Spring Break Page 3

  “Is that why she was coming to see me?” I repeated. “About that case?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “But only if she was sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “That the man in the newspaper picture was the man who tried to kill her.”

  “The picture in the clipping she was carrying from the Tribune?”

  Elaine nodded again.

  “Which man?” I asked.

  She shook her head and twisted a lock of hair around one finger.

  “I know you promised Deirdre not to talk about it, but you may hold the key to solving her murder.”

  She appeared to consider my claim before finally saying, “Deirdre wouldn’t identify which man. She didn’t want to accuse anyone falsely. She said she had to see the man first and be certain it was him before she came to you with her suspicions.”

  Deirdre’s body had been found in a park less than five miles from my office. Had she identified her assailant and been on her way to tell me? Or was she headed to Branigan’s house in Clearwater or Raleigh’s home in Pelican Bay and had met with foul play unrelated to the man in the newspaper photo?

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” Elaine said.

  “There is one way you can. Do you have a recent picture of Deirdre I can borrow?”

  Elaine removed a photograph from a frame on the table beside her and handed it to me.

  I slid the photo into the pocket of my blazer. “I don’t know who killed your sister, but if it was the man who abducted her as a child, and if he thinks you might know about him, you could be in danger, too. Maybe you should move in with Katy for a while, until we get a better handle on what happened to Deirdre.”

  She shrugged, apparently too numb with grief to feel fear. “I’ll see. When will they let me have her? I want to take her back to Pennsylvania and bury her beside my parents.”

  “Detective Adler will let you know.” I took a business card from my pocket and handed it to her. “In the meantime, if you remember anything else or if you need me, give me a call.”

  I stood to leave. Elaine remained huddled in her chair.

  “Lock the door after me,” I said. “And don’t let anyone in you don’t know.”

  An hour and a half later, I sat at the pass-through counter between my kitchen and dining room and ate leftover linguine for a late lunch. Then I called Adler to tell him what I’d learned from Elaine Fisk.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You had better luck with her than I did.”

  “I guess she trusted me because Deirdre trusted me. So what’s your next move?”

  “I’ll track down Ronald Warner in Bradenton and the father of the scholarship winner. You think you could interview Branigan and Raleigh to find out where they were last night?”

  “Sure, but who’s going to interview the governor? He was in the picture, too.”

  Silence filled the other end of the line before Adler finally spoke. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Most politicians are guilty of something.” But I didn’t really believe the governor had been involved in Deirdre’s murder. If Deirdre had been looking for him, she’d have gone to Tallahassee, not Clearwater. “The governor’s a high-profile guy who’s been in the national spotlight for years. If he’d been her abductor, Deirdre, despite living in Pennsylvania, would have noticed television footage and newspaper pictures of him long before now. But even so, it wouldn’t hurt to determine his whereabouts at the time of the original murders.”

  “I’ll get on it. Thanks for your help, Maggie.”

  “No need to thank me. This is one case I’ve been wanting to crack for years.”

  I broke the connection, then dialed the office. Darcy answered and informed me that she’d struck out on vets and kennels. No one had any pugs boarded, so Gracie wasn’t hiding Roger under an assumed name.

  Jolene was not going to be happy with my lack of progress, but I owed her an update. Luckily, only voice mail answered on her cell phone, so I didn’t have to deal with her disappointment. I left a message, telling her what I’d discovered so far and that I’d be in touch.

  With a Diet Coke in hand and the portable phone tucked under my arm, I pulled that indispensable investigative tool, the telephone directory, from a kitchen drawer and went out to the patio. My intention was to call every Lattimore in the book to see if Gracie had other relatives who could be taking care of Roger. But at the sight of thirty-five Lattimores listed in Upper Pinellas alone, I changed tactics.

  Twenty minutes later, I was knocking on the door of Frank Lattimore’s neighbor in Largo. The Raisin answered, dressed much as he’d been the day before in grass-stained work clothes sans hat. His bald head was as brown as the rest of him. Many Florida retirees live for their yards, and, unless they hire a lawn service, in a climate that’s either too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, and with soil that’s basically nutrient-poor sand, keeping a landscape green and well trimmed can be a full-time job.

  “Now what?” he asked as soon as he recognized me.

  I love a man who gets straight to the point. “Does Frank Lattimore have any relatives in the area, someone to contact in case there’s a problem with his property?”

  “You still looking for Gracie?”

  I nodded. “Frank’s not answering his cell phone.”

  “He never does. He’s on one of those bare-bones calling plans. Only uses the danged thing for emergencies.”

  “What if you have to get in touch with him?”

  “He checks in with me every so often.”

  “Have you heard from him since he left yesterday?”

  The Raisin shook his head. “But you might ask Slim.”

  “Slim?”

  “Frank’s brother-in-law. Lives two blocks over.” He jerked his thumb toward the south.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  He had a point. “What’s Slim’s address?”

  The Raisin rattled off the street and number and shut the door.

  The drive to Slim’s house, an almost identical twin to his brother-in-law’s, took only a couple of minutes. As soon as I left my car and slammed the door, I knew I’d hit pay dirt. Inside the house, a dog was barking and throwing himself at the front door. When I rang the bell, the barking escalated, and the thuds against the door grew more violent.

