Pete shook his head. “For what? All you’ve got on him is vandalism. You’ll need more than that if you intend to keep him.”
“He took that girl’s baby, Pete,” John said, staring ahead at nothing. “He took it, and he left the mother to die.”
“Well, prove it. Prove it, or—”
“Sheriff!” John was pounded hard on his back by someone and nearly spilled his beer. “You gonna beat everyone again this year in cornhole?”
John turned to see several city commissioners, a former mayor, and Randy Jamison, the city planner.
“I’m gonna try,” John said, in a falsely jovial tone.
He disliked all of them, because as far as city safety went, they were corrupt and also incompetent.
But for Jamison, the city planner, who turned down every request he received that might lead to low-income housing being built, John reserved special contempt. The island had been overcrowded before last year’s hurricane, but now it was even worse.
Jamison seemed interested only in allowing projects to move forward that might line his own pockets (Jamison’s son-in-law owned one of the island’s only plumbing businesses), not ones that could help reduce overcrowding and therefore crime.
“Ha-ha,” cried Jamison, who was smoking a cigar—Cuban, John could tell. “Last year I damned near kicked John’s butt in cornhole, didn’t I, Pete?”
But John was no longer listening. That’s because, over the city planner’s shoulder, he’d seen something. Not just something, but someone. It was Molly Montgomery, standing in the buffet line, looking magical in a black dress that shimmered when she moved.
What was she doing here? He hadn’t expected to see her. Now his heart was unaccountably racing at the sight of her. The last time he’d seen her, he’d made a fool of himself, getting so upset over her talking to that film crew from Miami, and then admitting that he’d come to the library in search of how-to-dance books and DVDs.
But why did he care what she thought of him? She was only a citizen. A very attractive citizen, it was true, especially in that dress, which wasn’t formfitting at all, but still clung to her body in such a way—
“Hartwell!”
John turned to look at Jamison, who had evidently asked a question to which he hadn’t replied.
“What?”
“I asked how it’s going with the search for Baby Aphrodite’s mother.”
“Oh,” John said, noticing that Molly Montgomery had reached the end of the buffet line and was moving with Mrs. Tifton toward one of the outdoor tables overlooking the sunset and the beach. “Fine. Just fine.”
“Fine? Well, does that mean you found her? Because you know my daughter might be interested in adopting that baby if you don’t have any other—”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Pete said.
John watched Molly sit down. Of course Mrs. Tifton had brought her dog. It played around both women’s feet.
Jamison coughed blue cigar smoke. “I beg your pardon?”
“It doesn’t work like that, Jamison,” Pete repeated. “There’re people who’ve been on a wait list to adopt from foster care for years. If the baby goes up for adoption, they’ll get first crack at her, not your daughter, not unless her name comes up on the wait list.”
“Well, now, Pete, I don’t think you’ve met my daughter. She’s a real go-getter. If there’s some kind of list she needs to get on, can’t you get her on it?”
Pete finished his beer. “No.”
Maybe, John thought, he should take Molly and Mrs. Tifton drinks. They didn’t have any. Yes, that’s what he would do. He would get a glass of champagne for each of them from one of the servers and go up to their table and give them the champagne and say hello.
“Why doesn’t your daughter just get one of those Asian babies?” the former mayor asked the city planner. “Then her kid will be guaranteed to be good at math.”
“It doesn’t work like that, either,” John said, snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing server. “Also, that’s racist.”
“Why?” Jamison asked, looking offended on the mayor’s behalf. “It’s a compliment!”
“Still racist.” John started toward Molly’s table. “And still doesn’t work like that.”
The city planner shouted after him, “Well, I’m still gonna beat your butt in cornhole tonight!”
John winced as he walked away, hoping no one, particularly Molly Montgomery, had overheard.
As he approached, he saw that she most definitely had not. She was deeply engaged in conversation with Mrs. Robinette—the librarian from his childhood!—and the reporter Meschelle Davies, who’d just stopped by her table with—what else—a whole bottle of champagne and several glasses.
John simply could not win with this woman.
Chapter Eleven
Molly
Molly had never been to such a glamorous party in her life.
She was sitting on a soft black leather chair within yards of the beach, listening to the rhythmic pulse of the waves while a gentle tropical breeze stroked her cheek, and champagne—not the cheap stuff she was used to drinking, but the kind in the green bottle with the orange label—flowed like water into her glass every time she drained it. There were open bars scattered all around the island serving anything you could think of, from martinis with blue-cheese stuffed olives to salt-rimmed margaritas.
Then there were the piles—piles—of fresh stone crab claw. This was a delicacy that Molly had rarely tasted in her past life, partly because stone crab claws were only available in season, October through May, and partly because they were so costly to ship to Colorado. Even in Little Bridge, where the crabs were plentiful (they were caught in traps right off the beach and then released again), the claws could cost up to forty dollars a pound. On a librarian’s salary, this put them out of Molly’s budget.
But at the Red Cross Ball the claws were free (well, discounting the cost of her three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ticket that Mrs. Tifton had paid for), and already broken up for her, and came accompanied by the most delicious honey-mustard sauce Molly had ever tasted. She’d already eaten six large ones and was on her seventh when she looked up and saw a group of party guests headed toward the far side of the beach, the women barefoot, their high heels abandoned, champagne flutes held delicately in their manicured fingers, the men wearing determined expressions and clutching beers.
“What’s going on?” Molly asked, wiping her mouth and hands on a napkin in the hopes that no one would notice her gluttony.
“Oh, God.” Meschelle had eaten a fair amount of crab, as well. The broken shells lay all over her plate. “The games have begun.”
“Every year the ball holds a game of skill to raise money for local charities, as well,” Phyllis Robinette explained, “so that we can share the love, so to speak.”
As Phyllis spoke, Molly noticed a tall man in military uniform moving swiftly across the room and toward the beach. It took a second for her to realize that the man was Sheriff John Hartwell, and that he wasn’t in military uniform but dress uniform.
Her heart skipped a beat. Her heart actually skipped a beat, because he looked so good. She was used to seeing him in the beige uniform he wore daily, in which he didn’t look bad—he was an attractive man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw and of course those disconcertingly blue eyes.
But there was something about seeing him in his dress uniform—dark gray trousers with a perfectly tailored black long-sleeved jacket, beneath which he wore a white shirt and black tie—that made her suddenly aware that he wasn’t only attractive—he was extremely attractive. He looked as good as the crab she’d just eaten, succulent and sweet but with a sharp tang, the kind that made you keep eating even after you knew you’d had way too much, because you wanted more and more.
Good Lord, what was wrong with her? It must be all that champagne.
He didn’t notice her, because he was so intent on getting to the games on the beach.
That’s when Molly knew that she, too, had to get over there. Not to join the games. Molly had always been miserable at games. No, Molly needed to keep an eye on the sheriff in his dress uniform. She simply didn’t have any other choice.
“Excuse me,” she said, quickly abandoning her napkin and chair. “I’ll be right back.”
Then she hurried as quickly as she could after the sheriff, slipping off her heels so they wouldn’t sink into the sand, and bringing her champagne flute along—it was still more than half-full, after all, and it would be a shame to abandon such good champagne.
Lit by tiki torches—though there was still plenty of light in the lavender sky—were several raised wooden platforms sitting well away from the reach of the waves. Cut into each platform was a small hole. Beside the boards were piles of what appeared to be little beanbags. The sheriff was standing near these with a group of men who were smoking cigars.
Molly wasn’t sure what game this was, but she didn’t particularly care, either. Her gaze was glued to John Hartwell, who apparently planned to play . . . at least if the fact that he was peeling off his well-fitting jacket was any indication.