Swan Dive (15 page)

FOURTEEN

(Day #6 – Tuesday Morning)

In case you must know my every move, I drove straight home and ordered pizza delivery. I ate an entire sausage, mushroom, and black olive all by my lonesome and polished off a six-pack of Dos Equis. There were only three bottles left in the paper carton, but I polished them off all the same.

Every dot connected to Rory. Conveniently so. If she didn’t kill Lexie Allen, she was the perfect patsy. How did the real culprit know about Rory’s trips to Stickly with Zibby? Realistically, they didn’t need to. Rory connected to Vigo who connected to Mamacita who connected to a garden patch of poison. Just dumb luck Rory got an extra dot connected to Stickly.

The next morning, the sun barely brightened my bedroom from the skylight in the ceiling. I grabbed Lexie’s iPad and tapped my way to the
Islander Post
home page. Nothing but a follow-up article rehashing Tate’s speculation on the Ballantyne and ballerinas. No mention of Rory being related to Zibby Archibald or Vivi Ballantyne.

I tapped from icon to icon. The weather. Google News. Amazon. I scrolled through Lexie’s reviewer page. A long bio including her dancing performances and college years, and a recent photo. Happy, smiling, lovely. Her silky blond hair pulled back into a long pony, barely a wisp of makeup. The opposite of Rory Throckmorton, with her severe-cut neon blue hair and thick eyeliner.

I browsed through the hundreds upon hundreds of reviews Lexie left. Random products, in every category. I read one, then another, then another.

Product: A designer espresso machine (3 stars)

Title: When You Need a Pick Me Up

It was a looooong day at school. Needed 3 espressos to make it thru. Classes tougher and I’m losing interest. Working at night is wearing me down. I understand the saying about burning the candle at both ends. I feel like the flaming wicks will melt me away leaving nothing but a charred and empty string. Totally need something to get thru it. Maybe 7 espressos. This machine can handle it.

By the fifth one, I realized these weren’t reviews. These were diary entries. The text wasn’t actually a review of the product itself as much as it was a vague reference to her day.

Product: Pink herringbone luggage set (5 stars)

Title: Congrats to me!

I got the job! I’m moving up and moving on!! Time to pack my bags. These are just what I need. I earned them but it took sooooo much out of me. I feel validated. I can do this and I’m good at it. Go me!

Kind of clever. Public, yet private. She never had to worry a snoopy roommate would stumble upon her most intimate thoughts. She wrote them online for the world to read, but no one knew it. Just pop on over to Amazon, match a product to a mood, and journal about the day.

My cell rang while I was in the middle of one of Lexie’s five star days.

“You better get down here,” Tod said. “Jane just threatened Carmichael who threatened her back. Looks like the Palm & Fig is off.”

“It’s not off,” I said.

“That’s what you think,” he said and hung up.

Using my speedy yet efficient routine, I was dressed and out the door in fifteen minutes. I parked on the side of the Big House and entered through the mudroom. Two kitchen helpers I didn’t recognize were scrubbing what looked like clean pans. They kept their heads down and their hands busy.

Muffled shouts got clearer as I pushed through the swinging door. I walked to the foyer where Carla and Tod stood by the tree, ten feet from Jane and Carmichael. They faced each other on the wool rug: Jane livid and Carmichael smug.

“You cannot suspend Rory from the Wharf,” Jane said. “I’ll make sure you regret this.”

“And I’ll abandon the Palm & Fig,” Chef Carmichael said.

“Win, win,” Jane said.

“Hold on,” I said. “Carmichael, you can’t walk out now. Your reputation is on the line as much as ours.”

“Except you don’t have much reputation left to protect,” he said.

“Watch it, white coat,” I said. “Don’t let the newspaper fool you into thinking we have no pull in this town.”

Carla stepped over to Carmichael and pointed a wooden spoon at him. “I’m done. You in or you out?”

Carmichael glanced at her spoon and tilted his head, as if thinking.

“I don’t have time for your antics,” Carla said. “This negativity is not infusing my food with love. You’re making a sour Christmas, so make a decision.” She poked his shoulder with the spoon handle and marched back to the kitchen.

