“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.”