Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (12 page)

“Because I’m an investigator in training?”

“Because Busy will tell you anyway.”

“Good enough for me.”

“Gilbert’s secretary, Mary-Louise Springer, called into the station late last night in a panic. She had told her boyfriend Bobby Falco about the Fabergé egg—”

“The egg? I knew it was connected. Wait, Bobby? From the pink trailer over at Fisher’s Landing, the one Parker wouldn’t tell me about? I’m running an investigation, too, Ransom.”

He ignored me.

“So Bobby stole the egg?”

“Not exactly. Or at least Mary-Louise isn’t admitting that right now. She said she told Bobby that Jaime Goodsen stole Gilbert’s expensive Fabergé egg. Bobby hatched the brilliant plan to call Gilbert, say Jaime gave
him
the egg, and he’d sell it back to Gilbert for fifty thousand dollars.”

“Jaime just gave Bobby the egg? And Gilbert believed it?”

“Didn’t even question it.”

“So when they met at Tug’s on Friday, Gilbert thought he was buying back his egg. He told me the money was down payment on a new boat.”

“Nope, he was buying back the stolen egg. But there was no egg. Bobby probably panicked when he saw the bag of money and shot Gilbert right there. He took off and hasn’t been seen since.”

“But Mary-Louise has seen him, right?” I asked.

“Neither seen nor heard from him. Guess Bobby didn’t want to share the cash from the bag.”

“Interesting. So why did Mary-Louise call last night?”

“She heard we brought Gilbert to the station and quickly panicked, thinking she’d be an accessory when this whole Bobby scheme came to light. Wanted to get out in front.”

“Okay. But if she said Bobby killed Jaime, then why is Gilbert still locked up?”

“She didn’t say that, rather she was worried she’d get swept into the mess. She talked so fast, I barely kept up. Who knows what crimes those two are capable of, including murder.”

“Exactly. Gilbert is not in their league. Did you bring her in for questioning?”

“We searched her house this morning,” he said.

“But she’s not here. That’s what you’re not saying.”

He conceded with a nod. “Mary-Louise is gone. Cleared out after her call last night is my guess. No sign of her or Bobby or the egg. But we were able to find a photo of Bobby, who matches the shooter’s description from Tug Boat’s.”

“Can I see? I’ll follow you back, grab a donut.” Or three. “I’m starving,” I said.

“Sorry, Elliott. We ran out of donuts an hour ago.” At my sad and shocked face, he added, “they always go fast on a holiday. And give us a day or so on the photo. We just got it ourselves.”

I didn’t want to push it, since he was offering to share it with me. Just not as soon I wanted. But I was a beggar, not a chooser. “I guess I should find someone to cover Goodsen Insurance. Even if we get him out tomorrow, he’ll need a few days to get back on his feet.”

“Going to be a while before he’s on his feet.”

“He may be under some stress—”

“That man is one mismatched sock away from the Cuckoo’s Nest,” Ransom said.

“—but that doesn’t mean he killed his wife.”

“What’s this ‘we’ get him out? Before you start thinking about gathering evidence on your own, don’t.”

“I won’t step on your toes, but I’m an investigator—”

“In training.”

“All the same.”

“Yours is the case of the missing egg.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s all about this egg. Can you at least share your working theory?”

“I’ve shared quite a bit already. I think it’s your turn to give me something, Red,” he said and stood.

The flush returned and I felt like I was in the middle of a hot flash.

He stepped closer. “Don’t you want to know what I want?”

I nodded.

“Your promise to stay out of this. Continued promise, to continue staying out of this.”

“Ransom, I can’t promise that. My client is in your jail. What kind of investigator stays out of it?”

“One in training.” He chucked my chin lightly. Like one would do to a child. In a fifties movie involving a good sport. He started to walk away.

“Don’t underestimate me. I’m quite resourceful.”

“Indeed you are,” he said and waved at the volunteer to buzz him through the door.

“Wait! One last question,” I said. “At least tell me your theory on how Jaime was killed.”

“You’re resourceful, you’ll figure it out.” And with that, he was gone.

I hurried to the counter. “Can you buzz me in real quick?”

“Well, now, I’m not one to eavesdrop, but I don’t think the Lieutenant would appreciate that,” the elderly volunteer said. “I like my job here.”

“How about Corporal Parker? Will you see if she’ll give me like two seconds?”

That he was willing to do, and Parker came out a minute later.

“The Lieutenant mentioned you weren’t going to step on our toes.”

