Swan Dive (6 page)

“You’ll figure it out,” Sid said. “At least you know who your bad guy is.”

“There’s more than one. Vigo isn’t so innocent, either. He had a shooting target hidden in his closet.”

“Blank?”

“Shot to shit.”

“That’s something.”

“Might be nothing. He does live in Texas now.”

I unlatched my seatbelt and started to get out of the car.

“Where are you going?” Sid asked.

“The dumpster. The trash had recently been emptied. We need to check the bin.”

“We nothing. I’m wearing Escada, remember? And you’re no fashionista, but you can’t dig through grimy cans in that.”

I looked at my dirty, but still swanky, ensemble. “I suppose you’re right. This is probably salvageable as is. But Johnnie Mae dumped that trash just hours ago. What if pickup is in the morning? I have to check it out.”

“You’re on your own for this one,” Sid said. “But may I suggest you go home and change first?”

“I’m going to need a hazmat suit.”

“I’m sure you have one.”

Maybe not a standard issue one, but I had something close. I shut the car door and started the engine.

I dropped Sid at the theatre next to her fancy white BMW X6, and sped home for a quick change. Dressed in a plastic jumpsuit I got as a gag gift from Carla three birthdays ago, I loaded into my car. I tossed yellow rubber kitchen gloves and a roll of paper towels on the passenger seat and hit Cabana Boulevard.

With a wave of my security pass at the guard, I drove around to the back of Deidre’s condo. Not bad. Only a forty-five minute detour. And hopefully worth it.

I took the brick path between the buildings and followed my nose. No matter how splendid the surroundings—a light breeze swaying dozens of palm fronds, distant waves crashing against the hard-packed sand, the call of the seagulls swooping through the night sky—garbage smelled like garbage. Sour, rancid, and pungent, and that was before I flipped up the heavy plastic lid. A single blue metal dumpster sat directly beneath a street lamp. Again with the spotlights. At least I wouldn’t need my flashlight.

With enormous rubber gloves covering my hands, I set the flashlight on the ground, stood on my tippy toes, and peered inside. Two thoughts hit simultaneously: Everybody at the condo complex used white plastic trash bags with those flimsy plastic ties. And there wasn’t enough hand-sani in the Mini, my handbag, and my pockets put together to handle this.

Holding my breath like a swimmer diving down to the drain, I leveraged myself with my right hand and swooped in with my left. The bag flew out and I tipped backward, landing squarely on my butt. It wasn’t as heavy as I’d imagined. The area was still quiet, but not taking chances, I scurried to the side of the bin out of sight. Luckily, no windows faced the garbage drive.

I said some sort of Hail Mary blessing prayer, even though I’m not Catholic, and got busy on the bag. Nothing in that one or the next four bags as I repeated my stealthy dumpster diving. Many a crime case was broken by a resourceful investigator rummaging through discarded rubbish. But not this case. Or at least this trip to the dumpster. Just five bags of literal garbage. No case-breaking cake mix or deadly fruit. Only greasy black banana peels, a pile of unwashed socks, tomatoes with moldy purple spots, but absolutely no arsenic sauce. A certain grumpy holiday song may have been playing in the car when I parked, but that’s the gist.

I did discover how the Post-It industry stayed in business. I probably saw more scraps of paper than any other single item—in a variety of shapes, sizes and textures: colorful, lined, notebook, copy, plus ripped up flyers, bills and envelopes, all covered in hastily and hard-to-read scratch and loopy scripts. Using my advanced deductive reasoning skills (I studied Criminology and have a Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice to prove it), I found what might be the trash Johnnie Mae took out earlier: the two bags on the very top of the pile (one contained a crumpled
Nutcracker
program). To make it seem like less of a bust, I snapped several pics of paper scraps with scribbles, along with an empty shampoo container and two smashed cans of Pepsi.

After tossing the rubber kitchen gloves into the dumpster and dousing myself in sani gel, I covered the Mini seat in an old towel and drove out of Sugar Hill. The top thought on my mind: I may have worked on the edge of proper procedure, but I ended the night with two suspects and an iPad. Out of the six thousand hours of training required to get my PI license, I still had more than five thousand to go. After tonight, I could scratch off another ten. Using creative itemizing. More importantly, I wondered about Lexie’s friends, and more specifically, if one of them wanted her dead.

