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

refreshed. It was already day two of my investigation and I had nothing to show for it but a string of unanswered messages and a front page headline that made me nauseous: Ballantyne Chair Questioned in Murder. Written in bold black letters with Tate Keating’s name as the byline.
    I read the article with trepidation, but it turned out the headline held all of bang. Other than saying Jane was being questioned, it talked about Leo’s business, family, and work at the Foundation. I knew better than to relax. Tate’s scent for the sensational made Geraldo look like an amateur.
    And Jane wasn’t helping. I decided if she ever did return my call, it would probably be from a pay phone at county lockup. Forget the phone; I needed to go to Savannah.
    I sailed over the Palmetto Bridge from Sea Pine Island into Summerton at half-past ten. The tide was still high and the strong smell of the buried oyster beds blew over me as I drove, quickly evaporating as I wove through a mass of traffic, Savannah-bound sightseers off to visit the city’s historic homes, art galleries, ghost tours, and all those gardens of good and evil.
    Thirty minutes later I crossed the Talmadge Memorial, a cable bridge suspended almost two hundred feet over the Savannah River. The convention center sat across the bank overlooking the waterfront shops and restaurants. I turned right onto Whitaker and made my way into downtown where the streets were paved in brick and lined with live oaks dripping tendrils of Spanish moss.
    I parked on Abercorn Street, a block from the Walcott Hatting Gallery, a fixture in the neighborhood since Jane’s grandfather opened the doors in 1927. I stood outside the arched doorway, under a navy awning that faced Calhoun Square and a statue of General Oglethorpe, staring at my phone. Hoping it would ring. Parker calling to say they caught Leo’s killer. A disgruntled employee, a jealous relative, a random serial killer. Somehow a serial killer was more appealing than poking into Jane’s personal life. I was pretty sure Jane would agree.
    I shoved my silent phone into my pocket and entered the main gallery room. Fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, it resembled a turn of the century sitting room. One in a really big house. Petite settees and wing chairs were grouped down the  center of the room, facing walls decorated with heavy silk wallpaper. Paintings (of both the heirloom and local artist variety) covered nearly every inch of paper. Armoires, writing desks, and antique tables held valuable antiquities: jewel boxes, Fabergé eggs, first edition leather bound books, and porcelain plates.
    No one greeted me, so I wandered through the auction area and eventually found Jane in a back workshop stuffed with old sewing machines. She wore paint-stained cargoes and a light denim smock. I couldn’t have been more surprised if I found her naked. And she seemed pleased to see me, too.
    “What the hell are you staring at?”
    “I’m not staring, just admiring your outfit.” Add some yellow rubber gloves and a bandana and she’d be perfect for a 1950’s Pledge ad.
    “I’m supposed to clean all this machinery in a silk suit?” She continued to scrub an old black Singer sewing machine. Its golden decals shone under her polishing. The bobbin looked brand new. At least I think it was a bobbin. It’s the only technical sewing language I know.
    “These seem a little street for your swanky shop.”
    She glanced at me. “I’m surprised you know the difference. They belonged to one of my father’s first patrons. I’m doing a favor for the family, raising money for the ladies guild she founded. Coincidentally, these same ladies will be the ones purchasing.” She went back to polishing. “Are you here to discuss my business or apologize for the headline in this morning’s paper?”
    “Neither. I didn’t write the headline.”
    “I believe ‘media’ falls under your job as director. You’re supposed to keep the reporters from