Swan Dive (8 page)

EIGHT

(Day #3 – Saturday Evening)

I took a leisurely shower and put on makeup like a big girl. My dress was snowy white with cap sleeves, a high waist, and fluffy waves of silk organza falling just past my knees. I wore a pretty pair of pink kitten heels to add a pop of color.

With a matching handbag under my arm, I peeked out the window on the front door, waiting for Matty. I didn’t know if Ransom was home, and I knew I shouldn’t care, but I did. And I did not want to make a big production out of Matty picking me up for this date.

At the exact stroke of six, a shiny black sedan pulled up at the curb. Matty parked, then walked up the drive. Before he could raise his hand to ring the bell, I met him on the doorstep.

“Ready?” I said.

“You look beautiful, Elli,” he said and leaned down to kiss my cheek. “And you smell even nicer.”

“Thanks, Matty. You, too. Look nice,” I said.

He wore a suit the color of a mocha latte with a crisp white shirt and tie. I never saw him in suits unless I visited the campus. His laid-back style usually included Oakley sunglasses and worn surf tees.

It took all my concentration not to glance over at Ransom’s house as we walked to the car. Matty opened the passenger side door for me. “Kyra let you borrow the car?” I asked.

“More like insisted.” Matty drove a vintage Land Cruiser with a hardtop he rarely kept on. It rode like a Jeep on safari: bumpy, rocky, and rough. It made me feel like I was on adventure with Indiana Jones. “She felt this was more appropriate to take a date to the dance.”

“How are Kyra and the new baby?” Matty’s firefighter brother and his yoga instructor wife welcomed a daughter over the summer. Their third child in as many years. It suited them.

“She’s a doll. Starting to crawl now, getting into things like her big brothers. I’m watching them next weekend so Pete can take Kyra to the mall in Savannah. Play Santa and get the shopping done.” Where I thought watching three kids under three would be slightly less pleasant than a trio of root canals, Matty loved it. Though five years younger than me, his biological clock ticked loudly and mine was broken.

We made banal conversation on the drive to the south side of the island. He asked me about Mr. and Mrs. Ballantyne and I asked him how he liked being on the Ballantyne board. It was at least the third time I’d asked him a variation on that question in about a week. Though I doubt he noticed since he kept answering. Our conversations of late were awkward. The easy-going friendship we’d built struggled under the self-conscious weight of our dating.

After what seemed like three hours, but was closer to twenty minutes, we arrived at Harborside Plantation, probably the largest residential community on the island. It had a four-lane entry gate and we zipped through with Matty’s school-issued security pass. Tall palms bordered the drive along with enough foliage and ferns to hide the homes scattered amongst two golf courses. At the very southernmost tip was the Harborside Lighthouse, which was red and white striped and postcard perfect.

Matty pulled into a narrow drive just short of the Harborside shops. An embossed plaque on the entry gate said Seabrook Preparatory. He parked right up front. Being headmaster had privileges.

Matty held my hand as we walked into the main building. Dim lights illuminated the quiet hallways. Our footsteps echoed on the tile floor. With a quick squeeze to my hand, he opened the door to the gymnasium. It was all a dazzle with twinkle lights and white balloons and glittered streamers hanging from the ceiling.

The energy was high. School was almost out for the holidays and celebration vibrated all around. As did the music. It began to thump and kids raised their hands high, dancing and laughing to the beat. Lots and lots of kids. Students crowded the gym floor.

Matty and I joined a group of teachers talking about the new curriculum for the next semester. As they spoke, a hot flash crept up my back and settled on my neck. I gave myself a mental high-five for deciding to pin my hair up as if going to the prom. But it wasn’t enough. The heat kept coming and I started to feel woozy. Lightheaded. I casually reached out to a nearby table to steady myself.

A mild hot flash rarely made me dizzy. Then I remembered I’d forgotten to eat. Matty had suggested we dine after the dance, which worked for me. As long as I ate a snack, as in a normal dinner meal. Then I’d just eat another one later with Matty. But I’d forgotten my first dinner. I’m not one to skip a meal and I have the tight waistbands to prove it. Even the elastic ones.

“Matty?” I don’t think he heard me over the booming music, so I raised my voice. “Hey, Matty?”

He noticed me leaning on the table and came over. “What’s up, Elli? You look pale.” He put his hands on my arms as if to steady me.

