Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (20 page)

He rose when fellow officers stopped to introduce themselves on the way out of the room. Maybe it was a stereotype, but he had expected the officers in a tourist city would look more laid back.

The shift supervisor walked over. “Take a few hours to show Logan around, give him a feel for the city.”

“Yes, sir.”

They walked out and Tess stopped at the car. “Want to flip for who drives?”

“Why? I have no problem with you driving. Partner.”

Her head snapped up and she gave him a measuring look. He smiled at her and got into the car. The second look came as no surprise after the comment by Smithers. Law enforcement was still a man’s world in many communities.

“We’re right in the historic district here,” she said as she guided the car onto King Street. “It’s not a big area, and during tourist season it’s crowded. You have to keep your eyes peeled or it’s easy to run over a jaywalker.”

She gave him the standard tour. He debated telling her he’d taken it when he visited for the interview and decided not to at this point. Seeing the city through her eyes would give him a better perspective of it—and her.

“Years ago there was quite a debate over whether a new, modern-looking bridge should replace this one. Every so often somebody would get fed up with the traffic jams on the bridge,” she said as they waited at the traffic light to drive over the bridge connecting downtown St. Augustine to Anastasia Island.

“The old bridge had deteriorated,” she continued. “Finally, we got a new bridge, but it looks like the old one. The two Medici lions there were at the foot of the old bridge and now they guard this one.”

She turned to him and smiled. “What other city has something like this?”

The light changed and just as they were halfway across, lights flashed and a gate came down, blocking traffic. The draw bridge went up as a boat passed beneath.

“You learn to pray that we don’t have an emergency and get stuck on the bridge,” she said as she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.

The drive was short since the island was small. “If you’re into lighthouses you’ll have to climb this one,” she said,waving at the tall structure whose base was painted with a winding black-on-white design. “The view up there is something else.”

She made a U-turn and glanced at him briefly. “We locals don’t go doing stuff like that in the middle of summer.”

She drove across the bridge and turned right to take them past Castillo de San Marcos, the old fort, a huge structure built of coquina stone that had stood guard over the city for hundreds of years. Horse-drawn carriages were parked along the right side of the road, and she watched carefully in case one of them was about to pull out onto the road.

“This city has a history of violence,” she said as she parked so that he could look up at the fort. “Matanzas Bay. Matanzas means blood. At the same time, we have more churches per capita than any other city in the country.”

A horse-drawn carriage passed on the road and the driver waved at Tess. “That was my first job when I attended Flagler College,” she told him. “I loved it.”

“So that’s where you learned to be a tour guide.”

She gave him a brief smile. “Can’t help but be one when you grow up here. I should warn you: every relative you have will want to come visit you now that you live in Florida.”

“No one to visit. Mother died two years ago, and I was an only child.”

“Father?”

“Serving overseas somewhere.”

He sensed she was curious, but she didn’t press him. “You?”

“My mother died several years ago, and I never knew my dad. My only relative is my aunt. Her husband is Gordon Baxter. Have you met him yet?”

“He sat in on the interview with the chief.” Logan hadn’t been impressed with her uncle and was a little relieved the man wasn’t a blood relation of Tess’s.

She nodded. “He and the chief are tight.”

They drove around for another hour, and she filled him in on crime statistics and insider information about the city.

“Dinner break?”

“Sounds good. You choose.”

“Seafood?”

“Seafood sounds good.”

“Place not too far from here has the best shrimp in the county.”

“Sounds good.”

“Just ignore all the tourist schtick. You know, the mermaid paintings. Nautical décor.”

A few minutes later, they were settled in a booth with tall glasses of sweet tea and smoked mullet dip before them.

Logan ignored the menu and let Tess’s order of a dozen shrimp—fried—and sides of cole slaw and French fries guide him.

“And hushpuppies?” the waitress asked him.

Tess groaned.

“Problem?” Logan asked.

“No,” said Tess.

Pam laughed. “I’ll just bring you one. One can’t hurt.”

“I can’t ever stop at one.”

The waitress looked at Logan. “Guard your plate. Girl steals them right off it when you’re not looking. Seen it too many times. Outright larceny.” Chuckling, she left them to put in the order.

Logan took a sip of his tea. “So, Tess. Why’d you get into law enforcement?”

Her fingers tightened on her glass and she frowned. She set the glass down on the table. “My best friend was murdered my senior year in high school.”

She traced the condensation on the side of her glass and frowned. “The killer’s never been found.”