hen the children were out of hearing, Sloan turned to Sara with a wry smile. "Until just now, I've never been able to decide whether I want to have a little girl or a little boy. Now I'm certain. I definitely want a little girl."

"As if you'll have a choice," Sara joked, familiar with this topic of conversation, which had become increasingly frequent "And while you're trying to decide the sex of your as-yet-unconceived infant, may I suggest you spend a little more time finding a prospective father and husband?"

Sara dated constantly, and whenever she went out with a new man—which was regularly—she systematically looked over his friends with the specific intention of finding someone suitable for Sloan. As soon as she selected a likely prospect, she began a campaign to introduce him to Sloan. And no matter how many times her matchmaking efforts failed, she never stopped trying because she simply could not understand how Sloan could prefer an evening alone at home to the company of some reasonably attractive man, no matter how little they might have in common.

"Who do you have in mind this time?" Sloan said warily as they started across the park toward the tents and booths set up by local businesses.

"There's a new face, right there," Sara said, nodding toward a tall male in tan slacks and a pale yellow jacket who was leaning against a tree, watching the children gathered around Clarence the Clown, who was swiftly turning two red balloons into a red moose with antlers. The man's shadowed face was in profile and he was drinking from a large paper cup. Sloan had noticed him a little earlier, watching her when she was talking to the children after the kite rescue, and since he was now watching the same group of children, she assumed he was a father who'd been assigned to keep his eye on his offspring. "He's already someone's father," she said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he's been watching that same group of children for the last half hour."

Sara wasn't willing to give up. "Just because he's watching the children doesn't mean one of them belongs to him."

"Then why do you suppose he's watching them?"

"Well, he could be—"

"A child molester?" Sloan suggested dryly.

As if he sensed he was being discussed, the man tossed his paper cup into the trash container beneath the tree and strolled off in the direction of the fire department's newest fire engine, which had been drawing a sizable crowd.

Sara glanced at her watch. "You're in luck. I don't have time for matchmaking today anyway. I'm on duty in our tent for three more hours." Sara was staffing her interior design firm's booth, where brochures were being dispensed along with free advice. "Not one reasonably attractive, eligible male has stopped to pick up a brochure or ask a question all day."

"Bummer," Sloan teased.

"You're right," Sara solemnly agreed as they strolled along the sidewalk. "Anyway, I decided to close the tent down for twenty minutes in case you wanted to get some lunch."

Sloan glanced at her watch. "In five minutes, I'm scheduled to take over our tent for another hour. I'll have to wait until I'm off duty to get something to eat."

"Okay, but stay away from the chili, no matter what! Last night, there was some sort of contest to see who could make the hottest chili and Pete Salinas won the contest There are signs all over his chili stand stating that it's the hottest chili in Florida, but grown men are standing around trying to eat the stuff, even though it's half jalapeño peppers and half beans. It's a guy thing," Sara explained with the breezy confidence of a woman who has thoroughly and enjoyably researched her subject and therefore qualifies as an expert on men. "Proving they can eat hot chili is definitely a guy thing."

Despite Sara's qualifications, Sloan was dubious about the conclusion she'd drawn. "The chili probably isn't nearly as hot as you think it is."

"Oh, yes, it is. In fact it's not just hot it's lethal. Shirley Morrison is staffing the first aid station and she told me that victims of Pete's chili have been coming to her for the last hour, complaining of everything from bellyaches to cramps and diarrhea."

The police department's tent was set up on the north side of the park, right next to the parking lot, while Sara's tent was also on the north side, about thirty yards away. Sloan was about to comment on their proximity when Captain Ingersoll's squad car came to a quick stop up ahead, beside the tent. While she watched, he heaved his heavy bulk from the front seat and slammed the door, then strolled over to their tent, carried on a brief conversation with Lieutenant Caruso, and began looking around the area with a dark frown. "If I'm any judge of facial expressions, I'd say he's looking for me," she said with a sigh.

"You said you still have five more minutes before you're supposed to take over."

"I do, but that won't matter to—" She broke off suddenly, grabbing Sara's wrist in her excitement. "Sara, look who's waiting over there by your tent! It's Mrs. Peale with a cat in each arm." Mrs. Clifford Harrison Peale III was the widow of one of Bell Harbor's founding citizens, and one of its richest. "There's a fantastic potential client, just waiting for your excellent advice. She's cranky, though. And very demanding."

"Fortunately, I am very patient and very flexible," Sara said, and Sloan smothered a laugh as Sara broke into a run, angling to the left toward her tent. Sloan smoothed her hair into its ponytail, checked to make certain her white knit shirt was tucked neatly into the waistband of her khaki shorts, and angled to the right, toward the police department's tent.