Spring Break Read online

  “Jolene and I have had standoffs before, and I’ve always been the first to blink. Then I go back to her, and although I earn a little more money, she makes my life a bigger hell.”

  “Then leave Jolene. Give me Roger and use the five thousand to live on until you find another job.”

  “Who’s going to hire me?” I could read genuine fear in her expression. “I’m over-the-hill, overweight and unskilled. Roger is the only leverage I have to make Jolene take me back under my conditions. Because, as much as I need that job, she’ll have to promise to treat me right.”

  “Tell you what.” I felt sorry for her, even though her unhappy situation was one she’d helped create. “You make a list of the changes you want in your employment. I’ll present your demands to Jolene and see what I can negotiate.”

  At that point I realized Roger had abandoned the squirrel and was humping my right leg with unbridled enthusiasm.

  “Roger!” Gracie screeched and jumped to her feet. “Bad boy!”

  I stared down into that upturned, caved-in mug that looked as if he’d hit a wall face-first at sixty miles an hour, and I’d swear his grin had widened. Gracie jerked him away and picked him up again.

  “I’ll make a list,” Gracie promised. “But we’re both wasting our time.”

  She pivoted on her heel and stomped toward the house. Roger grinned at me over her shoulder.

  If Gracie was so certain Jolene wasn’t going to change, why didn’t she either go back to her old employer or get another job?

  The obvious answer hit me as I slid behind the wheel of my car.

  Apparently Gracie was on spring break.

  After leaving Gracie, I took Roosevelt Boulevard toward Tampa. Eastbound traffic on the Howard Franklin Bridge came to a standstill due to an accident at I-275 at the Dale Mabry exit, and I sat for an hour, listening to talk radio and developing a deeper understanding of road rage. If you weren’t angry when you climbed into your car, you’d be mad as hell from listening to those guys rant for the length of your commute.

  I had switched to Easy Listening when the traffic finally started moving, and fifteen minutes later, I parked in front of Katy’s house in Old Hyde Park. Elaine’s friend was either making serious money or had inherited a small fortune to afford this pricey piece of real estate, a completely restored bungalow from the arts-and-craft period in one of Tampa’s hottest neighborhoods.

  Elaine answered the door, dressed in bell-bottom jeans and a tunic top that screamed 1970s. I shivered at the realization that if I lived long enough, I’d probably see all the fashion fads of my youth recycled.

  Today Elaine had combed her hair and applied makeup, but her light blue eyes reflected her sorrow.

  “Can we talk?” I said.

  She motioned toward two cane-bottomed rockers on the wide porch. I sat in one, and she perched on the edge of the seat of the other, pushed her hair off her face and hooked it behind her ears. I caught a glimpse of her palms, pink and smooth with no ligature marks.

  “Have you found out who killed my sister?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then why are you here? I’ve told you everything I know.” Her tone was curious, not accusing.

  “Because there’s been another murder.”

  “Like Deirdre’s?”

  I shook my head. “Where were you yesterday morning around ten o’clock?”

  She breathed a shuddering sigh. “At the funeral home, making arrangements for Deirdre’s funeral.”

  “Which funeral home?”

  She gave me the name and address. “Why are you questioning me?”

  “Because one of the men in Deirdre’s newspaper picture was murdered yesterday.”

  Comprehension flashed in her eyes, as Elaine took less than a second to make the connection. “And you suspect me?”

  “Everybody’s a suspect for now.”

  “But I have no link to those men. I don’t even know which one Deirdre was looking for.” She curled her long, slender fingers into fists. “But if I did, I would have wanted to kill him.”

  “You haven’t thought of anyone else who might have reason to harm Deirdre, someone who might have followed her from Pennsylvania? An old boyfriend? A disgruntled coworker?”

