Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (20 page)

TWENTY-THREE

(Day #6: Wednesday Morning)

Morning makes everything better. As do cupcakes for breakfast. In anticipation, I awoke before the crack of dawn. If half-past seven were the crack of dawn, which it was for a non-morning person like myself. In the spirit of Wonderland, I fancied a dress with dozens of wispy fluffy layers and applique flowers on the bodice. I topped it with pink ballet flats and a hat befitting a royal wedding or a Kentucky Derby.

With the stepladder from my kitchen closet, I climbed up to the ledge in the living room above my sofa, the one where I kept my collection of vintage toys. The left side held old games, from a
That Girl
board game to a pyramid of old lunchboxes. On the right, in the corner, Raggedy Ann and Andy sat at a squat table, enjoying a tea party.

I carefully took down the teapot, then a single cup and saucer. A series of intricate butterflies and dragonflies danced on the surface, painted by hand, by my mother, with a delicate touch and a tiny brush. I remember the day she painted it for me. I’d had the chickenpox and couldn’t go to my best friend’s birthday party. Real afternoon tea at a fancy hotel. I was devastated, but a teapot painted only for me made it all better. I’d always kept the tea set close. My parents weren’t “savers,” and I often feared it might get tossed into a donation bag.

I tucked the pretty pot and cup into a padded tote and drove to the Ballantyne.

The weather was script perfect. A bright sun, a Carolina blue sky, and a handful of fluffy white clouds drifting by.

The Big House was in the final flurries of set up. One crew fluffed the Moroccan pillow poufs, while another gently placed tea sets at over two-hundred fifty settings. An army of kitchen helpers in white chef coats put a pink chocolate place card on each plate.

Carla was still piping mini cupcakes as crews set up serving trays in the staging area. I snagged two and popped them in my mouth one after the other. Chocolate with raspberry buttercream frosting swirled high.

“Perfect, Carla, just perfect,” I said, my mouth full.

“Don’t touch these, they’re flawless. I saved you a plate of imperfections over there,” she said and nodded toward a silver platter balanced on a chair.

“You’re a dream,” I said and took another two from the platter, their frosting droopy, but just as tasty.

“Rough night?”

“Aren’t they all?”

A line of servers exited the house carrying huge round baskets with vintage medicine bottles stacked inside. Each filled with colorful liquid and marked “drink me” on a tag hanging by a string.

“Babies, I’m here!” Busy said. She wore a dreamy fairy dress with a crown of fresh flowers in her hair. “Are you ready for the surprise?” She clapped her hands like a little girl, so excited to finally share her secret.

Tod and Jane joined me on the patio, both properly hatted and dressed for a tea party. Even Jane was smiling. Sort of.

Busy held out a plate. “First take a petit four.”

She didn’t have to ask me twice. I selected one with a tiny flower on top. When we all held one in our hands, Busy told us to eat them.

“It tastes like chicken salad,” Jane said.

“It
is
chicken salad,” Busy said.

Creamy, smooth, with a crunch from the frosting, or really, the crushed cashews dyed and made to look like frosting.

Busy held out a different tray. “Now try a sandwich.”

I bit into a bite-sized prosciutto on pumpernickel, but it was really chocolate.

“Surprise! We reversed them! Cakes are sandwiches and sandwiches are cakes!” Busy said. “Isn’t it fantastic? Genius, fantastic?”

Jane licked her fingers. First her ring finger, then her index. “It would’ve been just as fantastic had I known.” She plucked another sandwich cake from the tray and walked away.

I hugged Busy, then Carla. “The kids will love them. Alice herself would’ve been delighted!” I, too, grabbed another sandwich cake and headed down to the lawn.

The gardener had dyed the pool water pink and set to floating dozens of peonies on lily pads. Ribbons adorned a wide topiary arch at the entrance to the party. A seven-piece Dixieland band decked out in red striped vests and straw boaters tuned their instruments and the set up crews started to disappear.

The press arrived first. Tate Keating tipped his newsboy cap and sauntered over to the centerpiece. A nine-foot topsy turvy cake with a tuxedoed white rabbit on top. Tate was quickly joined by the folks from the Savannah and Charleston papers. The Ballantyne’s Wonderland Tea would be the talk of all the lowcountry.

A large pocket watch hanging from a pole next to the cake struck eleven and the band started playing. Children, their parents, and their doctors all streamed onto the lawn. The children were shy at first, then started laughing and running, as if walking through the gates of Disneyland.

I made a mental note: next year we need a train!

“A wondrous Wonderland,” Zibby Archibald said. She wore two hats, one on top of another, her own nod toward topsy turvy, which matched smashingly with her Nemo-colored hair and gloves. One orange, one pink. And both inside out. If ever an event suited Zibby Archibald, the Wonderland Tea was it.

“You look fanciful, Zibby,” I said. “Thank you for being on the committee, it’s a perfect party.”

“I’m pleased as punch to participate! Oooh, the banjos are playing. I should’ve brought mine…” she said and hustled toward the crowd.

“You look lovely, Elli,” Matty said. He leaned down and kissed my cheek.

