Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (4 page)

FOUR

(Day #1: Friday Late Afternoon)

Gilbert and Jaime Goodsen lived in Sugar Hill Plantation, a sprawling gated community situated mid-island with a massive entrance off Cabana Boulevard. The security guard met my car as I slowed at the shack. He rambled out in full uniform, including a tan Smokey the Bear hat.

“I’m here for lunch at Molly’s by the Sea,” I lied.

Sugar Hill was a popular destination for temporary residents and visitors. With two resort hotels, six restaurants, three golf courses, tennis facilities and five miles of bike paths, there was something for everyone. Including me, who needed access to a resident’s house without calling ahead. Any old restaurant would do.

He tucked the pass in my dash and I sped down Sugar Hill Drive toward the Atlantic Ocean. I’d only been to the Goodsen’s once before, five years earlier for a meet and greet at their new house, and after only three wrong turns and one close call with a speeding golf cart, I parked the Mini in the Goodsen’s circular driveway. Right behind a slick silver Mercedes McLaren Roadster. Nick Ransom. Our cars resembled a brief pictorial of the convertible food chain. Both sporty and spectacular, but one priced four-hundred and fifty thousand dollars more than the other. Guess which was which.

The brick pavers in the drive were slightly cracked and enough pine needles to mulch a golf course littered the drive. The house looked quiet, abandoned. The windows were dark, and the Goodsens favored a pair of front doors with glass insets and sidelights, so I could see the entire front of the house all the way through to the lagoon in the backyard.

“See anything interesting?” Ransom said from behind me.

He was leaning against the front of his car. Feet crossed at the ankles, hand on the hood. His silky shirt pulled tight across his broad chest. His cologne floated over. Sandalwood and ginger, with a hint of Cuban tobacco.

Where did he come from? I thought. He’s a sneaky one, and I needed to remember that. I casually turned around and walked down the front steps. “Not looking, knocking. Doesn’t seem like she’s home.”

“It’s strange to see you here. Especially after we agreed just this morning you weren’t going to get involved with the Goodsens.”

“So you’re saying Jaime is involved in the shooting?”

“You look good, Red,” he said. “Your legs healed nicely.”

I had a small run in with a fire back in May during that first murder investigation. Turned out killers didn’t like to play nice, and both of my calves ended up in bandages.

Ransom’s gaze lingered on my legs and I was happy I remembered to shave. And put on clean shoes.

I smiled. “If you’re going to check out my body parts, you’re going to have to answer my questions. Give and take, remember?”

He laughed and put his hands up. “Just being friendly. I’m the law enforcement officer here. I’m the one who asks the questions.”

“Fine. Have it your way.” I walked past him to the path along the side of the house. Slim brick pavers in a herringbone shape directed me to a door, then the back gate.

“Lisbon, this isn’t a joke,” Ransom said from behind me. “This shooting has nothing to do with you or the Ballantyne.”

“I’m not here for the shooting, big shot. I’m here on a completely unrelated matter.”

The side of the house looked as quiet as the front. I turned to go back and noticed a plastic tray next to the door. Half filled with water and half with a brush. For scrubbing your shoes. I smiled. “Anyway, I was just leaving.”

He followed me to my car. “I like your new matchbox. You finally decided to part with the white one?”

After the discreet inquiry that turned into the incident which nearly cost me my life, I’d been rattled. So much so, that not once, but twice, I accidentally left the top down whilst working at the Big House, only to have major storms crop up and soak the interior. I took it as a sign of bad juju and traded it in for an almost new ice blue one. This time I got the turbo.

“I didn’t think I’d love it as much as the white one, but I do. Even more.” I checked my watch and opened the driver’s side door. “Gotta run.”

“What’s this ‘unrelated’ matter you’re handling?”

“Well, unlike you, I’m awfully cooperative, so I’ll share. It’s a marital dispute involving a Fabergé egg. I need to talk to Jaime. So, if you’ll excuse me.” I plopped into the seat and dug in my handbag for the key.

“You know where she is?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Good luck with your shooting. I have a very valuable heirloom to track down. A priceless Fabergé, not so easy to find. There’s the black market, international trade, smuggling rings…”

He leaned in close and studied my face. “It’s an egg. I think even you can handle an egg. Now where’s Mrs. Goodsen?”

“Only if you tell me what you know. And I can go with you.”

“What happened to ‘awfully cooperative?’”

“It’s a rolling scale. Based on your cooperative sharing. So what do you think?”

He rocked back on his heels. “Nope.”

“Okay, then. See you later.”

I slowly fiddled with my purse as if getting settled. I found the key, pushed it into the slot, and revved the engine. I checked my mirrors, adjusted the rearview using micro movements.

He tapped on my shoulder. “Fine. But I’m driving.”

