Swan Dive (18 page)

“Poor Lexie Allen,” she said. “I knew that girl since she was practically a baby.”

“So she was like family?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Her and her mama moved across the street when the girls were little. Like kindergarten little. Not as smart as my Courtney, but mannerly, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Her mother was a drunk and fraud and thank the good Lord she’s spending the rest of her life behind bars where she belongs.”

“Actually, Mrs. Cattanach—”

“Now, you call me Shirl.”

“Okay, Shirl. Truby Falls isn’t in prison anymore. I just—”

“What the Sam Hill are you talking about?”

“I just came from the courthouse. She got out a month ago on early release, with time served.”

She stood straight up, marched to a tv tray in the corner, and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. “That woman killed old Mrs. Cho and she got out in eleven years? For
murder
? What is our world comin’ to when a person gets a lousy eleven years for murder?”

“It was arson,” I said unhelpfully.

“She killed that woman plain as day. And now she’s out doing whatever she wants, free as a bird?”

“Do you know where she’d go? I’d really like to talk to her.”

“I know a whole block that’d like to talk to her.” She lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. “But no, I don’t know where she’d go. No one round here would talk to her, not after what she did.”

“I heard she burned down her duplex on purpose,” I said. “Kind of risky with Lexie around.”

She blew a stream of smoke, then waved at it to clear it away. “Lexie spent more time here than she ever did in that pigsty. Booze bottles and fast food cartons. A shame. Truby always thought she was better than everyone else. Hardly.”

“Oh? I hadn’t heard that.”

“You better believe it. She was all fancy pants in Beaufort until her husband lost his job. He drank himself into the bottle and Miss Designer Jeans followed. He sobered up and left her, and she moved here.”

“Maybe she went back to him after she was released.”

“He’d never take that skank back,” she said. “Pardon my language, but it’s true. Anyways, he died before she burned down her house. Liver failure. Lexie was lucky as a duck those folks took her in. She didn’t have a stitch of family left.”

“This was ten years ago?”

“Longer than that. Let’s see…the girls were eight when the fire…nineteen now…about eleven years. Lexie went right into foster care after the arrest. Her mother signed off parental rights when she went to prison. Those people adopted her right away.”

“I know the Allens well,” I said and took a fake sip of tea. “Big supporters of the Ballantyne Foundation.”

“They’re a decent couple, even if they spoiled that girl. Private dance lessons, though she’d never match my Courtney. She dances like an angel.”

I remembered what the other moms said about Courtney not letting her mother attend performances. “Do you go to all of Courtney’s shows?”

“Oh no, not anymore,” she said and stubbed out her cigarette in a metal ashtray with a bean bag bottom. “My baby doesn’t need me to hold her hand. She knows what she’s doing. I’ll go to dress rehearsals, opening night, closing night, that kind of thing.”

“I didn’t see you at the dress rehearsal last Tuesday afternoon,” I said, leaving out the part where I didn’t see her because I wasn’t there.

“I was there,” she said. “I remember Tuesday quite well. The rehearsal was delayed and Inga was red hot.”

“What happened?”

“Berg showed up an hour late and made everyone wait. Can’t do anything without the Mouse King, goes on in the first act. Like we’ve got nothing better to do.”

“He was late?”

“Yep, and Inga chewed him up like a butter biscuit at brunch. Nearly cut him from the whole performance. He tried to blame my Courtney, said she told him it started at five thirty. Bunch of malarkey. Everyone had a copy of the schedule.”

I thanked her for her time and hoped she didn’t notice my mostly untouched glass of sweet tea on the coffee table. Since it mingled with nine dozen other things, I wasn’t too worried.

I put my hipster on top of the forms in the car and noticed the scratch paper the clerk handed me. Truby’s attorney, Hal English. The clerk had scribbled a phone number and address, along with the name Baker and Tuckett, a law firm in Beaufort.

