Charlotte Douglas - Spring Break

“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.”

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.”

“But you’re not here to talk about your mother.” Her smile barely lifted the corners of her mouth.

“No. I’m helping the Clearwater Police Department with one of their investigations.”

She was still for a moment, and her carefully composed expression gave nothing away. She exhaled cigarette smoke. “We don’t have much crime in Harbor Oaks. Good security systems, Neighborhood Watch, and excellent policing deter most criminals.”

Footsteps on the terrace stairs below interrupted her. A thirty-something man, dressed in tennis whites and with a face like Stella’s but Carlton’s fair hair and ruddy coloring bounded up the steps. He stopped abruptly when he spotted me.

“Sorry, Mother, I didn’t know you had company. I came to invite you to have dinner with us.”

“It’s not a problem, darling. Ms. Skerritt will be leaving soon. Margaret, this is my son, Sidney. He lives next door.”

Sidney stepped forward and shook my hand. “I’ll wait inside until you’re finished here.”

“No need,” his mother said. “Our conversation isn’t private.”

He pulled out a chair and joined us at the table.

“It’s really your husband I need to speak with,” I said to Stella.

Stella shook her head. “Carlton’s in Tallahassee. He won’t be home until late tonight.”

“Was he here for the weekend?”

“No, he stayed at the Capitol for a fund-raiser last night. Now he’s taking care of loose ends at his office before coming home for the spring recess. Is there something I can help you with?”

I reached into my pocket and withdrew the photo of Deirdre Fisk. “Have you ever seen this young woman?”

I gave Stella the picture. She glanced at it, and a brief flicker that could have been no more than interest rippled across her angular features. But her facial expression was bland again when she handed the photo back.

“I’ve never seen her,” she said in a disinterested tone.

“May I see?” Sidney asked.

His mother seemed annoyed when I passed him the photo. He looked, but returned it without comment.

“Ms. Fisk didn’t come here looking for the senator last night?”

Stella stiffened. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. Just trying to help the Clearwater Police establish a time line on this woman’s whereabouts.”

“What makes you think she’d come here?” Sidney asked.

“She had a newspaper clipping in her purse with a picture that included the senator. We think she might have been trying to contact the men in the photograph.”

Sidney frowned. “Why?”

“She may have known one of them when she was a child,” I hedged. No need to bother Stella further. I’d double-check Carlton’s alibi, but, if he was in Tallahassee last night as his wife claimed, he couldn’t have killed Deirdre Fisk.

Madison appeared with a silver tea service, but I’d learned all I needed to know. I pushed to my feet. “I won’t take any more of your time. Thanks, Mrs. Branigan. Nice to meet you, Sidney.”

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?”