  Elaine shook her head. “Deirdre was…withdrawn. I guess her shyness went back to the trauma in her childhood. She kept to herself. Didn’t date. Didn’t make close friends. She worked in an office where she input computer data, so she didn’t interact much with the other employees. When she wasn’t working, she stuck close to home and Mom and Dad. After their car crash, Deirdre was alone. That’s why she wanted to move back to Tampa, to be with me.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Now I’m the one who’s alone.”

  I silently cursed the narcissism and psychopathy of cold-blooded killers that allowed them to inflict such pain on others without suffering the tortures of remorse. They had to have hearts of stone to withstand the backwash of grief and pain from the crimes they committed.

  “Ms. Skerritt?” Elaine’s voice jerked me from my thoughts. “You’re bleeding.”

  I looked down, then reached into my pocket for a tissue and dabbed at the streaks of blood on the back of my right hand where I’d scratched my hives raw.

  “You haven’t noticed anyone suspicious around?” I asked. “Anyone following you? Unusual phone calls? Strangers at the door?”

  She shook her head. “You’re scaring me.”

  “No need to be frightened. Just stay alert. Deirdre’s death may be unrelated to her previous assault. But caution can’t hurt.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I believed Elaine’s story, but, even so, I checked her alibi with the funeral-home director after I left Hyde Park. He confirmed that Elaine had been where she’d said she was at the time Branigan was murdered, so I headed downtown to Franklin Street and One Police Center.

  Abe Mackley, looking harried, haggard and enough like Andy Sipowicz from NYPD Blue that he often drew double takes when he appeared on a crime scene, rose from his desk in Investigations to greet me.

  Abe had made detective a few years before me and had worked with Bill and me on the child murders sixteen years ago. Last December, Abe had helped us identify and capture Vincent Lovelace’s killer and solve several statewide homicides and a case of major insurance fraud. I hadn’t seen him since.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Maggie. You coming back to the Tampa PD now that Pelican Bay’s kaput?”

  “My police days are over.” I gave him one of my cards. “Malcolm and I have opened our own P.I. firm.”

  “Pelican Bay Investigations,” he read with approval and a hint of envy. “I’ll be retiring in a few weeks. Let me know if you need another investigator.”

  “You’ll be at the top of our list. You busy?”

  He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Does a bear crap in the woods? There’s so much testosterone in the air that I’d bet Viagra sales have dropped statewide. We’re working 24/7 to stay on top of these college kids. They started a small riot at Adventure Island yesterday afternoon, resulting in ten arrests. And they trashed a bar in Ybor City last night—fourteen charges—and caused a three Jet Ski DUI collision on the bay this morning, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Ah, spring,” I said with a sympathetic smile.

  “What I can’t figure is where these kids get the money for all this partying. I never had two dimes to rub together when I was a teen. Hell, I still don’t.” He shook his head. “But enough bellyaching. What can I do for you?”

  I quickly related the details of Deirdre Fisk’s murder.

  Mackley sighed. “Just when I was sure my give-a-damn’s busted, you hit me with this, and it all comes back again. I remember her, a sweet little kid scared out of her mind. I’d give my right arm to catch that son of a bitch. You think the same guy’s responsible for her murder?”

  I shrugged. “That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping something in the old files will point me in the
right direction.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get ’em myself. Want some coffee?”

  I glanced toward a corner table and the coffee-maker with a month’s worth of accumulated crud and grime. “No, thanks. I haven’t had my tetanus booster.”

  Abe grinned. “Same old Maggie. I see you’ve kept your sense of humor.”

  “Laughing keeps me out of the shrink’s office.”

  Abe went to retrieve the cold case files, and I stood at the window and surveyed downtown, exploding with growth like the rest of Florida. Several large construction cranes loomed on the skyline where new buildings were going up. I sighed, longing for Florida, B.C. Before condos.

  When Abe returned, I told him about Branigan while I copied the files and hoped the Xerox machine, whose workings sounded like the rhythm section of a mariachi band, didn’t die on me before I finished.