“No stepping, only asking. And I made no promises,” I said. “One quick question and then I’ll skedaddle. What’s your theory on Jaime Goodsen’s murder?”

She pulled me to the side and lowered her voice one octave. “Someone, likely Gilbert, caught Jaime vandalizing his boat. They struggled and Jaime ended up dead.”

“Or Bobby went to the boat to look for more money. Or the egg. And thought Jaime was Gilbert, or Jaime saw him and he panicked again. Bobby doesn’t hold up under pressure. Remember? He shot Gilbert.”

“I remember, Elliott. We’re working on it. Watch the toes, okay?”

“Sure, sure. No worries,” I said.

I walked out of the lobby just as Busy parked her red hot Alfa Romero next to the Coop.

“Hello, hello! I’m back. How’s our Gil?” she asked

“Not terrible, but in trouble, that’s for sure.”

“So Lillie filled you in?”

Lillie? “Oh, Parker, yeah. She and Ransom. I’m caught up. The insurance policy doesn’t look good. But I’m pretty sure the Lieutenant thinks Gilbert’s too crazy to be involved. I need to see what I can find to convince him absolutely Gilbert’s not involved.”

She gathered up her entourage of belongings and whisked into the station.

I called Tate Keating at the
Islander Post
, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a message, plus asked the receptionist to leave a written note on his desk about Gilbert not being involved in the shooting or his wife’s murder, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t matter much at this point.

I sat in my car with the top down, still trying to rationalize getting involved in Gilbert’s shooting and his wife’s murder. I actually do believe in coincidences. Case in point, Carla once commented that my new sunglasses reminded her of the Blues Brothers. Later that same day, Sid called to say she was renting the movie Blues Brothers and did I want to watch with her? When was the last time you even thought of the Blues Brothers, much less discussed them twice in one day? Total coincidence.

But larger events tended against happenstance. I thought it earlier, Ransom said it earlier, and now I couldn’t let it go. A priceless bauble stolen, a man shot, his wife killed. All within two days. Three terrible traumas, not three random anomalies. And might as well toss in Gilbert’s claims of harassment as a fourth. It’s all connected. It had to be. I wasn’t saying Bobby stole the egg, shot Gilbert, killed Jaime, and was now harassing him. Though, maybe why not Bobby? Where was he anyway?

And Mary-Louise Springer. I didn’t like that this Bonnie and Clyde duo were on the loose, but perhaps they were in Rio by now. While reassuring, it didn’t get Gilbert out of jail or solve my egg case.

Unless they lied and really did steal the egg. Just because Ransom didn’t find it, doesn’t mean I couldn’t. Now that’s motivation.

FIFTEEN

(Day #4: Monday Morning)

Since I missed out on the morning donuts, I swung through the Donut Hut myself. Right outside the gates to Oyster Cove Plantation, they made their dough fresh every day, and I swear the frosting on each donut contained half a stick of real butter. I ate in the parking lot while I figured out how to locate Mary-Louise. She was now my number one candidate for egg thief, even if she didn’t confess it to the police. Easier to snitch on your runaway boyfriend and blame him for everything.

The best place to start was Mary-Louise’s house. I didn’t know where she lived, but the island was small and without conspiracy theorists who were afraid to make their info public. I started with the obvious: the Google machine. Her address came up in less than ten seconds. I may not always use/enjoy/appreciate technology, but it was kind of like magic.

After a glimpse at the Sea Pine island map in my glove box, which was faster than GPS since I knew nearly every neighborhood on the island, I found her address on Bent Tree Road, off plantation, in a more rural part of the inland island. Marsh Grass Road split the island nearly in two, starting at Cabana Boulevard just north of Palmetto Plaza.

I took Marsh Grass about two miles, then went left on Bent Tree Road. It started as a lone drive, with overgrown oaks lined up in front of miles of marshland, tall thick grass forming a dark green prairie, before I entered a loose subdivision of tiny houses lined up on compact streets.

Mary-Louise’s was about four blocks in, a weathered white bungalow wedged between identical homes on each side. The yards were mostly overgrown, and I doubted a weed whacker had ever been wielded in this neighborhood.

I parked on the quiet street, a good block down from her house. Seemed as if most folks already went to work, as it was closing in on ten a.m. The air was thicker with humidity and higher heat so far from the ocean, and I could smell the briny scents coming off the salt marsh.