SIX

(Day #3 – Saturday Morning)

Lounging in bed on a Saturday morning, or any morning, was one of my favorite leisurely spoils. I could read and think and dream. Sometimes sleep. But just knowing I didn’t absolutely have to get up was divine. On days where I did absolutely have to get my butt out of bed before the chickens rose, I compromised. The alarm went off an hour early and I lounged.

Or in this case, ruminated on Lexie Allen while still snuggled safely under a quilt in my jammies. Propped up on pillows, I started filling in my notes. First came Lexie Allen. Her parents were friends of the Ballantynes, and I’d met her several times over the years. Enough to make friendly chitchat at lunches and teas and fundraisers. Courtney mentioned Lexie attended UNC, and I thought Lexie was a sophomore this year, probably nineteen or twenty years old. Liked to cook, lately bake, with unusual ingredients. She occasionally visited an herbalist named Mamacita.

Next, with the help of the worn
Nutcracker
program, I noted her friends.

Courtney Cattanach, best friend and second in line to the Sugar Plum Fairy throne. Shared a dressing room, a condo, and probably a wardrobe with Lexie.

Vigo Ortiz, boyfriend who liked to be photographed. And shoot guns. Not very distraught, in my humble but oh so important opinion.

Berg Guthrie, friend who followed her to UNC. As Courtney said,
always
followed Lexie. As in unrequited love? Stalker? Little brother wannabe? Drew elaborate sketches of Lexie dying in very gruesome ways. Gothic and theatrical.

It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing, either. I’d only been one day on the case. Oh! I also had my garbage treasure. I flipped through my phone and noted the photographed scraps in the notebook, mostly names and numbers and a pizza place on the island, all written in a script so loopy I expected the i’s to be dotted with hearts. As I swiped through the gallery, I saw the pic of
The Nutcracker
tickets and the dry cleaning stub marked RUSH.

What was Lexie dry cleaning that needed a Saturday rush pickup? The laundry room at the condo was fully stocked. In the midst of her current schedule, she’d be at rehearsals all day and then performances at night. No time for a fancy outing wearing the kind of clothes you dry clean. Thinking of fancy outings, I had one that night with Matty. It was the Seabrook Prep Winter Formal. And for this date, Matty wouldn’t be going home alone. Though it made me nervous to think about what would happen once we arrived.

I set my notebook aside and reached for Lexie’s iPad. It looked new, or at least in beautiful condition. Maybe I was judging that girl on the messy state of her room. Slobby didn’t mean she didn’t care for her valuables. I didn’t own an iPhone, I was an Android girl, but understood the concept well enough. I pushed the button, slid the slider, and a keypad popped up to enter a four-digit passcode.

Could be anything. A good password is easy to remember, something close to home. I grabbed the Ballantyne Foundation phone directory and looked up the Allen’s address. They lived at 7439 Cypress Lane. I quickly typed in 7439. The four circles awaiting my numerical entry jiggled, letting me know it didn’t work. The last four digits of her phone number? Back to the directory. She wasn’t listed, but her parents were. Didn’t work.

I needed to be thoughtful. Her birth year might be too obvious, but I tried anyway. Counting backward to figure out her birth year, even though I wasn’t quite sure: 1993, 1994. More jiggles. Could be her birthday. Either month and day, day and year, month and year. Again, obvious. And I didn’t know that any more than I knew what year she was born. Not a very secure passcode choice for Lexie to make. All her friends and family would know her birthday, probably showed up on Facebook, too.

Last four digits of her social? Favorite holiday? Parents’ birthday? Weirdly enough, I knew her mother’s birthday. Maybe ten years earlier, I met Lexie Allen for the first time at the Ballantyne Foundation’s Annual Kite Flying Brigade on Oyster Cove Beach to celebrate Independence Day. Lexie was shy and sweet and excited. She thought the celebration was for her mom’s birthday. She’d never been to a beach party, and like all Ballantyne events, we’d gone all out.

I tried 0704. Jiggle.

Lexie had to have had dozens of special moments and I only knew the one. But her mother later said Lexie talked about that day for months and she hung her kite in her bedroom. It stuck with me because I did the same thing. And mine, too, was decorated with the colors of the flag.

