An Unlikely Match

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, was larger than the others and bore the sign that identified the units as the Pink Ladies. The section of the property that bordered the road was ablaze with multicolored flowers from white to pink to shades of lavender and violet. The rest of the property was brilliant with hibiscus trees and bougainvillea—from pale to shocking pink.

A woman came out on the wraparound porch when Jack pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the office. She resembled the grandmother almost any child could wish for. So much that, with her curly white hair, wire-rimmed glasses and cotton print dress covered by an apron, she might have stepped out of a fairy tale. “Are you Claire’s friend?” she called to him.

He stepped out of the SUV. “Yes, she recommended this place to me. You must be Mrs. Poole.”

The woman nodded while pointing a spatula at the Escalade. “Is that your vehicle?”

Thinking the answer obvious and the question irrelevant, Jack smiled.

“It’s too large for our parking lot.”

Jack leaned around the back of the SUV to be sure he’d cleared the roadway. “No, it isn’t. It fits.”

“Oh, it fits,” the woman said, “but it hides my flowers. As you can see, these are all bedding plants, low to the ground. My landscaping is one of the finer features of the Pink Ladies. With your giant automobile parked there, no one driving by can see them.”

Jack compared his vehicle to the other two cars in the lot. One was a pink Dodge Neon. He guessed who that car belonged to. The other was a cream-colored Volkswagen convertible. The top was down, making the vehicle as diminutive as possible. He leaned against the Escalade, stared at the world’s sweetest-looking grandma, and wondered if he was actually going to be denied accommodations because of the size of his car. “I promise I won’t be here often,” he said. “I’ll be gone from morning till night.”

Mrs. Poole narrowed her eyes in thought. “Oh, that will help.” She pointed beyond her property to a vacant stretch of rocky beach. “Would you mind parking there when you’re home? Neither Billy nor Lou will ticket you. And if they do, you can just tell Claire.”

Deciding he didn’t want to tangle with local law officials, Jack came up with a more sensible solution. “Can’t I just park closer to my room?”

“Heavens no. I covered over the asphalt when I bought this place ten years ago. Turned it into a grassy courtyard.” She gazed lovingly down a stone walkway that led to the entrances of the six cottages and a couple of vintage tile-top cement tables and benches. “Isn’t it nice? You’ll appreciate the uninterrupted view when you see our sunrises.”

Resigned to carting his two suitcases, briefcase and computer equipment along Mrs. Poole’s garden path, Jack prepared himself for her answer to his next question. “Which unit is mine?”

Predictably she said, “The one at the end. A gentleman needs his privacy.”

“I thought so.” He walked around the SUV and opened the door to the cargo space. “Can I at least take my things in before moving it?”

“I suppose that will be all right.” She stuck her hand in her apron pocket and pulled out a key that hung from a pink rabbit’s foot. “Here you go. Once you’re settled, come back up here to register. I’ll require a week’s rent in advance, even if you do know Claire.”

Jack took the key and resisted an urge to salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Poole went inside her house, and Jack carried his first load past five whimsical cottages that looked like they’d come from the same enchanted forest as their fairy-tale proprietress. Once on the small front porch of his unit, he turned the key in the lock of the glossy white door. But before going inside, he removed the key from its ridiculous bunny foot and attached it to the sensible black metal chain he’d gotten with the rental car.

Then he stepped inside and was assailed with linens and pillows and all manner of things pink and ruffled. And each item had been fluffed and flounced as if the sole reason the Pink Ladies existed was to embarrass a man. But the cottage was impeccably clean, a condition that Jack noted with more enthusiasm than he did its unsuitability. And it was comfortable and spacious with enough amenities to meet his needs.

“You’ll get used to it, Jack,” he said as he walked around the galley kitchen and pulled pretty little quilted things from every appliance. When he was finished, he stuffed the covers into a drawer and spoke to the toaster and blender and tea kettle. “Sorry, ladies, but as long as I’m here, we’re living in the buff.”