“Matty! You made it!” I said, then remembered he was bringing Nurse Elaine. I tried to fight my face from drooping at the thought. “Where’s your date? I was looking forward to seeing you both.”

He tilted his head toward the photographers at the cake table. Nurse Elaine was posing for Tate, holding the blue peacock pot from Judith’s shop, her arm tucked into a young doctor’s from Savannah.

“She traded up,” he said.

“Ouch,” I said. “Better career connections?”

“More money.”

“Ah.”

Applause went up and we turned to see the Ballantynes arrive on the top step beneath the arch. Mr. Ballantyne dapper in pinstripes and a plum velvet top hat over a foot tall; Mrs. Ballantyne in a lilac wide-brimmed beauty. They welcomed their guests, read a short passage from
Alice in Wonderland
, then strolled through the clusters of visitors, chatting with the children as much as the adults. They never had children of their own, though they treated me like a daughter, but adored kids of any age.

The band played and the children laughed and the sun shone. It was glorious. It was perfect. It was interrupted by crazy pants Gilbert Goodsen. Though pants was clearly used in metaphor.

He wore swim trunks.

And a tie on his head, like a bandana from an eighties aerobicize video.

“Elliott!”

He ran into the middle of the party, hands waving frantically. “
Help me!
”

The topsy turvy cake was directly in front of him. With visions of Gilbert colliding face first into it, I sprinted like an Olympian off a starting block and skidded into him.

The guests around us laughed, thinking it was part of the party, but when Gilbert said “car bomb,” smiles faded. I hugged Gilbert, my arms over both of his to hold them down, and said loudly, “Gilbert! You’re not due on stage for an hour.”

His face went blank.

I turned him around and stuck my arm in his, dragging him toward the pool and patio, away from the party. I spotted Tate out of the corner of my eye. He was running toward us fast, knees high, arms pumping, eyes wide. He looked like a cartoon.

I kept walking, pulling Gilbert with me. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m nearly dead, that’s what. I need that egg. Today. Now. They bombed my car! They’re going to kill me!”

That stopped me. “Who’s going to kill you? The attorney?”

Gilbert slapped his palms against his cheeks and left them there. He looked crazed and panicked and desperate.

Tate crossed under the arch, taking the steps up to the pool two at a time.

“Gilbert, honey, give me one minute and I’ll help you with everything,” I said calmly. “You go inside, okay?”

His eyes focused on me and he blinked.

“You know where my office is?”

He stared at me as Tate approached, then nodded. “The convertible Mini, right?”

“Yep, that’s my office. Parked out front. Hurry now and I’ll be right there.”

Tate snapped a quick picture of Gilbert scurrying away. “What a headline! Ballantyne Board Member Bombs Wonderland Tea.”

“What are you talking about, Tate?” I said. “There’s no bomb here.”

“I heard bomb, Elliott, and that sells papers.”

“Good to hear you care about safety first.”

I needed a minute to think and I didn’t have one. Tate’s headline would undermine the entire event before tea had even been served.

A little girl in a big hat waved to me from the arch. I waved back and brought Tate over to meet her.

“Abby, sweetie, look at how pretty you are.”

“I’m Alice at Wonderland,” she said. “We’re having a tea party. With a rabbit. And a cat. My mama said I could eat dessert first today.”

“Well, then so will I!” I said. “Abby, please meet Tate Keating. He’s a reporter with the newspaper.”

Abby pointed at his camera. “You wanna take my picture? Do you like my hat? I put the ribbons in a bow under my chin. Mama said that’s how Alice would do it.” Abby twirled around and her hat wobbled and teetered on her head while she giggled.

“But it’s too big for you,” Tate said.

“Yeah, that’s because I don’t have hair. See?” She tipped it back to show the top of her head. Only a handful of wispy strands remained. She wiggled her hat again. “The bow keeps it in place.”

“It’s perfect,” I said. “Did you see the band? They have a banjo!”

“A banjo? What’s that?”

I pointed to Zibby plucking on the strings of one, wedged between the Dixieland members and the crowd. “Run over there by Dr. Hannah and she’ll show you.”

“I want a banjo!” Abby said as she ran toward the lively music.

“Tate, that’s your story today,” I said. “Abby is six years old and she won’t live to see Christmas this year.”

“But she looks so happy.”

“Her parents took her off treatment last month. She was so ill, and it wasn’t working. They wanted her to have fun again. Run again, laugh again. If only for a month or two.”

He watched Abby a moment, then slowly surveyed the crowd. It looked as if he understood, really understood, who our guests were.

“You have two stories to choose from today: A distressed patron whose grief is causing a minor meltdown, or a child whose last days are spent playing dress up. She deserves the spotlight, Tate. They all do. With the right mix of emotion and exposure, you’ll touch the hearts of your readership. They’ll donate to the hospital to provide more programs like this one.”

Tate nodded, sadness clear on his face. “I get it. I’ll delete the photo of Goodsen. But I’ll be tracking him down tomorrow.”

“His wife’s funeral is tomorrow.”

“You’re all sunshine and rainbows today, Elliott. Lighten up, it’s a party,” Tate said and walked away.

