Spring Break

by Charlotte Douglas

  Sidney smiled somewhat distractedly. Judging from the impatience in his body language, I figured he was in a hurry to discuss something with his mother.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more,” Stella said. “Madison, please show Ms. Skerritt out.”

  I followed the butler to the front door, then stopped and took out the photo of Deirdre. “Has this woman been here lately?”

  Madison gazed at the picture and shook his head. “Mrs. Branigan only recently returned from Tallahassee.”

  “When exactly was that?”

  “I am not allowed to talk about my employers, a condition in my contract.”

  “Thanks.” For nothing.

  He shut the massive wooden door behind me, and I walked to my car.

  The Clearwater Police Department was only minutes away. I arrived to find Adler working late. He was at his desk in CID and eating a foot-long steak-and-onion hoagey. Rarely had I seen Adler when he wasn’t eating, but where he packed the calories on his lean, muscular body was a secret many would kill for.

  “Branigan’s wife claims he was at a fund-raiser in Tallahassee last night,” I said.

  Adler wiped grease from his fingers and turned to his keyboard. With a few strokes, he accessed the Internet and pulled up a Tallahassee newspaper Web site. A few more keystrokes, and a news photo of Branigan and the governor, taken at Monday night’s party, appeared on his monitor.

  “The wife’s story checks out,” he said. “You talked to Edward Raleigh yet?”

  “Next stop,” I said. “What have you got?”

  “According to this photo with Branigan, the governor was in Tallahassee Monday night, too. But I did some digging before you got here, and your Tampa murders occurred during his first run for office.”

  “The one he didn’t win?”

  “Right. But his publicity people released an itinerary for his appearances during that time. It’s in the archives on his campaign Web site. I cross-checked it with the dates of the original murders, and the governor was either in South Florida or the Panhandle when all three murders—and the attempt on young Deirdre Fisk—occurred.”

  I nodded. “He was never high on the suspect list and eliminating him narrows our field.”

  “The field’s getting smaller fast. Ralph Porter, my partner, tracked down the father of the teen who won the scholarship. He was in Gainesville with his son last night, scoping out the campus for the fall semester. The Hampton Inn confirms that the family checked in Sunday afternoon and are still registered.”

  “And Representative Warner in Bradenton?”

  “He wasn’t answering his home phone, so I called his Manatee office. His aide says the entire Warner family flew from Tallahassee to Big Sky, Montana, Friday for spring break. Gave me the name of their resort. I reached the manager by phone and he corroborates that they’re booked through next weekend.”

  “So neither of us had any luck.”

  “How about with your dognapper?” Adler took another huge bite of his sandwich. He must have seen the longing in my eyes. “Want some? I can give you half.”

  “No, thanks.” I was still doing penance for tiramisu and would be counting calories the next few days. “I found the dog, but my client’s former employee is holding it hostage.”

  “That’s easy enough. Have a uniform pick up the little beast.”

  I shook my head. “My client insists on strict secrecy and no publicity. I’ll have to come up with another angle. Any ideas?”

  “You could always send in Malcolm, disguised as Animal Control.” He grinned.

  “Maybe, as a last resort.”

  “By the way, I got a call this afternoon from Elaine Fisk to give me her temporary address and phone number. She said you suggested she move in with her friend for the time being, and she followed your advice.”

  “Good. If whoever killed Deirdre did so to cover up three other murders, he’ll have nothing to lose by taking Elaine out, too, especially if he’s afraid she might ID him. But with all but one of our suspects from the photo with alibis, it’s looking more likely that her murder was random.” I nodded toward the case file on his desk. “Do you have any suspects from the park where Deirdre was found?”

  Adler shrugged. “It’s a known hangout for drug users and dealers, hookers and homeless. A lot of those vagrants are mentally unstable. Deirdre’s wallet was empty. She could have been killed for a few bucks.”

  “Or the killer could have taken her money to make it look that way.”