CLAIRE WAS AT HERON POINT Elementary School a half hour early the next morning. She dropped Jane at the door, parked her car and assumed the duties of crossing guard until all students were safely in the building. She would return in the afternoon to perform the same function and then she would have the weekend to find a suitable replacement for Bella Martingale. Calling Bella the night before to tell her she’d lost her position hadn’t been easy, but Bella had taken the news as well as could be expected. Claire supposed it had helped when she’d invited her for tea at the Heron Point Hotel for this afternoon. Just because the mayor had to fire someone didn’t mean she couldn’t still be her friend.

Once her guard duties were accomplished, Claire drove to the town hall, but before going inside, she walked the two blocks to Heron Point Realty. Archie Anderson’s latest acquisition, and the man he’d sent to oversee the property transfer, had kept her awake much of the night. Just exactly what did Anderson intend to do with Dolphin Run? And what part would Jack Hogan’s security expertise play in his plan? Claire figured the best place to search for answers was the realty office. Besides having witnessed the transaction, Patty Barnes and Lucy Gaynor generally had their eyes and ears trained on the latest happenings on the island. If anyone knew what Hogan was planning to do, they would.

Lucy was seated at her desk when Claire stepped inside the office. The younger woman removed her rhinestone glasses, tucked a loose strand of streaked black hair back into a glittery clip at her temple, and said, “Oh, hi, Claire. What’s up?”

“My curiosity, I guess,” Claire said. “I was wondering if you were in the office when Mr. Hogan closed on the Dolphin Run property yesterday.”

Lucy’s eyes became almost dreamy. “Sure was. Patty and I sat right here while he signed the papers. He had a power of attorney from Archie Anderson and everything.”

As if her private radar were tuned in, Patty came out of a back office. “Did I hear my name connected with one Jack Hogan? Or is it only wishful thinking?”

Claire smiled. “No. Lucy and I were mentioning you. I’m here on a sort of snooping expedition. I’m curious about what Anderson is planning to do with Dolphin Run and how Mr. Hogan’s role might shake things up around here.” Claire pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from Lucy. “Did either of you hear anything?”

As if Claire didn’t exist, both women’s eyes snapped to the front door. The next voice Claire heard was Jack Hogan’s.

“If you want to know what’s going on, Mayor, maybe you should get your information from the horse’s mouth.”

She spun around and stared at the man who’d shed his sports jacket for a golf shirt. He carried a steaming foam cup in one hand and a paper grocery sack in the other.

“Fortunately for you,” Jack said as he set his cup on the desk, “the horse just showed up to finalize one last detail. And I’m the same horse who tried to engage you in conversation yesterday as I recall.”

Realizing her mouth was gaping open, Claire clamped her jaw closed. Determined that Hogan would not see that his unexpected appearance had rattled her, she reminded herself that she was skilled at hiding her reactions to unexpected events. Her years in the public-relations spotlight for Miami city government had taught her how to be cool in the hottest of water. So she smiled. “If you’re referring to that few minutes we had in my office, I wouldn’t exactly call it a conversation. It was more of an ultimatum as I interpreted it.”

“I’ll work on my people skills,” Hogan said and then turned his attention to Lucy, who remained transfixed, her eyes unblinking. “Good morning, Lucy,” he said. “Did you find that gate key?”

Awakened from her trance, Lucy yanked open the lap drawer of her desk. “I did even better than that.” She dangled a set of keys in front of him. “I found this whole set. These will open every door on the place, right, Patty?”

“That’s right.” The Realtor spoke to Claire. “We had to call Mr. Eisenring at the retirement home to see if he could remember where he’d put the keys when the Holcombs closed up Dolphin Run. Thank goodness he’s still alive and recalled where they were.”

