Swan Dive (12 page)

“That’s how investigations work,” Ransom said. “We got good information from an inside source and we acted on it.”

Jane narrowed her eyes and looked between us. “What ‘good information’ led you to obtain a search warrant?”

“We received a tip about the Stream Kitchen,” he said. “Rory and Lexie were battling to be contestants in a cooking competition. Two of them, but only one spot left on the show. It got ugly. We think deadly.”

“The show? This is about the show?” Rory said. She looked from Jane to me to Ransom and then back to me. “You! You were on the set today,” she said. “Fran grabbed me the second I got there and told me some reporter for a charity was there from the island. An older lady with crazy red hair, she said.”

She connected that dot fast. “Older lady? I am not
older
.” I tamped down my frizzies and tucked them behind my ear before I realized I was doing it. “And I never said I was a reporter.”

“But you told the police I killed Lexie so I could be on Stream Kitchen?” Rory’s fists were bunched up so tight, I thought she might punch me. “Are you crazy?”

“You did this?” Jane said. She stepped forward and raised her voice. “You implicated Zibby’s niece in a murder?”

“I only shared what I found—”

“Filming starts tomorrow,” Rory said. “Tomorrow! If they hear about this, they’ll give away my spot.”

“Which you conveniently now have, since Lexie Allen isn’t alive to compete for it,” Ransom said.

“I earned that spot,” Rory said. Her face was sunburn red and tears watered her eyes. “How could you do this?” she said to me.

“I didn’t do what you—”

“Rory, we need to go,” Ransom said, and then to Jane, “You’re welcome to come with us. But you should know, it doesn’t look good.”

“Damn right I’m going with you,” she said. “I’m calling Gregory Meade on the way.” Jane turned to Zibby. Her hat was askew and her earrings didn’t match. “Zibby, you ride with me, okay?”

Ransom and the officers led Rory from the foyer. The crowd of board members parted down the center. Moses couldn’t have created a more perfect path.

“I’ll need my pocketbook,” Zibby said. She put her hand on my arm. “You’ll help us with this hodgekapotch, right? It’s your specialty.”

“I’m on it, Zibby,” I said.

Jane stuffed her portfolio into a slim briefcase. She stalked past me, then spun back around, pointing her pen at my face. “You better be on it. And you better not screw this up again.”

“I didn’t screw anything up last time. I nearly got killed helping you.”

“It wasn’t nearly enough,” she snapped. “I can take care of myself. But you’ve put Zibby right in the middle of it. You need to get it together.” She stormed out leaving a wave of silence in her wake.

“Okay, then,” Tod said from the very back of the group. “The board meeting is postponed until further notice. Can I get an amen? I mean, a motion?”

“These meetings sure are more exciting than my bank meetings,” one member said.

“No kidding,” another said. “I skipped my grandma’s potluck dinner to be here. I’d never miss one.”

“This is the second time Jane’s been dragged out by the police…”

Carla helped Tod usher board members from the Big House with pastry boxes and paper to-go cups for their coffee and cocoa.

I lingered near the Christmas tree, holding a fallen ornament in my hand and a hint of confliction in my heart. The tree turned out to be a childlike dream, but Lexie Allen would never celebrate another Christmas morning. I’d impressed Ransom with my investigative prowess, but I ended up hurting Zibby Archibald.

Matty walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” He looked composed in his casual linen suit and loafers. Soft and cozy and calm.

“Yes,” I said. “No. I don’t know. I didn’t know Rory was Zibby’s niece. I feel terrible for Zibby.”

“And Rory,” he said. “She’s the one they’re questioning.”

“Matty, I swear to you, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m not accusing you, Elli. I’m just worried about you and Zibby and Rory.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I shared information, solid information, on an important case. I’m a cooperating investigator. I did the right thing.”

“Are you trying to convince me or you? Because it didn’t look like the right thing to me. It looked like Rory’s life is falling apart and you loosened the pieces.”

“Someone killed Lexie Allen. Don’t forget that. And Rory is a good suspect.”

“Maybe not good enough. An arrest record will change her life.”

“So will killing someone.”

