“I’ll fill out the paperwork,” Natalie said, “and you can meet me in the kitchen.”
She left us again, and Bill stood with his arms around me while he surveyed his new domain. “We’re going to be happy here, Margaret. I can feel it already.”
I was beginning to feel it, too.
“It is close to the office and the marina,” I said.
“But the best part is that it seems made for us,” Bill said. “Can’t you sense it?”
I could. Walking back through the courtyard and into the house felt like coming home.
Later, back in my condo after a late lunch at Dock of the Bay and a long nap, I was suffering the pangs of post-act dissonance. Without the peace and charm of the Cape Cod house working its magic, I couldn’t help wondering if we’d been too hasty in plopping down a deposit on the first property we’d seen.
And, to be honest, I was worried about living with Bill anywhere. Even as a child, I’d always had my own room. In college, Daddy had insisted that I have my own apartment. After graduation, I’d never had a roommate either, and after flying solo for almost five decades, I feared ruining the best relationship of my life by too much togetherness.
I was remembering horror stories I’d heard about marriages that went south because one person squeezed the toothpaste tube in the middle, left the toilet seat up or dirty socks under the bed, when the phone rang and interrupted my angst session.
It was Adler.
“Did someone ID Deirdre’s killer?” I asked.
I heard him release a breath in a whoosh. “The sketches didn’t look familiar to anyone, but we have a bigger problem now.”
“Bigger than Deirdre’s killer on the loose?”
“As big. Sidney Branigan’s been murdered.”
CHAPTER 18
“What?” I didn’t think I’d heard Adler right.
“His wife found him shot to death in the driveway in front of his house. Crime techs are working the scene. I’m there now.”
The wheels in my brain spun, working hard to assimilate this new development into a case that so far had made no sense. “Mind if I come over and butt in?”
“A fresh pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt. Bring Malcolm, too.”
“He’s in Tampa, visiting his father, but I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The ride to Harbor Oaks took fifteen, but Sidney Branigan wasn’t going anywhere. He was sprawled on the driveway with a gunshot wound to the back of the head. When I arrived, Doc Cline was performing her initial examination. With the sun already set, the techs had erected portable tree lights to illuminate the crime scene, and several of the CSU team were combing the area.
I left my car parked on the street and met Adler at the foot of the driveway.
“What have you got?” I asked.
“No sign of robbery. The vic’s still wearing his Rolex and a multicarat diamond ring and has almost a thousand in cash in his wallet.”
“No witnesses?”
Adler shook his head. “From what we’ve been able to reconstruct, Sidney went to his mother’s house around six to tell her goodbye.”
“He and his family were still leaving on vacation in the morning?”
He nodded. “According to Stella Branigan, Sidney left her house about six-thirty. Madison, who showed him out, confirms that. Angela called Stella at seven to ask if Sidney was still there. When Stella told her how long he’d been gone, Angela came outside to look for him and discovered the body. That’s when she called 911. Porter’s doing in-depth interviews with the wife and housekeeper now.”
“You’d better look hard at Angela,” I said. “Remember my feeling that there was tension in the family?”
Adler scratched his earlobe. “Angela and Ingrid have alibied each other. They were in the kitchen, fixing dinner, the whole time Sidney was gone. Brianna backs that up, too. She was with them, watching television. Porter’s talking to them one at a time, to see if their initial stories hold up under scrutiny.”
Doc approached us and peeled off her latex gloves. “I put time of death around six-thirty, give or take fifteen minutes. Looks like a small-caliber entry wound. Close range. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“In the morning?” Adler asked.
Doc shook her head. “Tonight. Our office is backed up, so most of us are putting in overtime. I might as well get this over with.”
“I’ll meet you at your office in an hour,” Adler said.
“Guess that rules out lunch tomorrow,” I said to Doc.
She laughed at our standing joke. “The first thing on my list when I retire is to have lunch with you, Maggie—if you’ve retired by then, too.”
Even long hours hadn’t taken the bounce out of her step as she turned toward the M.E.’s van, where her assistant was unloading a gurney with a body bag, and she hurried to help him.
“We have several uniforms canvassing the neighbors,” Adler said, “but as secluded as this yard is, I doubt anyone saw anything.”
I surveyed the scene. Perfectly trimmed head-high hedges hid the house and driveway from the street. And the street itself, while lined with streetlights, had a series of deep pockets of darkness cast by the massive trees that gave Harbor Oaks its name. Someone could have waited for Sidney in the shadows, shot him and slipped away into the gloom without ever being seen. As far apart as these homes were, if the neighbors had windows closed and televisions on, no one would have heard a shot.
“What’s your take on this, Maggie?” Adler asked.
“It appears that someone has a vendetta against the Branigan family.”
“Elaine Fisk?”
I shook my head. “She’s in Pennsylvania. Deirdre’s funeral was yesterday, and Elaine’s staying to sort through Deirdre’s belongings and put the family home on the market. And Elaine had an alibi for the time of Carlton’s death, too.”
Adler thought for a moment. “Maybe she hired a hit man.”
“The girl’s in a low-end job that earns barely enough to pay her bills. She can’t afford a hit man.”