  “Roger, is that you?” I said.

  For a moment, the noise ceased, as if the dog had recognized his name. Then the uproar continued, more fierce and frantic than before.

  A woman’s voice cut through the hullabaloo. “Roger, stop that! Bad dog!”

  Roger gave one last bark, as if to show who was really in charge, and silence fell.

  “Who is it?” a woman asked.

  “Maggie Skerritt.”

  “What do you want?”

  She didn’t open the door, and I didn’t blame her. Most women I knew didn’t open their doors to strangers, even in daylight.

  “I’m looking for Gracie Lattimore.”

  “Why?”

  “Jolene Jernigan sent me.”

  “Jolene can go to hell.”

  “Are you Gracie?”

  “Doesn’t matter if I am. I’m not talking to you.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said in my most conciliatory voice. “Just give me Roger so I can take him home.”

  “No way. I want her to suffer, just like she’s made me suffer all these years, the ungrateful hag.”

  “She could call the police, press charges. Then you’ll be in a heap of trouble.”

  “Ha! Fat chance. She’s too paranoid about bad publicity. At her age, she’s only inches from being canned by the producers. She causes them any problems, she’s history.”

  Jolene didn’t need a private eye. She needed a hostage negotiator. I’d give it my best shot. “What can I do to help resolve your differences?”

  Gracie’s reply was an anatomical impossibility, so I tried again. “C�
��mon, Gracie. Jolene says Roger piddles when he’s upset. He’s probably missing Jolene now, and you don’t want him ruining your relatives’ carpets.”

  “Roger’s happy as a clam,” the disembodied voice behind the door said. “He never liked Jolene anyway.”

  “Surely there’s something Jolene can do to get him back?” I was growing hoarse from shouting through the door.

  “Yeah, she could apologize for treating me like dirt, but hell will freeze over first.”

  “You know how it is working for someone else.” I remembered my days with Chief Shelton, who’d made my life miserable at every possible turn. “Sometimes you’re the windshield, but most days you’re the bug. That’s life. If you want warm and fuzzy—”

  “Get a dog? That’s exactly what I did.”

  “I was going to say go into business for yourself.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ve got thirty years’ experience as a doormat. What business could I go into?”

  I was more concerned about the dog. “You won’t hurt Roger?”

  Her reply rang with outrage. “What kind of a person hurts a helpless animal?”

  Too many that I’d met in my line of work. “Will you be staying here, so I can contact you in case I can come up with a solution?”

  “Where else would I go? Thanks to Ms. High-and-Mighty, I don’t have a home of my own.”

  I considered my options, but they were limited. If nothing else, I could stake out the house and grab Roger when Gracie took him for a walk, but she didn’t sound like the type who’d give him up without a fight. I decided to work on the apology angle with Jolene first.

  “I’ll be in touch. And if you change your mind, here’s my card with my number.”

  I slid the card through the mail slot in the front door. Firm jaws and strong teeth snatched it out of my hand. Roger’s, I assumed, but then I didn’t know that much about Gracie.

  I’d have to pass near Carlton Branigan’s neighborhood on my way back to Pelican Bay, so I detoured into Harbor Oaks in Clearwater to question the state senator for Adler. Basically, I needed only to determine the man’s whereabouts the night Deirdre was killed. If he didn’t have an alibi, Adler would do the follow-up interview.

  The tree-lined streets of the historical district were filled with homes from the same era as the Lattimore house, but all similarities stopped with the vintage. These residences in Harbor Oaks were stately mansions on acres of landscaped yards, not unlike the house where I’d grown up in Pelican Bay and where my mother still lived.

  The Branigan residence resembled an English Tudor country mansion, complete with ivy-covered walls, mullioned windows, and a bronze stag with a full rack of antlers, standing guard on the sweeping front lawn. The Anglican effect extended to the tall butler with ramrod posture who answered the front door.

  “May I speak with Senator Branigan, please?” I handed the man my business card.

  “The senator isn’t in.” His snooty British accent fit the decor. He took my card and held it between his thumb and index finger as if it were contaminated.

  “Is Mrs. Branigan in?” I said.

  He looked annoyed. “Come in, and I’ll check.”

  I stepped into a dim but impressive two-story foyer that showcased the soaring ceiling, timber framing, and a broad staircase that rose to a gallery across the back of the house.

  “Have a seat.” The butler indicated a massive carved chair with a high back and velvet upholstery that looked like a throne, then walked toward a door at the rear of the foyer. His careful tread made no sound on the thick Oriental carpet.

  I settled into the chair and looked around. Through a broad arch across the foyer, I could see straight through to the living room. Although the lighting there was also dim, a recessed ceiling fixture above the mantel threw a wash of illumination over a life-size portrait of a man in his mid-thirties with fair hair and a ruddy complexion. Dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, he sat in a chair similar to the one I now occupied and held an open book on his lap. His other hand rested on the head of a large dog, some kind of wolfhound. The man in the portrait was a younger version of the Carlton Branigan in Deirdre’s news clipping.

