“It’s true my wife and I are newcomers. But I love this part of Florida just like I was born here. I only want what’s best for Himmarshee.’’

Sure you do, I thought. “A friend of mine writes for the ‘Himmarshee Times.’ The paper may be small, but they’re mighty when it comes to watching out for the community. I’m warning you, if there’s even a whiff of the misuse of public land, the paper will raise a ruckus.’’

“Is that a threat?’’

Just as Mama laid a hand on the mayor’s arm, ready to smooth things over, his wife bustled in through the outer office. The receptionist followed right on her heels. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor. I tried to tell Mrs. Graf you were in a meeting.’’

“Threat? What’s this about a threat?’’ Beatrice narrowed her eyes at Mama’s hand on the mayor’s arm.

Wisely, Mama slid it out of sight, into the jacket pocket of her lime-sherbet pantsuit.

“You misunderstood, darling,’’ the mayor said to his wife. “We were just talking about the threat of hurricanes this summer. We’re not out of the woods yet, are we, ladies?’’

“Let’s just hope there are some woods left in Himmarshee,’’ I said darkly.

“I’m not a fan of the woods; too many bugs and poisonous plants.’’ Beatrice shuddered. “Give me a nice, manicured golf course any day.’’

Still standing behind Beatrice, the receptionist caught my glance and rolled her eyes.

As if she sensed the mimed criticism, the mayor’s wife turned. “Run get us two coffees, would you? Cream and two sugars. Hurry. Quick now, like a bunny.’’

A hint of resentment played on the receptionist’s face before she pasted on a professional smile. The mayor said, “Thank you, Ellen. Would you mind sending in Diamond? I believe she’s in her office.’’

To me, he said, “Diamond will take down your information. We’ll let you know if the proposal for the development near the park comes up for public review. I’m all about conducting business in the open, in accordance with Florida’s Sunshine Law.’’

I’ll bet you are, I thought.

Mama said, “ ‘Diamond.’ That’s an awful pretty name.’’

“More awful than pretty, I’d say.’’ Beatrice took a seat on the mayor’s desk, assessing Mama and me with a superior look. She crossed one leathery, tanned leg over the other. I was mesmerized by the sight of the salmon-hued pom-pom on her golf sock shaking as she jiggled her foot.

“Do you enjoy golf?’’ Mama tried making conversation.

“What’s it to you?’’ Beatrice countered, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from the hem of her salmon golf “skort.’’

She seemed to sway a bit on her desktop perch. I wondered if she’d been drinking.

The mayor leaped in to the silence. “We both love golf,’’ he said. “It’s a wonderful game. I believe your son-in-law has taken it up, Rosalee.’’

To his wife, he said, “You know Kenny Wilson, dear.’’

Her face brightened. “Oh, I love Kenny. He showed me a wonderful place to shoot skeet. Not too far from here, either.’’

Skeet? Kenny? As far as I knew, Kenny’s only knowledge of the shooting sports was plinking beer can targets. What else didn’t we know about Maddie’s cheating husband?

Just then, Diamond sashayed in. Seemingly a dark-haired replica of the blonde Bambi, she had the same long curls, same curve-hugging clothes, same spike heels. Maybe they’d worked side-by-side poles at the same stripper bar.

Before the mayor could say a word, Beatrice shoved a legal pad and pen at Diamond. “The mayor needs you to get the particulars of how to reach …’’ she looked at me, snapping her fingers impatiently.

“Mace Bauer,’’ I said. “We’ve met before. Twice.’’

She waved her hand, as if she couldn’t be bothered remembering the little people. “Give your name and other information to Diamond.’’

She aimed a scornful glare at the younger woman. “You can handle that, can’t you, Miss Sparkling Diamond?’’

Eyes on the rug, Diamond nodded.

With an oily smile, the mayor put one hand at Mama’s back, the other on mine, herding us through the reception area. “I hate to rush you, but my wife and I need to discuss some family business.’’

“Family business!’’ Beatrice Graf snorted. “That’s a good one.’’

His cheeks reddened, his lips compressed to a thin line. But he didn’t stand up to Beatrice. She leaned in, so close I noted booze on her breath, along with a familiar lemony smell. Now I remembered the scent. I’d smelled it at the golf course locker room, and at Kenny’s cabin, too.

“Toodle-loo, ladies.’’ She shoved Mama into me, pushed us both into the hall, and then slammed the office door behind us.

We caught the receptionist returning, carrying two cups of coffee. I wondered if she spit in the one for Mrs. Mayor. I jerked my head toward the closed door. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?’’

“You have no idea,’’ the receptionist said. “Did she brag about her kills?’’

I raised my eyebrows at her.

“Mayor Graf lets visitors assume he’s the Great White Hunter, but his wife is responsible for animal death row in there.’’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Some days I picture her head up there on the wall.’’

The outer door opened. Diamond stepped into the hall—pad in hand, blank look in place. Sighing, the receptionist went back inside.

“Mace,’’ Diamond said, painstakingly putting pen to yellow pad. “Now, do I spell that with a big letter M?’’

thirty-four

Carlos spooned up some picadillo from a pan on the stove for me to taste. Flecked with olives, chopped green pepper, and raisins, the ground beef dish was a favorite Cuban recipe.

“How is it?’’

“Mmmmmm … perfect,’’ I said, licking the spoon.

“Does it need anything?’’

“Just a plate, so I can start eating it.’’

“Rice?’’

“That will take too long.’’

Carlos and I had met at his place near downtown for a late lunch. Just in time, too, because I was starving. The Coke and a package of peanut butter and cheese crackers I’d had between my visit with Prudence and the appointment at the mayor’s office was hardly enough to hold me. When he’d called to invite me over for some home-cooking, Cuban-style, I dumped Mama back at Hair Today, and jumped at the opportunity.

I tried not to think about the fact I was withholding important information from the caring man who was about to satiate my growling stomach.

“Okay, no rice. But a piece of Cuban bread, at least?’’ He peeled the white paper from a loaf of the crusty bread, and quickly sliced it into rounds.

Before he could get the bread off the cutting board and into a basket, I grabbed a slice, slathered it with butter, and popped the whole thing in my mouth.

“Nice manners. I’m going to tell your mother.’’

“Amfythimg butf thatf!’’ I said, my mouth busy with the bread.

He gave me one of his sexy smiles, and bent down to brush his lips against my forehead. “This kiss to be continued, when you aren’t chewing a mouthful of food. I have to pick my moments with you.’’

Once we started eating, conversation was kept to a minimum:

“Would you like some mojo?’’ he asked.

I shook my head. “Doesn’t need any sauce. It’s great just like it is.’’

“Were you planning to share the bread?’’

I offered him the basket, he took a piece.

I pointed at about a half-cup of picadillo left in the pan. “Okay if I finish it off?’’

He nodded.

Finally, I quit eating, and collapsed back against the chair. Carlos grinned at me.

“I don’t know where you put it.’’ He dabbed at my chin with a napkin. “I do see one little piece of an olive that got away, right there.’’

I ran a hand over my face, checking for any more errant morsels.

“Man, that was good.’’ I gave a satisfied sigh. “You’re going to make some lucky girl a very fine husband one day.’’

He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm. “That’s just what I intend to do. Soon, I hope.’’