  “We’ve canvassed most of the known regulars at the park,” Adler said. “Either nobody saw anything or nobody’s talking.”

  “Any prints on the wallet?”

  “Some smudged partials,” he said. “No matches in AFIS.”

  I considered Adler’s description of the park’s seedy inhabitants. “There’s another possibility. Whoever killed Deirdre could have left her purse untouched, and someone else took her money before the cops came.”

  The nerve endings in my skin went into spasms, and I reached into my purse for Benadryl caplets.

  “The water fountain’s over there,” Adler said.

  I crossed the room, washed down the pills and returned to his desk.

  “So—” he dumped the papers from his takeout into the trash “—looks like we’ve narrowed our news photo suspects to Representative Raleigh.”

  “Yeah,” I said, trying not to scratch, “if you don’t count the druggies, vagrants and prostitutes.”

  “Let’s be optimistic. Maybe when you talk to Raleigh tonight, he’ll confess and save us a lot of trouble.”

  I shook my head. “You know what they say.”

  “What?”

  “An optimist claims we live in the best possible world, and the pessimist fears it’s true.”

  He grinned. “You’ve been at the books again.”

  “Not often enough. I’ll see you at the autopsy in the morning.”

  Afraid that once I reached home, I wouldn’t drag myself out again, I decided to ignore my grumbling stomach and visit Edward Raleigh before I called it a night.

  When he wasn’t in Tallahassee, Raleigh lived on the edge of the golf course at the Osprey Country Club just north of town. I turned off Alternate U.S. 19 into the entrance of the classy subdivision, drove past the clubhouse that bordered Osprey Lake, and wound my way through the curving streets that followed the configuration of the golf course.

  With my car windows down, I caught a faint whiff of orange blossoms from trees in the spacious yards. The hundreds of thousands of acres of commercial groves that used to overwhelm the county each spring with their heavy perfume were a thing of the past, victims of population growth and development, and the elusive scent made me nostalgic.

  The sun was setting when I arrived at Raleigh’s sprawling Key West style home, and lights blazed through the angled Bermuda shutters on the front windows. A Cadillac with its trunk open was parked in the driveway, and a middle-aged man and woman stood at the rear of the car, holding pieces of luggage. I couldn’t tell if they were leaving or arriving.

  I parked in front of the house, and they set down their bags when I left my car and approached them. “Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh?”

  “Yes?” the man said.

  I showed my ID, clearly legible in the light above the garage door. “I’m Maggie Skerritt.”

  “I know you,” Mrs. Raleigh said. “You’re the detective who solved the Lovelace murder back before Christmas.”

  “I was a detective. Now I’m a private investigator, and I’m helping the Clearwater Police Department with a case.”

  “We can talk inside,” Raleigh said with warm hospitality and a politician’s smile. He probably figured me for a registered voter. “We’ve just returned from a trip to Mobile to visit our grandkids. Our grandson’s first birthday was yesterday. It was quite a celebration.”

  “When did you leave Mobile?” I asked.

  “Early this morning,” Mrs. Raleigh said. “We drove st
raight through.”

  “If you can verify that, I won’t take any more of your time.”

  Raleigh reached into the pocket of his shirt and handed me a slip of paper. “Here’s a credit card receipt for gas when I filled up this morning before we left.”

  The service station’s address, time, and date stamp supported his claim. I handed him back his receipt. “Thanks for your help.”

  “What’s this about?” his wife asked.

  “Just trying to establish a time line on a woman who was searching for a man in a newspaper photo. Your husband was among them, but, if she came here, you obviously weren’t at home.”

  I thanked the Raleighs for their time, got into my car and headed home. Apparently, Deirdre hadn’t been killed by any of the men in the photograph. But that didn’t mean that none of them was a suspect in my cold case from Tampa. Tomorrow I’d start digging into old records to see if I could connect one of the men in the photo with the murders I literally itched to solve.

  When I arrived home, the message light on my answering machine was blinking. Hoping it was Bill announcing he’d finished his Sarasota assignment and was back on board the Ten-Ninety-Eight, I pushed Play.

