Darcy Wilkins skidded into my office early Monday morning
and closed the door. I looked up in alarm. Darcy, in all
her years as a police dispatcher, had never lost her cool.
And in the few weeks she'd served as receptionist for
Pelican Bay Investigations, she'd been a model of
efficiency and decorum. Today, however, she had the wild
and crazy look of a die-hard rock 'n' roll fan who had
just sighted Elvis, alive and well.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Maggie." Her voice was breathless, her brown cheeks
flushed, her eyes wide and bright. "You'll never guess
who's asking to see you."
Why people tell you that you can't do something, then wait
for you to do it, I've never understood. "Okay, I give up."
"Jolene Jernigan!"
I drew a total blank.
Darcy must have guessed by the look on my face.
"You don't know who she is."
"Haven't a clue."
"You don't watch daytime television?"
"Not if I can help it."
Darcy shook her head. "Jolene Jernigan has been the star
of Heartbeats for more than forty years."
"Heartbeats? Is that a fitness show?"
I'd once caught Caroline, my older sister, sweating to the
oldies with Richard Simmons, but I'd never heard of Jolene
Jernigan.
Darcy looked at me as if I'd been raised in a barn. "It's
the number-one soap opera on television. I watched it
every day when I worked night shifts. Now that I'm working
days, I have to record it."
"So what's this Jolene doing in Florida? Aren't soaps
broadcast live from either New York or L.A.?"
"Her character's in a coma with her face bandaged because
of an auto accident. Maybe she has a stand-in for a while."
"Did Jolene say why she's here in Pelican Bay?" Darcy
shook her head and made a tsking noise. "For a detective,
you don't know much. She owns a fabulous vacation home on
Pelican Beach."
"And she wants to see me?"
"She says it's urgent." I glanced at my bare desktop and
my day planner devoid of appointments. "I suppose I can
work her in."
"Don't forget to ask for an advance." Darcy ducked out the
door.
She was right to remind me. After twenty-two years as a
police officer, I wasn't yet accustomed to the business
details of running a private investigation firm. I
preferred that Bill Malcolm, my fiancé and partner in
crime, so to speak, handle money matters, but he was in
Sarasota on another case.
Through the open windows of our recently acquired second-
floor office, I could hear the traffic idling on Main
Street as it backed up from the causeway to the beach. The
April breeze carried the scent of confederate jasmine and
sweet viburnum tinged with car-exhaust fumes. The town had
more visitors than you could stir with a stick, and half
of them were young, horny and slightly inebriated. I
recalled reading a complaint the British had made about
American troops during World War II: overpaid, oversexed
and over here. Apply that to these college kids and you
had spring break in Pelican Bay in a nutshell.
Darcy returned, opened the door to my office and stood
aside for Jolene to enter.
With luxuriant long brown hair, huge Italian sunglasses,
and a tall, gaunt figure, the result of either good genes
or semistarvation, the woman was a dead ringer for the
late Jackie O. The cut and quality of her linen slacks,
cashmere sweater and matching sandals would have made my
sister, a world-class shopper, drool.
Darcy gestured to a leather club chair in front of my desk
and, once Jolene was seated, asked if she wanted coffee.
The actress shook her head, and Darcy, looking as if she'd
give her eyeteeth to stay and hear the woman's story,
reluctantly withdrew.
"I'm Maggie Skerritt. What brings you here, Ms. Jernigan?"
"The Internet."
I swallowed my disappointment. If she needed cyber-
snooping, she'd come to the wrong place. I was as
technophobic as they came and had to hire a computer
specialist in Clearwater to do my Web surfing. "I need a
private eye," she continued, "and your firm is the closest
one listed on the Web." Her voice was low and husky, as if
she'd been crying.
"Why do you need an investigator?" I'd get to the harder
questions later.
She drew a deep shuddering breath. "My baby's been
kidnapped."
"Your baby?" Recently turned forty-nine, I was no spring
chicken, and Jolene had at least fifteen years on me. For
her, childbearing age had to be a dim, distant memory. But
she'd said baby, so maybe she'd adopted.
"Roger." She muffled a sob and fumbled in her purse for a
tissue. "He's only three."
Now she had my complete attention. "Have you notified the
authorities?"
Her head snapped up, and I could feel the intensity of her
gaze behind her dark glasses. "Are you crazy? And have it
splashed all over the news?"
"Were you threatened?"
"Huh?"
"Did the kidnappers say they'd harm your baby if you went
to the police?"
She shook her head. "No, I just don't want the bad
publicity."
Jolene Jernigan was either the dumbest woman I'd ever met
or I'd missed something. Or both. "Do you have any idea
who might have taken your child?"
"Who said anything about a child? Roger's my dog, an
adorable pug."
Bingo. The missing link. "How long has Roger been gone?"
"Since shortly after I had it out with that snotty little
bitch." She forced her words through clenched teeth, and
her well-manicured nails dug into the expensive leather of
her purse.
Snotty little bitch. "Another dog?"
"Of course not." She yanked off her sunglasses and glared
at me with red-rimmed eyes. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows
lifted in an expression of perpetual surprise, and her
skin stretched taut as a drumhead across her cheekbones,
the obvious result of repeated cosmetic surgeries. Only
the crepe lines on her neck gave away her age.
I dug deep for patience. "With whom did you have it out?"
"Grace Lattimore. She's been my personal assistant for the
past thirty years."
"Why don't you start at the beginning, Ms. Jernigan, and
tell me exactly what happened?"
Jolene rammed her sunglasses atop her dark hair, devoid of
any hint of gray. She crossed her legs, bounced one foot
like a metronome and leaned back with a sigh. "We arrived
at my condo on the beach Friday. My character on
Heartbeats will be in a coma for the next three weeks, so
I finally have some time off."
I made what I hoped were appropriate sympathetic noises
and nodded.
"Gracie and Roger always travel with me. And my little
precious loves the beach. He was so excited." She
frowned. "Unfortunately, when Roger gets excited, he loses
control."
I raised my eyebrows, picturing a pug on the rampage but
going with the flow in order not to interrupt her
narrative with more questions.
Jolene sighed. "He kept piddling on the rugs and
furniture. By the end of the weekend, Gracie had her
knickers in a twist. "I was hired as your assistant," she
said, "not to clean up dog pee."
"For as much as I'm paying you," I reminded her, "you'll
do whatever I ask." 'If that means cleaning up after that
mangy little bugger, I quit," Gracie screamed. Then she
stomped into her room and slammed the door." Jolene smiled
and shrugged. "I didn't think too much of it. Gracie quits
at least twice a year. Then I give her a raise and she
reconsiders. But this time was different."
I nodded. After all that piddle, Gracie, apparently, had
reached her limit.
"When I woke up this morning, Gracie was gone, and so was
Roger."
"And you think Gracie took him?"
"Who else would have? My condo was locked and the grounds
are gated with the tightest security."
Interesting, I thought. As much as Gracie had hated
cleaning up after the dog, she'd taken him with her,
apparently just to yank Jolene's chain. "Did Gracie leave
a note?"