Free Beach Town by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

you’re the one to talk to for a variance to build a guard shack and security gate for Bluewater Bay?”
    Cindy nodded. “Do you mind if I ask why they need a security gate out there for Milo’s empty houses?”
    Greer just smiled. “Movie stuff.”
    â€œOoh. Those are the nicest houses on the island. That must be where you’re going to stash the stars, right?”
    Greer winked. “Can’t say.”
    â€œFair enough,” Cindy said. “You can’t file for the request for the variance. It has to be the landowner. But you can tell Milo to call when he’s ready for the permit. Shouldn’t be any problem getting it done.”

 
    9
    Greer had no trouble finding the causeway to Seahorse Key. Along the way, she took a call from Milo, the owner of the Bluewater Bay houses, who agreed to rent both furnished houses for the length of the movie shoot, and to start work immediately on getting the security gate erected.
    â€œJust one thing, Miss Hennessy,” he said, after they’d agreed to the deal. “These folks, they won’t be having any of those wild Hollywood parties you hear about, right? I mean, I’ll be glad to finally make a little bit of money off of ’em, but after your folks are gone, I need to be able to sell those houses. Which I can’t do if they’ve been trashed. You understand what I mean?”
    â€œYes sir, I do,” Greer said. “The director of the film only has about six weeks to get this movie shot on location before his star has to be available for another commitment. I seriously doubt he’ll have time for any wild parties. Beyond that, we’ll take out renters insurance on your houses, so if there were any damage, which there won’t be, the insurance would take care of that.”
    â€œFair enough,” Milo said. “I’ll have a cleaning service run out there this weekend and get both places spiffed up and ready before your folks come in.”
    *   *   *
    She had a phone number for Vanessa Littrell, thanks to the city clerk, but Greer had already decided to pay a personal visit to Cypress Key’s richest citizen. It was always her policy to do business face-to-face, and anyway, she found herself intensely curious about the woman.
    Her Kia’s air conditioner was no match for the heat of a swampy Gulf Coast late spring afternoon. Greer guessed the temperature was probably hovering in the nineties. She tilted the air vents toward her face and prayed she wouldn’t look like a melted snow cone by the time she reached her destination.
    This meeting could be the key to getting Beach Town made here. And if that happened, maybe her career could be resurrected. Her last job—the Paso Robles fire, all of that—would be forgotten, and forgiven. In Hollywood, you were only as good as your last job. This job—and Beach Town —would make people forget.
    The causeway to Seahorse Key was actually nothing more than a narrow sandy road with a wooden trestle bridge crossing a tidal creek. Marshland lined both sides of the road, and once she’d crossed the bridge, a weathered sign announced she was on Seahorse Key.
    She chose to ignore the PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO HUNTING signs, but it was hard to ignore the pair of large golden retrievers that ran alongside the Kia barking a nonstop alarm as she drove up to a sprawling house set in the shade of a grove of towering oak trees.
    The main house was two stories high, constructed of silvery cedar planks and raised up on a foundation of white-painted brick. One-story wings sprouted at right angles to the main residence. The house reminded Greer of photos she’d seen of plantations in the Low Country of Georgia and South Carolina. The vibe was casual, moneyed elegance.
    The woman walking toward her now, with a small white terrier tucked under one arm, gave off a similar vibe.
    She was petite, with glossy dark hair