Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (10 page)

TWELVE

(Day #3: Sunday Afternoon)

After my detour for the fastest shower in the history of all those with OCD, I whipped into the hospital parking lot only to discover it full. Perfect. I abhor cruising up and down the aisles (all three of them) scouting for spaces. Such a waste of time. I finally wedged the Mini between a beat up old VW bug and an old Plymouth Fury.

Normally I might park over by the entrance to the Medical Examiner’s office, an office building attached to the back side of the hospital. It resembled a rambling brick house more than an office, but I didn’t want Gilbert Goodsen to freak if we walked out of the hospital together. Better to not have to walk down those cold, impersonal halls.

Sea Pine Memorial Hospital is actually quite small. The emergency entrance is on the south side, the medical office on the east, and the main entrance on the west. I scurried through the sliding doors, slapped on a visitor’s sticker, and followed the maze of hallways to the morgue, located near a series of visitation rooms and a non-denominational meditation chapel.

“I can’t do it anymore. Jesus, man, look at you,” a man’s voice said in the distance. It sounded tense, almost desperate.

I rounded the corner and saw Gilbert Goodsen talking with Dr. Locke, the doctor who was talking to Gil in the emergency room the day he got shot.

“Yes, Carl, look at me,” Gilbert said. “I’m the one in the hot soup.”

Gilbert reached out for Dr. Locke’s lapel, but he brushed Gilbert off when he spotted me. “Get us out of this.” He spun on his heel and hurried down the hall.

“Everything okay, Gilbert?” I asked.

Gilbert turned. Definitely not okay. His yellow and brown bowling shirt was mis-buttoned and stained; his long orange swim trunks hung down past his knees with strings dangling all the way to his shoes. Wingtips, no socks.

“You said to buy new clothes, so I did.”

“I meant at a department store, not a thrift shop,” I said, then immediately regretted it. Poor guy just found out his wife is dead and I’m picking on his lack of fashion sense. “I’m sorry, Gilbert. You look good, considering. We should go inside.”

“Considering? Considering what? What did you find? Something happen to my egg?” He looked at me with such intensity, I actually took a step back. Then he looked around the hallway as if someone might be listening, but we were all alone.

“No, Gilbert. Well, not that I know of. I’m talking about why we’re down here.”

He pushed open the door behind him marked “Visitation Room Two” and dragged me inside. “Oh that. I’m here once a week.”

The room was bathed in shades of tan and pale blue. Large seascapes painted with broad strokes hung on the walls. Floral chairs hugged low tables with strategically placed tissue boxes on top. Two families huddled together on opposite sides of the room. Gilbert sat with one. A couple, maybe in their late thirties. The woman wept and the man stared at the floor.

I recognized the other huddle, or at least the daughter of the older man from Gilbert’s office. The Whitakers, I thought. A woman in blue scrubs sat next to the daughter and talked to her in a low voice, and another man, a brother or husband, maybe, sat on her other side.

I stood in the center of the room, equidistant between each set of grievers. I didn’t know them or their loved ones, and didn’t feel comfortable carving out my own spot to sit since I didn’t know Jaime all that well, and I had the feeling Gilbert didn’t yet know she was dead.

A nurse walked through the interior door and I spotted Ransom in the other room, just before the door swung shut. I muttered to Gilbert that I’d be right back and snuck through the door.

Ransom was gone, but it didn’t take long to find him. I peeked through the autopsy suite and found him deep in conversation with Dr. Harry Fleet, the medical examiner. They stood at the far side of the room near a steel table. Wet, as if it had just been washed. I tried to hide the heebie jeebies that were crawling up my skin and marched forward.

“Don’t tell me you’re involved in this one,” Harry barked. “You go on out of here before you start trouble.”

I smiled one of my best charmers. “Now, Harry, I don’t start trouble.”

“You certainly manage to find it, though,” Ransom said.

“You two carry on like I’m not even here.”

Harry growled and Ransom stared at me. Neither said a word.

“You might as well let me eavesdrop a little,” I said. “This is practically the Ballantyne Memorial Hospital and Jaime Goodsen was a well-respected, quite revered, really, member of the Foundation.”