Hogan took the keys from Lucy’s hand. “Great. I think I’ll drive out there and have a look around.” He gave Claire a pointed stare, a kind of top-to-bottom appraisal. Trying to ignore the flutter his attention brought to the pit of her stomach, she concentrated on the reason for his interest. Did he find her designer capri pants and flowered shirt too unofficial? Her open-toed sandals too casual for a city leader? Too bad if he did. Claire had a complete business wardrobe in mothballs, and she didn’t care if she ever wore a tailored jacket or pantyhose again.

“You look like you’re dressed for an adventure, Mrs. Betancourt,” he said. “How’d you like to go exploring with me out at Dolphin Run?”

Patty and Lucy both gasped.

Claire waved off his offer. “Thanks, but I couldn’t.”

“Too much town business, I guess,” he said.

“Right. A full docket.” She stood up and headed toward the door. “In fact, I have to get to my office right away.”

Hogan slipped the keys into his pocket, picked up his coffee cup and followed her. “I’ll walk you out.” He nodded to Lucy and Patty and fell into step behind her. “It’ll give me the chance to thank you for last night.”

Snickers trailed after them and Claire imagined the story Patty and Lucy were concocting.

As if sensing her distress, Hogan added loudly, “What I mean is, thanks for pointing me to that little dollhouse of Mrs. Poole’s.”

Once out on the sidewalk, Claire said, “You have a nice day now, Mr. Hogan.”

He put the bag he’d been carrying into the back seat of his vehicle. “I thought you wanted information, Mayor.”

She slid her sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose. “There’s more than one way to get it,” she said.

“Probably, but what way is easier than going with me to Dolphin Run? Plus, I could use a little information myself.” He glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of the abandoned resort. “Have you ever seen the place?”

She admitted she hadn’t.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about it? Don’t you want to know what’s on the other side of that big iron fence?”

She shrugged, attempting to minimize her recent desperate desire to know everything about Dolphin Run and the people involved in its purchase. “I can wait till another time.”

“Suit yourself, Claire,” he said. The use of her first name was no doubt a tactic of his to topple a barrier between them so he could get her cooperation. Oddly, it almost worked. When he added, “But I’d sure appreciate the company,” Claire found herself wanting to say yes.

Then he opened the driver’s side door of his SUV and said, “Big old spooky places scare me.”

She watched him slide into the seat and pull his door shut. When he zipped down the passenger window and leaned down to look at her, she was still staring at the car. “What do you say?”

She released the breath she’d been holding in a long, exasperated sigh. “Oh, all right, I’ll go.” She gave a quick look into the window of Heron Point Realty, saw Patty and Lucy staring at her, and got into the car. “But I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.”

Hogan jerked his thumb toward the back seat. “Have a doughnut.” He indicated the paper bag. “I went grocery shopping this morning. Got the essentials.”

Claire stole a peek over the top of the sack. Doughnuts, a jar of coffee, a bag of spicy jalapeño chips and beer. Those were Jack Hogan’s food essentials. Claire’s stomach turned over in a gesture of self-preservation. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

JACK RAN HIS WINDOW DOWN as he drove out of town. As the wind rushed into the car, he looked at Claire. “Do you mind?” Since the passenger window had already been lowered, strands of her thick blond hair had come loose from the clip that had held it together at the nape of her neck. And Claire Betancourt didn’t look like the kind of woman who appreciated having her sleek hairdo whipped around her face like she was on an amusement ride. Jack thought he’d better see if she wanted the windows up and the air-conditioning on.

She raised her glasses to the top of her head, holding the windblown strands away from her forehead. “No, it feels good actually.”

He pushed a few errant spikes of hair off his brow and mentally added a trip to a barbershop to his growing list of priorities. Normally he kept his lightly peppered dark hair close-cropped and maintenance-free, but he’d put off his monthly visit to his hair cutter while he was preparing to leave for Heron Point. He hoped he wouldn’t have to drive the thirty miles back to civilization just to find a barber.

“So, how long have you been mayor?” he said after a moment.