I spotted Matty talking with Tod near the elephant family topiaries. “I’m sorry, Matty, but I’ve got to go. Gilbert’s yelling about a car bomb. I’ve got to get him out of here.”

“Is
that what Tate Keating was racing for?” Matty asked.

“Yep, but that’s handled. He’s now writing a piece on the children.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Tod said.

“Maybe I’ll see you later?” Matty asked me.

“I’d love to,” I said. “Will you find Sid for me, tell her I had to go?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Oh, Tod, one last favor. Will you tell Miranda Gaines we’ll hold a special luncheon in Jaime’s honor next week? I told her mahj group we would say something nice about Jaime here, but I don’t think it’s the right place.”

“Agreed. I saw her arrive a few minutes ago. Be careful getting out of here, the Ballantyne’s are back near the front,” Tod said.

“Cover me.” The last thing I needed was to get delayed. The way Gilbert was spiraling out of control, he might next run through the party naked.

I snuck across the garden, through the Big House, and out to the Mini, which was parked under the porte cochere.

Gilbert sat in the passenger seat, head in his hands, weeping.

“Hey Gil, you okay? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Visitation is today. The viewing is tonight. The funeral is tomorrow.” He lifted his head, tears on his cheeks. “My Smart Car is no more. Neither is Jaime.”

“Where’s your car?” I asked gently.

“Home. In the driveway.”

“It exploded? From a car bomb?”

“It’s going to. I heard the clicks and the car wouldn’t start.”

“And how do you get from that to a bomb?”

He waved me away. “I’ve seen enough movies to know how this works. I took a chance the seat wasn’t a pressure trigger and ran like hell.”

I nodded at his quick thinking. “Was it charged?”

“The bomb?”

“The car.”

“Charged?”

“It’s electric.”

“Stop making fun of me!” He shook his fist at me, up near my face. “It’s not a golf cart, it’s a real car!”

I placed a calming hand on his forearm and lowered it. “I know it’s a real car. An electric one. That’s what the big plug symbol means, the one on the side.”

“Well, I can’t go see Jaime alone. I can’t. Please. Please go with me. Please go with me. Please. Please go–”

“Of course I’ll go. What time tonight?”

“
Tonight?! We can’t wait for tonight!
” He grabbed my hand. “Oh Elliott, you have to help me. We have to go now. I was already supposed to be there when I discovered the bomb.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “No one’s there with her.”

Sounds of the children laughing and the band playing and the giant clock ticking drifted from the back of the Big House. They didn’t need me. But Gilbert did. The best thing would be to help him, not worry he’d distract from the children’s merriment.

“Okay, but we need to get you changed. You cannot go to your wife’s visitation wearing swim trunks.”

“I don’t have anything left,” he said, still whispering.

“I got this,” I said and opened the car door.

Tod’s haunted office included a hidden closet behind the hat rack in the corner behind the door. I tapped along the panel until it popped open. Two sets of black pants and crisp white shirts hung inside. No ties, no belts, no shoes. Gilbert’s rubber flip-flops would have to do.

He put on the pants and the legs were approximately four feet too long. I rolled them up until they hit the top of his feet.

“That looks ridiculous,” Gilbert said, the tie still tied around his head.

“I think it’s very chic. Hip, even.”

He perked up one notch. “You think I look like a hipster? I knew I could pull it off. Maybe I should add it to Gil-animals.”

I agreed and led him back to the Mini and got us out of there before someone caught us. And by someone, I meant Tod. He might literally drop down dead if he saw Gilbert in his Dolce & Gabbana pants with the bottoms rolled up.

Once we hit Cabana Boulevard, Gilbert seemed to have calmed down some. He kept fiddling with the hand pump to make his seat rise higher.

“Tell me about the insurance fraud with Dr. Locke,” I asked.

“What?” he asked, all innocent as if he’d never heard such an outrageous claim against his person in all his life. The same reaction he gave when I asked about faking an insurance policy for the egg. I should’ve known then he was up to something.

“I’m an investigator. I investigate. Sometimes I discover things I wish I hadn’t. Can’t un-ring the bell, Gil.”

“I know not what you speak.”

“Here’s a hint: You’re supposed to meet Dr. Locke today to ‘fix it.’”

“Oh shit!” He checked both wrists, presumably for the watch he wasn’t wearing.

“Oh shit, indeed. Augustus Boxleitner, Carmine Dolittle, Everest Franken? Those are the most made-up names I’ve ever heard. Everest?”

“It was supposed to be Everett.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s all a misunderstanding.”

“I don’t think the police will think that.”

He grabbed my arm with both hands and squeezed. “You can’t rat me out. We have privilege. I’m your client. What we say can’t be used against me.”

I pried his fingers from my flesh. “There is so much wrong with that and none of it applies. I can’t ignore what I found out.”

He went to grab me again, then pulled back. He sat defeated, staring out the window.

“Maybe I can help,” I said. “Tell me the misunderstanding.”

“The viaticals were going strong, real strong. We signed up two, three clients. Made our money back, plus some. But it’s hard to find dying people and convince them to sell me their insurance. You’d think everyone would do it.”