After a quick tuck of my phone and a pair of gloves into both pockets, I locked my car and moseyed on up the road over to the narrow drive. It was empty. No car or bicycle or other mode of transportation. The concrete on the walk up the porch was cracked, as was the porch itself. I pushed the round plastic doorbell and waited.

No answer.

The rusted screen door squeaked in protest when I opened it to knock on the front door, but again, no answer. And it was locked. I casually leaned to the left to glance inside the front window, but heavy sheers made it impossible to make out anything.

I surveyed the neighborhood from atop the porch. Still quiet, no sounds or traffic. Just an old white van parked at the curb three houses down and a lone dog barking, maybe from the block behind, but certainly not from Mary-Louise’s backyard.

There wasn’t an attached garage, but a wide wood fence wound around the side of the house, all the way to the back. I clunked through the gate, a splintered wreck barely hanging on to its metal latches, and shoved it shut behind me.

The dog kept barking, but now I could see the top of its red Irish Setter head as it tried to jump the fence directly behind Mary-Louise’s house. Boy, that guy could jump. The fence was about six feet high.

The rear area was squat. A patchy square of yellowing grass, a narrow slab of raised concrete. And by raised, I mean like five inches from the soil. Two white plastic Adirondack chairs were arbitrarily placed near the center and four terra cotta planter pots decorated the four corners, each with a wilted geranium inside.

The back door was locked, but the handle was cheap and rattley and was probably once a shiny gold. It looked like the push button kind. Not very secure. I rattled it and shook it, but it stayed locked. Curtains hung over the windows, pulled tight on the inside, so no peeking.

The sun was full up, and so was the heat index. Without a tree or a breeze or a patio umbrella in the backyard, I might as well have been standing on the surface of the sun. I wiped my forehead with a glove from my pocket. She had to have hidden a key back here. Everyone does. And lest the world think me an opportunistic burglar or crime scene wrecker, I was neither. With Mary-Louise on the lam, and the police already through the house, I was simply taking a quick looksee to see if I could find a clue for my own investigation.

I checked each of the geranium pots, scoring a brass key beneath the one closest to the door. In one quick twist, I was in. I placed it back under the pot so I wouldn’t forget and take it with me.

Wearing my gloves, I eased the door shut. It was dark and cool and smelled like old house: a mix of mold, heating oil, and aged paper. And the place was a mess. Clearly, Mary-Louise left in a hurry.

I could also see the results of the warrant-driven search. Drawers and cabinet doors not quite shut all the way, and everything looked slightly shifted, as if moved from its original spot. I looked inside each kitchen cabinet and the trash can and the refrigerator. No egg. She probably wouldn’t have tucked it inside the bologna drawer, but couldn’t hurt to look.

The back door opened into a galley kitchen with a two-seater vinyl dinette pushed into the right side wall. Three steps later and I was smack in the middle of the living room. Two doors opened from the left wall. A bedroom and a compact half bath.

I scoped the bath first. Just a sink and a toilet. No medicine cabinet or shelving, only a simple round red rug on the floor and a matching towel set on a bar behind the door. I checked my watch: been inside five minutes. I gave myself another ten, then I needed to get out of there.

The master, and only, bedroom was larger than I expected. The bed was made, a pretty pink and blue quilt set on top. A barely used recumbent bike sat in the far corner, dusty and neglected. I peered inside the closet. Only about a third full, all women’s clothes, mostly shoved in the back. The front part held about thirty empty wire hangers.

I took one minute to spy the master bath, but nothing much left behind. And what was left, was all female-oriented. No stray razor, cologne, after shave, sport deodorant, nose hair trimmer. No egg, either.

With only a handful of minutes left, I checked the living room. The cushions were already upset, so I figured the police probably found what was to be found, but I checked anyway. Lots of crumbs, but nothing else.

I tugged on all the carpets, nothing loose, and lightly pounded on the walls, nothing loose there, either. No hidden compartments or floor boards or mysterious staircases leading to secret rooms.

I saved the best for last. Her desk. A slim writing-type desk, pushed against the front window, between a curio cabinet and towering light fixture with ten lamp arms twisted in ten different directions.

The desk held a messy mix of miscellaneous papers (receipts, coupons, flyers, postie notes) and unopened bills. Guess she wasn’t worried about her credit score, since she rushed out without snatching up her mail.

And since the envelopes were all addressed to the house I was standing in, no need to jot anything down. No drawers to look inside either.

