Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (24 page)

He gripped my other arm and pulled me closer. “Jesus, Elliott, why didn’t you tell me about that damn red car?”

I wrenched my arms from his grasp, twisting and flinging until I was free. “I didn’t know you didn’t know,” I said indignantly. “Mrs. Jones said she spoke with Parker and told her all about it. After the stunt you pulled in Savannah at the hotel, I see no reason to run to you with every little thing I find out, especially since I specifically asked Mrs. Jones if she passed her observations along to the police.”

Ransom’s scowl relaxed to a tightlipped frown.

“See, I can tell you already know all this, so you have no reason to scold me.”

“Really? Why are you here? Stealing wine seems a little petty.”

“Why are you here? Trouble getting your own information?”

“Tell me or I’ll arrest you.”

I wiped my sweaty hands on my skirt. I didn’t want to share all my good information, but clearly I had to tell him something. I was standing in the wine cellar of a house I may have entered illegally. But I used a key in the door, not a brick through the window. That had to be worth something. “Have you heard of wine futures?”

“Wine futures?”

“Yes, where you buy wine before it’s bottled.”

“I know what they are, but I don’t understand the connection.”

“It’s a little hazy. Chas was furious yesterday at the Delafield House, screaming at Jane for ruining his wine cellar expansion which was initially caused by Leo backing out of the new Buffalo Bill’s development. He found out the night Leo was murdered and somehow wine futures figure into this mess.”

“That’s it?”

“I said it was hazy.”

“What else haven’t you told me?”

I thought about Milo’s poker game, my slashed tires, and Leo’s missing money. I shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing, really. I’m sure you’re way ahead of me.”

He narrowed his eyes at me and opened his mouth to speak just as another door slammed.

I jumped back and cracked my elbow on the redwood wall. Vibrations rattled down to my fingers.

Ransom pushed me into the row I hid behind earlier, but I knew we’d both never fit. I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the last row. We wedged in face to face next to a line of upright wine bottles. Ransom smelled like his cologne, sandalwood and ginger and Cuban tobacco. I breathed through my mouth.

I only heard snippets, but the Obermeyers were clearly in a fight and the Mrs. did not want to wait in the car.

“…we couldn’t stop at the store, Chas, and had to drive all the way home,” a female voice hollered. The soft clicking of her heels grew louder.

“How can I get investors if I’m not using my own wine cellar?” Chas called back, his voice closer.

I gasped. Ransom covered my mouth with his hand. I couldn’t breathe. I inhaled slowly, adding leather to the list of scents clinging to Nick Ransom. His entire body pressed against mine. You couldn’t fit a stick of gum between us. I clutched his shirt in my fists for balance. I didn’t want to press into Ransom, but I also didn’t want to lean on the wall of wine and have it topple over and crush Chas. I wiggled forward away from the beam.

Our eyes locked. He gently slid his hand from my mouth, skimming down to my neck. He could feel my pulse. Hell, I could feel my pulse. It rattled my teeth with the force of rocket booster.

“I’ll just grab the Insignia,” Chas said. He was at the door.

My eyes jumped to the right where a dark wine bottle stood upright. It had a burgundy and gold label. Joseph Phelps, 1997. “Insignia” typed in gold in a tight black box. My eyes widened as big as dinner plates.

“No, Chas. The Fumé Blanc, the one from Dry Creek. She’s serving scallops,” his wife said from the doorway.

I held my breath while Chas selected a bottle from the other side of the cellar. I released the fistfuls of Ransom’s shirt and spread my hands on his chest. I was becoming more nervous about Ransom’s fingers on my skin than Chas rummaging around behind us.

I let out a jagged sigh as the clicking of footsteps faded on the hardwood floors. A door shut in another part of the house and we were left in silence.

Ransom and I remained locked together.

“You changed your hair,” he finally said. “I like it, it’s softer, more…”

“Flat? It was the eighties. Big was in.” He was staring down at me. His eyes were so very blue. And dark. And steely.

Uh-oh. I recognized that look. It had been twenty years, but my nerves were humming all the same. We had this encounter earlier in the library at the Big House, the one that started with this look and ended with his hand up my dress.

