by Kendel Lynn
Praise for the Elliott Lisbon Mystery Series
“The irrepressible heroine is delightful and her ongoing banter is nonstop fun.”
– Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
“Lynn captures the flavor of the South, right down to the delightfully quirky characters in this clever new mystery series. Elli Lisbon is the Stephanie Plum of the South!”
– Krista Davis,
New York Times Bestselling Author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries
“Elli Lisbon is proving herself to be the most lovable OCD PI since Adrian Monk.”
– Maddy Hunter,
Agatha-Nominated Author of the Passport to Peril Series
“A must-read mystery with a sassy sleuth, a Wonderland of quirky characters, and a fabulous island setting that will keep you turning pages.”
– Riley Adams,
Author of the Memphis Barbecue Mysteries
“Back for another episode of juggling sleuthing, professional responsibilities, and complicated personal relationships…Lynn whips all these ingredients into a tasty southern mash of star-crossed romance, catty but genteel one-upsmanship, and loveable oddballs that should please fans of humorous cozies.”
– Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“A solid and satisfying mystery, yes indeed, and the fabulous and funny Elliott Lisbon is a true gem! Engaging, clever and genuinely delightful.”
– Hank Phillippi Ryan,
Agatha, Anthony and Macavity Award-Winning Author
“Elli is one of my favorite characters and I love her strong sense of being, her spunkiness, and her determination to do what needs to be done. Boasting an eclectic cast of characters, clever and enticing dialogue and the perfect backdrop of the Ballantyne estate and Sea Pine Island, this is one of the best books in this delightfully captivating series.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
“With an intelligent woman sleuth, a unique blend of quirky supporting characters and a well-devised mystery plot, Board Stiff is delightfully entertaining.”
– Fresh Fiction
“Elli is an admirable and engaging heroine. Deft writing and clever dialogue further ensure that readers will be looking forward to the next installment in Elli’s adventures.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“An engaging read that grabbed my attention from the start…With witty banter, a likable cast of characters and a visually appealing setting, this is a great start to what I hope is a long running series.”
– The Cozy Chicks
“‘I used to be able to juggle six wet cats while balancing a bowl of Jell-O on my head. Now I couldn’t locate a cat if I stood in a barn with a can of tuna in one hand and a mouse in the other.’ Elliott’s self-effacement makes her an unusually lovable protagonist, especially when she lets fly with comments like that.”
– Mystery Scene Magazine
“Packed with humor, romance, danger and adventure, this is a good mystery full of plot twists and turns, with red herrings a plenty and an ending that I found both surprising and satisfying.”
– Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
The Elliott Lisbon Mystery Series
by Kendel Lynn
Novels
BOARD STIFF (#1)
WHACK JOB (#2)
SWAN DIVE (#3)
POT LUCK (#4)
SHAKE DOWN (#5)
Novellas
SWITCH BACK
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Copyright
SHAKE DOWN
An Elliott Lisbon Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | March 2020
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2020 by Kendel Lynn
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-587-1
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-588-8
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-589-5
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-590-1
Printed in the United States of America
For Ruth
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m deeply thankful for the life of love and encouragement that surrounds me.
Thank you to Pat Allen Werths, Molly Weston, Cathy Pickens, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Dru Ann Love, and much love to my mom, Suzanne Atkins.
I can’t possibly express how grateful I am for the authors and staff of Henery Press. I shall forever be thankful. Special gratitude to Maria Edwards and Christina Rogers for making the Hen House stronger and more vibrant, and to Art Molinares for making the dream possible.
ONE
(Day #1: Saturday Evening)
Even two miles from the shoreline, the warm night air smelled of tangy sea salt and brine. It drifted through palm trees and sweet magnolias, swaying the paper lanterns on the patio of the Ballantyne Foundation’s Big House on Sea Pine Island, South Carolina.
I was enjoying the remnants of an early evening dinner with twenty board members and committee members. We sat poolside in thick-cushioned chairs beneath wide umbrellas. Carla Otto, the Ballantyne’s renowned resident chef, had made a spread worthy of a Southern Living photo shoot (and a spot on any Michelin-starred restaurant’s menu). She was testing new recipes for the upcoming end-of-summer Ballantyne Beach BBQ the following weekend. We dined on juicy thick-sliced brisket, maple bacon beans, grilled cob corn, and pickled cole slaw. All served with frosty glasses of watermelon hibiscus sangria.
“This corn on the cob is amazing,” I said.
“It’s the butter,” Carla said. Her bright eyes framed with orange specs, her smile as big as her curly black hair. “The soul of the dish. Herbed goat cheese compound melts into cream on contact.”
As Director of the billion-dollar Ballantyne Foundation, I participated on all fundraising committees, and happily, all menu tastings. For this year’s late summer event, I was on the fringe of the committee. Barely a bystander, and I was loving it. My only responsibilities: Setup and centerpieces. A snap.