“Dig with care, El. The end may not justify the means and you’ll have to live with the decisions you make.”

He squeezed my shoulder and kissed my cheek. He thanked Carla for her desserts, asked if she or Tod needed anything. With a wave to me, he left through the tall door. No mention of our canceled shopping trip or thoughts about rescheduling it.

Fifteen minutes and two trips to the kitchen with half-empty cocoa cups later, I sat behind my desk. Carla and Tod were in the chairs across from me. We each had a pair of red velvet bundts on a shiny white plate in front of us. I took a hunk with my fork and shoved it in my mouth.

“Jane’s pissed,” Captain Obvious said.

“Yeah,” Carla agreed. “And Zibby’s heartbroken. Or will be when they explain Rory’s going to prison for murder.”

“Don’t say that!” I said. “Zibby is family.”

“Which makes Rory family,” Tod said. “Is she a Ballantyne? I’ve never met her.”

“Me, neither,” I said. “Maybe on George’s side? She could be an Archibald.”

Vivi Ballantyne and Zibby were cousins, but Rory could’ve been related to Zibby’s late husband. “Her last name is Throckmorton. So by marriage?”

“I don’t think it matters,” Carla said. “Vivi adores Zibby and has since they shared their first Shirley Temple doll.”

“What am I going to do?” I said.

“Chicken, you found one suspect, you’ll have to find another,” Carla said. “Prove the chef with killer berries in her kitchen didn’t do it.”

“Before Mr. Ballantyne returns on Thursday,” Tod said.

“The same day as the Palm & Fig Ball,” Carla added.

“Well, shit,” I said.

“Ballantyne Ballerina Killed with Cake,” Tate Keating said. He leaned in from the hall, gripping the doorframe. As crime reporter for the
Islander Post
, Tate fancied himself a true newspaper bloodhound, sniffing out scandals and secrets, then splashing spectacular headlines across the front page. “Care to comment?”

“Nope,” I said. “That headline is complete sensationalism, Tate. And not true, in case you’re interested in facts and truth.”

“Your opinion,” he replied. “But I’m not holding back, Lisbon. I went easy on you last time.”

“‘Whack Job Whacks Wife at the Ballantyne’ was not going easy!”

He tipped his imaginary newsboy cap and left, whistling his way down the hall.

“Don’t even think about it,” I shouted, then took another heaping forkful from my plate. “I’m going to need more cake.”

TWELVE

(Day #5 – Monday Morning)

Tate Keating not only thought about it, he did it. I tapped my way to the
Islander Post
home page on Lexie’s iPad the moment I woke up. I didn’t want to waste time booting up my computer. He embellished and hinted and stayed a thread’s width inside the lines of liability.

With a Ballantyne ballerina dead and a Wharf chef hauled down to the police station, it’s going to be some kind of Palm & Fig Ball on Thursday night. One of Sea Pine’s finest, Lieutenant Nick Ransom, interrupted the latest Ballantyne Foundation board “meeting” of fancy desserts and exotic drinks to personally escort one of their Palm & Fig chefs to the police station. Rory Throckmorton, protégé of the Wharf’s famed Chef Carmichael, is lead (dare we say: only) suspect in the murder of Lexie Allen. Who also happened to be the star of
The Nutcracker
, sponsored by, you guessed it, the aforementioned Ballantyne Foundation.

I skimmed the rest of the article. Apparently Tate hadn’t figured out the connection between Rory and the Ballantyne. But he would. I threw on a robe and marched downstairs, dialing Jane’s cell as I stormed. She didn’t answer. I left a message asking her to meet me at the Big House with Zibby and Rory in an hour. I threw open my front door and crossed over to Ransom’s porch in bare feet.

He answered my pounding with a cup of coffee in a sturdy blue carry cup. Steam drifted from the tiny drink opening. “Good morning, Red,” he said. “Sorry I had to cancel dinner last night.”

“Nothing good about it, Ransom,” I said with my finger in his face. “You owed me.”

He glanced at my crazy pillow-creased mop hair and worn tee. “Care to come in? I made pancakes with apple bacon.”

