Spring Break. Charlotte Douglas
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“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