No reaction.

“Look, I’ll just bug you both until you tell me anyway.”

They both continued to stare at me.

One beat, then two.

Ten seconds ticked by, then Ransom turned to Harry. “You were saying, time of death?”

“Best right now, say between ten last night and four this morning. I will know more after I open her up. Looks like she fought back, some skin under her nails. Scratches.”

“Cause of death?”

“Bullet to the head most likely. She has a contusion on the back of her skull, not sure which came first. Like I said, know more later.”

Ransom jotted down notes. Looked like he had an entire page full from before I walked in. At least from what I could tell from where I stood. I stepped closer and leaned in. It didn’t help. Neither did him snapping the book shut.

“Thank you, Dr. Fleet,” he said. “I look forward to reading the full report.”

I nodded sagely, in agreement.

“Not you, Lisbon,” they said in tangent.

“Fine. Not like I want to read an autopsy report.”

I followed Ransom into the anteroom.

He stopped me before I could stop him. “What else do you know?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. You were with Harry much longer than me. Certainly you know more.”

“Of course I know more. I am the lieutenant, you are the witness. Only the witness. Do you hear me?”

“Don’t get all bossy, Ransom. I’m just asking a question or two. You know I’m already involved.”

“In an egg hunt, Lisbon. Not this.” He stepped closer. His jaw set so tight, I thought his teeth might crack.

“It could be connected,” I said.

“Out.”

“Fine. I have to tell Gilbert about Jaime anyway.” I casually waltzed toward the door to the visitation room.

He grabbed my sleeve and yanked me back and I nearly fell on my ass. “Wait. Goodsen’s here and you didn’t tell me?”

“Why would I tell you? You think because you’re the lieutenant, I have to tell you every little thing. It doesn’t work that way.” I struggled out of his grasp. “Besides you told me you were starting without me. How am I supposed to know what you know when you won’t tell me what you know?”

“I will deal with you later,” Ransom said and swung open the door.

“You should be ashamed, you bastard! You cheated my father!” The Whitaker daughter screamed at Gilbert Goodsen in the middle of the room. She pushed Gilbert, hard, into a row of chairs.

The other Whitaker tried to pull her away, but she moved out of his reach and bumped into the nurse.

“Kat, Alex, really,” Gilbert said.

Ransom stepped in front of Kat as a shield between her and Gilbert.

“You killed my father,” she sobbed. “You will rot in hell for this.”

“Stop, Kat,” Alex said softly. “Stop it. Dad wouldn’t want this.”

The nurse put her arm around Kat, while Alex took his place on the other side.

“I’m sorry about your dad, truly,” Gilbert said. He looked shaken and jittery. His feet tapping against the side of the coffee table. He ran a hand through his hair. “I should go.”

I glanced at Ransom. One of us needed to tell him and I didn’t think it would be me.

“Mr. Goodsen, could I see you for a moment?” Ransom asked.

Gilbert was so relieved to get out of that room, he didn’t even wonder why a police lieutenant wanted to talk to him, or why he chose the interior morgue room to do it in.

I followed them, the door softly swinging shut behind me.

Gilbert Goodsen slid to the floor when Ransom told him Jaime was dead. Killed on his boat.

“The
Tiger Shark
?” he choked out. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed both my shoulders. “When? Were you there? The egg?”

Ransom pulled Gilbert’s hands from my shoulders. “I have a few questions.” He turned to me and said, “Without you.”

“And I have questions for you, too, Gilbert.”

Ransom pushed me toward the door.

“Meet me at my office in, about, in…” Gilbert said.

“Thirty minutes, tops,” Ransom said.

I nodded and left. Gilbert was falling apart and not just from Jaime’s death. There was more to this egg and he was going to tell me one way or another.

THIRTEEN

(Day #3: Sunday Late Afternoon)

I zipped across the island with a quick stop at Taco Bell for lunch (two bean burritos, extra sauce, extra cheese, plus a large Pepsi) and use of the facilities, and I still arrived at Gilbert’s office before he did. The front door was locked; Mary-Louise must have been enjoying a Labor Day without any labor.