“I expect Rory back on the job,” Jane said. “Tonight. She’ll be finished at the set in time to be here for prep.”

“If she’s not in jail,” Carmichael said.

Jane ignored him and clicked her way toward her office.

Carmichael shrugged and headed to the kitchen.

“See?” I said to Tod. “The Palm & Fig isn’t off.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he said and waited until the swinging door to the kitchen stopped moving. He lowered his voice. “Inga Dalrymple was found nearly beaten to death this morning.”

“What?”

“She’s at Island Memorial in a coma.”

“What?”

“Call came in right before you arrived. And you can thank me for waiting to say something until after Carmichael left. He’ll abandon ship when he finds out. Not possible for one person to kill a ballet dancer and a different person altogether to attack her teacher four days later.”

“That doesn’t mean Rory did it.”

“So you say.”

Tod postponed the set up crew for the Palm & Fig while I rushed to Island Memorial. I didn’t want to deal with the volunteer at the main desk lecturing me about police business and family members only, so I called Sid. She was on the board of directors for the hospital and spent many a day off in meetings on various floors.

Sid phoned down to the desk. After scribbling my name on the visitors’ log, the volunteer slapped a name sticker on my chest, and directed me to the ICU on the third floor. Once off the elevator, the hallways were bright and busy. Mornings were the worst time to be a patient, especially when you needed rest. The staff was chatty and loud and catching up with daily duties. Lights shone and carts rattled and machines beeped and bonked from dozens of open doors.

Technically, I wasn’t allowed to visit a patient in ICU, since I wasn’t family. I slow-walked behind a nurse and busied myself with hand-sani (wholly unnecessary because hand-sani dispensers were mounted ten feet apart on every wall) until the nurse smacked the metal square door opener on the wall. I may have been faking my way into the unit, but the look of worry on my face was genuine. Somebody beat Inga Dalrymple so bad, it put her in a coma.

Two doctors spoke near the nurses’ station. Their faces were solemn, and one kept looking over at the two police officers stationed by a patient room at the end of the hall, presumably Inga’s. I passed an alcove with chairs and two sofas. A full coffee service counter lined the near wall. A stainless Keurig with a stocked K-Cup stand, a variety of flavored creamers, and packets of sugars, both real and artificial. A platter of muffins sat untouched next to rows of bottled water.

Courtney, Berg, Vigo, and two other people took most of the seats in the room. The two new guys resembled Sheldon and Leonard from
The Big Bang Theory
. So much so, I did a double take. I think it was the retro tees layered with hoodies. One thin and lanky, the other short and moppy with black glasses.

The group didn’t notice me as I passed, but Ransom noticed me walking toward him. He was talking to the two officers posted outside Inga’s room and gave me an encouraging head nod as I approached. A “no visitors” sign was posted in bright red letters on the door.

“Hey, Elli,” Ransom said. “News travels fast.” He led me to a chair grouping three rooms down the opposite hall.

“Is Inga going to be okay?”

“Unknown. Someone found her in the wardrobe department bleeding from the head. Looked like she’d been there all night.”

“At the theatre?”

“Yep. It’s a dangerous place to be these days,” he said. “Especially with your client around.”

“Rory isn’t a regular at the theatre, Ransom. Dancers are.”

“Maybe, but a witness says Rory was there—”

“What witness?”

He looked at his notes as if he didn’t know. More likely deciding what to tell me. “Courtney Cattanach,” he finally said. “She says Rory was at the studio yesterday arguing with Inga Dalrymple.”

“About what?”

“I can’t get into that,” he said. “But I can tell you it does not look good for Rory Throckmorton. I’m sorry, Red.” He tapped my knee with his notebook and started to rise. I grabbed his wrist to stop him.

“I know you’re hesitant to share with me, but we both know I can walk down this corridor and talk to Courtney and Berg and Vigo.”

He eased back into the chair. “I can walk down there and tell them not to talk to anyone but the police.”

“Sure, but they’d never be able to do that. They’re kids. They’ve probably already told their same stories to ten people and posted it all over Facebook.”