The clock on the Mini read 3:04 p.m. I thought about what Shirl said: Berg had been late for rehearsal last Tuesday. The same day Mamacita thought the ground near the belladonna plants had been trampled. Coincidence? Hardly provable.

Another glance at the clock: 3:05 p.m. The drive back to the island would take forty-five minutes, thirty-seven if I pushed. Plenty of time (eighteen minutes) for a quick stop.

The offices of Baker and Tuckett were right on Main Street in downtown Beaufort, at the far end, away from the water and quaint public parking lot.

I found a spot a block away and fed a quarter into the meter, then jogged over to the glass door with the firm name etched out in gold.

“Can I help you?” A girl greeted me wearing a USC sweatshirt. “It’s casual Friday. We’re having our holiday party. But we’re not actually open officially, though we’re here.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, once I could interrupt. “I’m looking for Hal English. He worked on an arson case about eleven years ago.”

“No one here by that name. But hang on a sec.” She hollered down the hall as she walked, asking someone if they had heard of Hal. Two minutes later she returned.

“He retired like five years ago,” she said. “But we have two other attorneys who could help. They’re really good. They’ll be back soon. For the party. But not sure they can take your case before the holiday. Unless it’s an emergency.”

Another woman appeared. She, too, wore casual Friday attire. A plaid reindeer sweatshirt and green cords. “What can we do for you?”

“I’d love to talk to Hal English about an old case. See if he’d let me take a look at his files.” I pulled out my barely official-looking PI credentials. “It’s really important.”

“Hal’s in Sugarloaf Key, Florida. Or one of those keys. If you leave your number, I’ll ask him to call.”

“That would be great.” I jotted a note on one of my business cards. “It’s about the Truby Falls arson case, eleven years ago.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said. “You know, we sent all those files to Truby about a year ago. Hal may’ve kept a copy, though I don’t know. Closed case and all.”

“You sent her the files? Is that standard?”

“Not necessarily standard, but not unusual. Sometimes clients want them in prison. Even at the end of their sentence.” She shrugged. “It’s their case.”

I thanked her and jogged back to the Mini. The reindeer lady seemed responsible enough to call Hall right away, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d try and track him down myself. I’d have to call on the fly. Right now I needed to use my turbo power to get to the Big House before the Ballantynes arrived. They were due at four and I couldn’t be late.

EIGHTEEN

(Day #8 – Thursday Morning)

I called information in Sugarloaf Key and there was an H. English listed. He didn’t answer, so I left a voicemail. Which was probably my tenth message for the day between him and Rory and Jane. I was beginning to think no one would call me back when my phone rang.

“Elli, hi, I’m glad I caught you. It’s Kyra,” a pleasantly sweet voice said when I answered. Kyra Gannon, Matty’s sister-in-law.

“Kyra, nice to hear from you. How are the kids?” I asked as I sped over the Palmetto Bridge and onto Sea Pine Island.

“A handful! Can you believe I have three of them? I can’t. And under five. Making dinner is an all-day event.” Two little girls sang in the background as pots clattered with pans. “Anyhow, El, I know you’re busy, but we’d love to have you for Christmas Eve dinner.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely, but—”

“But nothing,” she said. A baby started to cry and Kyra’s voice faded in and out. “You give that back. She had it first.” A pot or pan or some other metal clangy object banged into another. “It’s Christmas Eve and you need to eat,” she said to me.

“The Ballantynes come home today,” I said and turned into the Oyster Cove gate. “Or should I say are home today.”

An enormous white Rolls pulled up to the Big House steps just as I pulled in behind it. The driver’s door to the vintage Corniche slowly swung open.

“Think about it at least,” Kyra said above the cacophony of three children under five in the kitchen playing. “Matty’s looking forward to it.”

“I promise, I will,” I said and hung up.

“Elliott! Hello!” Mr. Ballantyne said. He held his arms wide and wrapped me up snug. “Merry Christmas!”

I hugged back, then ran to the other side to open the door for Vivi. She was seventy-two years of petite energy. As frail as a baby bird, but strong as an eagle.

