Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Everything about her said knife-edge polish. Angular haircut (fresh), razor-like cheekbones (blushed on), crisply ironed blouse (mercilessly tucked in).

  How anyone battles Florida humidity and stays unfazed and unwrinkled is a mystery to me. Maybe I’d learn if I stuck around.

  I doubt the steak-knife receptionist appreciated it when I parked my portfolio on her counter and used both hands to shove my shirt back in my waistband and snap the car wrinkles out of my jacket.

  The elastic sundress suddenly seemed very appealing.

  “Right this way,” knife-woman said.

  The lobby was filled with windows and doors, plenty of escape routes if I lost confidence and headed for the Gulf Coast highway. I snatched my folder and steeled my resolve.

  I was here to snoop, and I had to remember that.

  I thought we were headed for the elevators, but the pencil skirt and heels turned down a long hallway filled with doors, institutional carpeting, and occasional alcoves with chairs and fake plants. Could Sandshore Realty really employ all these people? The doors went on and on. Maybe they weren’t offices, they were there just for show. Hell, for all I knew, every janitor had his own office.

  I kept my eyes open and my brain on overdrive, noting the names on the doors. Glass doors. Gold lettering. Through the doors—all closed—desks and people were visible.

  The truth hit me like a rogue wave.

  Sandshore Realty was not one company. If this building was any indication, it was a conglomerate. My mind reeled backward, gathering information and evidence from every business course I’d taken for my minor. What if Sandshore was so large it didn’t even notice a little loss like the property values plummeting in Barefoot? It would be like a millipede losing a leg. No big deal. But a big tax write-off.

  With my new working theory, I walked with more purpose down the endless hallway to a door marked Sandshore Realty Personnel. Blade-woman waved me in and edged away.

  The man behind the desk shoved a drawer shut as he stood and extended his hand. “Chester Thomas,” he said, smiling in a business-like manner.

  “Savannah Thorpe,” I said. This was an occasion for the bravado I could muster from my full formal name.

  I took the seat he indicated with his free hand and put my portfolio on a fake leather chair matching my own. No idea whether I’d need it or not.

  “You’ve come a long way for this interview,” he said.

  My mind rewound the one-hour drive down the coast and I knew my open-book face probably conveyed confusion.

  “From Michigan,” he said. He pointed to a paper in his hand, presumably my resume and online application.

  “Oh. I’m actually…uh…staying with friends in the area for a few weeks. Until I find a job.”

  “I see. And where exactly are you staying?” He waited, eyes widened, hand poised with pen over my paperwork.

  I hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much.

  “So we can contact you,” he nudged.

  “My friends live north of here. Barefoot Key. But you can use the cell number I provided on the application.”

  When I said Barefoot Key, his expression altered. A slight narrowing of the eyes. A twist of his top lip. Involuntarily perhaps, but something in his face suggested he’d heard of Barefoot Key. For all I knew, though, he might have gotten drunk there once. Or laid. I took a closer look at the guy. Okay, maybe not laid.

  “Our company has some interests in that area,” he ventured.

  “I’m guessing real estate,” I said. If only he knew how much I already knew and wondered.

  “Of course. That’s our business. How closely connected are you to your…uh…friends in Barefoot Key?”

  I tried to decide what the right answer was. Maybe he hoped to hear I was interwoven so closely in the community that they could use me like a mole—assuming I had the loyalty of a rodent. Maybe he was afraid I’d be more like a canary in a coalmine and warn everyone about the write-off scheme I thought Sandshore Realty had going on.

  “Not close,” I said. “Just passing through and soaking up sunshine on my way to a great job.” I smiled winningly. “Perhaps here?”

  Chester Thomas picked up a paper. “I have your file here. Nice credentials. Not exactly real estate experience, but hotel management and business combined is a close second.”

  “Thank you,” I said, believing that must have been an indirect compliment.

