Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) by Kendel Lynn Read Free Book Online Page B

stirred it with a knife. “I told the nice waiter to bring my check, but he never came back. I’d have missed Jeopardy if I waited any longer.”
    “It sounds pretty harsh for such a small incident, Zibby, especially the Wharf.”
    Nestled on the Intracoastal Waterway, Wharf patrons were treated to spectacular sunsets over the Palmetto Bridge while they dined on French-fusion cuisine. Certainly not the type of establishment to toss little old ladies out the front door.
    “I know, dear. Called me a flibbertigibbet, of all things. I knew I had to pay, I just couldn’t wait. It’s my favorite restaurant. What ever shall I do if I can’t go back?”
    Tears spilled onto Zibby’s cheeks and she sniffed back a sob. She dug into her enormous leather pocketbook, pulling out a pack of tissues. “It’s George. We ate there every Thursday night for eight years. Every single Thursday, Elli.” She dabbed her eyes and tucked the tissue up her sleeve. “It’s been two years since my George passed, but I still go to the Wharf on Thursdays.”
    I patted her hand. “I’ll talk to them.” I’d met the head chef and owner, Paul Carmichael, years earlier at a cooking competition. This didn’t sound like it would be too difficult to fix. Wouldn’t take but an hour, then I could get back to Leo and Jane.
    “Would you really? George and I never skipped an episode or a dinner at the Wharf. I already missed last week. Two in a row would be unbearable.”
    “Don’t worry. I can fix this,” I reassured her.
    “You’re a dear. If you ever need a favor from me, you just ask. I’m not one to take and not give.”
    “I do have one thing that would be a big help. Leo was forming a new committee for the board. It didn’t make the agenda at the meeting and I need someone to take it over.”
    “How sweet of you to ask, but I’m afraid I gave up chairing committees for Lent this year.” She tucked her pink napkin into her purse and smiled.
    I nodded as if that made perfect sense.
    After I paid the check, we walked to the parking lot and said our goodbyes. She climbed into a very large Cadillac sedan, one built for a family of ten and modified with a crank-down convertible top. With a wave and a honk, she zipped out of the lot.
    I checked my voicemail. Nothing from Bebe or Jane. Jane might still be at the station. But if she was there much longer, I was going to start worrying about how much evidence Ransom actually had. I stuck a straw hat on my head to keep my hair from whipping into my eyes and drove down Cabana Boulevard with the mid-afternoon sun hot on my face.
    The far north end of the island was as beautiful as the rest. Where most cities have main roads clogged with shopping centers and acres of asphalt parking lots, Sea Pine’s are not. Every center, development, and drive was bermed by fields of trees, grass, flowers, and plantings to rival the Amazon. It can be frustrating at first—take you ten minutes before you realize you passed what you were looking for two miles back. But once you get used to it, it was a snap.
    I turned onto Old Pickett Road, then drove the three miles along the sound to the Wharf. It was only two-thirty, but I figured the staff would be prepping for dinner, the only meal they offered during the week. I parked beneath a sprawling oak and hoped I wouldn’t come back to a seat full of Spanish moss and squirrel poop.
    The hostess station was vacant, so I wandered into the main dining area. One staffer was laying stiff white cloths across a series of four-top tables while another staffer folded tan napkins into pretty little fan designs. Their color reminded me of the caramels Carla makes every Christmas, the homemade kind cut from a pan and wrapped in wax paper. Maybe I should’ve had the caramel cake for dessert.
    “Excuse me, is Chef Carmichael in?” I asked the busser with the napkins.
    He nodded toward the kitchen.
    I stepped through the swinging door and walked around the back side of a