“Do you happen to have a spare candy bar in your desk? Or maybe there’s a nearby vending machine?”

He took in my shaky pale state. “I can do better than a candy bar.” He grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd.

We wove through teachers and students, talking and dancing, to get to a set of double doors on the far side. They opened with a loud ka-dunk-dunk, and we were in the hall. The air felt cool and fresh, even for a school hallway.

The music faded as we followed corridor after corridor to the center of the school. Seabrook Preparatory didn’t have a cafeteria, it had a full kitchen and dining room. Through another set of double doors, this time swinging, we entered a kitchen to make Chef Ramsey envious. Shiny, clean, all sparkling steel: pots, knives, tables.

Matty set me on a stool by the long island, then went to the walk-in refrigerator. He pulled out a tray of lasagna and two containers: shredded mozzarella and an aromatic marinara. He dished up two portions, added the sauce and cheese and popped them into a commercial microwave. He poured a Pepsi–the Mexican in a bottle kind (no high fructose corn syrup in this kitchen)–over a tall glass of ice and stuck in a straw. “This should help.”

It did. Sugar and caffeine cooled me down and settled my shakes. The music still beat, though it sounded distant, entertaining folks dancing in another world.

“We still on for shopping tomorrow?” Matty asked. “I’ve got a huge list.”

“Me, too. I haven’t started, but Christmas is still almost two weeks away. No need to rush,” I said. “Are your parents coming down from Maine?”

“Dad wants to sail to Bimini when they get here. Take Pete’s
Fire Escape
down the coast. Mom isn’t having it. She doesn’t want a moment away from the grandkids.”

“And did Kyra suggest they take the grandkids with them?”

He laughed. “You know it. She said they all could go to Bimini and leave her behind. Best Christmas vacation ever. She might actually get some sleep.”

The microwave binged and Matty served us the most delicious plates of tangy lasagna layered with fresh ricotta and a sweet basil marinara. The cheese was melty perfection and I covered my entire front side in napkins.

We must have spent an hour talking over pasta and Pepsi. Laughing and sharing. The old Matty and Elliott.

“Ready for dessert, Miss Lisbon?” he asked, and whisked our plates to the sink.

“Why, yes, Headmaster Gannon. And just so you know, the answer to that question shall always be yes.”

He helped me off the stool with his hand in mine.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said.

“Thank you for joining me. I wouldn’t want to be the only guy at the school dance without a date.” He twirled me around, then pulled me close.

“Is this the dessert you speak of?”

“It could be.” He leaned down and kissed me. His hand still in mine, wrapped around to the small of my back.

The music continued to thump and voices got louder, laughing and talking. A couple came in the door just as we stepped apart.

“Headmaster Gannon,” the woman said. “I didn’t know you were back here.”

“Elli, you know our head chef, Rosa,” Matty said.

“Of course. Nice to see you. Matty saved me from a low-sugar fainting spell with a plate of your lasagna. It was fantastic.”

“Thank you,” she said. “My husband and I are going to sneak a plate ourselves.”

We left them to their dinner and went back to the gym. Matty spoke with the dj. The music switched from a thumping techno beat to ’80s New Wave and we danced to Siouxie and the Banshees, Duran Duran, Bow Wow Wow. Better to work off the pasta and make room for dessert.

We took a break for cupcakes and punch. Gorgeous frosted cakes arranged on tiered trays, their blue and white frosting glittering under the twinkle lights. Matty handed me a plastic cup of orange punch and I took a big sip.

The three-year-old inside of me nearly spit that shit out. But I choked it down like the grown-up I am. It tasted funny. Strange. Almost familiar. “Who made this?” I asked.

“Mrs. Ortiz,” Matty said. He gestured to a woman in a red floral skirt and holiday sweater. “She’s a guest lecturer in the biology department. Loves teas and herbs. Her punch takes some getting used to, but we can’t talk her out of making it.”

“¡Hola!” Mrs. Ortiz, aka Mamacita, said. “Te ves hermosa, Señorita Elliott.”

“Mamacita, what a surprise to see you here,” I said.

“You know each other?” Matty said. “Oh right,
The Nutcracker
. I didn’t even think about it. Her son is in it.”

“Si, si, Vigo,” Mamacita said. “He was your favorite student, right, Señor Gannon?”