I typed in 1776. An error message appeared: iPad disabled, try again in one minute.

As I waited the minute, I wondered if perhaps I was overthinking it. When the time elapsed, I tried something simple: 1234. Another error message, this time informing me to try again in five minutes.

With time on my hands, I Googled the most common four-digit passcodes. Over ten percent of the population chose 1234. Next on the list: 1111. A jiggle and it disabled. Now the iPad forced me to wait fifteen minutes. I wondered at what point I’d be locked out forever. I didn’t have to worry. Turned out Lexie used the fourth most popular passcode: 1212.

And like that, I was in.

Pretty much random luck, which happens now and again. I didn’t question it, though I did jump around the room as if I’d won the lottery. Quite satisfying to figure out someone’s passcode without their address book or a three-year stint in underground hacking. It somehow felt more clever? interesting? clandestine? knowing the iPad was passcode-protected and I broke it. As if I might actually find something valuable because it had been locked.

Or not so much. As I tapped icons and apps, I barely found a sliver of insight into Lexie Allen. She liked cooking blogs, recipe sharing sites, and streaming a dozen different cooking competition tv shows. Not a lot of dance sites, other than to check the UNC, UNT, and Oklahoma City University dance schedules.

She also visited Amazon about a thousand times. I think she may have been hooked on leaving reviews. Over seven hundred of them. Random products, books of all genres. Some very detailed and long reviews, others short and simple. I wondered if she actually bought any of the items. Maybe I needed to add shopping addict to her bio. Out of curiosity, I looked up how much an iPad cost and was shocked. Who would spend that kind of money for one of those things? Nothing more than a big phone that didn’t make calls. One could easily use a computer instead.

I glanced at the clock and realized nearly two hours had passed. With a speed reserved for emergencies, or situations exactly like this one, I showered in less time than it takes most people to do their makeup. I was up, out, and on my way in under twenty minutes. Though slightly OCD (and by slightly, I mean I perform my get ready routine exactly the same, in the exact same order, every single time), I am a professional.

It would be another day without riding my bike to work. My three-wheeler had a basket on back and a bell up front. It kept me stable and free and it reminded me to enjoy my island surroundings. But today involved a visit to the morgue, and there would be nothing to enjoy.

I stopped by the Big House to sneak a box of cookies for Harry Fleet, the medical examiner. He was less growly if I brought treats. I took in the merry decorations of the entire foyer. A symphony of Christmas carols played in the background. Garland with twinkling lights wrapped around each banister and hung from the antique chandelier. The tree rose straight to the second floor and—I paused.

Adorable painted ornaments covered the entire bottom of the tree. From the long branches near the floor up to about hip height. After that, nothing but silk pine, miniature lights and lonely random popcorn strands.

Carla came out from the kitchen and joined me at the base of the tree. “Yeah,” she said. “Kids can only do so much before it’s time to eat the cookies, not paint them. We switched to the edible kind and ended up decorating batches for the shut-in delivery. But the kids only ate about half of those. A good day, really.”

“Well, crap. So much for being on my game.” I looked up to the tippy top. “Where will I get a tree-load of gorgeous themed ornaments before the Palm & Fig? Ones that look planned and special, not like I threw them together last minute?”

“You better think of something. You only have one day.”

“One day? The Palm & Fig Ball is in six days, not one. Don’t cut me short.”

“Chicken, the board meeting is tomorrow. Mr. Ballantyne will get seven calls about a naked tree before the first board member sits down.”

Tod walked over with a white pastry box tied with a string. He looked at the tall tree, then at the smattering of ornaments. “You heading over to the Walmart to load up a cart of multi-color plastic bulbs? The kind that come in tubes?”

I took the pastry box away from him. “That’s Plan Q and I’m not there yet.”

“Plan Q?” Carla said.

“Yes, I’m giving myself time. I’ll start with B and work my way down.” I sniffed the lid on the box. Even better than cookies. Carla’s Christmas caramels. Rich, smooth, and homemade. She individually wrapped each delight in wax paper, and they went faster than a five a.m. Black Friday markdown.

I dropped the box in my office with my handbag. Tod could go get another box, I needed those for Harry Fleet. But first, I needed to trudge up to the attic and check out our leftover Christmas design stash.