Jane Walcott-Hatting, chairwoman of the Ballantyne Board of Directors, served as co-chair of this particular shindig alongside Carla. Jane was basically Carla’s opposite. Stern, rigid, and always preferred the vinegar approach over honey. However, they did make a dream team. Like having Martha Stewart and Leah Chase plan the party. Which was perfect, as our board was down three members for this event. Matty had taken his Sea Pine Prep senior class on a research trip (code for kayaking), Chas was at a banking conference (code for golfing), and Deidre’s husband surprised her with their third cruise of the year (code for doing whatever you please when you’re retired).
“Before we break,” Jane said. “Let me remind core committee members, we have meetings in the board room at eight sharp each day this week starting Monday. Do not be late. Elliott, you are not core.”
“I’m aw
are.” I raised my glass, taking another generous gulp of sangria, and relaxed into my cushioned chair. The umbrellas were up, but the sun had already gone down.
“The host families each receive their own table,” Jane said. “Carla, at last count, we had twenty-two, correct?”
“Twenty-five,” she replied. “This morning, the Spiritual Guidance Center in Summerton added three newly-trained families.”
Summerton County, where Sea Pine Island resided, lacked formal housing and meal facilities for the homeless community. In its absence, residents volunteered to open their own homes, providing food and shelter, many times clothes and necessities, to those in need. We dedicated this year’s annual Ballantyne Beach BBQ to those host families. We wanted to celebrate the selfless acts of kindness they generously offered to their neighbors. It also encouraged the Ballantyne’s wealthy donors, those who bought tickets to the BBQ, to open their wallets to a new homeless shelter initiative.
“Elliott,” Jane said. “Make that happen.”
“Already did,” I said. “We’ll have thirty tables with twenty-five cake centerpieces. The other five tables will have either gluten-free macaron towers or tiered vegan fruit tart displays.”
As Jane continued her list of last-minute directives, I spotted Juliette Pete walking through the Big House. I jumped up and jogged across the deck and through the patio doors to catch her. She was packing cake boxes onto a large folding cart.
“Juliette, wait,” I said. “Let me help.”
“Good Lord, Elliott,” she said. “You’ve already done so much to help me.” Her long blonde ponytail swung round as she packed. She placed the last stack, then grabbed the wagon handle.
I helped her keep it stable as we rolled it through the foyer, silently crossing the polished plank floors to the side door leading to the porte-cochere.
Sid Bassi, my closest friend, entered and held the door for us. It took less than five minutes for the three of us to transfer the wagon and its cargo to Juliette’s SUV. She snapped the trunk shut with one hand. The words “Cake & Shake” were written in elegant script across the rear panel.
“I cannot wait for next week,” Juliette said. “I’ll have twenty-two perfectly—”
“About that,” I interrupted. “May I request three more? Making it twenty-five?”
She laughed. “Of course, I have an extra six planned. So that’ll be twenty-five perfectly decorated superhero-themed cakes ready Saturday morning. And, of course, eighty gallons of ice cream for the shake maker.”
“Eighty?” Sid asked. “This for the Beach BBQ, right? Not the Met Gala.”
“Have you tasted her shakes?” I said. “The Met Gala should be so lucky.”
“I’m so lucky,” Juliette said. “Thank you, really. Letting me bake cakes and make shakes in exchange for a dream wedding? You’re an angel.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I said. “Those cake centerpieces will be the talk of the island. And us leaving the party décor overnight on the beach is hardly a fair trade.”
“Ha! You haven’t seen the prices for twinkle lights, tents, and a tiki bar installed on sand.”
I smiled and hugged her. As the person who secured that particular aspect of the upcoming party, I had indeed seen those prices.
“If you need me, ladies,” she said as she climbed into the driver’s seat, “I’ll be baking and shaking. Except tomorrow. I’ll be showering my adoring bridesmaids with gifts and mimosas at the Wharf.” She snapped her seatbelt. “How did my life get so perfect?” She waved and pulled out, driving down the palm tree-lined drive and into the night.
“I’m calling it,” Sid said to me with her own hug. “One more glass of sangria and I’m crashing at your house. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Showcase.”
“What time you arriving?”
“Nine a.m. sharp,” she said. “Maybe eight, as it’s opening day. You know there’s always a line on the first day. I have two separate listings on that block. I’m hoping to tempt Millie Poppy Pete.”
“Good luck with that. She’ll never sell her house.”
“Says you. She hasn’t witnessed my Annette-Bening-American-Beauty-I-will-sell-this-house-today mode.”
“Okey doke. See you at noon. Or noon thirty. Maybe by then you’ll have it listed.”
“Maybe by then I’ll have it sold.”