I gulped. “Listen,” I whispered. “What, um, are we doing?”

“Reliving my favorite memory.”

I squirmed to make room and ended up rubbing against him. He froze.

“Feels like there’s more to it,” I said.

“There’s always more to it,” he whispered. He leaned forward and kissed me. It was strong, hard, and full of electricity. I reacted as if jolted by a taser and the fire spread quickly. His hand was under my blouse seconds later, around my back, quickly slipping beneath my waistband.

Man, he felt good. If there had been more room, I would’ve jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. Instead I whacked my head on a beam of redwood and nearly bit his lip.

He slowly pulled back. He ran his hand through his hair, then cracked his elbow on a wine slot.

I ducked out of the tight space. I smoothed my blouse and turned to face him.

“I’m sorry, Red, I can’t do this,” he said. He straightened his shirt. The second button down was missing. I think I’d ripped it off. “I’m supposed to be at my own dinner party right now.”

I didn’t know if he was sorry he kissed me or sorry we couldn’t continue. “Why are you here? Were you following me or do you have something on Chas?”

“You,” he said. “I’m here for you. Cherry said you were on your way over to the hospital, so I waited, then followed you here. Why would I follow Chas?”

I walked back to our tiny hideout and handed him one of the Insignia bottles. “That’s the wine from Leo’s study. The night he was murdered.”

Ransom stared at the label. “Interesting, but it doesn’t prove anything. Other than the cork’s probably dried out from the bottle standing upright. There were probably a thousand bottles of this wine sold.”

“Yes, but a remarkable coincidence. Did you find any fingerprints on Leo’s bottle?” It felt surreal to be having this conversation after two minutes of debauchery behind the wine rack. Especially since my lip gloss was now evenly distributed between my lips and his.

He shook his head. “No, none. The bottle was wiped clean.”

Ransom followed the killer’s lead and wiped the bottle with his shirt after he set it back on the shelf. He also wiped the cellar doors after we closed them, and the door handles when we left through the side door.

I replaced the rock (Ransom wiped that, too), retrieved my clipboard from the hydrangea, and we walked to our cars. His was parked right behind mine. Like a shark about to eat a guppy.

“I really have to go,” he said as he opened my car door. “I’ve already kept Reena waiting too long.”

Right, Reena. Now I didn’t feel so bad about his glossy lips. I started my car and shifted into drive.

“Stay out of trouble, Red. And other people’s houses.”

“You do the same,” I said and sped down the street. It would’ve been way more dramatic if I didn’t have to circle around the cul de sac and pass him again.

TWENTY-FOUR

I spent a quiet night at home with take-out from Fiesta Cantina. I ate taquitos and watched the sun go down from the deck. I tried to sort out Matty’s kiss, Ransom’s kiss, my slashed tires, the battle of the Delafield House, and the case of the coincidental wine bottle. But my brain was gum and I decided to read Sue Grafton instead. Kinsey Millhone always catches her killer one way or another. That gave me hope and by morning I was ready to face something even bigger than the Hirschorn investigation: The Ballantynes were coming home to the Big House.

As I rode my bike to work, I heard the steely roar of the Ballantyne jet overhead, approaching the landing strip. With the airport less than a mile away, and only ten flights a day, it’s pretty easy to figure out someone’s arrival. The day was sunny and bright with high wispy clouds sailing across the sky, but a storm was rolling in for tomorrow. As long as it didn’t hit before nine tonight, I didn’t care if it rained for a week.

I stashed my hipster in my office and scooted out the front steps where Tod was already waiting.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I work here. You often abuse my services, overask for favors, interrupt my workday…”

“Shouldn’t you be picking up the Ballantynes at the airport?”

“I dropped off the car early this morning. They’re bringing guests, remember? The nice couple from Australia. I think the Ballantynes are following them to the Outback tomorrow to look for dingoes.”

“Maybe a dingo ate chor baby,” I said with a heavy Australian accent.

Tod ignored me.