I sat in the parking lot and pondered the case while I waited. Jaime’s death added a new dimension. A horrible and tragic one. Somebody clearly wasn’t happy with her. Or with Gilbert. Did they intend to kill Gilbert, but killed Jaime by mistake? Middle of the night, black as pitch in that cabin, Gilbert is the one who was supposed to be on the
Tiger Shark
, not Jaime.

So why
was
Jaime there? Reconciliation seemed unlikely as Gilbert was out of town. Unless she wanted to surprise him. Though after dumping his burned clothes all over town, I couldn’t imagine Jaime planned a pleasant surprise. Was she in the middle of vandalizing when the killer stopped her? Was the killer the same person who shot Gilbert?

And yet, Gilbert still asked about the egg before asking what happened to Jaime. Screwy priorities, or did he already know the answer? Did I dare ask him?

Time to find out. Gilbert pulled into the lot driving a car smaller than the Mini. I stared, slackjawed. I’d never seen any motor vehicle smaller than mine. A Smart Car. Lime green with tiny wheels and no rear end, as if someone whacked off the back half of the car. He parked next to the Mini (which now looked like a limousine), but as soon as I got out, he backed out. He waved at the front door to the office and putt-putted around the building and out of sight.

Five minutes later, he unlocked the door and yanked me inside. He locked the door behind me. “Someone’s following me. I needed to change cars, something inconspicuous.”

“You’re driving a pedal car, Gilbert. It’s pretty conspicuous.”

“Please tell me you found the egg.
Please
,” he pleaded.

I followed him into his office, then sat in a chair facing his desk. He picked up a letter opener, mindlessly tapping it against a round crystal paperweight.

“I have not found the egg. But there’s more to this story and you need to tell me. The whole thing, if I’m going to help you.”

He tucked the letter opener behind his right ear and gripped the paperweight. “It’s a rotten egg. Been stinking up my whole life since I got it.”

“So not a family heirloom?”

“I’m sure it’s someone’s family heirloom, just not mine.” He tossed the small crystal ball into the air, then caught it with both hands. “The insurance business isn’t what it used to be. Regulations, competition, online cut-rate internet knockoffs. To really succeed, to really make a name, you need to be creative.”

“How creative?”

He tossed the weight into the air, then caught it again. “Some clients would rather sell their valuables than insure them. You know, they call me up to drop it off their policy, see how much they save. I ask them if they have a buyer. If not, sometimes I pitch in. It’s nothing illegal, no insurance fraud or anything.”

“So you bought the egg from a client?”

“Yes. He needed money right away, no time to wait for an auction—”

“Why the rush?” I interrupted.

“I don’t know. Everyone has problems, right? I’m a problem-solver.” He studied the crystal ball as if looking for answers, then threw it into the air. “One day, a client brings me an appraisal from a local pawn broker who wanted to buy his Fabergé egg, but the pawn guy backed out of the deal at the last minute. I matched the pawn price, bought it right then, here in the office. The egg and this tray of trinkets. Like a grab bag.” He pointed vaguely at the cabinet door where he kept them. The
unlocked
door.

“You matched the price? Didn’t you want to get your own appraisal first?”

“Nah, I know the broker. He always cheats by half, a little extra padding. I knew I could flip it quick for a small profit. My way of being creative, keep me and Jaime afloat.”

“How much in dollars are we talking?” I remembered the figure scribbled on the pawn slip, $60,000, but I wanted to see if Gilbert would be honest with me.

“I’m not comfortable talking all of my finances with you. But let’s say mid five figures.”

I took out my notebook and skimmed my notes. “We have to talk some finances, Gilbert, you’ve got me chasing down an egg for no conceivably good reason. At this point, you have dozens of items much more valuable in your possession. Was it stolen? Someone needs to sell a pricey bauble with an ‘appraisal’ from a pawn shop? That means stolen.”

“No, not stolen. At least I don’t think so. It’s from a reputable elderly client, one I’ve bought things from before.”

“Then why didn’t you report it stolen when it went missing?”

