not. I heard Claire talking about her the other day. As far as I know, she’s come to Heron Point all alone. So maybe you should ask her out. New gals don’t come into town too often, at least with the intention of living here, and you’ve pretty much worn out your welcome with the ones who’ve been around a while.”
Billy frowned. “Thanks for pointing that out, but our artsy-type gallery owners haven’t proved a good match for a cop.” He pictured Evie again. Shoulder-length, light brown hair, green eyes the color of the Gulf at dawn, a smile that could be killer if she’d stop trying to hide it. “I don’t know,” he said. “My dating has changed a lot in the last few years.”
“Don’t think too long,” Lou said. “You don’t want your second meeting with the principal to be official school business.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lou chuckled. “You know darned well. The first week of school won’t be marked off the calendar before you’re in that principal’s office, and it won’t be to ask her for a date.”
Billy sighed as he walked to the cruiser. Lou was right. The last principal had left Heron Point for a number of reasons, not the least of which was Billy’s daughter, Gemma Scarlett Muldoone.
THE NEXT MORNING Evie woke in a cloud of pink sheets and down-filled pink comforter. The air conditioner hummed across the room, and she cuddled deeper into the covers and let the soothing sound leisurely stir her to life.
She’d been assigned the first cottage in a row that stretched to the Gulf. Hester Poole, the owner of the Pink Ladies, had greeted Evie looking like a fairy-tale godmother, complete with floral apron and a crockery bowl full of sugary cookie dough. She’d said she’d saved the cottage nearest the office for Evie so she could come to Hester with any questions she might have about Heron Point and its citizens.
So far, the only question Evie had concerned her landlady’s obsession with pink. She wasn’t complaining though. The room was clean, comfortable and, if one ignored the Barbie-doll ambience, charming. She had nothing planned for the day. Perhaps she’d return to her office to unpack some personal possessions.
“Yoo-hoo, Miss Gaynor.”
She glanced at her travel clock: five past nine. Evie hadn’t slept this well or this long in ages. She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and reached for her robe. “Just a moment, Mrs. Poole.”
She opened the door to her landlady’s welcoming smile and a muffin nestled in a cloth napkin. “Just made these this morning,” Hester said. “Blueberry.”
Evie took the muffin. “Thanks. It smells delicious.”
“And that’s not all, dear,” Hester said, thrusting a vellum envelope at Evie’s chest. “This was just delivered for you.”
Evie’s name was scripted across the front. “Who is it from?”
“Our handsome chief of police, Jack Hogan, dropped it off, so I assume it’s from his wife, our mayor.”
“Oh? That would be Claire.”
Hester nodded. “Hope I didn’t wake you, dear, but you’ve already missed our famous sunrise. I didn’t think you’d want to sleep through the spectacle of the dolphins swimming just off shore.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Sister and I are outside now. Why don’t you bring your muffin and join us?”
“I will. Just give me a moment.”
Evie shut the door, opened the envelope and unfolded a note in clear, precise handwriting. It was signed, “Claire Hogan,” the woman Evie had spoken with on several occasions.
She read the note while she filled the teakettle. Claire was welcoming her to the island and asking her to meet her and some friends for lunch at the Heron Point Hotel. Evie wondered how Claire knew she had arrived, but then she realized that in a town this size, her escapades at the school last evening might have become a topic for local gossip. Or, more likely, Jack Hogan had read a report of the incident when he’d come to work this morning and told his wife.
She filled a mug with tea, took the portable phone to the dinette set and dialed the number on the invitation. The mayor answered on the first ring. “Hello? Claire Hogan.”
Evie identified herself and confirmed that she would be delighted to meet at the hotel at noon. The prospect of making female friends cheered her. She dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and went outside to watch the dolphins, the first of many experiences she never could have had if she’d stayed in Detroit. She’d work on those educational goals later.
CLAIRE HOGAN LOOKED pretty much as Evie had pictured her—a combination of sophistication and small-town charm. She was tall and slim, with blond hair pulled back in a smooth style. She’d been the mayor of Heron Point for two years and, Evie decided, the town couldn’t have a better representative.
Her two friends were quite different from Claire, but it was obvious the three were bound by a deep emotional connection. Petula Sweeney, Claire’s aunt, readily admitted to being a “sexy sixty” and newly married to fishing charter captain, Finn Sweeney, who just happened to be the father of the third woman in Claire’s luncheon group. Helen Sweeney-Anderson, a new mother, was blond, wiry and outspoken. Evie liked them all right away.
Helen took a sip of Coke, while rocking a baby stroller gently with her toe and complaining that she couldn’t wait to be done with breast-feeding so she could have a beer once in a while. “So what do you think of Heron Point so far?” she asked.
“It’s great,” Evie said. “This morning I saw my first dolphins not in an aquarium.”
“That’s the best thing about the Pink Ladies,” Pet said. “The dolphin show. Every morning like clockwork. It’s almost as if the dolphins know they’re supposed to entertain Hester’s guests.”
Claire leaned forward. “There’s a lot to like about this quirky little town, Evie. The longer you stay, the more you realize our island is quite unique.”
Evie smiled. “I think I already know that. I looked for an office supply store and a supermarket on my way in this morning. I didn’t see either one.”
“The Island Market has fresh produce and meat,” Helen said, “and you can get pens and paper at the Island Drug Store. For anything else, you have to go to Office Max in Micopee.”
“What about a beauty salon?”
“We have a lady who cuts hair in her kitchen,” Claire offered. “I go to her for trims, but at least four times a year my daughter, Jane, and I get the royal treatment at a spa in Gainesville. You’ll have to come with us next time.”
The conversation switched to each woman’s occupation. Petula worked as a waitress at the Green Door Café and said she wouldn’t quit no matter how much Finn pleaded with her to stay at home. “I get to be first to learn all the gossip,” she said. “I can usually just look at our customers and tell what’s going on in their lives.”
Helen laughed. “Pet is our resident psychic—or at least that’s what she wants you to believe.” She looked at the baby sleeping in the stroller. “But she was wrong
