“The rates are reasonable this time of year.”
Claire gently pulled Jane to the love seat and forced her to sit. “That’s my daughter,” she said. “Future chamber of commerce president.”
Hogan scrubbed his hand across the nape of his neck. “Look, I didn’t mean to interrupt your household. If you can just give me a recommendation, and maybe even make a call on my behalf to someone in town who could rent me a room, I’ll be grateful and be on my way. I’m sure your husband…”
Jane sat up straight and clasped her hands on her lap. “We don’t have husbands, any of us. We’re single girls.”
The bells on Pet’s wrist jangled as she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes gleeful. And then she said, “The Pink Ladies! It’s perfect. Hester always keeps one cottage available for emergencies, and I’d say Mr. Hogan has one.”
Claire was still recovering from Jane’s unexpected revelation of the marital status of the women of Tansy Hill, but she managed to stutter out an agreement. “Of course. I’ll call her now.”
“You’ll like it fine there,” Pet said as Claire scurried from the room. “Each cottage has a little sitting area and a small kitchen. Quite cozy.”
Claire returned a minute later. “It’s all set. The landlady is Hester Poole. Tell her you’re the man I sent over.” She gave Hogan directions that included a couple of turns and a short straightaway along the Gulf shore to a row of cottages with a sign in front that said The Pink Ladies.
He thanked her and said good-night.
“You can’t miss it,” Claire hollered after him as he walked briskly to the street.
From her front porch, she watched Hogan drive off in his “gas guzzler.” When she returned to the living room, Aunt Pet had taken the chair he’d occupied and was practically convulsing with laughter. “I know it’s the only place in town,” she said, “but can you imagine that great big gorgeous male in Hester Poole’s Victorian throwback of a cottage?”
Claire laughed, too. “No. And I can’t imagine Hester when he pulls up in that giant black SUV. She’ll think the dinosaurs have come back to life. I hope she doesn’t take down that old Winchester and fire at him.”
Pet shook her head in obvious pleasure. “Right. I don’t want him getting shot now that, thanks to Jane, he knows for sure you’re available.”
Claire sent her aunt her most exasperated look of warning before heading back to the kitchen to finish dinner preparations. Despite Pet’s ridiculous attempt at matchmaking, Claire couldn’t help feeling a bit of pity for the security officer. Mr. Hogan might be in for the challenge of his life as he tries to adapt to Heron Point.
CHAPTER THREE
SO, THE ELEGANT, UPTIGHT mayor of Heron Point wasn’t married after all—an intriguing detail. Jack smiled as he remembered the flush on her cheekbones growing deeper with every comment made by her daughter. Getting to know the mayor might be the one benefit of spending thirty days on this convenience-deprived island.
Leaving Tansy Hill behind, Jack stored his sunglasses in the overhead compartment and rolled down the window on his rented Cadillac Escalade. The evening air was cool and salty. The oppressive humidity of earlier had dissipated, and with the sun now just an amber ball settling into the western horizon, the breeze was almost fall-like.
Of course Heron Point displayed none of the natural phenomena that would make it even remotely similar to a Manhattan autumn. Still, now that Jack’s mood had improved since his visit with the mayor, he found the northwest Florida sunset had a surprisingly appealing quality. The wide expanse of shoreline along the Gulf, however, was not at all appealing from the viewpoint of an ex-Secret Service operative.
Jack scanned the open sea, mindful of his duties as chief security officer for Archie Anderson. Red channel markers dotted the shimmering horizon, indicating that dredging had been plentiful and probably haphazard through the years of the island’s development. Most seacoast communities in Jack’s knowledge had one or perhaps two major marinas through which boat traffic entered the town boundaries. This was not the case with Heron Point. In the short drive around the shoreline, he counted at least four channel inlets, and he’d only progressed along a fraction of the island’s entire coast. Such easy and unguarded entrance to the town was a security nightmare.
And that wasn’t the only problem he’d uncovered in his short time on the island. He sensed a general attitude of indifference and perhaps even ignorance among the people of Heron Point. The mayor had suggested that her citizens liked to kick back. Jack had already decided that these nonchalant folks ought to do a little less back-kicking and try a bit more sitting up and taking notice of the risks in their community.
He thought of the old guy who’d given him directions to Claire Betancourt’s picturesque bungalow, the one that needed no address since everyone in town knew it as Tansy Hill. Jack had been leaving the third hotel with no weekend vacancies when an unkempt man with wiry gray hair and a scraggly chest-length beard had stopped him on the sidewalk.
The man had nodded toward a colorfully painted restaurant on the edge of the water that advertised its menu on wooden placards nailed every which way on the exterior walls. “Can you spare a buck or two for a bowl of clam chowder?” the man had asked.
He’d been sitting on top of a motley assortment of worldly goods piled in the bed of a beaten-up wagon. Jack had seen a few articles of clothing, a dented collection of pots and a few tattered magazines, but he hadn’t noticed even a scrap of food. So he’d violated his own personal conviction against enabling beggars to continue tapping into the resources of working citizens and given the fellow two dollars.
In New York, any beggar worth his reputation would have taken that two bucks to the nearest tavern and wasted it on one good shot. But not this guy. He had actually ambled over to the restaurant and returned a minute later with a steaming paper cup of chowder. And he’d offered Jack a taste.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” Jack had said. “But I could use directions.”
“Where to?”
“The mayor’s house. Do you know where Mrs. Betancourt lives?”
“Sure do.” He’d pointed one gnarly finger toward the east, and recited amazingly precise instructions about how to proceed to Tansy Hill. “It sits up on a little knoll,” he’d explained. “A nice place. Painted yellow, like a dandelion, with white trim. Has the name hanging from a sign on the front porch.”
The old-timer had been so explicit about the location of Mayor Betancourt’s home that Jack was able to drive directly to it. And while he should have been grateful for the detailed directions, Jack’s instincts had gone on alert. In Heron Point even the homeless population knew exactly where the town’s leading official resided.
Jack had never lived in a small town, but his gut feelings and training had instilled in him that in this time of heightened awareness of threats, even the most provincial of citizens ought to put security at a priority level. Obviously Mayor Betancourt and the people of Heron Point didn’t.
And then there was the mayor’s shop, called Wear It Again. Jack had seen it when he’d taken his first exploratory walk down the main historic avenue of century-old buildings. The business sat amid other unique shops and galleries. The window displayed a collection of clothing from celebrities as well as vintage garments that had obviously survived a couple of generations. Also in the window was a sign stating the proprietor’s name as well as her phone number so she could be contacted in case of an emergency. The mayor’s phone number was prominently posted in a shop window! Didn’t the woman ever get a crank call?
Ah, well, maybe not. This wasn’t Manhattan after all.
Jack abandoned his musings about the shortcomings of Heron Point when he drove toward a row of wood-planked cottages running to the edge of the water. All the buildings were painted pink. The one nearest the road, the office,