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?”
“Nothing. She just left.”
“Did she take her belongings?”
Jolene nodded. “And Roger’s, too.”
I formed a mental image of the pug with a suitcase.
“She took his food and dishes and his box of Milk-Bone treats.”
“Sounds as if Gracie at least plans to take good care of him.”
Jolene jumped to her feet and paced the recently re-finished hardwood floor. “But he’ll miss me. His little heart will be broken,” she insisted with all the fervor of an experienced drama queen, before her expression hardened into something ugly. “I want him back.”
“Any idea where Gracie might have gone?”
Still pacing, she waved one hand toward the windows. “She has relatives in Largo.”
I grabbed a pad and pencil. “I’ll need their names and addresses.”
Jolene halted in front of the desk and gave me the information. “How soon can you get on this? I really miss Roger.”
“I’ll start right away.” Remembering Darcy’s parting instructions, I added, “Of course, there’s the small matter of a retainer.”
Jolene retrieved her purse from the chair and snapped it open. She extracted a checkbook, wrote a check with a flourish and handed it to me. “This should take care of it. And here’s my cell number.”
She rattled off the digits, which I scribbled hastily on the pad on my desk.
I rose and walked her to the door. “I’ll call as soon as I have something for you.”
After Jolene left, Darcy came in. “Did you get her autograph?”
“The best kind.”
Darcy’s eyes almost bugged out when I showed her the check for $10,000.
Later that morning, after fighting my way through tourist traffic to Pelican Beach, I checked with security at the condo where Jolene owned her penthouse and confirmed that Gracie had indeed departed by cab late Sunday night with Roger in tow. A viewing of the surveillance tape had given me a look at Gracie, who was short, plump and dowdy with cropped straight gray hair and wire-framed glasses. Roger was short, plump, smush-faced and light brown with a black face and ears.
I left the beach and headed to the address in Largo where Gracie’s relatives lived. What should have been a straight shot down Fort Harrison Avenue and Clearwater-Largo Road became a rat’s maze of work zones and detours. If you’re anywhere in Florida during tourist season, you can bet the shortest distance between two points is under construction.
Just south of Bay Drive, Largo’s main drag, I found the road where Frank and Ellen Lattimore, Gracie’s aunt and uncle, lived. The street’s frame bungalows, built in the thirties and forties and shaded by massive live oaks draped in flowing Spanish moss, were small but well maintained, and the lawns were neat and tidy. I pulled onto the crushed-shell driveway of the address Jolene had given me. There was no vehicle in the carport, and with its shades drawn, the house appeared deserted.
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
