An Unlikely Match

Claire groaned. “Oh, no. Not again.” This was the second time in two weeks that the regular crossing guard hadn’t shown up for duty. And the second time Heron Point’s most conscientious citizen and self-proclaimed mother-of-the-year had taken it upon herself to guide the town’s children safely across the street to the school building. Claire slowed to a crawl, lowered her window and spoke to the woman whose short arms were flailing about in an exaggerated attempt to direct Heron Point’s youngest citizens. “Hi, Missy,” Claire said. “I guess Bella didn’t show this morning?”

“You guessed right,” Missy answered. “Really, Claire, you must do something about that woman. We can’t have our children subjected to the dangers of a busy school crossing without competent adult supervision. And I can’t be expected to step up every time Bella Martingale is too hungover…” She stopped speaking when she realized Jane was listening to every word.

Busy school crossing? Claire checked her rearview mirror. There were two cars behind her, and only one had passed going the opposite direction in the last minute. And this was Heron Point’s rush hour. But Missy was right. Even if there were only seventy-six children enrolled in the elementary school, it was the community’s responsibility to provide them with adequate crosswalk protection.

“I’ll speak to Bella,” Claire promised.

“Are you going to fire her?” Missy asked.

Claire flinched. She really liked Bella. “Yes. But in the meantime, I’ll ask Aunt Pet to fill in at the crosswalk this afternoon, and I’ll be here tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll be able to make permanent arrangements over the weekend.”

“What about now? I have to open my gallery in exactly ten minutes.”

“You go on,” Claire said. “I’ll take over until eight o’clock.” She pulled to the curb, got out and waited for Jane to pick up her sweater and lunch box from the floor of the front seat. “Have a nice day, sweetheart. I won’t pick you up. Aunt Pet will be here this afternoon, so you can ride home with her.”

Jane looked up at her with the doe-brown eyes that were so like her father’s, like all the Betancourt men’s. Beautiful, heart-stopping, warm, Latin eyes. “Is Mrs. Martingale drunk again?” she asked.

“No, I’m sure she isn’t,” Claire answered. Bella had sworn to Claire just yesterday that she hadn’t had a drink in over a month, since school had started the fall term. But she might very well be high on something. Claire had insisted the woman mow the trio of marijuana plants blatantly growing under a bright green awning in her backyard. But Claire had never gone back to see that the job had been completed. And now she had to admit that Bella had used up all her chances for leniency. She would have to relinquish her post as crossing guard and the small salary she earned.

Claire escorted the remaining half dozen children to the parsonage-turned-schoolhouse. The two-story clapboard structure had served as the minister’s residence for more than a hundred years. When the last of the reverends had died, twenty-five years ago, the citizens had decided they could manage without a bona fide religious leader. They’d elected to modify the parsonage to serve as a schoolhouse for Heron Point’s elementary children. Seven state-certified teachers, a principal and a guidance counselor had been hired, and the youngest children were no longer bused thirty miles to the Micopee school district on the mainland.

Since that time, Sunday morning services were still held in the island’s small wooden chapel and conducted by whichever citizen volunteered. The resulting variety of programs seemed to suit everyone from the most righteous to those who, like Aunt Pet, merely thought of themselves as spiritual beings.

Once back in her car, Claire drove the mile toward town. She would just have time to stop in her office on Island Avenue and look over the day’s calendar. Then, by ten o’clock, she would open her shop also located on the main thoroughfare through Heron Point.

Claire waved to neighbors in passing vehicles as she proceeded to the town hall. Heron Point was populated with as diverse a citizenry as one could find in such a small area. Except for the weekend influx of tourists, the town was mostly a quiet, peaceful place to live, which was why Claire decided to move here from Miami when her husband died of cancer almost three years ago. And why she’d been persuaded to run for mayor. Unopposed.

But as she pulled into the parking space with her title painted on the cement bumper, she was immediately aware of unusual activity. Two women waited outside the door to her office—Patty Barnes, the town’s top saleslady from Heron Point Realty, and her company’s secretary, Lucy Gaynor.

Patty hurried to the driver’s side of Claire’s car and tapped on the window. “Hurry up, Claire,” she said. “Big news. Really big news!”

Patty was too breathless to voice her excitement in complete sentences. This was big.

Claire stepped out of the car. “What’s happened?”

Lucy nudged her co-worker in the ribs. “Tell her, Pat. Tell her.”

Patty grinned with barely repressed excitement. She tucked a strand of dyed red hair behind her ear, revealing a glittery aqua seahorse dangling from the lobe. “We sold Dolphin Run! Can you believe it? The offer was just accepted last night.”

