paused, then smiled and walked around to the driver’s side of his slick racer. The wing door floated open. “I have to go. See you tonight, after the board meeting?”

“Absolutely.”

I sank into my seat and my lips still tingled. I felt pretty darn good. Ransom finally confirmed Lexie’s death was no accident. Even if confirmation by omission. My investigative skills might actually impress Ransom and solve his case. My case. Lexie’s case. At least I hoped so. But man, he had way better resources. He already knew about Mamacita and Berg. He didn’t even ask me how I knew about those sketches and I just blurted it out like an amateur. A choreographer, huh? I didn’t even know that part. What kind of dance was Berg planning? And wasn’t that a convenient explanation?

ELEVEN

(Day #4 – Sunday Afternoon)

The clock on the dash said 11:43. Time enough to grab a quick lunch on the island and hit the library when it opened at noon. With my hair hatted and the top down, I cruised through Summerton and over the Palmetto Bridge. It was brisk and clear and ideal for an island holiday. The sun glinted off ornaments dangling from the garland wrapped around the palm trees lining Cabana Boulevard.

I called Sid while I drove. “You available for lunch? I’m thinking Molly’s by the Sea.”

“Can’t, but I’d love to. Broker’s open house all day. You can swing by here. We’ve got those prosciutto-wrapped arugula skewers you love. The ones with the buffalo mozzarella. And pitchers of mimosas. I’m at the Zimmerman house in South Pebble Beach.”

My stomach growled and I glanced at the clock again. “I shouldn’t. Last time I attended one of your broker’s opens, I stayed five hours and ended up napping in the guest house.” I pulled into the Sonic lot and studied the menu board. “What about tomorrow? I’m thinking of going to Berg’s parents’ house, get some insight into those scary ballerina death sketches.”

“Are we breaking in?”

“I hope not. I’m wearing seven Band-Aids as is.”

“You think his parents will offer insight? Maybe drop a dime on their kid?” she said, then hollered away from the phone. “The lilies on the dining table, the hydrangeas in the living room.”

“Yeah, probably not. Ransom said Berg’s a choreographer now, that’s what the sketches were for. But I don’t know if I believe him. Berg or Ransom.”

“Ransom? I thought you weren’t sharing with him.”

“I wasn’t. But then he got all competitive with his I’m better at this than you, and I couldn’t let him think that.”

“But it’s true, sweetie.”

“I’m aware. But he doesn’t need to know.”

“I’m pretty sure he knows.”

I pressed the speaker button on the Sonic menu and ordered a chili cheese dog, fries and an orange slush.

“I’m offended. You’re opting for a chili cheese dog rather than my canapés?”

“I’m on the run. You know I eat poorly when I’m on the run.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. She hollered away from the phone again. “Use the Tiffany pitchers. The coordinating glasses are in my car.”

“I’ll let you go. Good luck today.”

“Thank you. And you enjoy your poorly executed lunch,” she said. “We’ll catch up later.”

“Definitely. I didn’t even tell you about the guns.”

“Guns? What guns?”

“Apparently, I’ve got pretty good aim.”

After an abbreviated snapshot of my shooting range experience, we said goodbye, and five minutes later a carhop on roller skates glided over with my meal on a red plastic tray. It may not have been filled with canapés, but it was darn delicious. And only took fifteen minutes from order to eaten.

With a quick dash down Cabana, I arrived at my next stop: the library. It was located on the north end of the island near Oyster Cove Plantation and shared the Island Civic Complex with the police station. It was basically a two-room library, with the children’s portion taking up more than its fair share.

A couple sat together on one of the park benches that bordered the courtyard entrance. I recognized them as Lexie’s parents. They held hands, lost in their own thoughts, each staring into the garden of palms and pines.

“Mr. and Mrs. Allen,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Allen looked up at me with sorrow in her watery eyes. “Elliott,” she said, then wiped a stream of tears from her cheek.

“We’re here to meet Deidre,” Mr. Allen said. He moved his stare from the trees to the automatic doors about thirty feet away but made no move to get up and go inside.

Deidre had mentioned helping the Allens pack up Lexie’s things from her condo. It didn’t seem they were ready to undertake that task.

“I’m here for Deidre, too,” I said. “Perhaps I can help.”

Mrs. Allen patted the bench beside her. “No, dear, we’ll get there. We need a little more time.”

I sat down and wrapped my arms around her frail shoulders. I worried a strong breeze would blow her away. “She was a lovely girl.”

