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Talbot wasn’t a strikingly handsome man, but when I’d seen him up close and personal last night, using a battery-powered megaphone to corral the milling boats into some semblance of order, issuing firm commands to police and EMS on his radio, and still finding time to question the most immediate witnesses, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Of course boat captains were probably easier to herd than cows. Or maybe not. These were mostly Yacht and Country Club types, unaccustomed to taking orders.
    By the light of day Boone Talbot was even more impressive. After introducing him to Crystal, I gave him a leisurely once-over while the two of them exchanged a few polite words. Last night I’d thought his wavy hair was white. Instead, it was the color of sand mixed with cornsilk. The lines on his craggy face added character, not age. His sharply intelligent blue-gray eyes didn’t look nearly as intimidating as they had under the quickly rigged portable spotlights last night. Or maybe it was the three-piece suit. Outside of law offices and funerals, we didn’t see many of those in Golden Beach. This was a town where you can wear shorts and sandals to the finest waterfront restaurants. According to the town council, Golden Beach is one big resort. A fun place. Live to one hundred and enjoy every moment.
    We were a striking contrast, the C hief and I. A rangy blond Nebraskan whose pale skin carried the reddish tint of someone who is never going to tan, just burn and peel under the unrelenting Florida sun. And Gypsy me. I’m a good six inches shorter than Golden Beach’s top cop. I have perfectly straight long black hair, chocolate eyes, and skin that screams of some ancient Mediterranean origin—Italy, Spain, Greece, Morocco, maybe even Egypt, the legendary origin of the Gypsies. I’ll never know the answer unless I decide to track my birth parents, and that doesn’t seem likely. My looks have been described as “exotic.” A definite plus in the fashion business, a bit awkward in a town like Golden Beach.
    Chief Talbot was staring at me with the amused tolerance of a man who’s been given the once-over a time or two before. “Sorry if I’m intruding,” he said, “but I finished all the interviews at the station. Thought I’d drop by and save you the trip.”
    That’s all he said, but something about the warm glint in his eyes, the ever-so-slight tilt of his well-formed lips, plus an aura of male pheromones that was probably a figment of my imagination, and I swear I heard a click inside my head. He might as well have uttered that old shocker, “ Voulez-vous couchez avec moi? ” Butterflies kamikazied my stomach lining. My toes curled. I’d been celibate for more than five years, dating only when my mother nagged me into it or when that insidious little voice inside my head reminded me I wasn’t getting any younger. I was a living example of the old adage, Once burned, twice shy . Actually, it was more like Once burned, forever shy . Yet here I was, giving the Chief’s left hand what I hoped was a subtle once-over.
    No wedding ring. And I hadn’t heard any rumors about a wife and kiddies. Oops. I’d been speechless for too long. The Chief was softly smiling. He didn’t have to be much of a detective to know he’d scored.
    Boone Talbot took up the slack. “I was wondering if you have any mustaches,” he said.
    Mustaches ? “Mustaches?” I repeated as if I’d never heard the word before. Get a grip, Gwyn !
    Right . “We have some frankly fake ones on the wall rack,” I managed. “The better ones are here in the case.” I pointed my finger to the glass shelves under the counter. “You’ll need spirit gum for these.”
    One glance and the Chief announced he’d take them all, except the Hitler one. Plus spirit gum. “You may think Golden Beach doesn’t have much crime,” he explained, “but we’re doing our share of undercover operations. I’d like my detectives to have some sort of disguise so