Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) by Kendel Lynn Page A

advantage of her loose lips. She picked up a stamper, so I kept going.
    “I heard Leo might be having financial trouble.”
    “Not at all. He’s been talking about getting a boat. A big one. After he builds me a new art studio above the garage. Built-in cabinets, light table, the whole works. And next month a cruise out of Miami. A balcony cabin.”
    “Did Leo have any enemies? Anybody holding a grudge?”
    She dropped the stamp and pointed her finger at my face. “You know who. That bitch Jane Tatting.”
    “Hatting.”
    She glared at me, then waved me away. “Whatever.”
    Her outburst startled Ivana the cat. She hopped off the chair and onto the floor, settling on my feet, then kneaded her clawless paws into my shins; it was like getting punched with cotton balls.
    “Listen,” Bebe said. “Leo worked hard to get on that board, but that woman just can’t stand someone more successful than her.”
    “Was there a specific incident or merely animosity?”
    “Jane called here twice last week. It got really bad the last call, but Leo handed it right back at her, taunting her about the trophy. He won it fair and square. Jane was jealous as a monster and acted like it.”
    “Is that why you didn’t go to the party?”
    “I don’t care about Jane or the stupid Foundation party. The board members are snobby and I don’t like them.” Bebe stuck her chin out. “No offense.”
    “None taken. I’m not a board member.”
    Bebe placed the sparkly orange paper frame over a picture of Leo. He wore his ten gallon hat and rode on a colorful carousel horse. She slowly stamped a proper border on the outer edge of the page. The stamper shook slightly, but she didn’t seem to notice. She finished the page with a satisfied nod.
    After she dusted glitter from her fingertips, she picked up my glass and the pitcher and carried them to the kitchenette.
    I figured my time was running out. “So, were you at home last Saturday night?”
    “Oh no, I was in Savannah for a Scrappers weekend,” she said, then added, “It was our annual weekend retreat.”
    “Really? How fun. Where do you guys meet? Maybe I’ll join you next year.”
    She hesitated, no doubt imagining me in a room full of craft supplies, but in the end my winning smile won out. “I guess. It’s the Island Scrappers and we always stay at the River Street Inn.”
    “You guys go up on Friday or Saturday?”
    “Friday morning. I came home on Sunday. Early.” The doorbell rang and she sagged with relief. Bebe smoothed her smock and fluffed her big hair. “Sorry to rush you out, but my masseuse is here.”
    She clicked over to the door, opening it to a young man in a tight tee and floppy surfer hair. He carried a portable massage table. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hirschorn. In the bedroom?”
    She rushed him through a door on the other side of the living room, then turned to me. “It’s such a mess out here, I can’t possibly move my scrapper supplies every time he comes over, right?”
    I smiled sweetly and waved her way. “Of course not. Could I use your powder room? I drank two glasses of lemonade and I’ll never make it home.”
    “Sure, you just see yourself out, then?” She slipped through the bedroom door before I could agree.
    I did a quick check for prescription meds after I availed myself of the facilities. No diazepam or oxycodone. Worth a shot. She probably had a private bath full of pills in the bedroom. I did score some dental floss, though. Apparently I’d conducted the entire interview with a poppy seed stuck between my top two choppers. You think she would have said something.
    I went to grab my handbag from the dining room and noticed it sat on a massive glob of puff paint. The entire back side was soaked in blue and stuck to the table. Like dried macaroni on a pencil cup. With a solid yank, the purse came loose but my elbow cracked into the Cookie Corral. It toppled to the floor, hitting the wall on its way down.
    Holy shit and OH MY