Paradise Burning (15 page)

“
So your Brad Blue must be more like
his grandfather than he’s willing to admit.”

Peter grinned. “Definitely. But don’t let him
hear you say that. He and his kid cousin Slade are a lot more like
the old man than Wade’s son Garrett, who’s all politician. Smooth,
teflon-coated charm over hard-headed realist. Don’t get me wrong,
Garrett’s a good guy—I’d give him my vote any time—he’ll probably
be governor some day. But Brad and Slade are action types. If
you’re ever in trouble, those are the two you’d want in your
corner.”

“
What about you?” Mandy challenged. “I
thought Peter Pennington was synonymous for Mr. Macho?”

Mr. Macho
. He’d
thought so once.

Peter’s lips quirked as Mandy looked down,
noticed that the bare toes peeking out of her sandals had somehow
crept within an inch of Peter’s loafers. She zipped them back under
her chair.

“
Back when I worked for Jeff,” Peter
admitted, “I was young enough, and blind enough, to think I was Mr.
Invincible. Leap tall buildings, outwit villains, bring home the
bacon. Name the cliché and I was it.”

Abruptly, Peter sat up in his chair, rolled
backwards until it hit the computer counter. “But now I’m older,
wiser, and a hell of a lot less wild. You want macho, look to Brad
Blue. I’m just Peter, the tame pussycat, basking in the sun.”

You’re macho enough for
me
. Mandy almost said the words aloud. Swiftly, she
buried her momentary weakness under the crisp upper crust
insouciance of the Boston Kingsleys, ruthlessly bringing the
subject back on track. “Brad Blue’s Florida sounds like the Wild
West.”

“
Close enough. Most newcomers live
their lives in the thin veneer of civilization along the coastline
and have no idea what the other ninety-five percent of Florida is
like.”

“
Oh.” Abruptly, Mandy swung her chair
around to face her computer. Time to close this conversation. Peter
was too close, too overwhelming. Her thoughts were chaotic, like a
scattering of shotgun pellets. Supposedly, they were discussing the
wild side of a state most people thought of as sun and fun, but
visions of Peter’s vast bed kept swamping her mind. What had
happened to her much-vaunted tunnel vision, her ability to focus?
Mandy could feel herself giving in. Being engulfed by the bed, by
Peter. By the ruthless determination that had made him so
effective—as AKA agent, journalist, and author. The sheer willpower
that now, incredibly, seemed to be focused on winning back his
wife. Did she stand a chance of resisting?

Was there any valid reason why she
should?

Other than pride. Self-respect. And her
personal determination never to be hurt again.

“
Look, Mandy,” Peter suggested, “why
don’t you go see Claire now? I know you. You’re not going to be
satisfied until you’ve solved your little mystery. Claire can find
out if there’s a house over there on Wade’s land and, if so, who’s
in it. She’ll have an answer for you in nothing flat.”

“
Sounds good.” Mandy’s hormones were
screaming. Telling Peter about her mystery woman had deteriorated
to
this
? At the moment not
even a nine-room house was big enough for the both of them.
Grabbing her purse, she bolted for the door.

She didn’t look back.

Mandy paused at the foot of the sweeping
staircase leading up to the Amber Run Model Center. Though not
quite as large as Peter’s sprawling tree house, the style was
classic Key West, a stilt house with a broad wraparound deck and a
cupola room centered on the roof like the bride and groom on a
wedding cake. But, unlike Peter’s house, the Amber Run model home
boasted a pool and, somewhere, a waterfall. Mandy craned her head
around the stair railing, trying to find the source of the sound,
but it was hidden behind the latticed ground-level storage
area.

Enough procrastination. She never found
meeting people easy, and she pictured Claire Blue as a sleek
professional saleswoman, some kind of cross between Phil Whitlaw
and Eleanor. Someone who gave the impression that customers should
buy a home in her husband’s development or risk being thought
hopelessly bourgeois. Yet Phil hadn’t been so bad, Mandy told
herself, a real help in fact. So it was time to summon the Armitage
courage and beard Brad Blue’s wife in her elegant den.

Mandy sucked in a deep breath, climbed the
stairs. Obeying the sign that said, “Welcome, come on in,” she
opened the door and paused just inside, gaping.

