Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (5 page)

FIVE

(Day #1: Friday Evening)

I longed to go home and tuck in for the three day weekend, but I still needed to pay Tug for my earlier lunch. If he happened to mention details from the shooting, well, I couldn’t stop him. I wasn’t purposely setting out to nose around the investigation, but come on, some guy almost shot me. Or would’ve if he wasn’t aiming straight at Gilbert.

I drove down Cabana to Washburn Lane, a short dead end street right before the Palmetto Bridge. I wasn’t halfway down before the street got crowded. Cars were parked on both dirt shoulders all the way to the water’s edge. I squeezed into the drive to Fisher’s Landing, and putt-putted the Mini around to the little lot which housed the trailer park’s entertainment complex: a squat park office with a miniature laundry mat slash game room, one tennis court, a swimming pool with a bbq pit, and Tug Boat Slim’s restaurant, located above the office.

The upside to having a car no larger than a go cart: the ability to park anywhere. I wiggled into a small area, half on the grass, half on the sidewalk. The line to Tug’s started at the base of the steps, wound through the bar, and ended on the back patio, where I found Tug setting up additional tables and plastic chairs.

“Hey Elli, you didn’t have to come back,” he said.

“I owe you twenty bucks.”

Tug rushed across the back deck and grabbed a stack of tablecloths. “Keep your money. I should pay you. We haven’t been this busy since we opened ten years ago.”

“Word travels fast.” I grabbed a handful of napkin-wrapped silverware setups and placed them on the tables.

“Oh yeah. A guy from the
Islander Post
came by, took a ton of pictures. He said he’s running a full page in Sunday’s paper.”

Tate Keating gets around. His story would dominate the
Post
’s front page and probably half the inside. I made a mental note to call him in the morning with a quote.

I arranged a pair of setups on a two-seater table near the deck’s railing. “Did you recognize the guy who shot Gilbert Goodsen? Maybe he’s been in before?”

“Nah. Not really. I’d been in the kitchen most of the morning. We signed up for a booth at the regatta tomorrow. We’re preparing our famous shrimp and grits. The shooter? He’s a guy in a cap to me. We get a dozen of them a week.”

I helped him layout the last additional table. “I hear you. Look, I better let you go. Even the marina is filled. Your take-out delivery guy may need roller skates.” Every slip was taken. Folks spilled out from the decks to the docks, eating, drinking, celebrating. Except one boat in the prime center spot. The
Tiger Shark
.

“Isn’t that Gilbert Goodsen’s boat?”

“Yeah. I let him take my slip. I went to the hospital to see how he was doing, we got to talking. My boat’s already in Key West, my winter dock. So I thought it’s the least I can do, let the guy take this slip for a while.” Tug gave a nod goodbye, then started seating guests.

I trotted down the back steps to the dock. The smoky smells of beef on the grill made my stomach growl in the most unladylike way, but I had one quick stop to make before I could head home for take-out.

I followed the dirt path that stretched from the office to the main road of the trailer section of Fisher’s Landing Trailer Park and Yacht Club. Down two spots to number three. Lola Carmichael sat out front of a long silver Airstream circa 1952. Actually, everything about Lola was circa 1952. She wore her dyed black hair in a beehive, a pair of rhinestone reading glasses, and more Bakelite accessories than a dime store jewelry department.

She was painting her nails when I walked up. Actually, I think she may have been gluing them on. “Hey Sugar, I need two shakes to finish this pinkie. This little sucker’s been giving me trouble for a half hour now.”

I sank into the aluminum beach chair next to her table. The stringent scents of nail glue and polish remover nearly made my eyes water.

Lola held her hand two feet from her face and squinted her eyes. “Perfect. Or perfect for now. Party at Tug’s and I’m puttin’ on the glitz. Can I getcha a cocktail? I made a fresh batch of Singapore Slings.”

“Thanks, Lola, but I can only stay a sec. Just wondering about the shooting up at Tug’s earlier. You hear about the guy in the cap?”

“Honey, all I’ve heard today is about that kid in the cap. I think it’s Bobby, over in the last row, closest to the highway. But what do I know? I never saw him, or anything, up at Tug’s today.”

“Seriously? The guy lives here?”

She waved her hand, letting the air dry her shiny red nails. “Sure sounds like him. Scruffy beard, always wearing that Cubs cap. I haven’t seen him today, though.”

I scrambled for my notebook out of my hipster. “What’s the guy’s name? Bobby?”

“Bobby Smith. But don’t worry about writing that down. I’ve got more ‘Smiths’ in this park than a Smith family reunion.” She carefully sipped what I assumed to be a Singapore Sling and leaned back in her bright yellow aluminum chair. “He rented one of my transient trailers, a beater for flopping. Paid six months in advance three months ago.”