  He asked me a standard interview question. Then another. And another. I began to think the interview was going well since I made it past the first few questions. What would I do if they actually offered me a job? Staying in Florida had its appeal. Sunshine. Skip. Flip-flops. Skip. Tank tops. Skip.

  I continued to smile and give appropriate answers about my experience with customer service, managing money and paperwork, my education. Chester checked off boxes on his sheet. The clock hand on the wall swung south. It had to be almost over.

  When my interview concluded, what would I do? Go right out his door instead of left? Infiltrate the employee cafeteria and nose around? Ride the elevator up and down until someone spilled the beans on the corporate strategy?

  “I’ll walk you to the front desk,” Chester offered.

  Crap.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I think I’ll use the restroom on the way out.”

  Given my readable face reputation, I had no idea if he was going to buy it, but I probably profited from the male/female dynamic. It’s a universal rule that men do not interfere with women on the way to the restroom. One little mention of a tampon and they retreat.

  His face relaxed, the professional smile melting. “You’ll find it on your right as you enter the lobby.”

  Dismissed. His tone as he gave the direction and body language as he turned to his computer screen told me I could go.

  But I wasn’t done. I had a little pride on the line here. Hadn’t I dressed up and driven an hour for this interview?

  “When do you think I might hear about the job?” I asked.

  “Our department will contact you within ten days if you fit our current needs.”

  I wanted to ask what would happen if I did not fit their needs, but I figured I’d wandered far enough into none-of-my-business for one day.

  Well, almost.

  I did turn toward the lobby as I left his office, even though I was flattering myself if I thought the guy cared. Glass doors offered glimpses of temptation all along as I slow-walked the corridor. What excuse could I fabricate to sidle into one of those offices? How long could I peek through the glass without someone noticing?

  A colorful map caught my eye through a closed glass door. For a moment, I thought it was a map of Barefoot Key. It was clearly blue gulf meeting sandy shore with lots of squares indicating properties.

  I shifted my portfolio to my left arm and shoved through the door. No receptionist guarded the shiny white desk. At least I didn’t think anyone was there.

  Until a woman popped up from behind it. She eyed me with obvious disapproval. Maybe she wasn’t alone behind that desk and resented my intrusion.

  I looked at her scraped back hair, black-framed reading glasses, and buttoned up blouse. She was probably alone back there. My former savvy self would have admired her bookish all-business look, but I was starting to turn south these days with open-toed shoes, a suntan, and a closet filled with colorful tank tops.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. “Sunny Dreams said they’d send you right down and that was an hour ago.”

  I knew that name. It was the real estate company that swept through Barefoot Key two years ago. This must be how jailbirds feel when someone voluntarily opens the cage. I stood straighter and must have succeeded at impersonating the wayward courier from Sunny Dreams Real Estate above.

  “Complications,” I explained. Everyone has complications; it’s a universal excuse and no one ever wants to hear what the complications are. It’s usually too complicated.

  The older
woman handed me an oversized folder and a long poster tube. I guess whatever was in those packages was too large to email. With only a second’s hesitation, I took the items. It wasn’t stealing when you dressed the part and someone handed you the goods.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Better get back right away.”

  I shoved the glass door open with my butt, backed into the hallway, and aimed for the lobby. It was a safe choice because the elevators were there and the pop-up secretary would assume I was getting on one to head skyward with my packages. It was also a safe choice because the glass doors to the parking lot were my intended target and my ticket to freedom.

  I congratulated myself on two things as I counted my steps across the lot to my SUV. I was not running like a startled rabbit. And I was exercising restraint by not looking at what I held in my hands. No way was I snooping in the folder and tube until I got at least five miles away. Or at least one mile. Curiosity is stronger than restraint.

  I tossed the documents on the floor of the back seat and made a safe getaway, stopping to look both ways before pulling out into Tampa traffic. I’d lived dangerously enough for one day already. And for what? For all I knew, my booty was an architectural drawing for a new helipad at corporate headquarters.