“She could if she took out a mortgage on the family home.”
I considered the possibility. “You can check that angle, but it still doesn’t feel right. I’ve been so fixated on catching the killer in my cold cases, I could have drawn connections between Deirdre and the Branigans that weren’t there. Maybe we haven’t looked hard enough into Carlton Branigan’s background for an enemy who’s set on rubbing out his entire clan.”
Adler glanced at his watch. “I should check with Porter, then get on over to the M.E.’s office. Want to come?”
The case had my head spinning, and I felt suddenly tired, in spite of my earlier nap. As much as I wanted to catch a killer, I couldn’t think clearly until I’d had some rest. “No, thanks. Give me a call in the morning if you have anything new.”
The next morning I arrived at the office late after sleeping in. When I brought Bill up to speed on Sidney’s murder, he listened to what I was saying, but I could tell he was distracted. He looked as if he hadn’t rested well.
“Tough visit with your dad yesterday?” I asked.
He nodded. “You remember what he was like before?”
I pictured Bill’s dad when I had first met him more than twenty years ago. In his sixties then, he’d been an active, vibrant man, a big, rawboned citrus grower, his skin weathered by too much sun, his smile warm and his disposition as sweet as the oranges he’d grown. I’d liked him instantly, recognizing where Bill had inherited his powerful charisma. “I remember.”
“You wouldn’t recognize him now. His body’s shriveled as badly as his mind. It’s hell to watch him wasting away before my eyes. The only consolation is knowing that he’s unaware of what’s happening to him.” Bill turned from the window he’d been staring out and locked his gaze with mine. “This stuff could be hereditary, you know.”
I felt as if someone had squeezed my heart in a steel fist. “Or merely the result of statistics. Anyone who
lives past eighty-five has a fifty-fifty chance of developing Alzheimer’s.”
“That’s why I’m counting on us buying that house, Margaret. We’re not getting any younger, and I don’t want to waste a second of the time we have left.”
Just the thought of a life without Bill in it brought a lump to my throat, but before I could say anything, Darcy appeared at the door.
“Mrs. Branigan’s on the line, Maggie. She wants to talk to you.”
“Which Mrs. Branigan?”
“The old one.”
Darcy returned to the reception area, and I gave Bill a quick kiss before going to my desk in the other room to answer the phone.
“I’m sorry about Sidney, Mrs. Branigan,” I said when I picked up.
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded strained, but then she’d lost her husband and her only child in the space of a few days. I didn’t expect her to sound normal.
“Sidney’s murder is a terrible shock,” she said in a trembling tone. “At least Carlton was spared this.”
“I need to talk with you. May I come over this morning?”
“No,” Stella said quickly. “That’s why I called. I’m terminating your employment.”
I hadn’t expected to be fired, but figured she probably blamed me for Sidney’s death. After all, if his killer was the same as his father’s and I’d been successful in tracking him down, her son would still be alive.
“I understand what you’re feeling,” I said, “but I’m concerned for your safety.”
“Why?”
“If whoever killed your husband and son has a gripe against your family, your life could be in danger.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I’m perfectly safe,” she said, more as if convincing herself than me. “I have Madison and a state-of-the-art alarm system.”
I pictured Carlton and Sidney, both murdered in their own yards. “You can’t stay inside forever.”
“As soon as Sidney’s had a proper burial, I’m leaving for Europe. This place has too many painful memories.” Her voice sounded tearful now, as if she was about to lose control.
“Can you think of anyone,” I said, “who’d have reason to harm Carlton and Sidney?”
Her sigh of frustration reverberated through the line. “I’ve told the police everything I know, which isn’t much. What do I owe you? I’ll put a check in the mail.”
I had no idea how many hours to bill her without calculations. “I’ll have my secretary mail you an invoice.”
“Fine,” Stella said, and hung up.
I looked up to find Bill standing in the doorway. “We just lost a client.”
“Stella Branigan?” He frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. You’d think she’d want us to double our efforts now that her son’s been killed.”
I reached into my desk drawer for Benadryl gel to rub on the hives erupting on my forearms. “Nothing about these murders make sense.”
“So maybe we’re going at them from the wrong angle.”
“Tell me another angle and I’ll gladly try it.”
Before Bill could make a suggestion, Darcy rang me on the intercom. “Adler wants to talk to you.”
I picked up the phone.
“Can you and Malcolm meet Porter and me for lunch?” he said. “We want to brainstorm. Maybe we can jump-start these stalled investigations.”
“Hold on.” I covered the receiver and looked at Bill. “Lunch with Adler?”
Bill nodded.
I spoke into the phone. “How about Dock of the Bay?”
“Great,” he said. “One o’clock? That’ll give us time to canvass Sidney’s neighbors again, in case they’ve remembered something they forgot to tell us last night.”
“Have you finished working the bars with the sketch of Deirdre’s killer?”
“While we cover this latest case, Mary Garrabrant and her partner are distributing the sketches.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Not for now,” Adler said. “See you at one.”
I hung up and looked at Bill, who’d settled into the club chair across from my desk. “We’ve lost one client,” I said, “Jolene’s case is on hold until she returns from Cancún, and we’ve hit a wall on the Fisk murder. So what do we do now?”
