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

wait another day! Very close to my heart, very close.”
    Mr. Ballantyne likes to choose causes that mean something personally. He went on to tell me about the poverty-stricken areas in Mumbai. Of fifty-foot trash heaps and contaminated watering holes. They sounded dreadful. “But you call Reena Patel; her office is on the island. She’ll fill you in on this tragic state. Tod has an extra packet for you. This should be on the books for approval at our next meeting, Elli.”
    I wrote down the organizer’s name and a note to make an appointment. “I’ll take care of it, sir!” I found myself shouting back, even though I’m pretty sure he could hear me just fine. “But on this other matter of Leo Hirschorn, can you use some of your connections to find out some things for me? I’d like information on his financial situation, business and personal. His debts, life insurance, who inherits his estate. It would be a big help.”
    “I understand, my girl, I understand. I’m on the case! I must ring off now, time for bed. I stayed up late to make this call. Tally-ho, Elli!”
    “Tally-ho, sir.”
    I made a note to add two more guests for the party, the Ballantyne’s Australian friends. Carla generally cooks up plenty of extra food—no one passes up an invitation to Big House, especially the Gatsby lawn party—but  I wasn’t sure about Chef Carmichael.
    The annual Gatsby at the Big House was a throwback to lazy summer days of the roaring twenties when the wealthy gathered for simple games and fancy libations. Ladies wear cloche hats, low-waisted dresses, and buckle shoes. The men don knickers, soft caps, and dress shirts with rolled-up sleeves. I, myself, had a darling dress I couldn’t wait to wear. But that was next week. I first had to get through this one.
    I popped over to Tod’s office for the Mumbai file.
    “Top priority, Elliott, top priority,” he sang.
    “I know, thank you. All my assignments are top priority. I have no bottoms.”
    I shuffled back to my office and called the number for Mumbai Humanitarian listed on the application. The young receptionist informed me that Ms. Patel was unavailable to speak with me, but I could leave a message. I booked an appointment for nine o’clock the next morning instead. A top priority couldn’t wait for a return call.
    And neither could Harry.
    I shoved my notebook in my hipster, grabbed my keys, and hollered goodnight on my way out the door.
      
    The medical examiner’s office was attached to the back of Island Memorial Hospital in a building that resembled a pretty brick colonial house with shutters on the windows, white raised-panel doors, and black embossed address plates. Most folks didn’t realize the unmarked door at the end of the walk held all the dead people. Sea Pine Island had a full-time medical examiner. Even though we’re a small island of thirty-thousand residents, Harry served the entire county, which added another ninety-thousand people.
    I entered the closet-sized lobby and signed my name on the clipboard nailed to the wall, then pushed the button near a plain side door. It had a combination pad and deadbolt lock.
    A faint buzzer sounded on the other side. A minute later, an intern in pale blue scrubs poked his head out. “Can I help you?”
    I showed him my driver’s license. “Elliott Lisbon to see Dr. Fleet.”
    “Is he expecting you?”
    “No, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”
    He looked at me skeptically, but opened the door wide enough for me to sneak through. I followed him down a narrow corridor with vinyl speckle floors and dull beige walls. It smelled medicinal, stringently clinical. Like bleach and ammonia and other chemicals I didn’t want to think about. The intern pointed me to a door on the left and kept walking.
    Harry stood facing a barrage of books opposite the door. The shelf spanned the entire wall straight to the ceiling. Hundreds of books, some over four inches thick, were crammed haphazardly, tottering sidewise