Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (21 page)

“You’d think.”

“So we thought, why not make up our own clients?”

“Because it’s insurance fraud?”

“It didn’t seem so at the time. I filed the policies, but immediately regretted it. I’m not a criminal. But the paperwork is in limbo. Mary-Louise was supposed to help me track it down and cancel it, but then this all happened,” he said with an arm wave.

“Won’t it look suspicious to rescind twelve policies at once?”

“I’m not crazy. I only filed two, Augustus and Carmine. But nothing’s going to happen with them, I swear. We aren’t filing claims. I’m canceling the policy. I didn’t commit fraud.”

Except for the initial filing, I thought. Pretty sure that counts.

We rode in silence for the last mile to Bennett’s Funeral Home. It was located mid-island, a long winding drive off Cabana Boulevard, wedged between two construction trailers. I turned onto the narrow lane, following it about a quarter-mile to the marsh. A short white building resembling a wide ranch home sat to the side with a black hearse beneath a long black awning. Parking was scarce, nearly every slot taken. So much for Jaime being alone. I found a spot close to the side door, almost on the grass, and we walked inside.

About a dozen people milled in the entry, all speaking in hushed tones. Two sets of double doors were open, each with a spray of flowers at their entries. A small digital sign, as big as an iPad, was placed near each set of flowers. The right said WHITAKER, the left said GOODSEN.

Alicia Birnbaum stood in the middle, shaking hands with a young couple. She saw me. I nodded at her, she nodded at me.

Then she saw Gilbert.

She ripped her hand from the lady shaking it and stormed toward us.

“How dare you show up here,” she said to Gilbert.

“She’s my wife!” Gilbert said.

“You mur—”

“Alicia, darling,” I interrupted and engulfed her in a hug. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, I, okay,” she said.

I pushed her and Gilbert away from the crowd. I saw a closed door and quickly twisted the handle, herding them both inside.

It was a quiet space adjacent to the other viewing room, filled with dark furniture and formal parlor chairs, and it smelled like lilies and sorrow.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Alicia asked.

“She was my wife,” Gilbert said. “I loved her.”

“You killed her.”

“Whoa,” I said and held my hands up to both of them. “Knock it off.”

“You don’t tell me—” Alicia said.

“I do today,” I said. “You two can’t act like that out there. I know you want to lash out, assign blame, be the one who hurts the most. But if you do, you take away from Jaime. Everyone will watch and gossip and blab every detail they heard.”

They both stood rigid. Sad, but rigid.

I touched Gilbert’s arm. “Let the focus be on Jaime.” Then I turned to Alicia. “Let people pay their respects to your friend. Let her rest in peace.”

Alicia stared me down, processing, eyeballing my overly fanciful dress. She nodded and left.

Gil hugged me tight, then left.

I stayed in the small anteroom.

I hadn’t been inside a viewing room since my father’s death twenty years earlier. I could handle the lobby and the side rooms, but I wasn’t going to enter the funeral room.

Quiet voices carried through the walls, like soft music in the background. I sat in one of the parlor chairs. Even though Gilbert needed to meet Dr. Locke later, I wasn’t sure how long he wanted to stay at the funeral home. Or how long his truce with Alicia might hold up.

Something Alicia said the day before rattled around in my head, but I couldn’t shake it loose. I felt as if I’d let a clue slink by and it made my brain itch. I replayed what I could remember of our conversation in my head, but the slinky clue eluded me. I sighed in frustration.

A stack of bulletins sat on the side table. I picked one up. It was nicer than the usual two-pager. Several sheets had been inserted, an array of family photos printed on fine paper. They looked professional, but still candids. Must have an amateur photographer in the family because these definitely weren’t cellphone shots.

I flipped to the last page. A lovely obituary for Peter Whitaker. Survived by his son, Alexei, and his daughter, Ekaterina. Must be long for Kat. I remembered them both from the hospital morgue viewing lounge. Peter’s wife, Galina was a Russian ballerina. As was his mother, who married an American. Russia always made me think of cold. Snowy, blizzardy
Doctor Zhivago
cold. Though Lara was a nurse, not a ballerina.

