chapter seven

So, the mayor wasn't married. Interesting…

A smile lit up Jack's face as he recalled the blush that had crept over Claire Betancour's cheeks when her daughter, in all innocence, had revealed her status. No doubt about it—what had seemed like a dull stay on this sleepy island was about to get a lot more interesting, thanks to his relationship with the town's top official.

Leaving Villa Tanasis behind, Jack tucked his sunglasses into the glove compartment and rolled down the window of the Cadillac he had rented. The evening air was soft and salty. The oppressive humidity from earlier in the afternoon had lifted, and now, on the horizon, the sun had turned into a glowing amber sphere. The breeze was almost autumnal.

Of course, Blue Heron Island didn't offer any of the natural phenomena that could have reminded him of Manhattan in early fall. Still, with his mood improved after visiting Villa Tanasis, Jack had to admit there was a certain charm to the sunset along Florida's northwest coast—even if, from a strictly security-focused perspective, the vast stretch of coastline was a real concern...

He scanned the open ocean, exposed to all winds, while considering the task ahead. Red buoys marking the channels dotted the shimmering horizon: clearly, heavy and chaotic dredging had taken place during the island's development years.

As far as he knew, most coastal communities had one or two main marinas through which boats entered port areas. Not here. On the short drive he'd just taken along the shore, he had already spotted four separate channels. What would the rest of the coastline reveal? The fact that one could enter the island as easily as walking through an open door was a nightmare for someone responsible for security.

And that wasn't Jack's only worry. Even though he'd spent little time on the island, he had immediately sensed the pervasive casualness among the residents. Hadn't the mayor mentioned the "easy living" that defined this place? A fine euphemism for island laziness! Jack was determined to shake this sleepy population out of its stupor and teach them the risks they were blindly ignoring.

He suddenly remembered the old man who had pointed him in the direction of Claire Betancour's home—and who had also, quite casually, given him the name of the villa!

Just as he had exited the third fully booked hotel, an old man with long gray hair and a beard down to his chest had called out to him. Gesturing toward a restaurant with its menu posted outside, the man had said:

"Could you spare a dollar or two so I can get myself a bowl of clam chowder?"

The old man was seated on a pile of mismatched items stacked in a shopping cart—Jack had spotted some clothes, a collection of chipped bowls, and a stack of magazines. In short, a peaceful-looking beggar who had momentarily shaken Jack's convictions. Jack believed that giving handouts only fueled the vicious cycle of poverty—essentially encouraging people to live off others.

In New York, any self-respecting homeless person would have blown those two dollars at the nearest bar. Not this guy! He had calmly walked into the restaurant and come out a minute later with a steaming bowl of soup. He had even offered to share it with Jack, who politely declined.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," he'd said. "I do need directions, though."

"No problem. Where are you trying to go?"

"To the mayor's place. Do you know where she lives?"

"Of course," the old man had replied.

Pointing eastward, he had given Jack detailed directions to reach Villa Tanasis.

"It's built on a rise," he'd added. "A lovely villa. Yellow as a buttercup. Its name is on a sign above the porch."

Thanks to those directions, Jack had found the villa without a hitch. But instead of being grateful, his instincts had kicked in: on Blue Heron Island, even the homeless knew where the mayor lived!

Jack had never lived in a small town. But his instincts and training told him that in this day and age, when threats could come from anywhere, security had to be an absolute priority—even in a place this remote.

Clearly, Claire Betancour and her citizens did not share his view.

Another concern: the mayor's boutique. Jack had walked past it during his stroll down the island's main street, curious to discover the historic heart of town and its collection of century-old oddities.

The shop was nestled between others, its window display showcasing clothes once worn by celebrities and vintage garments passed down through generations. There was also a small wooden sign with the owner's name and phone number—in case of emergency, it said.

Unbelievable! The mayor's personal number displayed right behind a store window. Had she never been harassed by weirdos?

Maybe not, after all… this was far from Manhattan.

Jack's train of thought came to a halt as he turned into a narrow path lined with wooden cottages, leading to a large backyard that doubled as an office and proudly displayed a sign reading "The Pink Refuge."

The quaint little homes were flanked by flower beds bursting with white, pink, violet, and lavender blooms. The rest of the property overflowed with hibiscus and bougainvillea in every imaginable shade of pink.

An elderly lady emerged from behind the plastic curtain hanging at the veranda just as Jack pulled up in front of the administrative bungalow. With her curly gray hair, round glasses, floral dress, and white apron tied at the waist, she looked like she had stepped out of a fairy tale. The kind of grandmother every child dreams of.

"Are you a friend of Claire's?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes," Jack replied, stepping out of his vehicle. "She recommended your place. You must be Mrs. Poole, right?"

"Is that your vehicle?" she asked.

As Jack smiled at the obviousness of the question, Mrs. Poole declared:

"It's too big for our parking lot!"

"Not at all!" Jack protested. "It's not even sticking out onto the road."

"It's blocking my flowers," Mrs. Poole retorted. "And my landscaping is one of The Pink Refuge's finest features. Thanks to your monstrous car, no one can admire it anymore."

Jack silently glanced at the other two cars in the lot: a modest Dodge Neon, undoubtedly belonging to the owner, and a beige Volkswagen convertible with the top down, which minimized its size. Surely, the proprietor wasn't going to deny him lodging just because of his vehicle's dimensions?

"I'll be gone from morning to night," he said. "My car will only be parked here at night."

"That's a point worth considering," Mrs. Poole said with a skeptical frown. "However…"

She suddenly pointed toward a vacant lot near the beach, beyond the property.

"Could you park over there? Neither Billy nor Lou will ticket you. And if they do, you can always appeal to Claire."

Unwilling to bend the rules, Jack proposed a different option:

"Couldn't I just park right next to my bungalow?"

"Absolutely not!" Mrs. Poole snapped. "When I settled here ten years ago, I ripped out all the asphalt to plant grass."

She swept a proud gaze over the lawn and the stone paths leading to each bungalow.

"Isn't it charming? You'll appreciate the open view when you see our sunsets."

Resigned, Jack asked:

"Which bungalow did you assign me?"

Just as he expected, Mrs. Poole replied:

"The one in the back of the property. That way, you'll have more privacy."

"Just as I thought," he muttered. "Can I at least unload my bags before I go park by the beach?"

"That won't be a problem," Mrs. Poole assured him.

She slipped a hand beneath her apron and pulled out a key, handing it to Jack. The keychain was shaped like a pink paw!

"You can get settled in," she continued. "After that, come to my office so I can write you down in the registry. I'll need one week's rent in advance, even if you know Claire."

Suppressing the urge to salute, Jack took the key and replied:

"Very well, ma'am."

The manager disappeared behind the plastic fringe of the curtain, while Jack, weighed down with his luggage, made his way to the farthest bungalow she had assigned him.

He passed five cottages that looked as though they had been plucked from a fairy tale. Once he reached his, he inserted the key into the lock… then stopped himself. With a decisive gesture, he removed the ridiculous pink paw keychain and attached the key to his own, much more sober, car fob.