I jotted it all down whether I needed to or not. I’d probably hear a version of this story fifteen times before Monday. But nice to hear it from the source first.

Her phone rang. A turquoise princess model sitting on the table with a mile of phone line hooked up from inside the trailer.

She picked up the line and I stood. “Uh-huh… yeah, sure, uh-huh… two shakes, sweetie,” she said, then hung up.

“Coin machine’s jammed again,” she said. “Don’t know what those kids do in there.”

“Think it’d be okay if I take a peek at Bobby’s trailer? Just a drive by?”

“Sure, honey, you go on. It’s the pink single at the end of row five. Can’t miss it. Has a giant flamingo in the front yard next to the parking pad.”

I decided to drive my car rather than walk. Even though I hadn’t ridden my bike in a week, I didn’t feel the need to make up for it with a walk through a trailer park at dinner time. The line at Tug’s had barely moved since I’d last seen it, and a couple in a golf cart were pleased as punch to take my illegal sidewalk spot as soon as I backed out.

Five minutes and two turns later, I rolled down the bumpy asphalt road known as Row Five. A mix of motor homes and trailers dotted the small street, with plenty of empty spaces in between. A pair of fuzzy poodles lazed under a palm near the end of the block. They watched me park in front of the pink flamingo. Highway sounds floated over a worn wooden fence. I couldn’t see Cabana Boulevard through the brush, but based on my wobbly sense of direction, it had to be about a hundred feet back through the pine scrub.

Pretty deserted at this end. Only the poodle house two pads to the north, no one across the way for at least six pads. No car in the carport. The trailer itself was a faded Pepto pink with awning poles, but no awning. Three rickety metal steps led to a front door without a screen.

I walked around the side, confident the place was vacant. Not much to see. Overgrown brush, wildflowers gone to seed, abandoned cinder blocks probably once used to hold up a car or part of the house. My stomach began to growl again so I decided dinner was much more important than wandering in the scrub around an old trailer.

I made a note about Bobby and his pink flophouse next to a big star reminding myself to call Corporal Parker in the morning. I may not have discovered anything helpful, but maybe the police did.

SIX

(Day #2: Saturday Morning)

I woke early Saturday and ate breakfast on my deck. Cereal and Pepsi, with my notebook for company. The sun was warm as morning joggers took to the sand for their daily burst of exercise, their soft rhythmic steps mixed with the low tide rumble as I tried to find rhythm in the egg case.

Jaime didn’t seem too concerned about Gilbert’s missing egg, or even his gunshot wound. Though I guess no one should look inside somebody else’s marriage. No way Gilbert told me the whole truth on the Fabergé egg. I always thought those things were worth millions, not a measly fifty grand. And I say measly in the context of a valuable Russian artifact, not my own finances. Both of the Goodsens wanted on the Ballantyne Board, and it didn’t seem right to help one rip off the other. Even if I didn’t know who was ripping off whom.

I dialed the Sea Pine Police station and Corporal Parker picked up on the second ring.

“If I pinkie swear I’m not at all interested in the shooting of Gilbert Goodsen, will you tell me if the shooter lived in the pink trailer at the back of Fisher’s Landing?”

“Nope. Not even if you cross your heart,” she said. “I’ve already been lectured by the Lieutenant this morning and have no plans for another round when he finds out I’m talking to you.”

“Parker, we’re friends. Besides, I’m not kidding about my complete disinterest in the shooting. I’m calling for an entirely different reason. This is an official Ballantyne discreet inquiry. And it counts toward my PI hours, so totally in the clear with the Lieutenant.” I scribbled a quick note about Ransom being bossy. “Have you had any reports of a stolen Fabergé egg recently? Or ever?”

“A Fabergé egg? Like from Russia?”

“Yes, exactly. I’m trying to mediate a minor marital property dispute and I want to make sure the egg I’m looking for isn’t stolen property. Or somebody else’s stolen property, anyway.” Ransom would pop out a peanut if I got involved in some kind of robbery ring. Not that I cared what he thought.

The sound of rapid finger taps filtered through the phone. “Nothing reported in South Carolina, but I can expand the search nationwide. May take a few days.”

“Thanks, Parker.”

“Sure. And Elliott, stay out of trouble. I’m sure this involves Gilbert Goodsen. If you stumble into the shooting investigation, even by accident, the Lieutenant will not be happy.”

I nodded to myself and clicked off. He might not be happy, but no sense worrying about that now. Our paths would cross and connect from time to time, and this was one of those times.

Next I called the hospital, but Gilbert had checked himself out the night before. I washed my dish and grabbed my hipster handbag.

Ransom’s sleek roadster wasn’t in the driveway next door, a cottage he purchased when he moved to the island. I think he had plans to build a big house on the beach with all the money he made from selling his social media stocks early on. Serving as the Lieutenant was his retirement plan.