A ballerina! Something popped into place and I jumped up, a hot flash racing from my knees to my scalp. “Holy shit,” I said just as the door opened and Mr. Whitaker’s son, Alex, walked in.

He looked at me politely, considering I stood there sweating, cursing, and gripping his late father’s obit.

The back of my neck burned hotter in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said and hurried out.

I rushed to the door, barely noticing the people in the lobby, then sprinted to the Mini. Took two minutes to hit Cabana Boulevard, another five had me racing down Marsh Grass Road. Theories in my head struggled, twisted, and clicked, trying to fit together like colors on a Rubik’s Cube.

Peter Whitaker was Gilbert’s client. It was his Fabergé egg. Peter’s wife and mother were both from Russia. Which was where the original Fabergé eggs hailed from. Was Gilbert’s egg a real Russian Fabergé egg?

I shook my head. Figure that out later, I told myself. Keep working the theory.

Peter sold his egg to Gilbert. He was desperate for money. Probably after Gilbert bought his life insurance. That much Gilbert told me. He even said it wasn’t enough money for another experimental treatment. So Peter sold his most valuable possession and needed it sold quickly. Hence the pawn parlor, local antique shop, and Gilbert the viatical king.

I turned onto Bent Tree, slowing my speed as I followed the overgrown road.

Peter’s wife and mother weren’t just Russian, though. They were ballerinas. And I knew where there was a sparkly ballerina figurine: Mary-Louise’s curio cabinet. I was betting those sparkles weren’t crystals, they were diamonds. Stick that tiny dancer back into the egg and it’s worth millions.

But Peter couldn’t have known or he wouldn’t have sold it for fifty thousand dollars, fast cash or not. The ballerina figurine probably got separated from the egg years ago. A little girl playing with her miniature ballerina, didn’t put it back where it belonged. A generation later, no one remembered it was a set.

Peter gets the egg appraised, separate from his tray of trinkets. It’s valuable, sure, but not seven-figures-possibly-real-Fabergé valuable. Not get-as-much-medical-treatment-as-you-need valuable. Not kill-to-own-it valuable.

I arrived in Mary-Louise’s neighborhood and parked one street over from her house, about halfway down the block. I casually walked to the corner and peeked down Mary-Louise’s street.

The white police surveillance van was still parked at the curb, several houses down from Mary-Louise’s.

I walked back to my car and called Mary-Louise. Voicemail. I left a quick message saying I could help her with the police, I just needed five minutes inside her house, did she mind? Next I called Parker, but hung up before she answered. What would I say? I think I found the missing surprise for the egg, even though no one knew it was missing and I don’t have the egg, but it still might lead to whoever really killed Jaime, though I don’t know how. Or why. Or who.

I counted houses until I found the one that backed to Mary-Louise’s house, maybe six or seven down. A dog started to bark in the window. A red Irish Setter. Same as the dog who tried to jump the fence the last time I was here. And since he was inside, his owners probably weren’t home. No cars in the drive, middle of the day, the street quiet.

The two single car garages backed up to each other with only a wood fence dividing them. I hurried up the drive and squeezed into the space between the side fence and the garage. I took another look around. A peaceful afternoon. Only the brackish smell of the marshlands and freshly cut grass.

I peeked over the fence on tiptoes. Mary-Louise’s driveway was also empty, and her gate was closed, blocking any view to the street in front of her house.

The Irish Setter barked his head off and startled the crap out of me. His face took up the entire window space not twenty inches away. Man, that house was close to the fence. My heart hammered in my chest and I tried to wave him off. It didn’t work. If possible, he barked louder.

I grabbed the top of the fence and hoisted myself over. It was easy enough, but I landed in a similar tight space and the damn dog kept barking. I hurried into Mary-Louise’s backyard and grabbed the key from beneath the geranium pot.

Her house felt empty. Undisturbed dust and the scent of abandonment. The floor creaked, something I didn’t remember. Maybe knowing the police were watching made me more observant.

Afternoon sunlight barely filtered through the heavy sheers of the front window. I approached the curio. The door opened with a tiny squeak. The sparkly ballet dancer was right where I remembered, between the gnome and the chicken. I lifted her out for a closer look. Delicately made with jewel-encrusted slippers and a tiara, most assuredly diamonds. She looked like she belonged in a royal music box. Or a multi-million dollar egg.