“I don’t want your apple bacon, I want you to keep your word. You promised the next big break in this case, you would tell me. I think arresting someone is a big break.”

“Just as well. I’m on my way out,” he said and joined me on the porch, shutting the door behind him. “We didn’t arrest someone. We were only questioning someone.”

“
Questioning
someone is a big break. A search warrant. A main suspect.”

“I couldn’t tell you. You’re too close to this,” he said. “Your loyalty lies with the Ballantyne, not the police. That’s your life and your job.”

“So is this. PI-in-training means part of my job is working with the police. I can be discreet and not blab police business all over the Ballantyne board.” I felt a flush remembering my blabbing braggart ways got me into this mess, but plowed on. “I share loyalty, Nick Ransom.”

He leaned on the porch railing and sipped his coffee. His freshly-washed hair was still damp and his pressed shirt was crisp from the cleaners. “If I told you we were going to search Zibby’s niece’s apartment and bring her in to the station,
before
we did it, you’re telling me you wouldn’t have felt duty-bound to tell Zibby? Or Jane? Or Mr. Ballantyne? You wouldn’t have warned Zibby, given her a heads-up?”

“You knew she was Zibby’s niece? And didn’t share that either?”

He softened his voice. “I found out during the search. I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want you in that position.”

“You still owe me,” I said and stepped closer. Then remembered I hadn’t brushed my teeth and stepped back.

“I don’t know what other big break we’ll get on this one,” he said. “I have it pretty well wrapped up.”

“Well, I’m duty-bound to prove Zibby’s niece didn’t kill anyone.”

“This isn’t your case. Don’t get involved.”

“If you haven’t figured it out by now, you better. The Sea Pine police cooperate with the Ballantyne Foundation inquiries and investigations, which means this is my case.” And with that, I walk/stomped back to my cottage.

Bragging never works out. It reminded me of the scene in
Beaches
when Bette’s character is a little girl and she brags about this big audition, trying to impress her rival. When she arrives at the audition, the rival is there and wins the part. If she would’ve just kept her pie hole shut, it would’ve been smooth sailing.

This was all my fault. Me and my pie hole. I wore my discretion oath like a sparkly crown on a pageant queen. I never took it off. Discreet inquiries required me to be discreet. It was right there in the title. Nick Ransom was under my skin and I felt competitive. Why did I brag to him about Rory and the Stream Kitchen? To prove I was better than he was? Or to impress him? Neither option made me feel good about myself.

I showered, brushed (hair and teeth) and dressed lickety-split, then sped to the Big House. I plopped into my desk chair as the handset on my desk rang.

“Oh, Elliott, you’re there,” Chef Newhouse said when I answered. “Thought I’d leave a voicemail.”

“Good morning, Chef, nice to hear from you. Carla is quite excited about all the deliveries. Says you three have an amazing menu planned for the ball.”

“Yes, um, that’s why I’m calling,” he said and cleared his throat. “I won’t be able to participate this year. I know it’s short notice, but it can’t be helped.”

I jumped to my feet as if he were standing in front of me. “What? The Palm & Fig is in three days. You can’t cancel on me now.”

“I’ve given this a lot of thought, but I made up my mind, and I won’t change it.”

“You made up your mind? There isn’t some emergency forcing you to cancel?”

“I would think it’s an emergency to you,” he said. “It’s your reputation, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The article in the
Post
, of course. I’m afraid I can’t be associated with such a controversial organization. It would ruin my reputation.”

“So will canceling at the last minute, Chef Newhouse. Everyone is expecting you to be here.”

“Not after that article. You’ll be lucky if anyone even attends the ball now.”

I bit back a gasp. “I’m offended. The Ballantynes will be offended. This year’s ball will be our most successful. You’ll regret this.”

“I doubt it. But maybe it’ll be different next year,” he said and hung up.

“Oh, it’ll be different next year, buster. You won’t even be considered,” I said to the empty room. “Of all the pompous, arrogant, lousy, crappy, irresponsible, ridiculous—”

“Tough morning, chicken?” Carla said. She walked in with a breakfast burrito on a plate and set it on my desk. A smattering of guacamole covered a warm tortilla stuffed with chorizo, eggs, cheese, and fried diced potatoes.