A woman was rising from a desk set along the
far wall of the central greatroom. A lovely and seemingly genuine
smile highlighted a girl-next-door face, framed in shoulder-length
brown hair. Her slacks and embroidered cotton shirt qualified as no
more than casual professional, not the least bit intimidating. But
Mandy gave her only a passing glance, her attention riveted on the
playpen sitting on the tile floor next to the desk.

“
Oo-h!” she breathed,“you have a baby.”
Mandy shot across the room to peer over the vinyl-padded top of the
pen at a baby in blue shorts and T-shirt, who was frowning in
concentration as he made a determined effort to pull himself up the
white mesh on the side of the playpen.

“
It won’t be long,” Claire Blue said
cheerfully. “He’s almost got it. The next thing I know he’ll be off
and running with mom panting after like a hound chasing a
rabbit.”

“
What’s his name?” Mandy asked, never
taking her eyes off the baby, who’d plopped down hard onto his
diaper-padded bottom and was already reaching for the mesh
again.

After a noticeable pause, Claire said, “Well
. . . he’s named Bradley after his father, but somehow—though I’m
still trying to find an alternative—he seems to answer best to
Bubba.”

Mandy’s eyes snapped around to meet Claire’s.
“Bubba?” she asked, not quite suppressing a grin.

“
Bubba,” Claire Blue confirmed with an
artful roll of her long-lashed azure eyes.

Mandy straightened up. “I’m sorry,” she
apologized. “I don’t get much opportunity to see a baby up close.
I’m afraid I’m not a customer.” She held out her hand. “I’m Mandy
Armitage, Peter Pennington’s research assistant.” She liked the
firmness of Claire Blue’s handshake, the warmth of her smile. Peter
was right. She was going to like Brad Blue’s wife.

Mandy settled herself in one of the white
wicker chairs in front of Claire’s desk, and the two displaced New
Englanders settled down to an orgy of reminiscences and comparing
notes. Cape Cod, lobster, stone fences, white frame churches.
Granite, gurgling streams, granite, sand dunes, and more granite.
Claire admitted to missing dogwood, daffodils and tulips even more
than the brilliant display of leaves in the Fall. In the sun-lit
normalcy of the Amber Run Model Center, chatting with a new friend
while keeping an eye on the marvel of Bubba’s struggle to stand on
his own two feet, Mandy could see the absurdity of making a mystery
out of a young Russian woman sitting on a palm trunk. Claire was
going to think she was crazy.

Yet she had to know. She couldn’t let it
go.

Nonetheless, Mandy stumbled over her
opening line. “I saw . . . there’s a young . . .” Silently, she
recited the researcher’s mantra, Jack Webb’s famous line in
Dragnet
that had become a permanent
part of the nation’s vocabulary
. Just the
facts, ma’am. Just the facts.

Mandy tried again. “Peter thought you might
be able to help me with a little mystery. It’s probably nothing,”
she added with a deprecating shrug of her shoulders, “but, you see,
I’m living at Calusa Campground and . . .” Mandy gave Claire a full
account of her encounters with the woman on the far bank of the
river.

To her surprise, by the time she’d
finished her story, Claire looked grim. “You’re right,” she said,
“it
is
strange. I’m going to
call Garrett Whitlaw, my husband’s uncle. As far as I know, his
father owns all the land over there and Garrett manages it, so if
anyone knows what’s going on, he should.”

As Claire reached for the phone, Mandy
peeked at the baby. Having worn himself out, young Bubba Blue had
fallen asleep. Mandy’s heart ached. His serene cherubic profile
pressed into the padded vinyl among the scattered figures of
Winnie-the-Pooh and Friends was one of the most beautiful sights
she’d ever seen.
Damn Peter!
She’d once wondered if he’d left her because she’d started
eyeing babies with great longing. Had he been running scared?
Worried she might stop popping her pills?

He’d wanted to be free and footloose.

So why had he asked her, badgered her, to go
with him?

Because he was so sure she’d say no? Or maybe
he actually loved her, but wasn’t ready to settle down to diapers,
midnight feedings, and a minivan. He certainly knew she was hooked
on babies—though he couldn’t begin to guess how the thought of
never having one had torn at her heart these past five years.