A guy in scrubs passed us, pushing a tall rack on wheels. Each rack row held multiple food trays with metal domes. He stopped at the door to our left. “Hey, good lookin’, your French toast is here.”

Ransom sighed and leaned toward me. “Courtney Cattanach was packing up her car after rehearsal at the studio and saw Rory and Inga arguing through the big plate glass window out front. It looked heated. She didn’t know what they were saying until Rory followed Inga outside and into the lot. Courtney didn’t hear everything, but she did hear Rory threaten Inga.”

“She threatened her?” I asked. “Like an ‘I’ll kill you’ threat?”

“No, Rory said ‘you’ll regret this’ to Inga.”

“Maybe she misheard.”

“Bergin Guthrie heard it, too. Courtney says he was standing right next to her.”

“That’s a long way from killing someone,” I said. “And that was at the studio, not the theatre. And just because Courtney says Berg heard it, doesn’t mean he did.”

“I know, but it’s early in the investigation. I’m on my way to talk to him now,” he said and stood.

I stood, too. “Rory didn’t do this, Ransom. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“I don’t jump to conclusions, Red, I form them.”

“Well, you’re forming the wrong one.”

His phone rang and he checked the caller ID. “I gotta take this.” He clicked a button and ducked into the closest patient room.

I pulled out my own phone and checked the time: 9:37 a.m. Ransom was on the phone, then he needed to talk to Berg, who was only a hundred feet away. Not much of a head start, but it was something.

I dialed Sid. “You still in the hospital? And free for the morning?”

“Actually, I am. Something up?”

“Meet me in the lobby.”

I sped through the ICU security doors to the elevator in the fastest walk just short of a jog. I punched the button five times, just to be sure.

As I rode to the first floor, I realized I hadn’t needed to sneak into the ICU after all. Seemed like anyone could waltz right through those security doors. Of course, no one was allowed into Inga’s room. At least I hoped so. As it happened, I agreed with Tod’s assessment: the same person who killed Lexie attacked Inga. And all my ballet dancer suspects were huddled a mere corridor away from her already injured body.

Sid waved from the sidewalk beneath the porte cochere at the hospital entrance. “What’s going on with the dance instructor?” she asked.

“She’s in a coma,” I said.

“The medical part I knew. I meant the criminal part.” Sid walked toward her car on the left and I walked toward mine on the right. We stopped in the second row.

“Let’s take mine. It’s faster,” I said.

“It’s not faster and mine’s more comfortable.”

“We’re going to Savannah, not Seattle. It’s like thirty minutes from here. And I drive faster.”

She rolled her eyes and followed me to the Mini.

“You tell me the medical and I’ll tell you the criminal,” I said.

“I checked with the ICU station. Inga was brought in around six this morning. She lost a lot of blood and never regained consciousness.”

“Is she brain dead?” I said.

“No, but her brain is swelling. They’re trying to get it down. In the meantime, she’s under police protection. No visitors, not even family.”

“Good to know.” I fastened my seatbelt and hit the gas, reversing out of the spot. “Someone hit her over the head at the theatre. No witnesses, but lots of speculation.” I gunned it again and we were speeding down Cabana. My turbo beat her turbo any day of the week.

“What’s the rush?”

“We need to talk to Rory and get her story before Ransom does. He’s tied up with Berg, but won’t be for long.”

“You can’t think Rory killed Lexie over a spot on an internet cooking show, and then what? Tried to kill her instructor, too?”

“I don’t think it, but Ransom does. Or some version of it.” I whipped into the left lane and sped around a slow moving SUV packed with kids and a distracted mom. “Rory said they both landed spots on the cooking show, which eliminates the motive to kill Lexie.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I do. Besides, it’s too diabolical and Rory’s young.”

“Well, she didn’t need to kill her, she just needed her out of the audition,” Sid said. “Food poisoning would’ve done it.”

“Interesting theory. That would be really embarrassing for Lexie,” I said. “For her to get food poisoning from her own food, so severe it lands her in the hospital. If she missed the audition because of that, she’d be out.”

“Maybe Lexie was purposely poisoned, but accidentally killed.”

“Maybe. But if not by Rory, then by whom?”