“My dear Elli,” she said. “How we missed you so! I can’t wait to tell you all about the trains.” We walked up the steps arm in arm.

Tod greeted us in the entry holding two cups of peppermint cocoa with whipped topping on a tray. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “And welcome home.”

“Tod, you’re an angel,” Vivi said and took a sip. “This cocoa is straight from heaven. Oh, the tree, Elli. It’s magical!”

“Indeed, my dear,” Mr. Ballantyne said. He bent down and touched a Candyland box. The first one he gave me. “Our best Christmas.” He stood and put his arm around me. “Though since then, they’ve all been our best.”

“That was my favorite Christmas,” I said. “The year you gave me that Candyland game. You wrapped red ribbons around the trees on the back lawn to create the Candy Cane Forest.”

“And Vivi wore a tin foil crown!” Mr. Ballantyne said. “Queen Frostine, if I remember correctly. In her Candy Castle.”

“You remember,” I said.

“Of course we do,” Vivi said. “I still have that crown. Probably a bit misshapen. But I think I shall don it Christmas morning. In honor of you, sweet Elli, and your magical tree.”

“It’s good to be home,” Mr. Ballantyne said and kissed the top of my head.

“My darlings, I’m a bit tired from the trip,” Vivi said.

“I’ll get your bags and take them to the residence,” Tod said.

The Ballantynes’ residence took up the entire third floor and boasted an enormous master suite, two guest suites, a game room (my favorite), and a balcony that spanned the entire back of the Big House.

“Shall we retire for the evening, Vivi?” Mr. Ballantyne said.

“Carla can send up dinner whenever you’re ready,” I said. “You rest, and tell me all about Guatemala tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Vivi said and kissed my cheek.

“And the case, Elli? Progress?” Mr. Ballantyne said.

I smiled confidently. “Absolutely. I’m just about to wrap it up.”

“What I like to hear,” he said with a slight nod. A nod that told me he almost believed me, but he had faith in me. “Goodnight, my dear, until tomorrow!” He took Vivi’s arm and together they walked up the center staircase. I watched them as they paused on the landing and hoped they were too tired to peek into the ballroom. Which was empty as an abandoned warehouse. One with gorgeous wood inlaid parquet floors and antique crystal chandeliers. But no tables, chairs, linens, flowers, Christmas greenery, or silver finery befitting a Ballantyne ball.

This is what happens when you push everything until the last day: nothing is done. I arrived at the Big House at a sprightly eight a.m. decked out in khaki shorty pants and a faded orange tee. Dozens of workers scurried to and fro, cleaning and polishing and setting up décor and seating. Luckily, the Ballantynes loved hustle and bustle. Especially during the holidays. Unluckily, my investigation, the one I confidently boasted was about to wrap up, had to wait. I didn’t have any more time left to push. The Palm & Fig Ball was in ten hours and we had twenty hours’ worth of work.

Carla served lunch for the entire crew on the back patio which mostly spilled over onto the lawn. I don’t know how she managed to prepare homemade cashew chicken salad sandwiches on brioche with sides of apple slaw in the midst of the madness, but I ate two plates full to show my support.

Tod rushed out as I was gathering up the paper dishes and tossing them in the rubber bin. His normally perfectly-combed coif was mussed and he had a mayo smudge on his cheek. “Jane and Carmichael are having a smackdown in the foyer,” he said.

“Seriously? Right now?”

“Obviously right now.”

“Where are the Ballantynes?”

“Out for a drive. They left an hour ago, but they could return any minute.”

I wiped my hands on my pants and jogged through the solarium and down the hall to the front of the Big House.

“It’s already up,” Chef Carmichael said, standing in the middle of the foyer. “You can’t stop it.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot stop,” Jane said. “It’s crass and it’s coming down.” Jane pointed to Tod. “Get it down. Now.”

“Touch it and I walk,” Carmichael said.

“Then walk,” Jane said.

“What are you touching? What’s crass?” I asked as Tod ran up the center staircase.