  Instead of Bill’s deep voice, I heard Caroline’s frantic plea. “Meet me at the hospital. Mother’s had a stroke.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Pelican Bay Hospital was only a couple of miles from my condo, close to the former police department, now a county sheriff’s substation. During the entire drive, Bill’s recent warning about reconciliation rang in my ears, and I worried that I’d waited too long to mend fences with my mother. If she died before I could speak with her, I would never have the chance to bridge the gap between us. I’d long ago accepted that I didn’t really like my mother, and I’d also given up on gaining her approval, but I loved her, and I hoped I had a chance to tell her so.

  I broke a few traffic laws between my place and the hospital, only to waste endless minutes circling acres of parking lots looking for an empty space.

  After finally securing a spot on the far edge of a lot, I sprinted toward the emergency entrance. Nearing the building, I met Joe Fenton, a paramedic, who was leaving, and we spoke in passing.

  “Hey, Maggie. Long time no see.”

  “Hi, Joe,” I said without slowing my stride.

  “You can tell it’s spring break.” He smoothed his mustache, which reminded me of a caterpillar. “Just had a drunken college kid take a header off a balcony at the beach.”

  “Will he make it?”

  Joe shrugged. “You know head injuries. Got another call. Gotta run. Good to see ya.”

  Joe swung into the driver’s seat of the ambulance parked at the curb, and I rushed up the brick walkway to the E.R. entrance. The hospital doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and I hurried to the waiting room. I’d no sooner stepped inside than an unkempt woman in a floral patio dress and flip-flops threw herself at me. After extricating myself from her viselike embrace, I was surprised to discover that, instead of a Signal Twenty awaiting admission to the psych ward, the distraught and disheveled greeter was my sister. Her informal clothes, uncombed hair and face devoid of makeup made her appear much older than her fifty-seven years and underscored the seriousness of Mother’s condition.

  “I came as soon as I got your message,” I said. “How is she?”

  “She’s being evaluated now.”

  “What happened?” I led Caroline to a corner of the waiting room less populated than the others and sat on a vinyl-covered sofa beside her.

  My usually cool-as-a-cucumber sister wrung her hands. “A little before eight, Estelle went up the bedroom to tell Mother her dinner was ready.”

  I nodded. A stickler for propriety, Mother always dressed for dinner and ate in the dining room, even when she dined alone.

  “Mother was slumped in her chair, incoherent, unable to move her right arm or leg. Estelle called the paramedics, then me. I got here just as they were bringing Mother in.”

  I glanced around the motley assortment of humanity that crowded the waiting room. An elderly couple held hands and watched CNN on the ceiling-mounted television. A young mother and father attempted to comfort a red-faced baby who was crying at the top of his lungs, and two teenage girls took turns talking and giggling on the courtesy phone in the corner opposite us. A man in work clothes sat stoically and cradled his arm, as if it was broken.

  “Where’s Hunt?” I asked.

  Caroline seldom went anywhere without her wealthy, socially connected husband, Huntington Yarborough, mother’s ideal, obsequious-to-a-fault son-in-law.

  “Hunt’s in Palm Beach at a securities seminar. I talked with him right after I called you. He’s taking the first plane home.”

  Recent events, mainly Hunt’s help in my last murder investigation and his and Caroline’s support after Mother disowned me, had me reassessing my relationship with my sister and her husband. We weren’t at the warm-and-fuzzy stage yet, but I no longer ground my teeth in their presence.

  “Have you talked to a doctor?”

  Caroline shook her head. “There’s been no time.”

  “I haven’t seen much of Mother lately.” That was the understatement of the century. I hadn’t seen her at all since she’d laid into me after Thanksgiving for arresting Samantha Lovelace for her husband’s murder. “Has she been feeling all right?”

  “You know how Mother is. She doesn’t talk about illness, as if it’s a social taboo. Funny, don’t you think, for somebody who was married to a doctor for so many years?”