Mandy groaned. He’d played her beautifully.
Go see Claire. You’re both New Englanders. You’ll like her. Ha! She
could see the smug smile Peter must have displayed behind her back
as he shooed her off to visit Claire Blue. And baby Bubba.

A few minutes later Claire hung up the phone,
eyebrows raised in a puzzled frown. “Garrett says there’s a line
camp, an old cracker house, near the area you’re talking about.
Wade—that’s his father—let his former foreman have it on a
long-term lease when he retired. Living there cut about fifteen
miles off the old man’s drive to town. The foreman died last year
with several years still to run on the lease, so his heirs have
control of the house at the moment. Garrett says they asked for
permission to make renovations and additions, and it’s certainly
possible they’ve rented it out. Rentals are a big business
here.”

“
But he doesn’t know to whom,” Mandy
stated.

“
No,” Claire admitted. “The heirs have
rights to the house for five more years, and they did all the
remodeling at their own expense.”

Deflated, Mandy nodded. A basic portion of
the mystery had just been explained. The remainder was probably
just as simple. And innocuous. But she wasn’t willing to give in
that easily. “Peter says your husband speaks Russian?” At Claire’s
swift affirmation, Mandy added, “Peter suggested I get the girl to
record her story. Do you think your husband would be willing to
listen to translate?”

“
Of course,” Claire replied with an
enthusiasm Mandy found gratifying, as her faith in her own
intuition was definitely wavering. “Brad’s always complaining he
doesn’t get enough practice any more.”

“
Great,” Mandy proclaimed as she stood
up. “I really appreciate your help.” She took one last longing look
at Bradley “Bubba” Blue, who was still sleeping
peacefully.

Maybe next time she came, Claire would let
her hold him.

“
Mandy! Oh, Maan-dy.” As Mandy
struggled from her car to the RV with three plastic bags of
groceries in each hand, Glenda Garrison erupted from the expansive
fifth-wheel trailer next door. She had, Mandy feared, been lying in
wait.

What was it this time? she wondered. Although
Glenda’s husband had retired the previous year, his wife had not.
Glenda—a rotund but spry fiftyish, her short straight hair more
salt than pepper—considered the move from Illinois to Florida an
opportunity for new and better challenges. She had quickly become
the aging Ed Cramer’s right arm, organizer of the organizers, the
volunteer executive officer of Calusa Campground.

Glenda had also decided Mandy Armitage was a
total innocent in the ways of the world—which was not, Mandy
conceded, all that inaccurate—and had constituted herself chief
guardian and informant for the campground’s youngest resident.
Whether it was which supermarket had the best produce department,
how to cook on a propane stove, or which beach had the best shells,
Glenda was sure to offer advice. She was also a veritable town
crier on some of the campground’s less obvious activities. Mandy
was frequently amazed at the soap opera nature of some of the
unscheduled events in this hotbed of senior citizens.

Glenda also had strong advice for Mandy about
her boss. “The world may be full of wolves,” the older woman had
once declared, “but there are times when a girl needs to stop
holding them off. There isn’t a woman in the park who doesn’t envy
you your job, you know. We’ve all read his books,” she’d confided.
“Now that’s a man worth latching onto, girl. Take advantage. Play
him for all he’s worth.”

Mandy, swallowing hard, had informed Mrs.
Garrison that she and Peter Pennington had a strictly professional
relationship.

“
That’s exactly what I mean, child,”
the older woman said. “Don’t be stupid. Go for it.”

A remembered remark that had Mandy wincing
when she heard the older woman’s loud hail. She should be
accustomed to Glenda by now, but she was, in fact, in daily
expectation of Glenda demanding a progress report on her love life.
Which was not only humiliating, but downright depressing.

“
I hear you crossed the river,” Glenda
panted, following Mandy as she juggled her way up the RV’s steep
steps, determined to get all the groceries inside before she
dropped them.

The bags clinked and thunked as Mandy dumped
them onto the small dinette table. “That’s right,” she admitted.
Wary.

“
That’s Wade Whitlaw’s land,” Glenda
persisted, sinking down onto a corner of the dinette’s bench seat.
“You may have heard about him. Cantankerous old goat owns half the
county. Carries a shotgun and doesn’t hesitate to use it. We warn
everybody away from going over there.”