“Almost a year. I’d only lived in Heron Point a year and a half when I was persuaded to run.”

“Looks like you impressed the populace pretty quickly.”

Keeping her gaze focused on the road, she smiled. “Not really. I ran unopposed. I heard after I was elected in a landslide of five hundred and twenty-three votes that the mayor before me was also a newcomer and also ran unopposed. I’m starting to believe the office is a rite of initiation for new residents.”

“But, hey, you must have got all the votes.”

“You’d think so, but no, I didn’t. There were six write-ins. Hester Poole got two of them.”

“My landlady with the phobia about big cars?”

“Yes, and an obvious affinity for pink.” She gave him a sideways glance. “By the way, how do you like your accommodations?”

He pretended nonchalance. “What’s not to like? Except that I feel like Ken when he finally got lucky and was invited to Barbie’s house. Only Barbie’s not there.”

“Maybe you can move to Dolphin Run after it’s cleaned up a bit,” she suggested.

He turned onto Gulfview Drive, which would take them to the spit of land where the resort was located. “I don’t know. I have a hunch it’s going to take more than a broom and dustpan to make the place livable. And I can’t fault Mrs. Poole for her housekeeping skills.”

Truthfully, though Jack had been kidding about being afraid of going into Dolphin Run alone, he wasn’t looking forward to what he might find there. According to Archie, the original owners had left the place virtually deserted in the early sixties. Jack figured there had to be a story behind their sudden departure. Maybe someday when he and Archie shared that bottle of scotch, he’d learn what it was.

The next owners, the Holcombs, had intended to keep the place running. But apparently they’d lost interest rather quickly and had given up any thoughts of managing the establishment. To Jack’s knowledge, no one had stayed in Dolphin Run since the late sixties. Perhaps it had even been that long since anyone had stepped inside the place. Who knew what creatures had taken up residence without humans to shoo them away.

“There it is,” Claire said, pointing to an overgrown thicket of shrubs and trees gone wild from lack of attention.

Jack slowed and stared at majestic cedars, live oaks dripping with moss and more varieties of palms than he’d known existed. He couldn’t detect either a building or an iron fence through the blanket of dense limbs and drooping fronds. “Looks like my first order of business is to hire a new gardener for this place,” he said.

“Hmmm…” Claire leaned forward to get a better perspective. “I think the main gate is just ahead about a hundred yards.”

Jack turned into what was left of a concrete drive and steered over cracked cement and washed-out roadbed until he reached the gate, which was obscured by forces of nature determined to undermine its existence. He stopped the car.

Claire looked up through the windshield at branches sweeping the Escalade’s pristine paint job. “I know it’s none of my business,” she said. “And I know I asked you this before, but now that I’m here, I can’t help wondering again why a man like Archie Anderson, who could buy any glamorous property on the planet, would want Dolphin Run.”

Jack reached into his pocket for the ring of keys Lucy had given him at the realty office. “Believe me,” he said, “I wondered that very thing myself.” He draped his arm over the steering wheel and tried to determine where the lock might be hidden in the thick greenery draping the fence. “He vaguely told me he wants it for both business purposes and personal reasons. I suppose he’ll tell me more when he thinks I need to know. But right now my job is to make this place like a mini fortress, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Claire swatted at an insect that had flown in the window. “As you know, Mr. Hogan, that’s what bothers me. I hope you’re not thinking you can make changes in Heron Point to suit the whims of one man. Tell me. What is your boss so afraid of?”

Jack spared her a quick glance as he pulled on the door handle and then let his gaze linger. The prim and proper mayor sure looked sexy raking her slim fingers through a tangled mass of sunstruck hair. And then he forced his mind to his mission. He doubted that she would appreciate knowing he was evaluating her sex appeal, especially when she was so busy expressing how serious she was about protecting her town’s status quo. He smiled to himself. In their own ways, both he and the mayor were in the protection business.