“Chef Newhouse just canceled. He canceled!” I took a delicious bite of burrito heaven and sank into my chair. “With three days until the ball. Three days!”

Carla waved her hand at me dismissively. “I don’t need that self-important hack in my kitchen. It’ll run more smoothly without him.”

“We need a replacement, Carla. We can’t let the
Post
influence the entire island. Everyone will whisper if he’s not here. His name is all over the invitations.”

My phone rang before she could argue.

“Elliott, you’re there,” Chef Carmichael said. “I was expecting your voicemail.”

“It’s nine-thirty on a Monday morning, why wouldn’t I be in my office?” Sure, I was no early bird, but jeez.

“I have a conflict for the ball,” he said. “It seems—”

“Don’t you dare, Carmichael.”

Carla leaned on my desk. “Is he backing out, too?” she said. “Fine by me.”

It was my turn to wave her off.

“Too?” Chef Carmichael said. “What’s Carla talking about? Newhouse canceled?”

“Yes, he also had a fake conflict at the last minute,” I said. “I’m serious, Carmichael. You begged for this job—”

“I’m serious,” Carla said. “I’m practically running the entire menu and staff as it is.”

I continued to wave her away, my arm flailing like a panicked kid shooing at a swarm of hornets. She started to smack back.

“You pleaded with me, Carmichael,” I said. “I pulled a dozen strings to get you this gig and you are absolutely not abandoning ship. Besides, Rory is one of your own. Canceling implies you have no faith in her.”

“I want head chef status,” he said. “It’ll be just me and Carla, but I’m lead. And we announce it to the
Post
and print it on the menu cards.”

That was quick. I glanced at Carla and she read my face like a fortune teller with a tarot card. “What’s he saying?” she asked with squinty eyes.

“Not going to happen,” I said. “Equal billing, no announcement, and you bring extra staff to work in the Big House kitchen.”

“She’s already got my best sous and my best prep. That’s all she’s getting. I’ve got a restaurant to run.”

“See you tomorrow,” Carla called into the handset. “Thinks he’s going to negotiate status,” she mumbled.

“I’m not budging on the consommé,” he said and hung up.

“This is serious, Carla,” I said. “The ball is in three days.”

“I don’t need Newhouse. And I barely need Carmichael. Though his staff has been nice. We’ve got a thousand shrimp that need peeling…” she said as she left my office. She popped her head back in. “Jane, Zibby, and Rory arrived, by the way. Breakfast in the parlor.”

Jane Walcott Hatting, she of the snappy disposition and wicked heels, was a high-end antiques dealer in Savannah and ran her auctions with an iron gavel. Her family was old Savannah money. The kind who still hid it in the walls in case the Yankees ever stormed back.

She was chair of the board, I was director of the Foundation. We never saw eye-to-eye, more like we stood toe-to-toe, on every issue for the Foundation. Mr. Ballantyne felt it gave us a more rounded organization. Different perspectives, different styles, different ideas. As ridiculous as it sounded, he was right, and it worked. And that was the absolute one thing Jane and I had in common. Our faith, and loyalty, to Mr. and Mrs. Ballantyne. And protecting the Ballantynes, both the family and the Foundation, was pure instinct.

I grabbed my notebook and a pen, then joined them in the parlor, the official boardroom in the Big House. A polished mahogany table was dead center in the room with eight high-back chairs on each of the long sides, and one on each of the short ends. Jane sat in her massive chair at the head of the table just inside the parlor doors, Rory and Zibby to her right.

“Good morning, Elli,” Zibby said. She looked bright and confident as she spooned butter into her coffee. “Our own Kinsey Millhone is on the case.”

“Morning, Zibby,” I said and grabbed the seat to Jane’s left. “Rory, Jane. Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

Along with their breakfast plates, there was a platter of fresh fruit and a coffee urn on a crocheted hot pad on the table. And a single can of Pepsi next to a cup of ice.

“I need to know everything you told Lieutenant Ransom, Rory,” I said. “He’s convinced you killed Lexie Allen. Tell me why.”

Rory glowered at me as if she’d rather tell a jury her story than tell me.

