Shadowed Paradise (12 page)

Phil stifled a smile as she took in the
perfection of Jordan’s navy pinstripe suit. On a scorching Sunday
afternoon in July. But she liked the man, had found him a safe,
companionable escort on numerous occasions, their mutual interest
in elegant style, good conversation, and superior wines, ensured
their places on exclusive snowbird guest lists, as well as those of
Calusa County’s native elite.

A nice guy, Phil thought as Lovell gave his
full attention to something Elinor Johannesen was saying. Phil had
never tried to take her friendship with Jordan to another level.
Safe was fine with her.

The last member of the committee came into
the room on a blast of sunshine and hot air. Garrett Whitlaw loomed
in the doorway, casting a shadow over those already seated at the
table. With him came Power and Big Money.

Although not a young man, he stood a solid
six-feet-three, his whole body radiating the confidence that comes
with wealth, position, family background. Sturdily built, his brown
hair was attractively frosted with a silver gray that nearly
matched the color of his eyes. Eyes that had the far-seeing look
common to men whose property stretched to thousands of acres. His
face was lean and angular with a prominent but distinguished nose.
Even in the July heat he wore a lightweight jacket over a white
shirt and tie. Before sitting at the end of the table opposite
Elinor Johannesen, he removed his cowman’s broad-brimmed white felt
hat, a trademark that had transcended political posturing to become
a colorful symbol of the county’s pioneering families. While a
Whitlaw sat on the County Commission, native Floridians would not
be forgotten.

Phil had known Garrett Whitlaw nearly all her
life, yet she never failed to find him impressive. Beside her,
Ginny Bentley drew in an appreciative breath of approval. With
Whitlaw men of all generations, age didn’t matter.

Elinor Johannesen called the meeting to
order.

“
I spoke to Ken Millard,” Phil said
sometime later as the committee settled down to fine-tuning their
plans. “He’s agreed to help us make a financial plan and keep our
records.”

There were general murmurs of satisfaction.
Ken might be a bit odd, but his competence was unquestioned. “What
about getting Diane Lake to MC the Battle of the Bands?” Elinor
Johannesen suggested. “You know her, don’t you, Jordan? Do you
think she might do it?”

“
I can try.” He sounded
uncharacteristically doubtful. “But Diane tends to do exactly as
she pleases.”

“
What about you, Garrett?” Elinor
demanded. “You have some influence there, don’t you?”

“
I own a piece of the cable company,”
Garrett conceded, “but I believe any other influence my family
might have in that direction is fading rapidly.”

Knowing smiles flashed around the table. Phil
heard a distinct snort from Virginia Bentley. “What a diplomat!”
Ginny hissed in her ear. “No wonder he keeps getting re-elected to
the County Commission.”

“
Ginny, what about you?” Elinor asked.
“Didn’t Diane interview you when she had that talk show a few years
ago?”

Virginia Bentley favored the chairperson with
the wide-eyed look employed by well-brought up ladies when they
wished to appear entirely innocent of the innuendos around them.
“That was several years ago, Elinor. I doubt my request would count
for much with Diane now that she’s come so far up in the
world.”

There was a moment of amused silence as each
member of the committee absorbed Ginny’s subtle implication that a
local newsanchor thought she outranked an author of international
reputation.

“
I’ll give it a try,” Jordan said.
“There ought to be some little favor we can do for Diane in
return.”

“
Not the one she wants,” Phil murmured
loud enough to send Ginny Bentley into a paroxysm of
coughing.

“
Phil, did you say something?” Elinor
asked. “Are you acquainted with Diane?” Then, obviously recalling
that Diane Lake was having a very hot and public affair with Phil
Tierney’s ex-husband, Elinor Johannesen snapped her mouth shut.
Pink suffused her cheeks. “Thank you, Jordan,” she managed,
recapturing chairman mode. “Phil, if you’d be good enough to give
me Ken Millard’s phone number, I’ll call him about setting up our
books.”

Within five minutes the meeting was
adjourned.