A minute later Mr. Ballantyne drove up in a white Rolls Corniche convertible circa 1985. It looked like a parade float. Mrs. Ballantyne rode shotgun and a smiling couple waved from the backseat, all wearing fancy hats and big sunglasses.

“Elli, my dear,” Mrs. Ballantyne said as she stepped out. She kissed both my cheeks and squeezed me tight. She was a beautiful woman at seventy-two, a full two years older than her husband. She had rosy cheeks, piercing blue eyes, and short white hair. She skipped makeup in favor of sunscreen and had more energy than a five-year-old on Christmas morning. She stuck her tiny arm through mine. “Do tell everything you’ve been up to. Getting into trouble, I assume. I can’t wait to hear all the juicy details!”

Tod unloaded the luggage from a trunk the size of a steamship while Mr. Ballantyne unloaded his guests from the rear.

“Hello, Elliott! So good of you to meet us,” Mr. Ballantyne bellowed. He also kissed both my cheeks and squeezed me tight.

Mr. Ballantyne was a tall man at six foot even and resembled a scarecrow with sticks for arms and legs and knobby knees and elbows. His booming voice flowed out of him naturally, as if all the world’s a stage and the audience sat in the last row of the theatre. “This is Mrs. Polly Pullman and her husband, Mr. Timothy Pullman.”

I shook their hands in turn. If I didn’t know they were married, I’d swear they were siblings. Both had sandy blond hair, green eyes, and freckles brushed across their cheeks. I pegged them as in their fifties, maybe sixty at most.

“I’m sure you’ve had a very long day,” I said to Mrs. Ballantyne. “Shall we get you upstairs and settled? The party begins at five this afternoon. Carla’s in the kitchen all day, I’m sure she can send lunch up when you’re ready.”

“You are such a thoughtful delight, Elli,” she said. She turned to her husband. “Edward, do you mind if we rest before lunch? Maybe we can dine in the reflection garden?”

He wrapped his arm around her. “Splendid idea, Vivi.”

“Agreed,” said Mrs. Pullman.

Mr. Ballantyne looked over his shoulder at me. “And on the other matter, Elli? I trust no news is good news?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I expect nothing but a delightful afternoon.”

Tod carried their bags into the house and up the center staircase to their private residence on the third floor. It was larger than most homes with an enormous master’s chamber, a trio guest suites with private baths, his and hers sitting rooms, a game room, a media room, and a balcony that wrapped around the entire backside of the house.

I spent the rest of the day on the back lawn, assisting with table linens, pounding in stakes for the games, and directing traffic (no, the bar doesn’t go on the first tennis court; yes, I would like the twinkle lights over the pergola and not thrown haphazardly on the azalea bushes).

After a quick shower at my cottage, I dressed in my best Gatsby attire: a long petal pink chemise with a deep v-neck collar and a striped silk scarf tie just above a pleated skirt. I set my hair in thick waves and stuck a large flower pin in my hair.

At four-thirty, I arrived back at the Big House, ready to inspect the grounds and gulp down a quick cocktail before the guests arrived. Matty might stand me up, Ransom might show up, and there’s probably a killer on the grounds. Maybe two cocktails were in order.

“Well, aren’t you beautiful,” Matty said to me when I walked into the foyer. “Fitzgerald could’ve been writing about you.”

I curtsied. “You look quite dapper yourself, Master Gannon.” He was right off the pages of a Ralph Lauren costume ad in plaid knickers, argyle vest, and a floppy newsboy cap. “Shall we entertain ourselves with a libation?”

He agreed, and we walked arm and arm to the back where we could romp around the lawn like kids summering in East Egg at the Buchanan mansion. After watching a heated tennis match and a spirited croquet game, we decided to find a sport of our own. I chose horseshoes over lawn darts. I was more comfortable hurling iron across the yard rather than flinging daggers through the air.

The warm evening air smelled like sweet magnolias and fresh cut grass. The crowd was especially electric. If receiving an invitation to the Big House was like getting a Golden Ticket, then attending when the Ballantynes were in residence was like taking a ride in the Wonkavator. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantyne moved through the party with an experienced hand, gracing each couple and group with lively conversation and glittery tidbits about their latest journey.