Mrs. Allen pulled back and sniffled. “A dream child. Polite and kind, and so talented. My girl could sing and dance like an angel. And cook. Oh, could she cook. She was looking forward to the cooking show. Thought she could win it.”

“You knew about that?” I asked.

“Yes, but she swore us to secrecy, didn’t she, honey?” Mrs. Allen said to her husband.

He nodded and looked out at the palms, his gaze unfocused and distant.

“She loved to dance,” Mrs. Allen said. “She was a natural. But cooking held a life’s worth of passion for her.” She almost laughed, a memory touching her. “She tried every recipe her little hands could find. And she could fry anything and make it taste gourmet.”

“Chef Carmichael at the Wharf raved over her,” I said. “He said she excelled in Charlotte and he was honored to have her join his staff.”

She smiled and squeezed my hand. “It was a hard decision for her to leave dance for cooking, but the right one.” She paused and tears rolled down her soft cheeks. “Even though it was food that took her life.”

“We’ll find out what happened to her,” I said.

“We know. The captain assured us. But accident or deliberate—part of me can’t fathom who would hurt her—it doesn’t matter. She’s gone. She’s just gone. It doesn’t seem fair we only had her for eleven years.”

“Only eleven years?” I asked.

“We adopted her when she was nine, took her in at eight,” she said. “We never had children of our own. She was our first foster placement. She didn’t have an easy childhood, but she was an easy child. We fell in love at first sight.”

“She was a lucky girl, Mrs. Allen. You were wonderful parents.”

She squeezed my hand again, then leaned on her husband’s shoulder.

A slight breeze rustled the palm fronds and the seagulls cried in the distance. I left the Allens to remember their daughter and went inside the library.

Deidre Burch manned the information desk along the back wall. She helped a guest locate the romance paperbacks, then turned to me. “How’d it go?” she said in a low whisper. “Under the sea, if you know what I mean.”

I slipped a key from my handbag and handed it to her, discreetly palming it and shaking her hand. “Mission accomplished. Appreciate the assistance.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said and raised her voice a notch. “What can I do for you?”

“A book on poisons. Reference section, I presume?”

Deidre perched her readers on her nose and her fingers clattered on the keyboard. “Looks like we’ve got one currently on the shelf.”

“How many others have been checked out?”

“None. We only have the one book. In the entire library.” She wrote down the author and section numbers and pointed me in the right direction.

Three aisles and two turns later, on the middle shelf, I found a squat lime green book with an intricate scroll pattern pressed into the hardcover.
Wicked Plants: The Weed That Killed Lincoln’s Mother & Other Botanical Atrocities
. I thumbed through the pages until I found deadly nightshade. Less than three and a half short pages, mostly tales of how people a hundred years ago mistakenly ate the lethal berries. Accidental deaths from children to adults. An accident wasn’t too farfetched, at least during a time when folks still foraged for food and women couldn’t vote.

I took the book to Deidre to check me out. “Can you look up its history and tell me who borrowed it in the last three months?”

“Will it help the murder investigation?” she asked using her indoor voice.

“Murder? I think the police still classify it as an accident.”

“Uh-huh. Your Detective Ransom doesn’t understand how small this island is. He’s doing too much investigating for an accident.” She held up the book on poisons. “By the look of it, so are you.” She swiped my library card and studied the screen. “As for this book’s history. You, today. Before that no one checked it out.”

“How about farther back?”

“I mean literally no one ever,” she said and handed me the book. “You’re the first. Due in three weeks. Though you’ll probably get more information online.”

“Thanks, Deidre.” I tucked the little green book into my handbag. “The Allens are out front on the bench. I think they’re trying to work up the energy to come inside.”

“Those poor people. They arrived two hours before we opened. I don’t think they’ll ever have the energy. I’ve been out twice and I’m packing up early, going to leave in ten minutes,” she said. “You find who did this, Elliott Lisbon.”

I walked out of the lobby and into the courtyard. The Allens sat on the same bench. Mrs. Allen’s head on Mr. Allen’s shoulders. Their hands were clasped together and their eyes were closed. I silently vowed to them, to Deidre, and to myself: I would absolutely find out who did this. No worries on that front.

I needed a drive. An hours-long, head-clearing, wind-whipping drive to work it all out. I flew over the bridge, down the highway, and north onto I-95 toward Charleston. I felt the Allens’ loss deep down in my soul. I lost my parents, one after another, twenty years earlier. And the holiday timing reminded me of losing Ransom at Christmas, just a few months before my parents died. The back-to-back-to-back losses sucked the air out of me at the time, and I had felt like an object floating in space. No rope for me to hold onto and nothing to tether me to. It took years before I felt grounded again.