  I pulled my ancient Chevy Tahoe into a fast food parking lot, cut the engine, and climbed into the backseat. I remoted the doors locked and hunkered down behind tinted windows to pry privately into somebody else’s business. The guilty feeling tightening the skin on the back of my neck was only partially caused by intercepting a courier package clearly not meant for me. I also felt bad about using the fast food restaurant’s parking lot without buying something. It’s the law of travel and commerce: if you use the restroom at a fast food joint, you have to at least get a small fry and a drink. Maybe a milkshake. The same rule probably applies to using their parking lots.

  Was that smell fresh French fries? Hot from the fryer or not, I had sleuthing to do. Folder first. Easier to open.

  It was a dud. A bunch of real estate contract summaries and listing statistics, none of them in Barefoot. All from some Florida town I’d never heard of.

  Maybe the poster tube would pay off. I popped off one end of the cardboard cylinder and pried out the tightly rolled paper an inch at a time. Maybe it was nerves or maybe it was the battle of the tube, but sweat started to dampen my hair roots and make me wish I’d been smart enough to leave the car running, air-conditioning on.

  Triumphant, I finally extracted the poster and rolled it across my lap. What I found confirmed my belief in luck. Was I savvy? Sure. But falling into good fortune took brains and effort to a higher mathematical power.

  The map of Barefoot Key was colorful, accurate, detailed, and damning. Properties all over town, mostly concentrated in small groups, were outlined in red boxes. The most chilling aspect of the drawing was that the boxes were all named. I recognized the names, especially The Gull Motel.

  If those red lines were drawn around people, the map would resemble a hit list.

  And a hit list was exactly what I had spread out in my lap.

  French fries and fast food etiquette would have to wait. I climbed over the seat, zipped on my seatbelt, and hauled ass out of the parking lot.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I called Rita on the way back to Barefoot and asked her to have Maria and LeeAnn stay over after their cleaning shifts ended. Despite her questions, I didn’t reveal any details of my mission. Too paranoid from my theft and escape, I was afraid to risk the cellular airwaves. This was a topic for closed-door discussion with people I trusted. With way more combined experience in town than I could muster, my three Gull employees and colleagues would have insight on the map. Partly because his place was on the map—as well as the marina housing his father’s fishing charter—I asked Rita to round up Skip for my bombshell meeting. Even if he didn’t have insight, he made my hormones race and it might stimulate my thinking.

  Convinced I was a knight in shining armor geared up to save Barefoot, I plotted all the way up the coastal highway about what I could do with my booty of information. Call a meeting of the chamber of commerce and warn them all they were on Sandshore’s radar? A conspiracy theorist would kill for ammo like this.

  When I parked in front of The Gull’s office, I scooped up the poster and folder and marched into the lobby.

  “We’re going next door,” Rita announced, not even saying hello first. “Skip’s got his tool belt on too tight, and he’s all wound up for his grand opening tomorrow night. Says he doesn’t have time to come over here, so we’re going over there. LeeAnn and Maria are already there, probably half inebriated already.”

  I hesitated, feeling protective of The Gull. “We can’t just lock the door and leave, can we?”

  “That’s what this is for.” Rita held up a plastic sign with a suction cup on the back. The sign had a clock superimposed over a big yellow sun. It said Back in ten minutes.

  “This will take longer than that,” I said. Despite the cool air from the lobby air-conditioning, a drop of sweat rolled off the end of my nose.

  “Pull yourself together,” Rita said. She pulled out a black marker, crossed off “ten minutes” and wrote in her cell phone number.

  “Happy?” she asked.

  “Better.”

  “You must have had one hell of an interview,” Rita observed. “They offer you the CEO job?”

  “Wouldn’t want it. Wait until you see what’s in here,” I said, waving my poster roll.

  Rita stuck the sign on the door at the same time a man’s face appeared suddenly in the glass. I sighed and added a little groan for effect.

  “I don’t have time for him today,” I said.

