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The Upper West Side Manhattan voice that answered was crisp and confident as always. “Anderson Enterprises. How may I direct your call?”
“Hello, Sophie,” he said.
“Jack! How are you? More to the point, where are you?”
He scanned the weathered exteriors of boutiques and souvenir shops, noting the nautical and marine paraphernalia that decorated the walls. Everything on this beachfront road was made to look like it had been standing for decades, though from his studies, Jack knew that, unlike the historic downtown section, this stretch of restaurants and shops had been built in the last ten years. “This week I’m in Heron Point,” he replied.
“That’s a new one to me,” Sophie said. “Where is it?”
“Florida.” He recalled the two-hour drive north from the Tampa airport he’d made early this morning. He’d ended up on a thirty-mile stretch of narrow road that led past ancient burial mounds and limestone formations to a two-lane bridge at the head of the island. “It’s not near anything you’ve ever heard of unless you’re schooled in multi-syllable Native American names of towns and rivers.”
“No, sorry. Now if you want to talk the names of shops on South Beach or Worth Avenue…”
Jack chuckled. “You and I are on different wavelengths as usual, Sophie. I think I actually prefer this place.” He heard the subtle background tones that indicated another call coming into her board. “You’re busy, I can tell. Is Archie in?”
“You bet. I’ll send you up.”
Up meant the thirty-fifth floor and an office banked with impact-proof wall-to-wall glass. Jack knew he would bypass Archie Anderson’s personal secretary and go right to the private line. The next thing he heard was his boss’s typically clipped greeting. “Anderson.”
“Archie, it’s Jack.”
As usual when the call wasn’t related to a high-profile acquisition or merger, Archie relaxed. “Jackie boy, how are you enjoying the sunshine state?”
Jack pictured his boss leaning back in his leather executive chair and swiveling around to view the New York skyline. “It’s hot,” he said.
“It’s October,” Archie said. “Can’t be that bad. I used to be there in the heat of the summer.” He chuckled. “Besides, aren’t you the same guy who once floated down South American rivers and basked in the heat of the equator?”
Jack smiled. He would hardly call his experience tracking counterfeiters basking. “I don’t know. I can’t remember that far back.”
“So what do you think of Heron Point?”
“As far as a preliminary security evaluation is concerned, I’d say this town has enough holes in it to strain spaghetti.”
“Well, then, fill up the holes. It’s what I pay you to do, and I hired the best in the business.”
Jack couldn’t argue with either point. He was paid well and he doubted anyone in the country knew more than he did about matters of security. Fourteen years in the Secret Service and working for the U.S. Treasury Department had prepared him admirably for this highly coveted job in the private sector. Archie Anderson’s well-documented paranoia, obsessions about his safety, and ultimately his hiring of Jack Hogan, had made Jack arguably the country’s leading expert in the field of protection.
“You’ve got one month to make Dolphin Run and its surroundings as tight as a tick, Jack, but I know you can do it.”
Oh, yeah, he could do it, though the town’s chief executive officer, its statuesque, blue-eyed mayor, might oppose him at every turn. Jack had met any number of challenges in his profession, but squaring off with the mayor might prove to be one of the most interesting.
Putting Claire Betancourt out of his mind, Jack asked the question he’d been pondering since he’d entered Heron Point’s town limits. Not that Archie’s motives for buying Dolphin Run were any of Jack’s business, he still said, “Are you ready to level with me about your real interest in this town and property?”
“I’ll tell you this much. Heron Point and I go back a long way, though I haven’t been there since the sixties. That old resort meant a lot to Charlotte and me at one time, so I decided to buy it for both personal and business reasons. It’ll be a nice place to send clients for some posh entertaining, as well as a moneymaker when I open it up to tourists. Any other details about my decision will have to wait until you and I are nose to nose over a bottle of scotch.”
“Fair enough.”
Jack sensed a smile in his boss’s voice when the old man added, “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my golden years.”
And maybe restoring a run-down old resort was Archie’s way of honoring his wife’s memory. Charlotte Anderson had been dead two years now and those closest to Archie knew he was still grieving.
“Okay, then, boss,” Jack said. “I guess I’ll hang up and get to work, which starts with finding a place to stay for the next month.”
“I told you to let my assistant handle that detail,” Archie said. “She was willing to investigate the local hotels and get you a reservation at the same time she arranged for the rental car.”
“I know, but I always like to check a place out before I decide where to stay. I consider it a strategic decision.” Though he could count on one hand the inns within his view right now, Jack noted that all of them had vacancy signs in the windows. “Besides,” he said, “this place is dead. Nobody here but a few tourists, some locals and me. I can take my pick of rooms.”
“All right then, Jackie. Keep me posted and I’ll see you when I see you.”
Hopefully when I’m back in Manhattan in a month, Jack thought. He disconnected and crossed the street to the Hibiscus Resort Hotel. It looked as good as any place else. As long as it had a coffeemaker and a refrigerator. Jack couldn’t function without coffee first thing in the mornings, and he wasn’t opposed to a cold beer at night.
He opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by the tinkling melody of wind chimes hanging from a giant plastic hibiscus flower.
CLAIRE OPENED THE OVEN DOOR and slid a platter of chicken breasts inside. Then she looked at her daughter who was haphazardly arranging globs of dough onto a cookie sheet. “Jane, you might want to be a little more careful about pulling those biscuits apart.”
Jane’s efforts resembled the uneven rooftops of an adobe village more than the uniform shapes of refrigerated biscuits pictured on the side of the cardboard tube.
“I’m being artistic, Mommy,” Jane said. “Each one will look different from the others when they’re cooked.”