I zipped out of the Oyster Cove gate with the top down and a hat on my head, heading south on Cabana Boulevard. Traffic was heavier than normal, but it was the last weekend of the official season. Visitors and residents had flooded the island for the final two events: an oyster tasting festival at the Coastal Seaquarium (which I was not attending, as I don’t eat seafood, especially the slimy raw kind) and a regatta later that afternoon (which I was attending at Mr. Ballantyne’s request).

But I wasn’t sure if the cars on the boulevard had slowed due to crowded traffic or because of the clothes that littered the streets. A mass of shirts and pants, ripped and burned, had been strewn in the oaks from mid-island to the traffic circle at Harborside, like a crop duster passed over head spilling laundry rather than pesticide.

I ran over a pair of running shoes and green socks as I turned onto Ocean Boulevard near the busiest beach on Sea Pine. I wound around a long drive to a parking lot in the back of a boxy three-story building. Two minutes later, I found the door marked Goodsen Insurance and walked inside.

A receptionist in her mid-twenties greeted me. Mary-Louise Springer as stated on a plastic nameplate at the edge of the desk. “May I help you?” She wore her long hair flat-iron straight and her eyes were red from crying. “I’m afraid we’re not really open today.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. Is Gilbert in?”

“You cheating bastard,” a man’s voice boomed from the closed door behind Mary-Louise and she jumped. “You can’t do this!” he yelled, then coughed and hacked for a solid ten seconds.

“Maybe you could come back on Monday, when we’re open,” Mary-Louise said. Her hands shook slightly as she fidgeted with a pen.

I didn’t budge.

The closed door swung open and two people emerged: a tall woman with her right hand wrapped around the thin wrist of a tiny old man. Like stick figure thin. “Come on, Dad, this isn’t helping,” she said softly.

He coughed and shuffled toward the door, his daughter more of a crutch than a guide.

“Listen, Peter, honest. I’d help if I could, but I can’t,” Gilbert said, following them to the door. His arm was in a white sling with a blue sleeve.

They didn’t look back or respond. Simply opened the door and shuffled out.

“Take care, Mr. Whitaker,” Mary-Louise whispered.

Gilbert ran his good hand through his hair. It stuck up on end as if it hadn’t been washed in three days. He still wore the same plaid shirt and seersucker shorts from the day before, but his socks were missing and he looked a little dazed. “I can’t give him what he wants. I honestly can’t.”

Gilbert noticed me standing there and brightened. “Did you find the egg? I told you Jaime liked you.”

“Why aren’t you in the hospital? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m not staying there like a sitting duck.”

“The shooter already stole your money, right? Is that what you’re thinking? Why would he come back?” I put my hands on my hips in my most intimidating posture. “What’s going on, Gilbert? Who is Bobby and why did he shoot you?”

“Bobby?” Gilbert grabbed my shoulder so fast, Mary-Louise yelped as if she’d been the one grabbed. “You know who shot me? Where is he? At the police station? How do I get it all back?”

“Calm down, Gilbert, I don’t know who Bobby is,” I said and wiggled out of his one-handed grasp. “Just a name I heard over at Fisher’s Landing. Might be nothing, might be everything. But if I’m going to help, I’m going to need the whole story.”

“What story? So you didn’t get the money? What about the egg? Did you talk to Jaime? Tell her I’d give her half the value? It’s all the cash I have now. Twenty-five g.”

“She was unimpressed.” I nodded toward the entrance. “And that? What did they want from you that you can’t give them?”

He looked over at the door, then back at me, deflating as the adrenaline surge from my Bobby revelation quickly seeped away.

“Oh, right, the Whitakers. His life insurance. He wants the payout back.”

At my confused look, he actually smiled. Not a thousand-watter or anything, but enough to bring his light back. “Viaticals. Come in my office. Come, come.”

Mary-Louise looked relieved when Gilbert’s spirit returned and she busied herself at her desk.

Gilbert’s office was about double the size of the outer reception area. Big oak desk in the center, two worn but sophisticated leather visitor chairs opposite. The carpet was metal gray and the walls were covered in man memorabilia. Pictures of Gilbert from his football days at Clemson. His old jersey, number eighty-three. A faded orange pennant with 1980 stitched in felt. Newspaper articles from the sports section. A photo of Gilbert and friends on his boat, the
Tiger Shark
. Fishing trophies and large reel mounted above his credenza.

“Sit, sit,” he said and gestured to one of the side chairs. He sat in the other. “Have you ever heard of viaticals?”

“Never.”

He smiled and clapped his hands. “Well, I’ve cornered the market for all of South Carolina. I’m looking at expanding to Georgia next year. Great stuff. When a guy buys life insurance, it’s usually for his family. An inheritance. But what if he wanted to use it for himself? Take a trip around the world or something, fulfill a lifelong dream? He’s paid the bill his whole life for a payout he’ll never see. Now he has an option.”

