Spring Break

by Charlotte Douglas

  The clunk of a car door slamming carried on the night air, and I tensed in expectation. My eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and I could see a figure approaching on the sidewalk from the parking area. Tall with broad shoulders and an athletic stride, the newcomer was dressed exactly as the hooker had described. Loose trousers and long-sleeved shirt, a ball cap and sunglasses. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn Sidney Branigan had returned from the dead to meet me in the park.

  Show time.

  With my hand on the gun in my bag, I stood as the suspect approached. Everything seemed to break loose at once, then switched to such slow motion that I observed all that happened with stunning clarity. A gun appeared from the pocket of the loose slacks. Bill catapulted from the bushes by the sidewalk and took the suspect down. From their hiding place nearby, Adler and Porter leaped onto the path, secured the gun, made the arrest and Mirandized their captive.

  In the tussle, the ball cap and sunglasses had been knocked aside. I stripped off my wig and glasses and faced Stella Branigan’s unswerving, steely glare.

  “You were supposed to be working for me,” she said, her haughty demeanor undeterred by the handcuffs on her wrists.

  “You fired me, remember?”

  She turned her fury on Adler and Porter, who held her by the arms. “You have no right to arrest me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Adler hefted the gun, a .22, which he’d stowed in an evidence bag. “For now, carrying without a permit will do. We’ll throw the rest of the book at you later.”

  “Meet us at the station?” Porter said.

  “We’re right behind you,” Bill answered.

  The pair led Stella away, and Bill put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I was worried about you. I’m glad this is over.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” I said.

  “You should have been. Stella would have shot you if she’d had the chance.”

  “But she didn’t.” I gave him a kiss. “Because you had my back.”

  “I’d like to have the rest of you, too,” he said with a grin.

  “Later,” I promised, “but first we have to see how well Stella Branigan sings.”

  Bill and I stood behind the one-way glass and watched Adler and Porter question Stella in the interview room. She had yet to request her lawyer, which I thought strange for a woman in her position, but, as the interview unfolded, her contorted reasoning and her increasing mental instability became clear.

  Stella was either losing her grip on reality or was suffering under the delusion that the fewer people who knew about her husband’s crimes, the less likely that the media would get hold of the facts.

  She leaned across the table toward Adler and whispered, “I’m telling you all of this in confidence.”

  Adler glanced at Porter, who was leaning in the corner, one foot propped against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, then returned his full attention to Stella.

  “We’re the only ones here,” Adler assured her. “And things will go better for you if you cooperate and tell us everything.”

  “It all started with that horrible young woman.” Stella spit the angry words, and a trickle of saliva appeared at the corner of her mouth. “She showed up on a Monday night, saying she needed to speak with Carlton. I thought she was a constituent, so I asked her in, even though Carlton was still in Tallahassee. When she saw his portrait above the mantel, she turned pale and started to hyperventilate. She was shaking hard, and when I asked what was wrong, she told the most horrible tale, made the most gruesome accusations, that I knew she had to be silenced.”

  Adler nodded in sympathy. “Deirdre’s story would have ruined your husband’s career.”

  “Exactly. I told her I couldn’t talk at the house— I couldn’t kill her in my own living room, could I? So I made up a story about Carlton coming home any minute and arranged to meet her in the park later. I promised her we’d go to the police together. But I knew she had to be stopped.”

  Stella’s mental state was obviously becoming more and more fragile. The expression in her eyes was wild, furtive. Her hands plucked at her sleeves in mindless gestures. With her hair matted from the ball cap and her baggy, masculine attire, she looked nothing like the self-assured socialite I’d first met.

  “How did you stop Deirdre?” Porter’s question was offhand, almost nonchalant.

  “I shot her.”

  “With the gun you had tonight?” Adler asked.

  Stella nodded.

  “We searched your house after your husband was murdered,” Porter said. “The gun wasn’t there.”

  Stella’s smile was smug. “After I shot that horrible little Fisk woman, I put the gun in the safety-deposit box at the bank. I didn’t get it out again until after my house had been searched.”

  “You know that Sidney killed his father?” Adler asked.

  Stella’s smile crumpled into grief. “I didn’t know until Sidney told me Sunday night. He killed his own father for no reason.” With her expression pleading, she reached across the table and grabbed Adler’s arm. “Carlton would never touch Brianna, not in that way.”

  I turned to Bill. “Looks like Stella is the Queen of de Nile.”

  “Or has lost all her marbles,” he said. “If she had no idea what Carlton’s been up to all these years, the shock of Deirdre’s story and Sidney’s accusations could have sent her over the edge.”

  Adler gently disengaged Stella’s death grip from his arm.

  “Were you afraid Sidney would tell on his father?” Porter was asking.

  Stella shook her head. “He wanted to protect Brianna. He would never have said anything to anybody.”

  “Then why did he confess to you?” Porter said.

  Stella began to shiver. She hugged herself and rocked slowly back and forth in her chair. “He said he was sick of hearing me say how wonderful his father was, that it was time I knew the truth.” She rocked harder. “But it wasn’t the truth. It was all lies.”

  “Is that why you killed your son?” Adler asked in a soft voice. “To stop the lies?”

