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.