Millie Poppy Pete’s house was in the middle of a short lane on the dunes of South Pebble Beach. While it was off-plantation, meaning no gates or uniformed sentries to guard them, the far end of South Pebble Beach bordered Harbortown. One could walk mere minutes down the sandy beach, take advantage of Harbortown’s miles of Magnolia-shaded pathways and seaside restaurants, and then return home to their own equally lovely neighborhood, all without having to pay the high maintenance fees or follow any strict regulations.
A printed yard sign adorned with colorful balloons indicated Millie Poppy’s house was the first stop on the Sea Pine Island Home Showcase, an annual tour of our beachiest residences. The early birds had long since moved onto the other homes, and the post-church, post-brunch, post-why-get-out-of-bed-early-on-a-Sunday crowd was just wandering in.
Guests mingled through the rooms, admiring the knotted pine floors, reclaimed wood ceiling beams, and hand-plastered walls. Hues of blue from Wedgwood to navy popped against the bright whites of the rugs and sofas. Halfway to the sunroom, a quartet of three-tiered cakes were displayed on a dessert table set amongst delicate macarons and petit fours and a spray of business cards with Cake & Shake letterpressed into the parchment.
Millie Poppy greeted me with a wave as I entered her dream home. It had not yet been listed, or sold, by Sid. Probably because you didn’t sell a dream home, you bought one. Millie Poppy was standing at the slider to the sunroom. Her husband, Sam Turnbull, was tending their award-winning rose garden. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, thick gloves, and carried a hand-held trowel. Rows of blooming flowers in yellows and pinks ringed a fire pit, itself ringed with Adirondack chairs. Sam rearranged mulch along the far fence, patting the soft mounds, and by Millie Poppy’s tone, I’m guessing he’d been at it all morning.
“Sam, honey, it’s perfect,” Millie Poppy said. “It’s been perfect. You come on in and say hello. Elliott Lisbon just arrived.” She hugged me quick when I approached. “That man acts like this is the Annual Garden Club Tour, not the Home Showcase.”
“The roses are gorgeous,” I said. “Looks like every single blossom is in perfect bloom.”
“Don’t listen to me complain, those beauties are the reason we get the first spot on the tour,” she said. “Now let’s talk about you. You’re sweet as a peach for helping my granddaughter with her wedding. How can we ever thank you?”
“Please, you and Sam and Juliette have all thanked me enough. It’s my pleasure, I promise. And really, it’s my job.”
“The way I hear tell,” Sam said, brushing soil from his gloves, “your job is investigating petty theft.”
“Petty, honey, isn’t the half of it,” Millie Poppy said.
“Oh, you’re a half short indeed. Our Elli can get anyone out of a pumpernickel.” Zibby Archibald wobbled over, a ring of dahlias in her hair. On the spry side of eighty-eight, she was our oldest and most beloved Ballantyne board member.
“Peccadillo,” I said. “But yes, I’m working toward my South Carolina PI license.”
“She’s very close to meeting the hourly requirement,” Sid said. She had walked up behind Zibby, towering over her. Sid resembled a professional beach volleyball player while Zibby resembled Aunt Clara from Bewitched.
“Yep,” I agreed without hesitation. “Only about four thousand hours to go.”
“That’s the spirit,” Zibby said. “Every armadillo counts.”
Millie Poppy’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen. “Excuse me a sec,” she said, walking into the bright sunroom. I
ts glass walls were dressed in floor-to-ceiling plantation shutters, the slats open to let the sunshine in. Millie Poppy had barely reached the window before she turned. Her face was pale, her brow was crinkled in confusion. “That was Tess, one of Juliette’s bridesmaids. She asked if Juliette was here.”
“Here?” I asked. “Her brunch was at the Wharf, right?”
Millie called out to Sam, asked him to find Tucker. I hadn’t seen Tucker when I walked in, but as he was both Sam’s grandson and Juliette’s fiancé, I figured he had to be close.
We all joined Millie Poppy in the sunroom and she repeated her short phone conversation. “Tess asked if I’d seen Juliette. Or Daphne. That’s her maid of honor, Daphne Fischer. Why would I have seen Daphne? They’re supposed to be at Juliette’s brunch.” She checked her watch. “Close to three hours ago.”
Tucker pulled out his phone and started dialing. So did Sam.
“Tucker, when did you last talk to Juliette?” I asked.
He answered me as ringing sounded from the phone pressed to his ear. “I didn’t, not today. Not actually talk to her. She texted this morning saying she was running late for the brunch. Then just ‘love ya’ like normal, and that’s it. She spent the night in Summerton with Daphne and Tess. I thought.”
Millie kept hitting redial on her phone, her face becoming more drawn with each button push. Sam began making his own calls, starting with the Wharf.
As we crowded together in the sunroom, more Home Showcase visitors arrived, filling the house almost to capacity.
Sid grabbed Zibby’s hand. “I’ll shepherd the tour visitors, encourage them to move on to the next house. Zibby, you handle the cake table. Box up slices as quick as you can.”