Yes! I did a quick internal victory dance and parked the Mini on the street, then trotted over to his racer. He held the wing door for me as I slid into the snug seat. More Cuban tobacco and tanned leather. Memories flooded back and my skin began to tingle.

I pushed them aside. Business first. I needed Ransom to drive because we were headed to Haverhill Plantation. A residential encampment guarded by guards who took their positions seriously. As in no way I could talk my way past their united and armed front. But a man with a half-million dollar car and a shiny police badge could sail right through.

The engine hummed and purred as we rolled down Cabana Boulevard. “How do you know she’s at Haverhill?” he asked after I told him our destination.

“You underestimate my investigative abilities too quickly. Always judging me by the way I handled bloody wounds and germy situations. I’m every bit as skilled and determined as you, Nick Ransom.”

“Uh-huh. Then from one professional to another.”

“The scraper tray by the side door. It’s for cleaning your shoes after playing on clay courts. Jaime’s very big in the tennis scene. She hosts our annual Wimbledon party at the Big House in June.”

“Why play at Haverhill and not Sugar Hill where she lives?”

“They recruited her to their 4.0 division a couple years ago. Haverhill takes their tennis seriously.”

He slowed at the gate and the uniformed guard looked like a soldier defending the palace gates. I think his gun was bigger than Ransom’s. Literally, not a euphemism.

Ransom showed his credentials and the nice man wearing the nightstick and Glock issued a day pass. We followed the tree-lined road until it ended at Magnolia Drive. Large magnolias, crape myrtles and fat palms bermed both sides of the crossway. Homes across the street fronted a meandering waterway with over thirty-some acres of harbors winding around miniature residential islands.

I’d once visited a home in nearby Savannah. Very minimalist. Short, flat roof. Sleek, steel windows. Minor adornments. Modernist architecture.

These homes were the opposite of that. Over the top elegance with every possible ornate structural detail thrown in for good measure. Enormous columns, elaborate arches, oversized tile roofs, scrolling plaster niches, and a dozen other elements to make these estates feel at home as if perched on the Riviera.

We turned left and crossed two tiny bridges to reach the Haverhill Yacht Club, which also housed the Tennis Club and the Beach Club. Ransom pulled beneath the green awning of the porte cochere, parked the car, and showed his badge to the young man at the door. It’s so much easier to get around with one of those things.

The foyer resembled a large European hotel with pink marble floors and Tiffany glass skylights. We passed the restaurant, ballroom, card rooms, and entrance to the east and west wings leading to the locker rooms and lounge facilities.

“Where should we start? This place is huge,” Ransom said. He started down the west wing and I grabbed his arm.

“That badge only gets you through the door. No chance they’ll let you roam uninvited. Follow me, hot shot.”

I walked through the French doors to the outside patio. Café tables lined the long veranda. Women drank chilled cocktails and ate cheese from delicate plates while sitting in white Adirondack rockers overlooking a field of tennis courts.

I followed the path to the pro shop, adjacent to a pair of large tennis courts. Each had tall light posts and a short rack of benches. The stadium courts.

“Elliott, you finally taking lessons?” asked Jake, the resident tennis pro for Haverhill. He arranged a display of custom monogram tennis towels outside the pro shop door.

“The last time I played, Jake, you kindly asked me to leave the court for the safety of the spectators. Listen, is Jaime Goodsen around?”

“She’s finishing up on court fifteen. Fall doubles started and they’re going to States this year.”

I thanked him and led Ransom along the brick path between courts. Tall chain-link fences covered in custom covers bordered each one. The soft thwacks as rackets smacked balls accompanied us to the back of the complex. Jaime Goodsen and her partner were shaking hands with their opponents across the net.

Jaime was petite with spiky dark hair gone mostly gray and an athletic body Anna Kournikova would envy. I pointed her out to Ransom right when Jaime saw us and walked over with her doubles partner, Alicia Birnbaum.

“Is he dead?” Jaime asked with wry interest. She spun her racket in her hand.

“Miserly bastard should be,” Alicia said.

“Ladies,” Ransom said with a nod and a quick flash of his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Ransom with the Sea Pine Police, and I think you know Elliott Lisbon.”

I smiled sweetly.

“You realize those little plastic badges they hand out as souvenirs aren’t real,” Alicia said to me. She pulled off her visor and shook out her soft brown hair, then smiled up at Ransom. Another petite, athletic little dynamo. Man I hated sports. “But I bet yours is real,” she added.

“Yes, very real, and no, Mr. Goodsen is not dead. Minor wound to his upper right arm. Should be out of the hospital tomorrow.”

“That’s a shame,” Alicia said.

“Not a fan?” Ransom asked.

“He’s put Jaime through years of embarrassment, about time someone shot the asshole.”

“Are you confessing?” Ransom pulled out a slim notebook and started taking notes. “Or maybe an accomplice?”