Each floor of the Ballantyne manse clocked in around seven thousand feet. Though the attic wasn’t quite that large, it was still pretty roomy. I used the hidden staircase in the solarium and climbed the three flights to the dark and dusty attic. It was also dank, dirty, and dry.

I shuffled through the whimsical and regal accoutrements accumulated over the many years. Our fundraisers and events weren’t commonplace black tie functions with expected entrees and ordinary décor. They were noteworthy soirees that engaged the imagination. We weren’t just a charity, we were the Ballantyne.

From pirate treasure to pinball machines to a piñata taller than me, I finally found the Christmas section. A bin of wrapping paper circa 1952, three various skirts for a tree much dinkier than the current beauty, and the requisite menorah. Not a single bulb or a strip of tinsel to be found. I dug carefully, mindful not to splatter dust from the ancient boxes onto my hands, arms, clothes, face, or anywhere within three feet of my person. I did not have time to shower and change each and every time I encountered this attic.

An off-site company stored our custom spruce tree, plus the hundreds of feet of garland displayed throughout the Big House. They also assembled and helped decorate. Perhaps they kept a décor stash of their own.

After a detour to wash my hands and face and arms in the ladies room on the first floor, I called the storage company. It was a short conversation. Our locker was empty with no spare ornaments on hand. Though they were available to assist with decorating tomorrow should I need them. I said I should, one way or another, even though their Sunday rate was doubled.

Next I called the lovely boutique I visited yesterday on my way to Mamacita’s botanical garden. The owner answered on the first ring.

“Hi, I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne,” I said. “You helped me with the wind chimes yesterday.”

“Oh yes, the alligator lady,” she said. “How did the chime work out?”

“It was perfect, thank you. But I’m actually calling about those gorgeous hand-painted ornaments on your feather tree. Can you tell me a little about them?”

“Hand-forged by a local artisan couple. They paint each one by hand, and without a template. Can’t find anything like them in the area.”

Just what I needed. Something original and hard to find. “Perfect. Any chance I could buy a large quantity and have them delivered tomorrow morning. Like early, early?”

“Of course. How many do you need?”

“Good question. Hang on one sec.” I reached behind my desk to the box of sample ornaments our original
Nutcracker
artist had sent over. The invoice was right on top. “Okay, let’s see…about seven hundred and fifty for the tree, probably another five hundred for gifts. So about thirteen hundred to be safe.”

Silence. I heard the sounds of papers shuffling. “I could do seventy-five today and another fifty tomorrow, if that helps.”

It didn’t. “Maybe next year,” I said.

“We’ll need plenty of notice.”

I told her I’d get back to her in January and hung up.

Opening the sample box again, I lined up ornaments on my desk. Sugar Plum Fairy, Mouse King, Nutcracker, tiny mice, gingerbread men, gorgeous sweets, swirly lollipops, colorful truffles, candy canes, snowflakes. I arranged them and rearranged them, adding and subtracting, mindlessly playing like a little girl with a new toy on Christmas morning.

“I got it!” I said with a head slap. I swept them into the box, except for the Sugar Plum Fairy, who went in my pocket.

I called the ornament hanging crew to request their services at the Big House in the early morning. I grabbed my handbag and the box of caramels and found Carla in the kitchen. I told her my idea, then let her know I’d be out the rest of the day.

I was feeling pretty darn excited about things when I climbed into the Mini and raced out to Cabana. Then I remembered where I was going.

The medical examiner’s office was attached to the back side of Island Memorial hospital. The building resembled a quaint converted home-to-office building with shutters on the windows, thick paneled doors, and a beautifully landscaped entry. Once inside the cubicle-sized lobby, I signed the sheet on a clipboard nailed to the wall and rang the buzzer on the doorframe. Fresh wreaths made from real pine hung on the hooks where pictures normally would be. Orchestral Christmas music filtered through the speaker in the ceiling.

Five minutes later, a lady in blue scrubs popped her head out. “Yes?”

“Elliott Lisbon to see Dr. Harry Fleet,” I said.

“Is he expecting you?”

“Sort of. Most likely,” I said. “Not an official appointment. More of an informal visit.”

She shrugged. “If you say so. Go on back, he’s in his office,” she said and held the door for me.