A glance to my watch told me I had about a minute left, and really, no other place to look. The curio held an interesting array of ceramic collectibles, mostly cats. Also a shiny pair of gnomes, a sparkly ballet dancer, a woven basket, a porcelain chicken, and at least a dozen other farm animals. An odd assortment that agitated my inner compulsive self. There was no symmetry. Two gnomes, a dancer and a chicken? How can she live in such disorder?

As I reached for the curio cabinet door, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I glanced through the dark sheers. A police cruiser. Oh shit.

I whirled around to run and slammed right into the sofa, going face first over the top. I rolled onto the floor, cracked my head on the coffee table, and scampered on all fours so fast, I’m not sure my knees ever touched the ground. In less than five seconds, I was outside, from curio to back door.

I quickly dusted off my pants, which were coated with about three years’ worth of dust bunnies, and shoved my gloves down the front of my pants. Didn’t want them in my pockets, in case they searched me. Not sure who would search me, but when you’re panicking, you’re panicking.

I started talking into my phone as I walked through the gate. “I’ll just leave a note on the front door,” I said as I hip-checked the gate back into place. And noticed my phone was upside down.

I righted it, then turned to see Deputy Prickle blocking my way down the drive. He pointed his finger at my face. “What are you doing on this property?”

“Oh, me? Looking for Mary-Louise. I thought maybe she was out gardening when she didn’t answer the front door,” I said and squirmed past him.

“You think we’d miss her coming back? Or maybe we searched the place all morning, but didn’t notice her gardening in the backyard?” He made an unmanly swervy move when he said “gardening.” “I know Lieutenant Ransom told you all about the search this morning. Including the part where Mary-Louise was not home.”

I spied the white van across the street. I thought I knew all their surveillance vehicles. The police must be watching the house, then called Prickle in when I didn’t come back up the drive.

“She might have been at the grocery or something,” I said. “No harm in me coming by to check.”

“You listen here. I won’t have you obstructing my case.”

“Your case? I thought this was Lieutenant Ransom’s case.”

“Police business is not your business.”

Uh-oh, back to the whole not-my-business routine. Time for me to leave.

I nodded and scurried down the drive. I put one step into the street when an old green Plymouth sped by, and I fell back on my butt.

“
Hey!
” I yelled, scrambling up and wiping gravel from my pants. I turned to Prickle. “Why not make
that
your business?”

He ignored me.

I stomped back to my car, waving to the white van as I passed. Tattletales.

I started up my Mini and zoomed away, following the same path the speeding old Plymouth took. The car looked familiar. I was sure I’d seen it recently, but I didn’t get a look at the driver. Though on an island, you ended up seeing every car at least once.

It hadn’t taken much time, but I still felt like I’d wasted the morning. I didn’t want to admit it, but I kind of expected to find the egg at Mary-Louise’s. Maybe hidden in plain sight. But unless it was disguised as a ceramic cat, it wasn’t there. So either she hid it better than I anticipated, or she didn’t steal it.

Who did that leave? Who else even knew Gilbert bought the egg? Jaime obviously knew, and Gilbert still considered her the only culprit. And she could’ve blabbed to her friends or her sister. Either they took it or knew where she put it.

I debated whom to call: Jaime’s sister or her friends? Did these people even know about Jaime’s death yet? It’d only been twenty-four hours. Though knowing the island gossip network, everyone probably knew. I bet even the third grade class at Sea Pine Elementary already heard the news and school hadn’t even started yet.

I pulled out the card Gilbert gave me with contact numbers and made a quick call to Miranda, Jaime’s best friend on the island, but she didn’t answer. I left her a short message, asking to call me as soon as she could.

Then I called Jaime’s sister, Judith Durant, the antique shop owner in Charleston. Also left a message, but made a mental note to drive out and see her. I was tired of leaving messages all over town and not getting any return calls.

I circled out of Mary-Louise’s neighborhood and back onto Marsh Grass Road. Might be able to find the egg faster than I thought. An antiques shop was an even better spot to hide a Fabergé egg in plain sight, especially one owned by her sister. And it wasn’t my only lead. Two other people definitely knew about the egg: the pawn broker and the antiques appraiser. They both saw it, held it, appraised it. And wanted it.

But maybe they didn’t want to pay for it.

Sounded like motive to me. I needed to stop in at the Big House for a quick check, then I could be back on the trail by mid-afternoon. For the first time all day, all weekend really, I was feeling pretty good. Gilbert may be in jail, but I had two solid leads. Things might actually start to come together.