As Garrett Whitlaw escorted Ginny to
her car with the gracious flourish of a true southern gentleman,
Phil followed behind, doing some rapid calculations. Everyone knew
Slade, Golden Beach’s star quarterback, was a going to be a senior
this year. Melanie was in college. Garrett hadn’t married young . .
. so he was somewhere around fifty, though he could pass for
mid-forties. Yet for years she’d thought of him as
old
. He’d been a high school student
when she was just learning the alphabet. Later . . . he was simply
Brad’s uncle. Married. A father. A major force in Calusa County. A
VIP sitting on the pinnacle of success.

But in the last few years—after his
wife died—her perceptions had changed
. Suck
it up, Tierney. Too late, too late. There must be about five
million reasons why—

Garrett closed Ginny’s car door with
care, turned . . . and headed her way. A shiver crashed through
her.
It was nothing, nothing at
all
. Yet when he clasped her hand in his
all-encompassing politician’s handshake, thunder rolled. Her
insides reverberated.
Ridiculous!

“
Good to see you, Phil. It’s been quite
a while.”

“
The Scottish Fling, wasn’t it? For a
moment there, I thought you were actually going to try the caber
toss.”

Phil discovered that even a Whitlaw could
look chagrined. “I thought it would be such a great gesture to all
our Scots-American neighbors,” Garrett admitted with a hint of
sheepishness spiced by self-deprecating humor. “I tried my damnedst
to pick that thing up, couldn’t budge one end off the ground.
Melanie was with me and had such a fit I had to drop it. I could
see the poor kid had visions of dear old dad laid out as low as
that blasted log.”

“
She’s right, you know. We elected you
for your brains, not your brawn.”

Garrett acknowledged the compliment with a
deprecating smile. “Phil, I’d like to stop by the office sometime
this week. I have a favor to ask.”

She must have said something, but Phil had no
idea what. A nod, a tip of his ten-gallon hat and Garrett headed
toward his black Hummer. Not even the scalding hot interior of her
Lexus could wipe the secret little smile off Phil’s face as she
started for home.

The bones were getting bigger. Stan Kolchek
hadn’t been paying much attention, but it looked like old Burt had
found himself a pretty good-size carcass. Dug up half the garden
these past few days, burying the damn things.

Funny, there was one yesterday . . . looked
kinda like a legbone. Fee-mur, yes, that’s what they call it.
Femur. Nah. Couldn’t be. Shaking his head, Stan tipped his baseball
cap over his eyes, settled back in the old lawn chair and took a
nap.

A noise from Burt woke him. Half whine, half
woof. Burt couldn’t manage his usual sharp bark because his mouth
was full.

Stan opened one eye. And thought he might be
sick. Nightmare time. He must be asleep. Must be. He blinked and
tried again. Burt’s black eyes gleamed with pride as he thrust his
newest treasure against Stan’s knee. Burt managed one more
attention-demanding woof before once again clamping his jaws around
the skull with possessive fervor.

Stan shot to his feet. And backed away.
Startled, Burt dodged to one side, but only as far as the edge of
the porch, as if he
knew
this
treasure was worthy of admiration if only Stan would take a good
look.

Stan looked. It wasn’t a nightmare. The skull
was real. And human.

Once was human.

Gleaming white, washed by rain, bleached by
the sun, the eye and nose sockets were gaping holes, allowing Burt
a good grip. Silver fillings flashed from two rows of even white
teeth.

Oh God, oh God, oh God!

Stan bolted into the house. After throwing up
his lunch, he staggered to the phone and dialed 911.

With two whole days to contemplate the
cryptic words her former uncle by marriage had uttered after the
committee meeting at the library, Phil Tierney had her customary
cool well in hand when Garrett Whitlaw walked into her office. “I
know!” she exclaimed, “you’ve come to list the family acres. T
& T never balks at even the largest job. Just how many millions
did you have in mind for the List Price?”

“
Over Wade’s dead body,” Garrett
replied easily. “And mine as well. Damn developers.”

Though he had sense enough to keep his
prejudices out of his campaign speeches, Phil recalled one
memorable private party when she’d heard Garrett growl, “I grow
cattle, not fucking snowbirds!” She also remembered the occasion,
nearly two years ago, when Garrett had asked Phil to use her
influence to keep his nephew from developing land the Whitlaw Ranch
had considered its own for more than sixty years. She’d failed,
resulting in acrimony, chagrin, and a deepening of the family
feud.