I poured the Pepsi (I prefer my caffeine cold and fizzy) while Zibby leaned over and spoke to her in a gentle voice. “Now, Rory, dear, you must trust us, me and Jane. We told you, Elliott is on our side. This nonsense is nothing more than a misplaced monkeyshine. She’ll prove you’re blameless and all will be right again. Indeed, Elli?”

“Indeed, Zibby,” I said. “The very best I can. But first things, Rory. Convince me that you’re blameless. Start at the station. Why is Lieutenant Ransom convinced you did this?”

Rory gave in with a loud exhale and pushed a tomato around her plate with a fork, her breakfast barely eaten. “It was awful. He really thinks I killed her. He said they found deadly nightshade berries in my apartment. But I don’t know how. I never bought those berries. I swear. I’ve never even seen them.”

“You never cooked with them? Maybe someone gave them to you?”

“No, never. I know what deadly nightshade berries are. Nobody in the world would cook with them.”

“Did the police have any other evidence or witnesses or anything?”

“Not that they told us,” Jane said. “But we didn’t stay long. Gregory Meade took over and the questioning shut down.”

I took a quick note. Gregory Meade was a prominent criminal attorney in Savannah. He worked closely with Jane when she was accused of murder some six months earlier. Ransom questioned her in this very room. It was déjà vu all over again.

“How do you know Lexie and her friends?” I asked Rory. “They seem pretty tight and have been since childhood. What’s your connection?”

“That group isn’t as close as you think,” Rory said. “Besides, I don’t really know them. They don’t matter.”

“You looked pretty close to Vigo Ortiz,” I said. “And considering you’re being questioned for killing his girlfriend, I think it does matter.”

“She’s not really his girlfriend,” Rory said.

“That’s what you pull from that statement?” I said. “I know you gave him a teddy bear with a Wharf napkin.”

“How do you know that?” Rory said, looking at me with squinty eyes.

Zibby patted her arm. “She’s very good.”

Jane pulled out her portfolio and tapped her pen on it.

“I’ve been investigating Lexie’s death since Friday. I know a lot of things. The police know a lot of things. Work with me. The bear was from you, right? Not Lexie.”

“We’re just friends,” she said.

She sounded sincere and scared and defiant. She was barely older than a teenager. A kid desperate to protect secrets no one cared about. Or maybe it was something more. I saw her tucked in close to Vigo at the club the other night. Though I left that part out. “What about the rest of Lexie’s dancer friends? Courtney and Berg?”

“I didn’t know them, and I didn’t want to know them.”

“Well, it’s you, and it’s them,” I said. “That seems to be the whole picture.”

“And Lexie’s mother is in prison for murder,” Jane said. “
That’s
the picture, Elliott.”

“What are you talking about? I saw her and her husband yesterday.”

“Not Mrs. Allen,” Rory said. “That’s her adopted mother. Her real mother is in jail.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“I thought you said you knew a lot of things? It’s your job to find this stuff out,” Jane said. “Jesus, Elliott, what exactly are you doing?”

“Murder? Who did she kill?” I asked.

“It was like fifteen years ago,” Rory said with a shrug. “I doubt she killed her daughter, too.”

That double revelation left me staring at my notes trying to compose myself. Jane was spot on. I’m supposed to know these things. I moved to the island permanently fifteen years ago, but it takes time to earn confidences. Plus, Lexie was from Beaufort, which was far away. Not in miles, but in social circles. Sea Pine had enough of its own drama. Its residents didn’t need to borrow it from Beaufort.

Back to the facts: Lexie was adopted and her birth mother was a murderer. But I agreed with Rory. Doubtful she killed her own daughter, especially from prison. Besides, the police questioned Rory. Found evidence implicating Rory. They were building a case against Rory.

“Let’s get back to the deadly nightshade berries,” I said.

“I told you, I don’t have any. Whatever the police found in my apartment, they aren’t mine. I had
black
nightshade, not
deadly
,” Rory sighed and put her napkin on the table, twisting it with her fingers. “The competition kept getting tougher. Mark, the producer, he wanted us to be more and more original, push our boundaries, he said. Lexie and I weren’t cooking with poison. We weren’t trying to kill ourselves.” She looked right at me. “I didn’t kill Lexie. She wasn’t my favorite person, but I didn’t hate her.”