Dolphin Run? For a moment, Claire couldn’t bring to mind a property with that name. “Oh, you mean that old inn on the north shore?” she finally said.

“One and the same. The Holcombs’ heirs are overjoyed. That place has been on the market for years.”

Claire was aware of the inn’s existence, though she’d never ventured beyond the eight foot wrought iron fence that surrounded the property. Consequently, she’d never seen the interior of the old hotel, but she knew that Dolphin Run stood as a sort of silent, decaying sentinel on the island’s northernmost point. The hotel was a remnant of Heron Point’s glory days of the 1950s and 60s when wealthy and influential northerners vacationed on the secluded island.

Claire reached back into her car and grabbed her purse. Then, with Patty and Lucy following, she opened the door to the town hall, Heron Point’s only official government building. She stepped inside the room that served as both her office and the town’s meeting facility. To her left, through a pair of swinging doors, one of the town’s four-member police department sat at a desk, manning the telephone.

“Hi, Gail,” Claire called to the young officer.

“Morning, Claire.”

Patty and Lucy took a detour into the police department and began regaling Gail with the latest news. Another Heron Point employee, Ingrid Olson, peeked her neatly coiffed gray head through the doorway behind Claire’s desk that led to the town library. “What’s going on?”

“The Dolphin Run property sold,” Claire said, pointing to the next room where women’s voices had reached an exuberant pitch. “You can get the details from Patty.”

Claire sat down and opened her calendar. At nine o’-clock an electrician was scheduled to fix the faulty outlet behind the flag stand. Later, Claire had a meeting with a contractor who wanted a permit to put an addition to the marina at the entrance to the island. But now she had to return at least a dozen phone calls from citizens with concerns ranging from the placement of a stop sign to nuisance pet problems. She picked up the phone and a pencil.

“His name is Anderson,” Patty said from the next room. “I don’t know anything about him. He’s had a representative negotiate the sale. But whoever he is, his money’s good. The sale is going through today without a hitch. And no mortgage!”

Unsuccessful in tuning out the excitement about the big sale, Claire waited a moment before punching in the numbers of her first call. It was understandable that everyone would be interested in the sale of Dolphin Run, the town’s largest property. Plus, any time there were rumors of a new resident, people got excited. And nosy.

“He’s sending somebody this morning with a cashier’s check for the whole amount,” Patty said. “I’d better get back to the office. I wouldn’t want to miss him.”

Patty and Lucy scurried to the door and practically barreled into a tall, substantially built man whose muscular physique was evident even through his well-tailored black sports jacket and trousers. The ladies stepped aside to allow the stranger to enter. He nodded to their gaping faces, removed a pair of dark sunglasses and walked up the aisle between the wooden pews that seated citizens for town meetings.

Lucy whispered to Patty. “Who died?”

Patty nudged Lucy into silence. “I think he looks like Rockford,” Ingrid said. “Remember, on TV? He always wore a jacket.”

“Well, it looks to me like he’s going to a funeral.”

Claire smiled as the man came toward her. Who died indeed? Either he truly was in town to attend a memorial service or he was masquerading as a Secret Service agent. Since none of her neighbors actually wore formal clothes anymore, Claire decided that Heron Point must have become the target of some sort of federal investigation.

The man stopped in front of her, looked first into her face and then at the metal name placard on her desk. “Are you Mayor Betancourt?” he asked.

Realizing for the first time that the telephone was still in her hand and was beeping from inactivity, Claire quickly settled it back into the cradle and tapped the pencil against her desk blotter. “That’s me.”

If he was surprised or disappointed to find a woman in Heron Point’s top government position, she couldn’t tell. She stuck her hand out and he shook it. “How can I help you?”

“My employer just purchased a piece of property in Heron Point,” he said.

“It’s him, the guy who’s come to close the deal,” Patty whispered much too loudly. Neither woman had moved so much as an inch since the man had entered the office.

“I’m the supervisor of his advance team,” he continued.

Claire almost laughed. “His advance team? In advance of what?”

“His arrival in a few weeks.” The man crossed his arms over a broad chest. “Didn’t anyone tell you who my boss is?”

She shrugged. “I believe I heard the name Anderson associated with the purchase.”

“Right. I work for Archie J. Anderson.”

Claire dropped the pencil, right before she dropped her jaw. “The Archie Anderson?”

The man almost smiled as if he were used to such a response. “If by ‘the Archie Anderson’ you mean the real-estate developer responsible for many of the five-star hotels in Manhattan, not to mention a half-dozen state-of-the-art sports stadiums, then, yes.”

“I’ve heard of him.”