  One hand on the door lock, Rita angled toward me and whispered, “Want me to get rid of him?”

  It was Dalton from the FRTA. He’d been threatening a return visit, but I’d stalled him off. Not sure what direction anything was going around here, I had begun to regret involving him and his magazine.

  “At least have him come back later,” I whispered to Rita.

  She opened the door a crack. “Nice to see you,” she said. She used the voice she saved for difficult customers. They didn’t know it, but she was picturing them covered in honey and ants when she spoke so sweetly.

  Dalton had a laptop bag slung across his portly body, messenger style. He breathed heavily like he’d been hurrying all day long. He patted the bag and pushed one foot into the door opening. “I’ve got proofs,” he said.

  Because my mind was on the information in my stolen paperwork, for a moment I thought he was talking about proof of a whole other kind.

  Rita held her ground, testing Dalton’s resolve to get in the door. “We were just closing the office for a business meeting,” she said. “Why don’t you go downtown and get something to eat and we’ll be glad to see whatever you’ve got in your bag later.”

  Without awaiting his answer, Rita shut the door, locked it, gave him a little wave. She grabbed my arm and her bulging ring of keys and shoved me through the back door toward the pool, locking the office slider behind her.

  “He probably wanted to show us the final version of his magazine article,” I said, finally figuring out what he wanted.

  “Huh,” Rita said, not slowing down. “Bet it’s all pictures of you. The man’s got a hard-on with your name on it.”

  Even in the heat radiating from the concrete pool patio, a full-body chill nearly knocked me down.

  “I think he just needs attention,” I said.

  I had left the folder with the real estate listings on the office counter. I didn’t think it offered much information and definitely no drama. Not like the rolled-up poster I clutched in my hand. When Rita and I strode through Skip’s back door, Rita’s perception and human understanding was instantly obvious. Skip was on a ladder hammering up colorful beer ads like he didn’t care about the nail’s feelings. As for LeeAnn and Maria, and as predicted by Rita, they had an empty pitcher
between them and a full one waiting.

  My big news would have to shout for attention. I elbowed between the two maids and spread the laminated map across their high-top table.

  “Pretty,” LeeAnn observed.

  Maria giggled. Skip stayed on the ladder, only pausing in his hammering to give me a once-over. I still wore my ass-hugging navy blue pencil skirt, but my white blouse came untucked about fifty miles ago. Skip’s once-over turned into twice. Maybe he liked the disheveled business woman look. Maybe he hoped he’d figure out why the hell I’d gone to Tampa if he looked hard enough.

  “Crooked,” LeeAnn yelled up at him. “Gotta go up with the left side.”

  “You’re hammered,” he muttered.

  Divided loyalty gnawed me for a minute, but aesthetics won out. “She’s right,” I said. “Left side up an inch ought to do it.”

  Skip eyed the three of us and scratched the three-days of beard on his cheeks. He turned his attention to his beer banner and shoved one side up an inch. He gave me a look that asked a question.

  “Better,” I said. “Just right.”

  “With help like this, I should be open by next summer,” he grumbled.

  Actually, the big grand opening scheduled for tomorrow night was only a few days before Halloween. A costume party theme didn’t take a lot of imagination as an idea. Add alcohol to the mix of costumes and loud music, and it’s a party.

  I only had one problem. No costume, no idea what to wear. During college, if someone said costume party, I’d retreated to the library and held my line behind bookshelves and a laptop screen. I guessed I was a master of disguise since no one ever found me there.

  I checked out Skip’s ass on the ladder and wondered what he would wear to the party. The mood he appeared to be in, I thought he should go as Blackbeard the Pirate. But he’d already made it clear he was trying to get rid of the pirate motif left behind by Harvey. Maybe I should tell him modern pirates are sexy. Blame it on the movies.

  “What are we supposed to be looking at here?” Rita asked. She knew I was looking at Skip’s backside.

  “On the poster,” she added.