“That’s not what I heard,” I said.

“I’m not saying anything else,” Rory said. “I don’t trust you.”

“We won’t disclose your private information,” Jane said, then looked at me. “Starting today.”

“Firstly, Jane, Rory working at the Wharf and competing for a spot on the Stream Kitchen was not private information. Secondly, I figured that out by myself, not because it was told to me in confidence. Lexie Allen was very close to us.” I circled my hand around the table. “All of us at the Ballantyne. It’s important we find out what happened to her so her family can be at peace.”

Rory continued to twist and pull at her napkin.

“The Sea Pine Police, especially Lieutenant Ransom, are quite good at what they do, Rory,” I said in a softer tone. “I may have told them about you and the Stream Kitchen, but they would’ve found out. And I don’t mean eventually, I mean immediately. They aren’t some small town Barney Fife-led organization.”

“What is Barney Fife?”

Maybe I am older, I thought. “Never mind that. Whatever you tell me, I’ll keep it quiet as long as I can, but the police will find out on their own.”

“If I tell you, you’ll keep it confidential like?” Rory said.

“Yes, absolutely.” I left out the part about me not being an attorney and privilege didn’t extend to PIs-in-training and charity board directors. But I was balancing concern for two young women, both close to the Ballantyne. One dead, and the other accused of killing her.

“Lexie and I were competitive. We met at the Wharf and both wanted to impress Chef Carmichael. Who had the best knife skills, created better flavor profiles, demonstrated molecular gastronomy techniques. Even whose coat fit better. Everything in cooking is a competition. When the Stream Kitchen opportunity came up, we both wanted that, too.” She paused and took a long drink of her coffee. “We auditioned with like thirty other locals and our cooking stations ended up next to each other. I don’t know, something happened, like a pan got bumped, and she snapped at me. I snapped back. It’s like that in the kitchen. But we knew each other. It was normal. I don’t think we would’ve been that way if we were strangers. You know, you try to be polite and all that.”

“Okay,” I said. “But what’s so secret?”

“The producer loved the arguing. Immediately I noticed the cameramen spending more time on our station. Lexie noticed it, too.” Rory took another big swig of her coffee, then held her cup in her hands. “We played it up. By the start of the third audition, we knew we were in. We’d fight like mean girls, then put up the best looking dishes on the set.”

“This is great,” I said, relieved Rory might not actually be guilty. “It helps you, Rory. The police think you hated each other, and that’s your motive. But when they find out it was fake, they won’t have anything.”

“Except the poison berries in her apartment,” Jane said.

“If she didn’t put them there, then someone else did,” I said. “I just need to point this out to Ransom.”

“They can’t find out,” Rory said. “You said this was confidential.” She turned to her Aunt Zibby, grabbed her arm. “Please, tell them they can’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin everything.”

“Rory, the police think you killed someone,” I said. “A tv show can’t be more important to you than going to prison.”

“I didn’t kill her no matter what they think. But they’ll kick me off the show for faking the fights with Lexie. Then Chef Carmichael will fire me. My career will be over.”

“Why would Carmichael fire you?” I asked.

“Competition in his kitchen is more fierce than on the show. Chef wanted us on Stream Kitchen. Publicity for the Wharf. Now Lexie’s dead and I’m accused of killing her. Which is crazy because I had a better shot of getting on the show with Lexie as my rival. Together we’d get double the air time, the interviews, everything. Now? Who knows? And that show is the only reason Carmichael hasn’t already fired me. It’s bigger than tv. It’s online.”

She had a point. I knew Carmichael, and he’d definitely keep her in his kitchen as long as it helped him. But even the faintest trace of scandal would get her chopped.

She laid her head on Zibby’s shoulder and cried. Zibby patted her and hugged her and whispered reassurances.

I glanced at Jane and whispered, “I’ll keep this to myself as long as I can. But at some point, it may become necessary to share it.”

“Then don’t get to that point,” Jane said.