  With the copied files in hand, I drove back across the bay. Investigating Deirdre’s murder was on my own time, but I also had a job to do for Stella Branigan. I went directly to Harbor Oaks and Sidney’s home next to his parents.

  The younger Branigan’s abode was a two-story Nantucket-style house with weathered gray cedar shingles and enclosed porches on either side. It looked much more inviting than its pretentious neighbor. If I ignored the palm trees, the place could have been on Martha’s Vineyard.

  Before knocking on the door, I took a look around. To the left, a tall Surinam cherry hedge blocked the neighboring house and lot from view. To the right, a wide brick walkway through a head-high ligustrum hedge connected Sidney’s property with the senior Branigans’ house next door. Although the lots were spacious, on a run, someone could cross from one house to the next in less than a minute.

  A pleasant-looking woman with rosy cheeks, graying brown hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun and a welcoming smile answered my knock at the door. She was dressed in a sky-blue utilitarian cotton dress with a crisp white collar. She wore white shoes, the sensible lace-up kind with soft soles.

  “I’m Maggie Skerritt.” I gave her my card. “I’m investigating Carlton Branigan’s murder.”

  The woman’s smile faded, and she opened the door for me to step into the front hall. “I’m Ingrid, the housekeeper. Mr. Sidney is next door with his mother, but Miss Angela’s upstairs. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  “Wait, please. If you don’t mind, I have a few questions for you first.”

  Ingrid frowned. “It’s not my place—”

  “I’m sure Sidney would want you to cooperate in my investigation. And this won’t take long.”

  Ingrid cast a furtive glance up the stairs, then motioned me into the living room through an arch on the right. Sunlight flooded the cheerful room with its bright cream-white walls and overstuffed sofas and chairs, covered in floral English chintz, clustered around a fireplace with a brick surround and white mantel topped with framed family photos. Above the mantel hung an oil portrait of a chubby toddler in a pink sunbonnet and ruffled sunsuit, wielding her pail and shovel on the beach. The room had a homey, lived-in feel, not the staged, decorator look of many expensive residences.

  “You were here yesterday morning?” I asked.

  Ingrid nodded. “I come to work at seven, in time to fix breakfast for the family.”

  “But Mrs. Branigan and her daughter—”

  “Brianna.”

  “Weren’t they in Sarasota yesterday?”

  “Yes, but Wednesday is my cleaning day, so I came in at my usual time to get a head start.”

  “And Mr. Branigan was here all morning, too?”

  “In his study.” Ingrid jerked her thumb toward the sunporch off the living room.

  “This is a lovely house.” On the pretext of admiring my surroundings, I stepped closer to the study. From its rear windows, most of the backyard of the house next door was visible, although jasmine vines concealed the interior of the arbor where Carlton had died. A door at the back of the room opened to a curving walkway that led around an impressive bed of hybrid tea roses to the garage.

  “It was such a terrible tragedy,” Ingrid said. “I had just finished cleaning upstairs and turned off the vacuum when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Branigan, screaming for her son to come.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I ran downstairs to the study and told Mr. Sidney his mother needed him. I didn’t learn until later, after the police and ambulance arrived, that Mr. Carlton had been murdered.”

  “It must be hard,” I said, “for a young couple to live right next door to one set of in-laws.”

  Ingrid smiled and shook her head. “You’d think so, but the Branigans get along well.” Her smile faded. “Except for Brianna.”

  “The granddaughter?”

  “She’s going through a stage, I guess. She just turned nine.”

  Ingrid picked up a picture in a silver frame from Sidney’s large desk and handed it to me. Fortunately Brianna hadn’t inherited her grandmother’s and Sidney’s horsey features. A pretty child with long blond hair and deep blue eyes gazed back at me.

  “What kind of stage?” I asked.

  “She sulks in her room a lot and doesn’t like to visit her grandparents like she used to. I suppose at her age she’s more interested in talking to her friends on the telephone than being around old folks.”

