Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job by Kendel Lynn Read Free Book Online Page B

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