Mr. and Mrs. Ballantyne kept me attached. Growing up, my family spent summers in Summerton. My parents were close friends of the Ballantynes and frequent charity event attendees. The Ballantynes treated me like a daughter, sometimes even more than my own parents. They loved me and cared for me, but in our family trio, I was a third wheel. With the Ballantynes, I had a home. They trusted me with their foundation while they traveled the globe, and wanted me close when they returned to the nest. Losing them, either of them, would create a void so immeasurable, it hurt to breathe just thinking about it.

By the time I crossed over the Ashley River and entered downtown Charleston with its architecture, residents, and cemeteries all dripping with Southern charm, my soul felt lighter. I still called the Ballantyne home, my friends loved me, and I truly had a very rich life. I needed to be thankful. I spent the next hour and a half walking the picturesque streets, encountering mannerly shopkeepers, and purchasing one-of-a-kind gifts for Christmas.

At the end of the day, I returned to my cottage to quickly unload my bounty before hustling up to the Big House for the final board meeting of the year, then dinner with Ransom. I expected it to be quiet and quick. The meeting, not Ransom. Nothing on the board’s agenda. No one really wanted to spend the evening talking business points this close to the holidays. But I wanted to get there early, be ready when the board members arrived to see the tree.

I parked out front, close to the steps, and walked inside.

The magnificent spruce was gorgeous. It reminded me of every Christmas I spent at the Big House as a child. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantyne would put the most whimsically-wrapped gifts with huge ribbons under this tree. They’d give me books and puzzles and games and they played them with me. Afternoons spent assembling puzzles and laughing over board games.

The most special Christmas memory was of the very first game they ever gave me, even though I was a little too old. It was Candyland. My parents had even joined us, and we all played for hours, heading to Gum Drop Mountain and avoiding cherry pitfalls.

This year’s Ballantyne tree looked like Candyland come to life.

Vibrant ornaments from
The Nutcracker
commissioned set sparkled on the branches. We used the glittered candy canes and sugared plums, jumbo bon bons, and dazzling peppermint twists, plus the long strings of popcorn looped around the tree, and mixed in between, were the ornaments the children had painted. Seven different iterations of Candyland boxes were displayed on the fluffy white tree skirt. From my own vintage games collection.

I squealed like a child on Christmas morning.

“It’s delightful,” Carla said as she walked up. She set a tray of coffee mugs on a table near the foyer door. She poured a steaming cup of cocoa from a large urn, plopped a fresh scoop of whipped cream on top, sprinkled it with shaved chocolate and handed it to me.

“So are you,” I said and sipped. “This is the best part of the whole meeting.”

“Wait ’til you see the red velvet mini bundts with strawberry cream cheese frosting,” she said. “Don’t know how I pulled it off in that kitchen. The first delivery for the Palm & Fig arrived today. I’ve got more pans than I have hooks, tables, and bins. I don’t know what I’ll do when the food gets here on Tuesday.”

“Oh, speaking of, Chef Carmichael said you’re having a mild disagreement over lobster,” I said and followed her to the kitchen.

“Those were his words? Mild disagreement?”

“He may have used other words,” I said and ogled the array of sweets on the steel island in the center of the room. Rows of mini bundt cakes topped with healthy dollops of frosting, colorfully decorated cake balls on sticks, and decadent square petit fours. “We’ll talk about Chef Carmichael after the meeting.” I helped myself to a cake stick. Moist chocolate cake covered in smooth vanilla frosting. I may have moaned.

“Don’t you worry about Carmichael,” Carla said. “I’ll fix the disagreement.”

I eyed her skeptically and scraped the stick clean. I knew how Carla handled her disagreements with Carmichael. One in particular ended with her flinging etouffee at his head after he slung his own crawfish into said etouffee.

Two kitchen assistants were sorting pans and pots on the far counter beneath an enormous hanging rack. “Girls, let’s get these into the parlor before Elli eats them all,” Carla said.

Each grabbed a large sheet tray and turned. Julia and Rory from the Wharf. They both wore their chef coats, sharply pressed and bright white.

“Nice to see you again,” I said. Julia looked nervous as if I might mention our private talk, and Rory gave me a half nod.

I helped them fill the trays and ate a pair of petit fours. Lemon cream and raspberry mousse. I was licking my fingers when Nick Ransom walked through the swinging door with two uniformed police officers.

