Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job Read Online Free PDF

calendar. Yes, an old-fashioned spiral-bound paper one with big boxes for each day of the month. I tried using a PDA, but all that thumb-typing and tiny print made my forty-year-old eyes hurt.
    “We’re headed south today to Kayak Island. We’ll be home next week, Elli. Be well!”
    “Be well, sir,” I said, but he had clicked off. “Well, shit.”
    “Sounds like that went well,” Tod said as he plopped into the seat across from my desk.
    Carla sat in the other. The true heart and soul of the island. She placed a fresh plate of fried chicken and waffles in front of me. She’d added a pile of warm homemade potato chips topped with melted parmesan.
    “You don’t need to bribe me,” I said with a mouthful of crispy pecan chicken. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
    “Details, chicken, details,” she said.
    I quickly told them the short version of the shooting, skimming over my brief meltdown in the ladies’ room. No need to bore them with every little detail.
    “How did Gilbert ever get on the short list?” I asked.
    I’m supposed to be the only one compiling candidate names, but the scuttlebutt over the vacant seat (and how it was vacated by Leo Hirschorn’s murder four months ago, my biggest case as director-turned-PI to date) seemed to bring out the crazies from nooks and crannies. Which meant everyone on the Ballantyne payroll was currently fielding requests.
    “Gil’s insurance co-op sponsored the Loggerhead Research Team’s trek to the last frontier. The very one Edward Ballantyne is on right now,” Tod said. “Then he gets shot and needs your help, giving him lots of Ballantyne attention. Coincidence?”
    “No such thing,” I said. “The team left two months ago. How’d Gilbert know he’d get shot?”
    “So Gilbert Goodsen knew his wife hired an assassin to kill him?”
    We all three turned toward the familiar voice. Tate Keating, the Islander Post ’s lead reporter. He leaned against the doorjamb with a combination of greedy excitement and tempered cynicism etched on his tan features. “‘Wife Kills Husband for Ballantyne Seat.’ Sunday’s headline. Care to quote?”
    “Gilbert isn’t dead, Tate,” I said. “He’s barely wounded.”
    “I’ll add ‘almost’ and ‘suspected.’ I let you off easy with the Hirschorn murder.”
    “Easy?” I scoffed. “‘Board Stiff at the Big House Slaughterhouse’ is not a headline I consider ‘easy.’”
    I grabbed my hipster from the bottom drawer of my desk. I needed to track down Jaime before Ransom squirreled her out of reach. With any luck, she’d confess to snatching Gilbert’s treasured egg, hand it over, and I’d be done with the Goodsens before dinner. How’s that for lickety split?
    “And he wasn’t shot over a seat on the board,” I added on my way past him.
    “He’s on the short list,” Tate said.
    I whirled around. “How do you know who’s on the short list?” I glanced at Carla and Tod.
    Tod shrugged and Carla shook her head. I knew they’d never tell.
    “My lips are sealed,” Tate said. “Call me if you want to go on the record. Deadline’s tomorrow at five.” He waved at the three of us and waltzed across the foyer and out the front door.
    “You’re a little shit,” I said. “Put that on the record.”

FOUR

    (Day #1: Friday Late Afternoon)

    Gilbert and Jaime Goodsen lived in Sugar Hill Plantation, a sprawling gated community situated mid-island with a massive entrance off Cabana Boulevard. The security guard met my car as I slowed at the shack. He rambled out in full uniform, including a tan Smokey the Bear hat.
    “I’m here for lunch at Molly’s by the Sea,” I lied.
    Sugar Hill was a popular destination for temporary residents and visitors. With two resort hotels, six restaurants, three golf courses, tennis facilities and five miles of bike paths, there was something for everyone. Including me, who needed access to a resident’s house without calling ahead. Any old restaurant would do.
    He