  Surveying the elegant surroundings, I concluded that Branigan, who’d worked in city, county or state government as long as I could remember, certainly hadn’t suffered financially from being a public servant. That fact jostled a memory, a tidbit gleaned from my mother’s love of gossip. Carlton Branigan had married money. His wife’s family had owned most of downtown Clearwater and the southern half of Clearwater Beach at one time. Without the clout of official police credentials, I doubted the influential woman would agree to see me.

  But I’d promised Adler, and I wouldn’t leave without determining where Branigan had been last night. With a sigh of resignation, I decided to play a card I usually kept well hidden in the deck.

  “Excuse me,” I called to the butler as his hand reached for the doorknob.

  He turned. “Yes?”

  I imitated the tight, condescending smile I’d seen my mother use too many times. “Tell Mrs. Branigan that I’m Priscilla Skerritt’s daughter.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Wealth has its privileges, and apparently invoking Mother’s name had provided access to Stella Branigan. The butler returned quickly, and I followed him through the rear hall onto a wide flagstone terrace that ran the width of the back of the house. Broad stairs swept down to formal gardens and a swimming pool. Past the pool, a long arbor, covered in confederate jasmine thick with blossoms, led to a tennis court. Clearwater Harbor glistened beyond the seawall in the late-afternoon sun.

  The elegant ambience made me uncomfortable until I remembered a saying I’d read somewhere that the upper crust is a bunch of crumbs held together by dough. In my former life as a librarian, I’d done a great deal of reading. But that was before my fiancé, a doctor in residence, had been murdered by a crack addict in the emergency room, and, as a result, I’d entered the police academy, determined to spend my life fighting crime. Working in law enforcement hadn’t left much time for reading. And between Deirdre Fisk and Jolene Jernigan, I was too busy now as a private investigator to indulge in my favorite pastime.

  On the south end of the terrace, an older woman sitting at a glass-topped wrought-iron table looked up at our approach.

  “Bring us tea, Madison,” she said in a low, cultured voice that rang with authority.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Madison returned to the house, and Stella Branigan waved me into a chair opposite her. “You’re Margaret Skerritt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know your mother. We served together on the Art Guild board.”

  She crossed her legs, leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette with a gold lighter. In her early sixties, tall and athletic with big bones and a long, horsey face, Stella Branigan would have been homely under other circumstances, but excellent makeup, a salon haircut and well-fitted casual clothes provided the illusion of attractiveness.

  “How is Priscilla?” she asked.

  “Mother’s fine. Still active.”

  “But you’re not here to talk about your mother.” Her smile barely lifted the corners of her mouth.

  “No. I’m helping the Clearwater Police Department with one of their investigations.”

  She was still for a moment, and her carefully composed expression gave nothing away. She exhaled cigarette smoke. “We don’t have much crime in Harbor Oaks. Good security systems, Neighborhood Watch, and excellent policing deter most criminals.”

  Footsteps on the terrace stairs below interrupted her. A thirty-something man, dressed in tennis whites and with a face like Stella’s but Carlton’s fair hair and ruddy coloring bounded up the steps. He stopped abruptly when he spotted me.

  “Sorry, Mother, I didn’t know you had company. I came to invite you to have dinner with us.”

  “It’s not a problem, darling. Ms. Skerritt will be leaving soon. Margaret, this is my son, Si
dney. He lives next door.”

  Sidney stepped forward and shook my hand. “I’ll wait inside until you’re finished here.”

  “No need,” his mother said. “Our conversation isn’t private.”

  He pulled out a chair and joined us at the table.

  “It’s really your husband I need to speak with,” I said to Stella.

  Stella shook her head. “Carlton’s in Tallahassee. He won’t be home until late tonight.”

  “Was he here for the weekend?”

  “No, he stayed at the Capitol for a fund-raiser last night. Now he’s taking care of loose ends at his office before coming home for the spring recess. Is there something I can help you with?”

  I reached into my pocket and withdrew the photo of Deirdre Fisk. “Have you ever seen this young woman?”

  I gave Stella the picture. She glanced at it, and a brief flicker that could have been no more than interest rippled across her angular features. But her facial expression was bland again when she handed the photo back.

  “I’ve never seen her,” she said in a disinterested tone.

  “May I see?” Sidney asked.

  His mother seemed annoyed when I passed him the photo. He looked, but returned it without comment.

  “Ms. Fisk didn’t come here looking for the senator last night?”

  Stella stiffened. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything. Just trying to help the Clearwater Police establish a time line on this woman’s whereabouts.”

  “What makes you think she’d come here?” Sidney asked.

  “She had a newspaper clipping in her purse with a picture that included the senator. We think she might have been trying to contact the men in the photograph.”

  Sidney frowned. “Why?”

  “She may have known one of them when she was a child,” I hedged. No need to bother Stella further. I’d double-check Carlton’s alibi, but, if he was in Tallahassee last night as his wife claimed, he couldn’t have killed Deirdre Fisk.

  Madison appeared with a silver tea service, but I’d learned all I needed to know. I pushed to my feet. “I won’t take any more of your time. Thanks, Mrs. Branigan. Nice to meet you, Sidney.”