“Rory Throckmorton,” Ransom said. “We’d like to talk to you.”

Well, that was fast, I thought.

Julia looked at me and I think she thought the same thing. Her bottom jaw dropped until her lips formed an O and she stepped away from Rory.

“Me?” Rory said. She had been about to take her tray of desserts into the foyer when Ransom came in. She stood there clutching the large tray, almost holding it out to him, a barrier between them.

“Yes,” Ransom said and looked around the room. It was a generously-sized commercial kitchen, but it felt cramped. Carla, Rory, Julia, Ransom, two officers, and I shared the space with the island, the pastries, stacks of pans and pots, and cases of supplies for the Palm & Fig. “We’ll give you a ride to the station,” Ransom said.

“The station? Like the police station?” Rory asked. She glanced over her shoulder at me, then at the back door, then over to Ransom. “Why me?”

The kitchen door swung open and Jane Walcott Hatting, chair of the Ballantyne Board, marched in. She wore a perfectly tailored designer suit with a silk scarf. “Elliott, why are you hiding in the kitchen?” She noticed the pastries and rolled her eyes. “Carla, will you be displaying the desserts or have we opted for a self-service cafeteria operation? Shall I instruct the board members to pop into the kitchen on their way to the parlor?”

“Jane,” Ransom said by way of greeting.

Jane looked startled, then noticed the assorted police personnel surrounding Rory. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

The kitchen door swung open again and nearly smacked Jane’s backside. Tod took one step in, then backed right out.

“Let’s take this out of the kitchen,” I said and put my hand on Rory’s tray. “I’ll take this. Julia, we’ll put these in the parlor.”

Jane led us into the foyer, which was filled with board members admiring the tree. Deidre and Matty manned the cocoa station, filling mugs of warm chocolate from the urn. Julia took her tray to the parlor and I handed mine off to Tod.

“Aunt Zibby!” Rory cried and ran into Zibby’s arms. She was easy to spot. Her hair was still pink, but this time it was topped with a stunner of a cloche hat with a wide velvet ribbon and a cluster of fluffy pink feathers.

“
Aunt
Zibby?” I said.

“My dear Rory, what a delight to see you,” Zibby said and hugged her tight. “You smell like sugar and rain.”

“Aunt Zibby, the police are here,” Rory said. “For me.”

“Don’t be a silly, dear,” Zibby said. “That’s Elli’s beau. He’s probably here to put the angel on the topper tree.”

My face flushed red and I didn’t dare look over at Matty.

“Ma’am,” Ransom said to Zibby. “We
are
here for Rory. We’d like to talk to her down at the station.”

“Do you have an arrest warrant?” Jane asked.

“An arrest warrant? No.”

“What kind of warrant do you have?” Matty asked. He’d abandoned his post near the entrance and now stood next to Jane.

There were approximately twenty people in the foyer between the towering spruce and the double-oak entry doors. Ransom and his two officers stood with their backs to the tree, facing the crowd. Jane and Matty faced him, semi-blocking Rory and Zibby on the front line, while every board member behind them locked onto the dramatic scene unfolding before them. One member quietly refilled her cocoa cup, never taking her eyes from the spectacle, while two others moved closer.

Ransom glanced at me standing to the side, clearly between the opposing clusters. “A search warrant,” he said. “Which we executed this afternoon. We found quite a bit of interesting evidence in your kitchen. Including
Atropa belladonna
berries.”

“What?” Rory said.

“What’s
Atropa belladonna
?” Jane asked.

“It’s the deadly nightshade plant,” I said. “It produces poisonous berries. That’s what killed Lexie Allen.”

“But that was an accident,” Matty and Jane said at the same time.

“It was homicide,” Ransom said.

“I don’t have deadly nightshade,” Rory said. “Why would I have deadly nightshade?” She turned to her Aunt Zibby. “I don’t understand. I don’t have deadly nightshade.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise.” Ransom nodded to one of the officers. “It’s enough to bring you in for questioning.”

“Wait,” Matty said and put a protective arm in front of Zibby and Rory. “She doesn’t have to go if she’s not under arrest. You don’t want to talk to her. You want to interrogate her.”

“Are you an attorney now, Gannon?” 

“I don’t need to be. She has rights.”

“Would you like me to read them to her?”

“Hold on, Ransom,” I said. “You’re moving very quickly. Six hours ago you claimed Lexie’s death was an accident. Now you’re questioning Rory as a suspect in a homicide?”