“Your son is Vigo Ortiz?” I asked.

“Si,” she said. “I assumed you knew.”

“I did not know.” I didn’t know if I was surprised or shocked. “I didn’t realize Vigo was your son or Lexie was your son’s girlfriend or you worked at the school.”

“Very tragic. Such a lovely girl.” She patted my arm and went to man the punch bowl.

I discreetly tossed my nearly full punch cup in the gray rubber bin next to the table, then dry swallowed the cupcake.

The dj started playing a ballad and Matty pulled me to the dance floor. I swayed out of habit, my mind still twenty feet behind us at the punch table.

I could not believe Mamacita did not mention Vigo to me yesterday. Not one time. Not even a hint that her son had been dating Lexie. Of course Lexie went over to Mamacita’s. Probably visited her house a hundred times. Including that garden of crazy.

Matty gently lifted my chin so our eyes met. “Hello? Elliott? Where did you go?”

“I’m right here.”

“I’ve been talking for five minutes and not a single response. Thought maybe you fell asleep on me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not napping, just thinking about Lexie Allen and Vigo Ortiz. It’s odd Mamacita never told me her son was Lexie’s boyfriend. And even odder…more odd? Odder still? Lexie’s boyfriend’s mother grows the very berries that killed her.”

He nodded slowly. “Definitely a coincidence, but it’s a small island and gossip travels quickly. Maybe Mamacita was only protecting her son?”

I swayed to the left, then the right, trying to keep time with the music. “Protecting him from what?”

“Let’s not start down that path,” he said in a low voice.

I’d questioned one of his students in a murder case a few months earlier and it fractured our friendship. More of a hairline than a full break, but neither one of us wanted to risk another one.

“What did Mamacita say about Lexie?” Matty asked.

“Niceties. Very polite. Nothing to indicate she’d known her personally, practically as family, for an extended time. She called Lexie a nice girl. Really enjoyed going to the garden. That she liked to experiment with ingredients.”

“Is it such a stretch to believe Lexie baked the wrong berries into her cake? Or that maybe she committed suicide?”

“Suicide?” I said and stopped swaying. “She was happy and well-liked and had her entire life in front of her.”

“Teenagers hide a lot of emotion.”

“So she bakes a cupcake to kill herself?”

Matty leaned in and lowered his voice. “She gets dressed up and takes her cupcakes to the theatre. Very dramatic. Something a teenager would do.”

“That’s ludicrous. You sound like—” I was about to say Ransom, but I stopped myself. “Like you’re crazy. Lexie Allen did not kill herself. How is that more plausible than her boyfriend killing her?”

“What possible reason did he have?” Matty asked and dropped his hands from my waist. “I know Vigo. He’s a good kid. He’s a gentle soul. Not a violent bone in his body.”

“You’re wrong about that.” I’d seen the shot-up range poster to prove it.

Matty ran a hand through his hair. “Elli, this isn’t for us to debate. Especially not here.”

I grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the crowd of couples and into the hall. “You’re right, this isn’t a debate. I don’t want to fight.”

“Me, neither,” he said. “Let the police handle this. It’s their job.”

“It’s mine, too.”

“Only because you want it to be.”

“Why do you not want it to be? Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because you put yourself in danger. You were attacked, Elliott.” His normally soft features clenched with frustration and he grabbed my shoulders. “You were almost killed twice in six months working those PI cases. First Leo Hirschorn, then Gil Goodsen, now Lexie Allen.”

“But I wasn’t killed. I’m right here and I’m fine,” I said. “Nothing bad is going to happen on this case. I know what I’m doing and I’m good at it.”

He let me go and leaned against the wall. Muffled music and laughter surrounded us and echoed down the corridor. “You don’t know what will happen. To you or anyone else. You’re out there stirring up emotions and disrupting lives, and why? Because you don’t want to accept it was an accident.”

“Lexie Allen’s life got disrupted. It wasn’t suicide or an accident.” I didn’t add that no one else thought it was those things, either. Even though Ransom didn’t admit to me it was murder, I knew him, and that story about an accident was nonsense. I felt like I’d betray Ransom if I told Matty. Which only made me feel awkward for keeping it from him. The space between us may have only been three feet, but the distance spanned an emotional slot canyon, with us on opposite ends, one up, one down, and no tangible way to reach each other.