He sighed. Heavily. And tossed up the paperweight. “I didn’t get a chance to insure it. Besides, I know Jaime has it, and I’ll get it back, then insure it.” He missed the heavy ball and it clunked onto the desktop. “Had it,” he said softly. “Jaime had it.”

I waited a moment until he picked up the crystal paperweight, studying it in his hands. “Gilbert, you’re an insurance agent. How did you not insure it? And not to be one who promotes fraud, but why not back date a claim or something? I thought for insurance agents, the line between legal and illegal was drawn in pencil.”

“Are you crazy! I can’t do that, I’d lose my license. And my reputation. Of all the offensive accusations. Elliott, I’m a decent human being.” He leaned back and began tossing the ball again. “Besides, I only had the egg for two days. Who knew? I hadn’t taken a photo, and you can’t get it insured without it.”

Ah, a decent human being without a sense of urgency. At least until it was stolen.

“Why so desperate now?” I asked. “Why is this the most important thing to you?”

“I already flipped it.”

“Flipped it?”

“To a buyer. A collector. And he thinks I lied. But I didn’t lie. I had it and I need it back.” He gripped the paperweight and I could practically see his thoughts whirling behind his eyes. “Elliott, I need that egg.”

“Who is the client, the one you bought it from?”

“I can’t tell you. I’d love to, El, really. But it’s confidential. I can’t blab all over town. Gilbert Goodsen’s lips do not sink ships.” His face deflated, almost caving in on itself. “Oh, Jaime. No more ships.”

I, too, remembered her on the boat as he said it, and immediately felt a twinge of sadness, with a hint of guilt. I’d been so convinced she was to blame for everything, I ignored how much danger she had been in. My throat still hurt from her madman boyfriend choking me. I coughed and sat up straighter, to break the spell we’d wandered into.

“I understand discretion better than anyone on this island, Gilbert. I need you to trust me. If you want me to find the egg, which could’ve been taken by literally anybody who’s ever been in this office, you need to tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter who! The client in no way, form or shape wants their egg back. Ever. They were happy to unload it and they do not care about it. Elliott, the client absolutely has nothing to do with it. Please stop focusing on all the wrong things and find my egg!”

“It’s only been like two days,” I said. “Why so urgent? Why is this taking over everything? Spit it out already and let me help you.”

He studied the paperweight as if it were a crystal ball. The magic kind, not the hold-down-papers-in-case-a-strong-breeze-blew-through-the-windowless-room kind. “It’s for a patent on Gil-animals. The final amendment to the app is due in three days. I didn’t have the cash to pay, these things are expensive, and I’ve been waiting nearly four years for it to come through. I owe the government filing fees and my back attorney fees. Unless I pay him everything I owe, he won’t file. But I knew he collected these things. Has two eggs already. So I offered an exchange. He gets the fire opal egg, marks me paid in full and files the app.”

“But it was stolen before you could get it to him.”

“Yepper. Now he thinks I’m stalling, so he’s refusing to pay the fees. The patent application will lapse and I lose the whole thing. My legacy. The big one. I even got a line on a New York department store that wants to license.”

“And what exactly is Gil-animals?”

He leaned forward. “Only the coolest fashion system ever created for a man’s wardrobe. He picks a color for the day, say it’s the red sticker. He picks any tie with a red sticker on the box, then any shirt with a red sticker, same with the pants. He can’t go wrong! Men be stylin’ with their stickers.”

“You mean like Garanimals? Where kids match the tags to dress themselves?”

“Yep. Men don’t always know what’s in style. Gil-animals makes them snazzy dressers no matter who they are. Put the system in place last year, but couldn’t get any investors. I use it myself, tell everyone about it when I can. This patent will change everything. Like I said, New York. Filled with folks needing to look spiffy in a jiffy. Dazzle without the hazzle.”

“Sure, sure. Who wants hazzle?” I said, nodding at his jazzy catchphrases. I thought about the high-end shops in Manhattan, filled with expensive suits and chic ties and plenty of salesmen to dress a man up. Why would they need a color-coded system? But what did I know about fashion? I still wore leggings as pants in emergency situations. Like no clean pants.

“I’m scraping the bottom of my piggy bank. If I don’t get that egg, I’m busted with nothing for the future.”