“Viaticals?”

“Yes! I simply buy his life insurance policy from him so he can enjoy his last days in luxury. He can spend the money on his family, while he’s still alive to use it.”

“For a fraction of the value, I’m assuming,” I said.

He waved me away. “A big fraction. It’s all fair. And legal. I give them a reduced payout now, they make me the beneficiary. It’s a win-win.”

“Mr. Whitaker didn’t act like a winner when he was here.”

“Yes, that’s an unfortunate situation. Peter Whitaker is dying. Fast. His family wants another payout from the life insurance so he can try a new treatment. But I don’t have the policy anymore. It’s complicated. We pay a fair amount, then flip the policy to an investor’s group. The deal is already done.”

“Was that his daughter?”

“Yeah, Kat Whitaker. A quiet gal. Spent the last three years of her life taking care of her dad,” he said, then leaned forward. “They were happy with the deal when they took it. Honest. They paid his medical bills and the first experimental treatment. And it worked, too. For a while…” He drifted off, then cleared his throat. “But anyway, you’re here to help me with the Fabergé egg.”

I made a mental note to talk to Mr. Ballantyne about the viaticals. Not sure if undercutting life insurance payouts was in line with a charitable foundation. “So the egg was stolen from here? May I see your safe?”

“Okay, well, here’s the thing,” he said and scooted out of his chair. He walked around to the front of the credenza along the side of the office. “I don’t have a safe, per se. More like a locked cabinet.”

He opened a low door on the left side and pulled out a felt lined leather tray. Several collectibles sat on top. A white porcelain box with a pink rose on the lid. A set of nesting dolls, un-nested. A silver spoon. Twin enamel thimbles. “This is all that’s left of my family’s Russian heritage. The beautiful turquoise Fabergé egg was the most valuable and sentimental.”

“And you kept it here because…”

“Because I knew Jaime would swipe it as soon as I left the house. Blackmail me for more money. And she did. I’m pretty quick. Got to get up early to beat me and all that.”

“Of all the things in your house, you only took this tray? I’ve seen your house, Gilbert. You have lots of valuable things.”

He coughed and stuck the tray back in the cabinet. “I may have stashed a few other items, but nothing as valuable as this. And this is the only one she’s taken. So far.”

I checked out the lock on the cabinet. Barely take a bobby pin to pop it. And that’s assuming he even locked it. It certainly wasn’t locked now–before or after he pulled out the tray.

“You know, Elliott. Jaime is being unreasonable. She won’t even let me near the house. She promised to deliver my clothes, so I could wear something clean, and she lied about that, too. Special delivery, my ass. Pardon my French.”

Uh-oh. He may have underestimated her anger. “Do you, by chance, have an extensive collection of Clemson sweatshirts?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I think they’re over on Ocean Boulevard.”

“What do you mean ‘on’ Ocean Boulevard?”

“Um, well. In the trees. The median. The bushes.”

“Son of a biscuit.” He whipped around his desk and tore out of the office, catching the doorjamb with his elbow in a loud thump. “Lock up, Mary-Louise. I may not be back.”

“You’re looking better,” I said to Mary-Louise and sat in the chair next to hers. “Have a rough morning?”

Her fingers shook and she dropped her pen on the floor. She laughed. “I’m so totally freaked out.” She bent to grab the pen, then almost fell out of her chair. “Over Jaime. You know the secretary always gets blamed in the divorce.”

“And there’s the thief with the gun.”

She went pale. “Yes. And him, too. Maybe Gilbert’s not so crazy.”

“You think Gilbert’s crazy?”

She busied herself shuffling papers from one pile on her desk to another. “Well, paranoid for sure. I love him to death, he’s the sweetest boss and friend, do anything for a client,” she said and sighed. “But he’s been down this road before. Now he tells me he’s getting hang-ups all the time, thinks someone’s following him. He’s been sneaking over to the library, like five times last week. Gilbert hates to read, but needed the phone bill to get a library card. Who does that?”

Someone trying to research in private, I thought. Find information on your own computer and it’s traceable. Go to the library and it’s anonymous.

“What can you tell me about this Fabergé egg?”

She pulled out a slim file from the cabinet behind her. “Been in the Goodsen family forever. I think Gilbert finally wanted to get insurance because of the divorce. He was so worried Jaime would take it. He got an appraisal, but she snatched the egg before he could insure it.” She tapped the file, but didn’t open it.

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Just kept tapping the file.

“Simple enough,” I said, then coughed. “Sorry. Do you think I could get a glass of water before I go?”

Mary-Louise smiled for the first time since I entered the office. “Sure, sure. Here, one second.” She hopped up and walked through a doorway on the other side of the office. Presumably a copy/coffee room.