“I have another workmen’s comp case to follow up in Dunedin. Want to come?”
“Only if you buy me coffee on the way.” I figured if I tagged along, I could keep Bill’s mind off his father with my sparkling conversation and rapier wit.
And being with Bill might keep me from banging my head against the wall in frustration.
CHAPTER 19
By one o’clock, the Dock of the Bay was crowded with regulars and tourists, so Bill and I sat on the dock behind the restaurant instead of our usual booth. The rustic wooden structure extended over the waters of the marina and was filled with teak chairs and tables shaded by colorful market umbrellas. An exterior speaker piped music from the Wurlitzer inside, and Gretchen Wilson was belting out “Redneck Woman,” her enthusiastic “hell, yeahs” punctuating the cries of gulls, the rustle of palm fronds and the gentle lap of waves against the pilings.
Bill ordered a beer, and I asked for a raspberry iced tea with lime. Adler and Porter arrived at the same time as our drinks. Once they’d placed their orders, we got down to business.
“New development,” Adler said.
“Yeah,” Porter added, “it’s got us scratching our heads.”
“New developments are good,” I said. “Maybe they’ll get this investigation moving.”
“Or muddy the waters,” Adler said. “I got a call a few minutes ago from the young hooker at the shelter. She was watching the noon news on TV and saw the coverage of Sidney’s murder. The station broadcast file footage of Sidney taken during his father’s last victory celebration.”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Porter said with a drawl.
“Try us,” Bill said.
“The hooker,” Adler said, “fingered Sidney as Deirdre Fisk’s killer.”
I almost spewed my iced tea. “What?”
“Yup,” Adler continued, “said she recognized him the minute she saw him cross the stage in the video.”
“And she’s positive?” Bill asked.
Porter nodded. “She’s willing to swear to it in court.”
“But why would Sidney kill Deirdre?” My mind was working to process this new information, but I was getting nowhere fast.
“What if Sidney was your child killer?” Porter said.
“He’d have been a teenager at the time,” Bill noted, “but that doesn’t rule him out.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t fit. Deirdre went looking for someone she’d recognized in the news photo. Sidney wasn’t pictured, his father was. And Sidney looks like his mother, not his father.”
“While you’re mulling that over—” Adler dug into the breadbasket the waitress had placed on the table and slathered butter on a roll “—throw this into the mix. We got the ballistics report on the bullet that killed Sidney.”
Porter waved away a gull making a swooping pass at the breadbasket. “The .22 that killed Sidney was fired from the same gun as the bullet that killed Deirdre.”
“Whoa, back up,” I said. “The hooker says Sidney killed Deirdre, but, according to the ballistics report, the gun he used on her was also used to kill him?”
Adler nodded and reached for another roll.
“Did you do a search of Sidney’s house last night?” Bill asked.
“House, garage and yard,” Adler said. “But no sign of a gun.”
“We did find gardening gloves with stains on the palms,” Porter said. “CSU is processing them now.”
That snippet made me sit up and take notice. “You think they’re the gloves Carlton’s killer wore?”
“Time will tell,” Adler said, “whether the stains are blood and if it belonged to Branigan Senior.”
Porter bit into his own roll a
nd chewed. “Maybe Angela found out that Sidney had been a sexual predator and killed her husband in a rage. Maybe he’d even molested his own daughter, and Angela offed him to protect Brianna.”
Adler shook his head. “The housekeeper swears Angela didn’t leave the house last night until mere minutes before she found Sidney. According to Doc’s timetable, Sidney had been dead half an hour when Angela found him.”
“Have you done polygraphs on Angela and Ingrid?” Bill asked.
“Next step,” Adler said.
A boat in a nearby slip started its engines and filled the air with noise and diesel fumes as it backed slowly into the channel. Adler took advantage of the interruption to keep eating. I tried to think above the din.
The facts didn’t fit. I felt as if we were trying to work a puzzle by hammering in the wrong-shaped pieces. “If Sidney killed Deirdre, who killed Carlton? And why?”
“Carlton could have found out about Sidney’s perversion,” Adler said. “When he confronted his son, Sidney snapped and strangled his old man.”
The waitress arrived with a tray filled with our orders, and Bill waited until she had set our plates in front of us and moved away before asking his question. “How would Carlton have discovered that Sidney was a pervert?”
“The senator was out of town when Deirdre was killed,” I reminded them.
“Maybe Stella knows more than she’s saying,” Porter suggested.
I shook my head. “From what I’ve learned about Stella and her worship of Carlton, I doubt she’d protect Sidney if she knew he’d killed his father. She doesn’t seem the maternal type.”
“But she could be hiding something,” Bill said, “and that would explain why she took us off Carlton’s case this morning.”
“And why she’s leaving the country after Sidney’s funeral,” I added.
Adler raised his eyebrows. “Stella fired you? And she’s leaving town? Interesting.” He was already halfway through his burger and attacking a mountain of French fries. “These killings keep getting more tangled. At least we’ve solved Deirdre’s murder.”
Porter lifted his iced tea. “To a closed case.”
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