  I nodded. Mother had a long list of social taboos, most of which I’d broken at one time or another.

  A nurse at the admitting desk called Caroline’s name, and my sister hurried to the counter. While she filled in forms attached to a clipboard, I considered calling Bill on his cell phone, but decided to wait until we’d heard from the doctor. Mother’s episode could have been a transient ischemic attack—one wasn’t a cardiologist’s daughter without picking up some of the lingo—or something much more serious. I’d wait until I knew the diagnosis before bothering Bill.

  After what seemed hours but was only about twenty minutes, a young female doctor in pale blue scrubs came out of the emergency room and spoke to the nurse at the reception desk. The nurse pointed her toward Caroline, and I hurried over to hear what the doctor was saying.

  “Margaret, this is Dr. Quessenberry,” Caroline said. “She’s treating Mother.”

  Dr. Quessenberry smiled and looked about fourteen. Irrationally, I wished for Dr. Fellows. Seton Fellows, my father’s best friend, had been an eminent neurologist in his day, but I comforted myself with the probability that this girl was more up-to-date on the latest treatments than a man who’d been retired for a decade.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “We’ve done a CT scan that shows your mother has suffered an ischemic stroke. We’re moving her to ICU and administering antithrombotics to dissolve the clot.”

  “Can we see her?” Caroline asked.

  “Just for a moment, after she’s settled,” the doctor said, “but you mustn’t upset her. She needs calm and rest.”

  Don’t upset her. That left me out. I didn’t want to precipitate another stroke or aggravate this one.

  “You go, Caroline,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”

  I returned to the chair in the corner of the waiting room, and Caroline followed the doctor into the E.R. CNN was broadcasting a hot pursuit on a California freeway. The driver was taunting police by sticking his bare behind out the window. Wondering how he maintained control of the vehicle with his fanny in the breeze, I watched to see if he had a passenger who was handling the steering while the driver mooned the cameras.

  “Hello, Margaret.”

  I glanced up to find Seton Fellows smiling down at me from his extraordinary height of six foot five, as if my thoughts had conjured him from thin air.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  The retired
neurologist folded his lanky body into the chair beside me and took my hand. “Estelle called and told me what happened. I came to check on Priscilla.”

  “Have you spoken with Dr. Quessenberry?”

  He nodded. “And Dr. Katz will be taking over in ICU. He’s good. I trained him myself.”

  “Is Mother going to be all right?”

  “It takes about ten days before we know for certain that a stroke patient is stable. But the swiftness with which Estelle called for help definitely is a positive factor in your mother’s prognosis.”

  “I’d like to see her, but Dr. Quessenberry says she shouldn’t be upset.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Why would you upset her?”

  I was horrified to find my eyes filling with tears. Decades ago at the police academy, I’d learned never to let ’em see you cry. Tears don’t help, and, if nothing else, they rust your gun. I sniffed loudly and took a deep breath to forestall a sob. “She doesn’t approve of me. Never has.”

  With a scowl, he ordered, “Come with me.”

  He lifted me by the elbow and steered me toward an interior hallway, stopping at the desk on his way out. “If there’s any news on Priscilla Skerritt, page me in the cafeteria,” he told the receptionist.

  “Yes, Dr. Fellows.”

  “Rank,” he whispered to me, “still has its privileges.”

  We followed the winding corridor and its broad colored-coded stripes on the freshly waxed vinyl floors through the belly of the building to the staff cafeteria. With old-fashioned gallantry, Seton pulled out a chair for me at a wall table in the nearly deserted dining room, then strode to the serving buffet. He returned a minute later with a tray that held two cups of coffee and two slices of pie.

  “They make a delicious custard pie.” He took the seat next to me. “Comfort food.”

  I thanked him but didn’t think I could swallow anything past the knot in my throat. “You think Mother will be okay?” I asked again, needing reassurance.

  “Time will tell. Her constitution is strong, and Priscilla is a fighter, but she is eighty-two, after all.”