The floor board creaked. I turned to see a blur as Alex Whitaker rammed into me. I bounced off the curio, the sharp frame corner stabbed my back and I fell face first. The little dancer rolled under the sofa.

I scrambled across the floor, trying to gain traction on the thin carpet. My feet got tangled in my fluffy dress.

“Let me have her!” Alex Whitaker screamed. “Give her back!” His voice loud and hot and familiar. The man who attacked me in Jaime’s closet, I thought.

He punched at my shoulders, finally grabbing one and wrenched me onto my back. He put his hands on my throat and squeezed.

I tried to scream, but no air or sound escaped from his grip. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

“
Where is she?
” He yelled and squeezed.

I flailed at him, punching, kicking, scratching his hands around my throat.

“You killed him! I could’ve saved him!” He was nearly hysterical. He leaned down closer to me. “You killed my father!”

I grabbed his hair and pulled with everything I had. He looked surprised. He loosened his grip. I punched him in the throat. Hard. He fell back, coughing. Sputtering.

I kicked him off me and scrambled up. I grabbed the edge of the curio cabinet and slammed it down on top of him.

He screamed. The glass crashed and broke. Thin shards scattered, the heavy wood frame knocked into his face.

I ran.

I slipped on the carpet, stumbling toward the door. It flung open and I ran straight into the arms of Officer Prickle.

Twenty minutes later, I sat on Mary-Louise’s back porch in one of her dirty plastic Adirondack chairs, my hands handcuffed in my lap. A paramedic finished treating a cut near my eye. It stung like nobody’s business.

A steady stream of police personnel, technicians and medical staff traveled between the gate and the house. Ransom and Parker were the last to arrive.

“Elliott,” Ransom said. His face held no expression, but I saw worry in his eyes. He gently took my hands in his. He stroked my fingers. “You okay?”

Two medics wheeled Alex out of the house on a gurney, his hands handcuffed to the rail. I looked away. “I am now.”

He touched my face. “How does this happen to you?”

I snort-laughed. “I was just thinking that. How come I keep getting beat up on cases, but you and Parker never do?”

“We carry guns,” Parker said, then went in the house.

“Don’t even think it,” Ransom said.

“The director of the prestigious Ballantyne Foundation does not carry a gun. This isn’t Texas, for shit’s sake. Though a mace canister probably isn’t a bad idea.” I lifted the handcuffs. “Can you take these off now?”

“Hey, Prickle,” Ransom called and stood. “Explain,” he added when Prickle ambled out the back door.

“Surveillance saw her partner enter the fugitive’s house and called for backup. When I arrived, these two were assaulting one another, probably a fight over splitting the loot. She was escaping when I came on scene.”

Ransom looked at me and mouthed, “loot?”

“Alex Whitaker is not my partner. He assaulted
me
when
he
broke in. I had permission from the homeowner.”

“Fugitive,” Prickle said.

“Fugitive or not, she still owns the house. Alex must have followed me from the funeral home. Somehow he knew I’d figured it all out from the program in my hand. Or the look on my face. You’ll have to ask him for the entire story, but my nutshell…” I looked down at my handcuffs, thinking how to word things while keeping Gilbert Goodsen in a positive light.

I left out the viaticals, both the legal and the maybe fraud kind, and told them my theory.

“Alex must have figured out the ballerina trinket his father sold actually belonged inside the missing Fabergé egg. Between him and his father and Gilbert, a lot of appraisers and Google searches were involved.”

I could practically feel Officer Prickle’s skepticism, but I chose to ignore it and spoke to Ransom instead.

“Alex Whitaker’s been frantically searching for the figurine. He called the ballerina a ‘her’ and I thought he meant Jaime when he said he wanted her back that night in the closet. He didn’t want Jaime back, he wanted the ballerina. He was desperate. He attacked me at Jaime’s house searching for it, most likely killed her on Gilbert’s boat searching for it. Almost killed me here for it. But he never got his hands on it.”

“So you found the egg?” Ransom asked.

“Nope, but I found the ballerina. Inside, under the sofa.”