“Carmichael put a Wharf sign in the ballroom,” Jane said. “Like a banner at a moose lodge.”

“It’s not a banner,” Carmichael said. “It’s a tasteful plaque next to the bar.”

“A plaque or a banner, it’s not staying,” Jane said.

“Definitely not,” I said. “You’re not a sponsor, Chef. Besides, most of the guests know you and your restaurant. It’s unnecessary.”

“It’s not for them, it’s for the tv crew,” Carmichael said.

“What tv crew?” I said.

Tod and two workers carried a carved wood sign that said Wharf in a fancy script. “Where do you want this?” Tod asked Carmichael.

“Right where I had it,” he said.

“The Wharf delivery van is parked near the side entrance,” Jane said. “Stick it in there.”

“I’ll tell you where to stick it, Jane,” Chef Carmichael said.

“What tv crew?” I asked again.

“The Stream Kitchen,” Carmichael said. He followed Tod out the door and down the front steps. “They’re filming Rory tonight at the ball.”

“Oh no they’re not,” I hollered and rushed after him. “No way!”

He stopped and spun around. “They film or I walk.”

“You can’t keep threatening to walk. The ball is in four hours!”

“I’ll concede the restaurant sign, but that crew will film tonight.” He stood with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.

Jane said from the doorway, “Okay, Peter and the Wolf. You get your film crew. But that tacky sign goes.”

He marched away without commenting and I marched toward Jane. “Are you crazy? You gave in too quickly. We can’t have a film crew at the Palm & Fig.”

“I signed the consent waivers two hours ago,” she said. “It’ll be good for the Foundation. We had one chef drop out and another accused of murder. We need to show support for Rory, and also show that we didn’t need that hack cook.”

I watched her walk away in her spotless silk suit and barely worn heels, barking orders at workers and creating more chaos. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I happily grabbed at the distraction.

“Elliott? It’s Mimi Ransom. How are you?”

“Mimi,” I said and dramatically chastised myself for not checking caller ID, waving my arms and making faces into the crisp December air. “How nice to hear from you.”

“I’ll make this quick. I know you’re probably enjoying some downtime before the ball tonight.”

Two men shouted behind me and I heard a small crash. I sat down on the bottom step near the drive. “Not yet. Working on the finishing touches.”

“I wanted to invite you to Christmas Eve dinner,” she said. “You may have plans, but I do hope you’ll consider. I sent an invitation two weeks ago, though with the rush of holiday cards, I’m sure the mail is behind.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t get it.” I thought of the cards, letters, and bills stacked on my desk at home. I probably should go through them one of these days. “It’s so kind of you to think of me.”

“Of course. Nick adores you and insisted I call to personally invite you again. Not that I needed much persuading. You’d be greatly missed if you didn’t join us.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I usually spend the evening with the Ballantynes, though I’m not sure what we have planned this year.”

“It would be a delight for them to join us, too,” she said. “Their invitation went unanswered as well.”

I felt myself flush and rested my head in my open hand. She must think me a hillbilly. “They’ve been in Guatemala. Just flew home last night. I’m sure they’ll attend to their mail today. And I’ll absolutely speak with them and get back to you.”

“Take your time, dear,” Mimi Ransom said. “I’ll have plenty of food, no worries on that front. Enjoy the ball and please give my best to Vivi and Edward.”

I said I would and clicked off.

That made two invitations for Christmas Eve dinner. One with Matty and his family, one with Ransom and his family. And Christmas was in less than a week.

“Hey El, you want the poinsettias stacked by the bandstand in even rows or a pyramid?” a worker asked from the open door.

“I’ll come up,” I said.

I brushed off my pants and went back inside. Before I decided where I’d spend Christmas Eve dinner, I needed to get through the Palm & Fig. Which wouldn’t be any less stressful. Both Nick Ransom and Matty Gannon would be in attendance. Along with Rory the murder suspect and an entire film crew. I took a deep breath. Nothing I couldn’t handle.