  I returned the frame to Sidney’s desk. “Did you notice anything suspicious next door yesterday morning? See anyone coming or going?”

  “I was so busy cleaning, what with the vacuum cleaner noise and all, a tornado could have struck next door, and I wouldn’t have known it.” Ingrid’s kind eyes misted with tears. “I wish I could help. The Branigans have been good to me, and I hate that this has happened. I hope you find the killer.”

  “Would you ask Mrs. Branigan if she’ll see me now?”

  “Of course.”

  Ingrid left the room, and I heard her soft steps on the stairs. Moments later, Angela Branigan entered the room. A tiny slip of a woman with straight blond hair and blue eyes that she’d passed on to her daughter, she wore a simple black dress, black stockings and shoes, and a silver chain with a sterling Celtic cross. Her face was pale, and despite her attempts at composure, her nervousness was obvious.

  But I’d be nervous, too, if my father-in-law had been brutally murdered within shouting distance of my home.

  “I apologize for intruding at a time like this,” I said, “but your mother-in-law has hired me to investigate her husband’s death.”

  Angela sank into one of the deep chintz-covered chairs, looking like an inkblot against the vibrant floral, and clasped her trembling hands in her lap. “I don’t know how I can help. I wasn’t even here.”

  “But you and your in-laws are close?”

  Her face spasmed in an expression that could have been grief or distaste before she regained her neutral facade. “We practically live in each other’s pockets, as you can see.”

  She’d mentioned physical proximity, but had avoided describing their emotional ties.

  “Do you know of anyone,” I said, “who’d want to harm the senator?”

  She laughed, a harsh sound, like a barking dog. “Only half the state. He was a politician, after all.”

  Half the state was too many suspects to eliminate. I hoped Bill was having better luck with Carlton’s aides. “But no one specific?”

  She paused before answering, as if choosing her words carefully. “Carlton had one of those personalities that you either loved or despised.”

  “Which was it with you?”

  Her only reply was a slight flaring of her delicate nostrils.

  “If you’ll excuse me—” She rose from her chair with a graceful, fluid motion and one hand clutching her cross. “I must check on my daughter. Her grandfather’s murder has upset Brianna so terribly, her pediatrician had to sedate her. She’s sleeping now, but I want to be there when she awakens.”

  Worry furrowed the smooth skin of her brow and deepened the blue in her e
yes. She seemed genuinely concerned for her daughter.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Ingrid will see you out.” Taking slow, careful strides as if trying to keep from hurrying, Angela walked from the room and up the stairs.

  After Ingrid closed the front door behind me, I considered the strange vibes I’d picked up from Angela Branigan. Although she’d dressed the part of grieving relative, she hadn’t seemed all that sorry that her father-in-law was dead and had sidestepped my question on her opinion of Carlton. But disliking her in-laws didn’t make her a murderer, and she’d been sixty miles away at the time of her father-in-law’s death.

  Something was amiss in that household. I could feel it in the air. But my goal was to find a killer, not investigate the lack of domestic tranquillity in Sidney Branigan’s home.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rather than return to my car, I strolled past the front of Sidney’s house, took a walkway to the backyard, ambled through the hedge that marked the property line, and approached the arbor where Carlton had died. The CSU techs had completed their investigation and removed their crime-scene tape, but I wanted to experience the lay of the land again and form my own conclusions.

  From inside the arbor, I could see the tennis court at one end and the pool at the other, but the thick jasmine vines obscured the back of the house. A seawall edged the property along the waterfront, and a large dock with davits extended into the harbor. The killer could have come and gone by boat, but Stella would have noticed its approach and the noise of engines from her upstairs window. I’d check the wind speeds from yesterday morning, but if they’d been calm like today’s, a sailboat would have taken forever to make a getaway and would have been spotted, tacking toward the channel, even after the police arrived.

  The sound of heated voices on the terrace above me cut through the quiet, and I recognized Sidney’s voice.

  “Why waste money on a private detective?” He sounded angry.