  She stopped her swaying movement and shook her head. Her eyes flashed fire and her lips curled in a snarl. “I didn’t mean to kill him, just to frighten him to protect his father’s memory. Carlton was the best man in the whole world. He would have been governor someday. Maybe even president. He’d worked toward that goal his entire life, and Sidney was going to ruin Carlton’s good name. It was all so horribly unfair. But Sidney wouldn’t listen and the gun went off….” She folded her arms on the table, lowered her head and sobbed.

  With three recent murders and three cold cases solved, I had expected a sense of satisfaction, but all I felt was sadness and fatigue.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I said to Bill. “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Two days later, Bill, reading the Times, sat in the club chair at the office with his feet propped on my desk. Yesterday we’d been deluged with calls from the media for details on the now-solved cold cases, the Fisk and Branigan murders, and our capture of Stella Branigan. Nothing stirs the juices of an investigative reporter better than the fall of the mighty.

  “At least we got some good plugs for Pelican Bay Investigations,” Bill said, “and right on the front page. That’ll help business.”

  “We’re already too busy,” I said. “We need a break.”

  Bill dropped the paper to his lap and stared at me in surprise. “Is that Margaret the workaholic talking? I can’t believe my ears.”

  “I’m learning to slow down,” I said.

  He nodded in approval. “Let’s take a trip. How about a few days on Sanibel?”

  “Sound great—oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot about Jolene and Gracie. I have to wrap that situation up first, but Jolene should be back from Cancún by now.”

  Bill’s cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket and answered. The longer he listened, the more his smile broadene
d.

  “Thanks,” he said, “we’ll be in touch.”

  “Good news?” I asked.

  “The best. That was Natalie Pettigrew, the Realtor. We got the house.”

  “Wow.” I’d been so focused on the recent murders, I’d forgotten all about the charming Cape Cod cottage in Adler’s neighborhood.

  “We close in three weeks,” Bill said. “Now all we need is—”

  “A dog?” Darcy stood in the doorway.

  Bill shook his head. “Furniture.”

  “Well,” Darcy said, “you got a dog.”

  I started to speak but something warm and furry attached itself to my leg beneath my desk. I pushed back my chair and gazed down into the upturned face of Roger, the pug, his expression blissful and adoring.

  “Roger!” I scooped him into my arms and looked to Darcy. “What’s he doing here?”

  Darcy rolled her eyes. “Gracie Lattimore just dropped him off. Said you could have him.”

  “Call Jolene Jernigan,” I said. “Tell her I’ll bring him right over.”

  Bill had come over and was scratching Roger behind his ears. “Hey, fellow.”

  Roger was loving it.

  “Jolene’s gone back to New York,” Darcy said.

  “Without Roger?”

  Darcy nodded. “With Gracie and Ed, Jolene’s new hunk of burning love, who, it seems, is allergic to dogs. Jolene told Gracie to take Roger to the pound, but Gracie didn’t have the heart.”

  “Why didn’t Gracie talk to me?” I asked.

  “She was in too big a hurry, but said to tell you that everything has worked out fine. The limo was waiting outside to take them to the airport. Jolene goes back to work tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Darcy.” I shook my head at the most recent turn of events, and Darcy returned to her office.

  Roger leaped from my arms, then jumped from the floor to a chair and onto a low bookcase beneath the window. After turning around a few times, he settled down and stared at the cars and people passing on the street below.

  “We can find him a good home,” I said.

  “I like dogs,” Bill said, “and Roger certainly likes you.”

  What the hell, I thought. I’d committed to marriage and buying a house. I might as well have a dog, too.

  “With Jolene’s case closed,” Bill said, “we can sail to Sanibel today.”

  I grinned. “We’ll have our own spring break.”

  Bill put his arms around me and pulled me close. “When I’m with you, I feel like a college kid again. Maybe you should pack those hip-hugger jeans and that skimpy little shirt you wore the other night.”

  I kissed the tip of his nose. “Feeling like a college kid and looking like a college kid are two entirely different animals.”

  “Speaking of animals, we’ll need a life vest for Roger.”

  “Not to mention food, dishes and a bed.”

  “Taken care of,” Darcy called from the reception area, which proved what I’d always suspected about her keen hearing and love of eavesdropping. “Gracie left all Roger’s things, including his vet records and his dog license.”

  I sighed and said in a stage whisper, “Guess we’ll have to give the help some time off, too.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” Bill said. “We need to stay on her good side, since she apparently knows all our secrets.”

  “I heard that,” Darcy shouted.

  “Ready for that vacation, Ms. Skerritt?” Bill offered me his arm.

  “Ready.” I looped my arm through his.

  Roger barked and jumped from the bookcase.

  “C’mon, boy,” I said. “I hope you like boats.”

  “Of course, he likes boats,” Bill insisted. “We’ll get him an eye patch and call him Jolly Roger.”

  Darcy raised her eyebrows when we passed through her office. “When will you, Jimmy Buffett, and your little pirate be back?”

  “No set time,” Bill said quickly. “A few weeks or so.”

  “Shut down the office,” I told her, “turn on the answering machine, and go home. For now, we’re all on spring break.”

  With Bill whistling, “Come back to Jamaica,” and Roger trotting happily alongside, we left the building.

  SPRING BREAK

  Copyright © 2006 by Charlotte H. Douglas

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4421-4

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