“Hey, don’t look at me for this,” Jaime said. “I’ve been here the whole time. He frustrated the life out of me for twenty-seven years. He’s not getting another minute of my time.” She packed her racket into a soft bag with Babolat stitched on the side.

“I’m her alibi,” Alicia said. “We’ve been playing all day, since this morning. Two different leagues.”

“Look, I don’t want him dead, just out of my life,” Jaime added as she stuffed two white towels into the bag and stood. “And my house.”

“I hear you, Jaime,” I said, trying to get chummy. “Gil’s definitely quirky.”

Alicia stepped in front of Jaime. “Quirky? Why don’t you skip on back to your Big House and let the grown-ups do the talking.”

Jaime placed her hand on Alicia’s arm. “Gilbert’s a pain in the ass. An embarrassment, a letdown. I’ve waited and supported and spent two decades putting up with his hair-brained get-rich-any-minute ideas. I’m done. I did my best, now I’m out.”

I was losing her and fast. She and Alicia grabbed their tennis bags, and Ransom put away his notebook.

“Do you know where his egg might be? He’ll give you twenty-five thousand for it. Half the value,” I said as I followed them to the edge of the path.

She turned around and laughed. “The whole half, huh? Listen, if you want to be some kind of negotiator, more power to you. I admire the Ballantyne and the work you do—”

Alicia scoffed so loud I thought she might choke.

“—but I don’t want the egg or half the value, I want half the assets. Only what’s mine. Tell him that.”

I watched them walk down the path. Jaime may not have taken his egg, but she could’ve easily had him shot. And she couldn’t have been playing here all day. The tennis staff waters the courts between twelve and two. Standard procedure for every clay court. Maybe she went to lunch? Or maybe she paid some trailer park transient to pop her husband.

“Your eyes are spinning like pinwheels. Don’t get any ideas about my case,” Ransom said.

I put up both my hands. “No ideas. Simply enjoying the sunshine.”

“Mrs. Goodsen seemed friendly enough, but I think Alicia hates you.”

“Alicia?” The two women disappeared behind the courts and I plopped onto a bench. Fresh jasmine wafted over from the tree line and I breathed in the sweet soothing scent. “Yes, well, we had a mild disagreement a few years ago and she never got over it.”

Ransom joined me on the bench. “This I need to hear.”

“Alicia Birnbaum was elected Chair of the Haverhill Ladies Association the same year, the same month, I was promoted to Director of the Ballantyne. We’d known each other for a while, no surprise with the island being so small. And I may have accidentally dated the same guy she was dating at one point. Accidentally,” I repeated. “Not a competition.”

Ransom sat back and crossed his legs. His eyes crinkled with merriment as if watching a particularly juicy episode of Jerry Springer.

“Anyway, the Ballantyne board decided to host an Irish Spring beer tasting fundraiser the weekend before St. Patrick’s Day. You know Savannah boasts the second largest St. Paddy’s Day parade in the nation?”

He nodded. “Go on.”

I sighed. “Apparently, Alicia’s association was also planning a similar event. Same idea, same weekend. Of course, I contacted her to let her know of the conflict. It’s tough to host two events on the same weekend, there are only so many fundraising dollars to go around, not to mention the same exact theme.

“But she didn’t budge. Said I was welcome to postpone my own event in light of their already large guest list. But Mr. Ballantyne loved the idea, and a pre-St. Patrick’s Day Saturday night party pretty much narrows down the date to one night. So we carried on. Twenty micro-breweries and hobbyists set up tasting tables. Carla corralled ten local chefs into a corned-beef and cabbage cook-off. Two hundred guests and many tens of thousands of dollars later, Alicia’s party cancelled.”

“Sounds hardly memorable by your standards.”

“I’m not finished. Alicia turned up in the Big House backyard Zen garden, half-naked and making out with my date. Raising holy hell and uninvited. We may frown on the half-naked part, but crashing is totally unacceptable.”

“Did you throw her out?”

“God no. Vivi Ballantyne would be mortified if we threw someone out. Yet we can’t allow crashers or every party would be overrun. It’s a delicate balance. That’s where I really shine.”

He raised his brow. “Ah yes, I’ve witnessed your delicate touch. Like a bomb squad sergeant with a pair of tweezers and a flashlight. Let’s see, there was the food fight, the swimming pool incident, the handbag melee, the sidewalk tantrum…”

“Relax. Do you want to hear this or not?”

He grinned a big shiteater and patted me on the back. “Please.”

“Forget it,” I said and stood. “I can see my talents are unappreciated. You’d be smart to remember your underestimations of me haven’t turned out so well for you in the past.”

I stalked down the path toward the clubhouse and his shiny sports machine. I may have acted miffed, but I was relieved not to have to finish my story. It ended with a bucket of green beer thrown at my head and a green cupcake jammed down my blouse.

I planned on keeping a very close eye on Alicia Birnbaum.