Charlotte Douglas - Spring Break

On the off chance that Gracie was inside, hiding out, I climbed out of my twelve-year-old Volvo, went up the front walk and knocked on the door to the screened porch. When no one answered, I knocked again, louder, thinking surely Roger, if he was there, would have made some noise.

“They’re not home.”

At the sound of the loud voice in my ear, I almost jumped out of my skin. I whirled around to find an elderly man standing directly behind me. Dressed in baggy shorts, a sweaty T-shirt and grass-stained sneakers and holding long-handled loppers, he had a short, wiry build and was as brown and wrinkled as a raisin. A battered straw hat covered his head.

“If you’re selling something,” he said, “or one of those come-to-Jesus people, you’re wasting your time.”

“You their neighbor?”

“Yup, and you are?”

“Maggie Skerritt. I work for Gracie Lattimore’s employer.”

His leathery face twisted into a grimace. “The actress.”

I nodded. “Have you seen Gracie? I have a message for her.”

“You’re out of luck. She arrived late last night, but the whole bunch took off early this morning. Even the dog.”

“The dog?” At least Gracie hadn’t ditched the pooch after she left Jolene’s.

“Ugly little mutt. Gracie had it on a lead, and they packed a dog carrier along with the rest of the luggage.”

“They were taking a trip?”

“Yup. I promised Frank I’d look after his place while they’re gone.”

“Did Frank say where they were going?”

The old man shrugged. “Said they were traveling across country to see the sights.”

I was good at tracking, but not that good. It’s a hell of a big country. “Did he leave a contact number, some way he can be reached?”

“I can give you his cell phone.”

“That would help. Thanks.”

He turned and walked toward the house next door. I trailed along.

“I hope Gracie knows what she’s doing,” he said over his shoulder, “dragging her pet along.”

“Why is that?”

“Frank hates dogs. Gracie’ll be lucky if he doesn’t make her leave that mutt on the roadside in the middle of nowhere.”

Great, I thought. It looked as if I was going to need the FBI and the SPCA if I intended to find Roger.

After obtaining Frank’s phone number, I drove to the nearest shopping center and found a pay phone inside Publix, the grocery store. Bill had been harping at me for years to buy a cell phone, but I hated the idea of everyone being able to reach out and touch me 24/7. For the first time in more than twenty-two years, I was enjoying life without the annoyance of a police radio or a beeper. And, so far, I’d always been able to locate a phone when I needed one.

Locating Frank Lattimore was another matter. Either his cell phone was out of range or he wasn’t answering. I hoped I could contact him before he dumped the dog. Although I’d never owned a pet—my meticulous mother wouldn’t have one in the house when I was a kid, and, as an adult, I was never home—I loved animals. With his roly-poly body, a gait like a drunken sailor, and a face like an aging prizefighter, Roger was cute in a grotesque way. I didn’t want him to end up lost or hurt. But then I’ve always been a sucker for kids and animals.

By now, it was late afternoon, so I called Darcy. When she reported no messages or other business, I cut her loose from the office and drove toward home, where I intended to spend my evening trying to reach Frank Lattimore.

My stomach was growling with hunger. I’d skipped lunch, knowing every food vendor and restaurant would be thronged with spring break crowds, creating at least an hour’s wait to be served. If Bill hadn’t planned to stay overnight in Sarasota, I could have mooched supper off him. He loved to cook and could produce a fantastic meal out of practically thin air in the galley of his cabin cruiser. The Ten-Ninety-Eight, named after police radio code for “assignment completed,” was where he lived at the Pelican Bay Marina. I, on the other hand, considered my refrigerator stocked if it held a couple of Diet Cokes.

The sun hung low over the waters of St. Joseph’s Sound when I pulled into the parking space at my waterfront condo. I tossed my blazer, purse and keys onto the foyer table, removed my gun and holster, kicked off my shoes and crossed the living room to open the sliders that overlooked the water. Fresh, salty air, a perfect complement to the natural wicker and rattan furniture and the blue-green sea colors I’d chosen for paint and fabrics, filled the room. Bill called my decorating style Florida tourist hotel, but I liked the soothing atmosphere. Until my job as a police detective had ended two months ago, I’d spent too little time at home in the twelve years I’d owned the place. Now, working as my own boss, I hoped that would change.

I tried again to reach Frank Lattimore’s cell phone with no luck and was headed to my kitchen, hoping supper would miraculously materialize in the refrigerator, when the doorbell rang. I opened the front door to find Bill standing on the front porch.

I don’t know which I was happier to see, him with his thick white hair, smiling blue eyes, and deeply tanned physique that would put any college boy to shame, or the two bags of Olive Garden takeout he was holding.

“I thought you were spending the night in Sarasota,” I said.

“I missed you. Besides,” he said as he hefted the bags, stepped inside and headed for the kitchen, “I knew you’d be hungry.”

“You know me too well.”

“Not half as well as I intend to.”

“What if you discover I only love you because you feed me?”

“Then I’ll know how to guarantee your affection for the rest of my life.” His grin was devilish. “And you’ll gain a hundred pounds.”

“Only if you brought tiramisu.”

“I did.”

“I think I’ll marry you.”

“I’m counting on it.” He unloaded the bags and was transferring food into dishes from the cupboards. “Want to eat on the patio?”

I nodded and picked up a couple of plates and some silverware to carry outside. “Too bad I don’t have any wine.”

“I thought of that, too.” He pulled a bottle of Chianti from one of the bags. “Can’t have Italian food without a good red wine.”

“You sure you don’t have an ulterior motive?” I asked.

“Of course I do. I drove back from Sarasota because I don’t want to sleep alone.”

I grinned. “The food alone would have worked. The wine is overkill.”

“Better to have it and not need it—”

“Than to need it and not have it.” I finished one of his favorite sayings for him.

Later, sated with linguine and too much wine, I leaned back in my chair and watched the sun drop toward the horizon. I told Bill about our newest case, Jolene Jernigan and the missing Roger.

“Frank Lattimore’s not answering his cell phone,” I said, “so, at this point, I’m stumped.”

Bill swirled the last of the wine in his glass. “It doesn’t make sense that Frank, who doesn’t like dogs, would agree to take Roger on a cross-country trip.”

“Maybe they dropped off the dog to be boarded,” I said. “I’ll start calling kennels and vets in the morning.”

We watched the sun disappear before Bill spoke again. “Have you talked with your mother lately?”

“You sure know how to throw cold water on a perfect evening.”

“I take it that’s a no?”

“You take it right.”

My eighty-two-year-old mother, with whom I’d never been close, had ostracized me from the family circle before Christmas last year when I’d arrested the daughter of her best friend during a murder investigation. Although I’d eventually managed to clear the woman and find the real killer, Mother was still miffed. She hadn’t even thanked me for her Christmas present, a gaffe that my socially correct parent would commit only under the direst of circumstances.