Free Swan Dive by Kendel Lynn Page B

Ballantyne,” I said. “You helped me with the wind chimes yesterday.”
    “Oh yes, the alligator lady,” she said. “How did the chime work out?”
    “It was perfect, thank you. But I’m actually calling about those gorgeous hand-painted ornaments on your feather tree. Can you tell me a little about them?”
    “Hand-forged by a local artisan couple. They paint each one by hand, and without a template. Can’t find anything like them in the area.”
    Just what I needed. Something original and hard to find. “Perfect. Any chance I could buy a large quantity and have them delivered tomorrow morning. Like early, early?”
    “Of course. How many do you need?”
    “Good question. Hang on one sec.” I reached behind my desk to the box of sample ornaments our original Nutcracker artist had sent over. The invoice was right on top. “Okay, let’s see…about seven hundred and fifty for the tree, probably another five hundred for gifts. So about thirteen hundred to be safe.”
    Silence. I heard the sounds of papers shuffling. “I could do seventy-five today and another fifty tomorrow, if that helps.”
    It didn’t. “Maybe next year,” I said.
    “We’ll need plenty of notice.”
    I told her I’d get back to her in January and hung up.
    Opening the sample box again, I lined up ornaments on my desk. Sugar Plum Fairy, Mouse King, Nutcracker, tiny mice, gingerbread men, gorgeous sweets, swirly lollipops, colorful truffles, candy canes, snowflakes. I arranged them and rearranged them, adding and subtracting, mindlessly playing like a little girl with a new toy on Christmas morning.
    “I got it!” I said with a head slap. I swept them into the box, except for the Sugar Plum Fairy, who went in my pocket.
    I called the ornament hanging crew to request their services at the Big House in the early morning. I grabbed my handbag and the box of caramels and found Carla in the kitchen. I told her my idea, then let her know I’d be out the rest of the day.
    I was feeling pretty darn excited about things when I climbed into the Mini and raced out to Cabana. Then I remembered where I was going.

      
    The medical examiner’s office was attached to the back side of Island Memorial hospital. The building resembled a quaint converted home-to-office building with shutters on the windows, thick paneled doors, and a beautifully landscaped entry. Once inside the cubicle-sized lobby, I signed the sheet on a clipboard nailed to the wall and rang the buzzer on the doorframe. Fresh wreaths made from real pine hung on the hooks where pictures normally would be. Orchestral Christmas music filtered through the speaker in the ceiling.
    Five minutes later, a lady in blue scrubs popped her head out. “Yes?”
    “Elliott Lisbon to see Dr. Harry Fleet,” I said.
    “Is he expecting you?”
    “Sort of. Most likely,” I said. “Not an official appointment. More of an informal visit.”
    She shrugged. “If you say so. Go on back, he’s in his office,” she said and held the door for me.
    Our shoes squeaked on the vinyl floor and I consciously avoided stepping on the lines between the tiles. The entire area smelled stringently medicinal and oddly chemical and I didn’t want to think about what the people in scrubs were doing on the other side of those walls.
    Dr. Harry Fleet served as medical examiner for not only Sea Pine Island, but the entire county. Over one hundred twenty thousand people. Unfortunately, he was a very busy man. His desk faced the door and he had books piled, stacked, and heaped on every open and flat surface. The wall of bookshelves behind his desk, the desk itself, two visitor’s chairs, even the floor. A tall but thin plastic tree sat in the corner, heavy with ornaments. Harry added a new one whenever a child died during the holidays. The tradition started before he became M.E., but he continued it with both sorrow and celebration.
    “What?” he growled by way of greeting. He sat behind the desk, scrawling notes on