From his considerable height Garrett examined
Phil from head to toe. “As much as I hate to admit it, Phil, I
remember when you wore braids and braces. Which makes you vastly
improved . . . and me an old man.” With a soft sigh Garrett lowered
himself into the chair in front of Phil’s desk and carefully set
his western-style hat on the rug beside him.

“
So . . . to what do I owe this honor?”
Phil inquired. And was promptly treated to the sight of one of
Calusa County’s wealthiest and most hard-working men looking as
hesitant as an awkward schoolboy, seemingly fascinating by the cuff
of his shirt.

“
I–um–remembered what a help you were
when Brad came home. He may be the devil incarnate, but family’s
family, and you were true blue.” A flush rode up Garrett’s collar
to merge with his thick thatch of silver-streaked hair. “No pun
intended,” he muttered, “but I was grateful. Wade was grateful.
Though he’d never own to it.”

“
That was quite a while ago, Garrett. I
take it you have a new problem?” Phil raised her brows
inquiringly.

Garrett shifted in his chair. “It’s Melanie.
Damn fool girl’s home from Gainesville for the summer, insisted on
volunteering at the hospital.”

“
That’s scarcely cause for
alarm.”

“
That’s not what Lori wanted for
her.”

Phil took a deep breath, made herself
count to five. “Garrett, Lori was a city girl, a
northern
city girl. The life she
knew, the life she tried to live here, was different than the life
the people who were born here want. And . . .”

Phil struggled for the right words? “Lori’s
been gone since Melanie was in high school, a particularly hard
time for a girl to lose her mother. You’ve tried to do it all, but
that’s too much for anybody.” Phil flipped a hand, as if telling
herself to stop, then plunked it down on her desk with a resigned
thump. “Garrett, I don’t know anything about children, but I do
know something about the female mind. Maybe Lori’s rebelling, and
maybe she has a genuine calling for medicine. There’s no need to
panic. What is she now . . . sophomore, junior?”

“
Junior this fall. The real
problem”—anger ripped Garrett’s professional façade—“she’s dating
this doctor old enough to be her father. She says he’s separated
from his wife, but I’ve known the guy for years and he’s chased
damn near every female under thirty who ever walked a hospital
corridor.”

“
Oh.”
Damn
.

Garrett leaned forward, his broad shoulders
hovering over her desk. “That’s why I’m here, Phil. I was hoping
you might be willing to hear the whole story over dinner, maybe
give me advice. At least give me a chance to talk it all out.” He
paused . . . plunged on. “And then . . . well, I thought maybe—if
you wouldn’t mind—maybe you could talk to Melanie. Once family,
always family, Phil. I think Melanie might listen to you. I already
know she won’t listen to me,” he added softly, the pain of failure
apparent in the dim echo of his usual confident tones.

He rolled right over her automatic protest.
“I reserved a seat on the deck at the Chowder Pot tomorrow night. I
thought maybe we could talk and then watch the fireworks.”

Dinner.
Fireworks
. Phil’s facile tongue refused to
move.

“
I don’t think taking my nephew’s
ex-wife to supper and the fireworks qualifies as incest,” Garrett
drawled.

“
No . . . I don’t suppose it does.” Was
it possible the great Garrett Whitlaw was using his daughter as an
excuse to ask her out to dinner?

For the first time in many years, Philippa
Tierney blushed.

The only thing better than fireworks, Claire
decided, was sex. And sometimes not even that. But it had been so
long since she’d indulged in either, perhaps she’d forgotten. She
leaned back on the blanket Brad had spread on the soft sand just
above the high water mark and surveyed the beach that extended as
far as she could see in either direction.

Masses of people. The drifting scent of
barbecue. Picnic baskets of every shape and size. Giant coolers on
wheels. Blankets, beach towels, sun umbrellas. Shrieking children,
eagle-eyed parents. Brad, sitting beside her, took his eyes off
Jamie, who was playing in the shallows, only long enough to scan
the beach as regularly as clockwork. The family man Blue, with a
strong dash of something darker. Lazy, relaxed. Ready for anything.
The coiled spring waiting to be unleashed.