Claire smiled. “I’m sure that’s what Mr. Pillsbury had in mind, honey.” She didn’t say anything when Jane sprinkled the tops with colored sugar crystals and painted on smiles with chocolate icing.
Aunt Pet breezed in through the back door from her cottage fifty yards behind the main house. She studied the creations on the cookie sheet and tugged on Jane’s wavy auburn ponytail. “Gorgeous, pussycat. If there’s anything I hate, it’s plain old biscuits.”
Then she walked to the sink, took the last ear of corn from the colander and began shucking it. “We having company for dinner?” she asked.
Claire dried her hands on a paper towel. “No, why do you ask?”
“A car was pulling up in front as I walked over here. One of those big SUVs, you know, the gas guzzlers. Black.”
Claire thought for a second. “I don’t know who that could be.” Tossing the towel into the garbage, she headed toward the living room. “I hope this doesn’t mean there’s a problem in town.”
She glanced out the window and watched Jack Hogan climb the sloped brick walk to her front porch. When she opened the door to him, her hand was shaking. “What brings you here, Mr. Hogan?”
“Misfortune, Mayor,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home.” He glanced over his shoulder at the myriad hanging baskets circling the porch ceiling and at the swinging sign over the steps. “The guy who gave me directions was pretty accurate. He said look for a house named Tansy Hill.” His lips curled in a subtle grin. “You people don’t use normal addresses?”
“We have them,” she said. “The U.S. postal service requires it, but everyone in town knows the older homes by their original names, so I rarely use my street number.”
“And Tansy?”
“It’s a medicinal herb. The first owner of this house was an herbalist. The backyard is covered in different varieties.”
“Oh.” He looked around her into the living room.
Claire took the hint. “Would you like to come in? I suppose if you’re here about some sort of misfortune, you might want to sit down.”
She stepped back to let him in the house. He’d shed his sports jacket, but still looked decidedly un-Heron Point. His black shirt with charcoal pinstriping was well tailored and obviously expensive, but even with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, Jack Hogan still looked like he’d come from a boardroom.
“Thanks.” He surveyed the parlor, obviously trying to choose the most appropriate chair. Claire had never thought critically about her tastes before, but now that she looked at the furnishings from a man’s perspective, she supposed the room had an overwhelmingly feminine look. He picked a large old rattan barrel chair she had re-covered in a delicate pastel stripe. Next to the sofa, it was the most substantial piece in the room and hugged his sculpted body admirably.
Claire sat on the overstuffed floral love seat covered with what she now realized was an impractical number of fringed pillows. “Now, what about this misfortune?”
He came right to the point. “I need a place to stay.”
Her first thought was that he was suggesting he might be invited to stay at Tansy Hill. Otherwise why had he come here? It was a ridiculous notion, of course. Still, Claire tamped down a shiver of panic. No man besides her stepson, Carlos, had ever slept a night at Tansy Hill. Claire didn’t even date. “There are lots of places on the island,” she said. “You won’t have any trouble finding something for tonight.”
“That’s just it. Tonight only. It’s Thursday, and everybody has vacancies. But nobody has anything for the weekend.”
“Oh? You’re staying that long?”
He smiled, showing those white teeth again, which now were an interesting contrast to his five o’clock stubble of dark beard. “Don’t sound so disappointed, but yes. I’m staying a month or more.”
Claire tried to ignore the gasp of surprise that came from the hallway. But ignoring Pet’s entrance was impossible. Her aunt sailed into the room in advance of her billowing red silk lounge pants and a mist of spicy incense. “A month?” she said. “You don’t say?”
Hogan stood up and shook her outstretched hand. “Hello, again.” He seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “That’s right. And I’m finding that every place in town can accommodate me for the weeknights, but not for Friday and Saturday.”
“We’re a weekend tourist destination,” Claire said. “Heron Point’s population nearly doubles every Friday night. Our seafood restaurants alone bring folks from all over the state. And our shoreline is one of the most unique in Florida.”
Hogan sat again and crossed his ankle over the opposite knee. “You sound like a brochure, Mrs. Betancourt. Gee, I love the town already.”
Pet waved her hand, making the dozen bells on her silver bracelet jingle softly. “It’s a wonderful town,” she said. “You can’t help but love it.”
“I won’t get the chance to find out if I don’t get a place to stay.” He focused on Claire again. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I figure if anybody could point me in the direction of a permanent room to rent, it would be you. I don’t look forward to sleeping five nights a week in a hotel and the last two in my car.”
“Who are you?”
Claire whirled around at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Jane, this is Mr. Hogan,” she said as Jane came to the middle of the room. “He’s staying in Heron Point for a while.”
Hogan stood up again. The man did have manners. Unfortunately he didn’t appear to know quite what to do once he was face-to-face with a human who stood less than four feet tall. He took his cue from Jane who, as usual, exhibited not the least sign of shyness. She thrust her little hand at his midsection and he enclosed it in a palm that seemed three times the size of hers. “How do you do, Jane?”
“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked. “Aunt Pet thought you might be. I have extra biscuits.”
Not for the first time, Jane’s characteristic impulsiveness put Claire in an uncomfortable position. She thought of the three chicken breasts she’d just put in the oven. She supposed she could slice them up, add a can of mushroom soup and stretch the menu to include three women and one formidable, substantially built man. Of course not taken into consideration was the fact that Claire did not especially want Jack Hogan to stay to dinner.
He eliminated her concern. “No, I’m just here to ask your mother a favor. I need a place to stay.”
“You could stay here I suppose,” Jane said. “We have a guest room.”
Claire stiffened.
Pet hooted.
“Well, thanks,” Hogan said, giving Jane a little smile. “But I didn’t mean anything like that. I meant a place in town.”
“We have lots of nice places,” Jane said. “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.”