“Matty—”

All sorts of screams and shouts let loose from inside the gymnasium. The doors flew open and students flooded the halls. They were screaming, laughing, and covered in fluffy white goop.

A panicked teacher came out with her brow all creased and her hands wrung together. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gannon. I left my post for five minutes and someone hit a switch,” she shouted over the melee. “It was the punch. It went right through me.” Her stomach gurgled loud enough for me to hear and she covered her stomach with her hand.

“The bleachers or the basketball hoops?” Matty asked and jogged toward the doors.

“The hoops. They rigged the streamers to cans of Reddi Whip or something. I don’t know how they did it, but, well…”

Whipped cream covered the floor, the tables, the people, and even the balloons. Matty stood on a bench and shouted over the crowd. “Slowly, please, everyone slowly to the exits.”

A food fight erupted at the cupcake table and I thanked all things holy I wasn’t near the barrel of orange punch in my glorious white dress. I edged toward the door.

The gurgly teacher joined us. “I called the fire department. Some of those rigged cans are still in the rafters and tied to the hoops.”

We all looked up.

One hot mess.

“They said they’d get here when they could. There was a big fire over in Summerton. A rig went to help.” She shrugged. “Going to be awhile, I think.” She turned to help herd students toward the exit.

“I’m sorry, Elli. It’ll be a couple hours,” Matty said to me.

“Can I do something?”

“I’ve got plenty of teachers to help, but I’ll be tied up untangling this mess.”

“Don’t worry about me, I understand. I’ll get a ride home. But Matty, your job is like mine. It’s more than the job description. Sometimes I’ve got to untangle the mess, too.”

We stared at each other in the midst of the pandemonium. He softly touched my cheek, then went into the storm.

I carefully stepped across the slick floor, out the doors, and into the hall. Once outside, I walked along the sidewalk around the school to the front lot. I sat on a bench in the quad and dialed Sid.

“You still home alone for the weekend?” I asked.

“Milo’s hosting a poker game,” she said.

“And you passed?”

“I’ve taken the largest pots for the last three games. Milo suggested I skip this one.”

“Want to go on a stakeout?”

Sid and I sat in her car facing the rear exit of the Sea Pine Island Community Theatre. She brought two bags of Popcorn Indiana: Kettlecorn for me, Movie Theatre for her. We munched and watched the quiet lot.

“The performance ended an hour ago,” she said. “How long does it take for them to change?”

“Can’t be much longer,” I said. “The little ones left within fifteen minutes. And they wore just as much makeup.”

“You think Matty will ever be okay with your PI sideline?”

“He used to be, before the Hirschorn murder in May.”

“Which also happens to be the first time he kissed you. Coincidence, Miss Marple?”

I stuffed a handful of popcorn in my mouth and shrugged. Matty’s kiss that night wasn’t of the goodnight, see you tomorrow variety. It was a throw me down, hands up my dress, let’s get it on kind. And I had loved it.

“Matty said it was just a coincidence that Lexie’s boyfriend’s mother grew a garden of death berries, the same ones that killed her.”

“And you don’t believe in coincidences?”

“I do. Small ones, not big ones. And a boyfriend living in a house ten feet from a patch of rare killer fruit that took his girlfriend’s life is a big one.”

“How rare is this killer fruit?” Sid asked and took a swig from a water bottle.

“Rare enough. Mamacita said it grows on the side of the road, but Vigo didn’t need to go berry picking in the wild thicket along I-95. He only had to step outside his back door.”

“And the police are sure that’s what killed her?”

“Harry Fleet confirmed poisoning, though the tox results won’t be back until after the New Year.”

“So no surprises?”

“No surprises there,” I said and gulped down water from my own bottle. “The surprise came from the dry cleaner. Lexie Allen worked as a sous chef at the Wharf.”

“The dry cleaner told you this?”

“I showed Lexie’s stub to the dry cleaner who handed me two white chef’s coats from the Wharf. Went over to talk to Chef Carmichael and he told me.”

“Seriously? She was a chef? And a dancer? And a college student? How old was this girl?”

“Seriously. Nineteen. According to Carmichael, she moved from Charlotte in November to work for him. I don’t know if she dropped out or transferred. The only university around here is USC, and I don’t think the satellite campus offers a full dance program.”