“What happened to your viatical monopoly? Shouldn’t that have kept you flush? Or at least enough to pay the bills?”

He leaned back with a sigh. “The bad economy hurts even the dying. You’d think business would be booming.”

“You’d think.”

“And with Jaime gone, it will all have been for nothing.” He stared at a dent in the wood where the weight hit earlier. He ran his finger over the depression. He had a trace of anguish in his eyes when he looked up at me. “She really hated me, didn’t she?”

I didn’t know how to answer that, and nothing good could come of that conversation now. “I think she seemed angry at you, maybe not hated you. She definitely took issues with Gil-animals. I noticed color-coded boxes in the master closet and they weren’t exactly sorted properly.”

The phone rang and Gilbert jumped. The crystal weight bounced off the table, then rolled onto the floor. He gripped his hair with both hands like a maniac.

“What’s wrong?” I asked and the phone rang again.

He looked at me with wide eyes, but made no move to answer it. “I’m being harassed. Chased, followed, phone calls. I was shot!”

The phone rang again, the shrill old-fashioned bell echoed in the quiet room.

I reached across the desk and picked it up. “Goodsen Insurance.”

“Yes, hello,” an elderly lady said. “My name is Willa Farnesworth. Is Mr. Goodsen in today? I know it’s a holiday weekend, but he gives me such good advice. I’ve got two more items I know he’d like.” The woman had a sweet voice and sounded no more than one hundred and ten years old.

I handed the phone to Gilbert. “Willa Farnesworth.”

I watched him while he spoke, the tension slightly easing from his face. Was he really being harassed or was he just nuts? I studied his mismatched clothes. His Smart Car keys dangled from the top pocket. Was he paranoid? Didn’t Mary-Louise mention something about Gilbert being crazy some other time? Could he be Jaime’s killer? But then who shot him?

Gilbert hung up the phone and turned to me. “Just a client. This time.”

“Who is harassing you? And why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” he said. “I know you’ve got a dozen wild theories in your head. About me and my egg and my clients and my staff and my Gil-animals. I know what people think about me, but I know what I know, and I’m telling you Jaime stole the egg. No one else knew about it. If my attorney stole it, there’d be no reason to be on my case every minute to turn it over. If my client stole it back, well, no need.” He gestured to the phone. “Plenty more things to sell. That only leaves Jaime. She’s the only one who could’ve stolen the egg.”

Or the antiques appraiser or Mary-Louise. Or anyone else Mary-Louise told. “Well, then, if that’s the case, it’s easy. You were still married and you’ll inherit all of the property. You can search everything now.”

“I have! I’ve looked everywhere and it isn’t anywhere and what am I supposed to do? I’m losing my mind and Jaime’s dead!” He leaned across the desk, nearly crawling over to grab my hands. “Help me. Please. You have to help me.”

I squeezed his hands and helped him stand. I patted him on the arm. “We have plenty of options, we’ll find it. It’s just an egg, it won’t be that hard. Call the local banks. All of them, from here to Charleston. Ask if Jaime had an account there. Or call your attorney. Family attorney, not patent. See if Jaime had a safe deposit box. You’re entitled to the contents, assuming she didn’t have a will that says otherwise.”

He hugged me so tight, I got a Charlie horse in my neck. “I’m on it, I’m on it. Good idea, El. Good idea. They’re closed today and tomorrow’s Labor Day, but I can call Tuesday.”

“Perfect. Did Jaime have any family? What about close friends?”

“Her sister in Charleston, Judith Durant. Owns a shop on King. Durant’s Antiques, I think. But they haven’t talked in years. I guess someone should call her and tell her.” He paused. For a long time.

“Gilbert,
you
need to call her. It will be so much easier for her if she hears the news from family. What about Jaime’s friends?”

He nodded slowly, then leaned on the desk. “I’ll call her after you leave. And Jaime’s pretty close to Alicia Birnbaum. Her doubles partner and the one who really pushed Jaime to divorce.”

I groaned on the inside. I’d forgotten about Alicia Birnbaum and her pushiness. “I’ll talk to her. Anyone else?”