Killer Listing

by Vicki Doudera

  Llewellyn Publications

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Killer Listing: A Darby Farr Mystery © 2011 by Vicki Doudera

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Llewellyn Publications, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this e-book, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  First e-book edition © 2011

  E-book ISBN: 9780738730943

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

  Cover illustration © Dominick Finelle/The July Group

  Edited by Connie Hill

  Llewellyn Publications is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Llewellyn Publications does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Llewellyn Publications

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.llewellyn.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For my parents, Gloria Guiduli and Ron Wenzel, and my parents-in-law,

  Gloria and Arthur Doudera, with love and appreciation.

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to Gloria and Arthur Doudera for introducing me to the perfect spot in which to set Killer Listing—the Gulf Coast of Florida. Thnks also to Lucy Morgan for an inspiring stay in her beautiful “to die for” home on Siesta Bay.

  For specialized asistance when I needed it, thank you to the Florida Association of REALTORS, rum expert Will Clemente, wine connoisseur Rich Beauchesne, SCUBA divemaster Matt Doudera, and William J. Albany, Chief of Police, Limerick Township, Pennsylvania.

  Thank you to my manuscript readers, Lynda Chilton, Ed Doudera, and Jane Lafleur. I appreciate your skill and time.

  Thank you to my literary agent, Tris Coburn, and to all the good people at Midnight Ink, including Marissa Pederson, Steven Pomije, Connie Hill, and Terri Bischoff. Thanks to Lisa Novak and Donna Burch for another great-looking book.

  I appreciate the support of my fellow real estate brokers in Camden and beyond, and all of the new friends I have made in the world of mystery since Darby Farr’s debut.

  Finlly, this book would not have been possible without the help, love, and encouragement of my friends and family. Special thanks to my “killer” crew of Matt, Nate, Lexi, and Ed.

  Kyle Cameron let out a long moan of pleasure as her massage therapist gave one more long gliding stroke to her lightly tanned shoulders.

  “Like sex, only better, eh?” asked Sassa Jorgensen, smiling with satisfaction at her client’s inert form.

  “Ummmm … way better.” Kyle lay motionless for a few precious moments, savoring the feeling of total relaxation she always experienced after her weekly session with the talented practitioner.

  “You are the best, Sassi.” She inhaled deeply, the faint scent of sandalwood filling her nostrils, and pulled the soft terry towel over her torso. She didn’t care if the older woman saw her naked—she’d done so many times and besides, Kyle was justifiably proud of her firm, forty-two-year-old body—but the towel was warm and soft, and the temperature in the air-conditioned condominium was beginning to feel chilly.

  Sassa capped the multivitamin lotion she’d slathered on Kyle’s skin and placed it in her satchel. She gave a sly smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling with mischief. “Your Sassi can make you feel as good as your big-shot boyfriend, eh?” she teased, handing Kyle her plush terry robe. “Even with his fancy dinners, private jet, and undoubtedly large—”

  “Now that’s enough,” Kyle interrupted, laughing. “I’ve told you before, there’s no competition between you and any of my lovers. Are you this probing with all of your clients?”

  Sassa shooed Kyle off her massage table and began folding it up. “Just the ones I worry about.” She leaned the folded table against the hallway wall and reached for her satchel, her air of lightheartedness suddenly gone.

  “What is it?” Kyle asked, hugging the robe closer to her body, longing for the hot shower she always took after one of Sassa’s sessions. She glanced at the masseuse’s frowning face and felt a trickle of irritation. “You’re giving me the creeps.”

  The older woman waited a moment before speaking. “It’s that man McFarlin, the one you are seeing. He’s always in the papers. This party, that party … with a blonde woman on his arm …”

  “His wife?” Kyle gave a harsh laugh. She ran a hand through her tousled chestnut hair. “That’s Lieutenant Governor Howe, Sassa. An old friend of mine.” The bitterness in her voice was hard to ignore. “He doesn’t love her anymore than she cares for him. It’s just convenient.”

  “Then it is convenient also that he has your warm bed, eh?” Sassa glanced up quickly, hoping she had not overstepped her bounds with her best-paying client. To her relief, she saw that Kyle’s countenance was once again serene. The therapist bit her lip and continued. “I have a bad feeling about him. I’ve warned you before …”

  “I know,” Kyle interjected, trying to keep her tone light. “You think he’s using me. I wasn’t born yesterday, Sassa, and I’m not some silly twenty-year-old who’s gaga over him and his billions.” She paused and tilted her chin in defiance. “I enjoyed what Foster could give me, it’s true, and I liked the ‘no strings attached’ nature of our relationship. And being his exclusive listing agent is how I’ve paid for all of this—and you.” She glanced at her perfectly manicured nails and frowned. “Truthfully, I’ve used him as much as he’s used me.”

  “You talk almost as if …”

  “As if it’s over between us?” Kyle gave a quick grin, raising her expertly arched eyebrows. “Yes, you little Swedish worrywart. Romantically at least, I’m finished with Foster McFarlin, and he knows it. We had it all out last night.” She rose and reached for a soft leather clutch, one of the few items out of place in the immaculate room, and opened it. Handing the masseuse a check that included a generous tip, she smiled again. “Here you go. Next week you’ll need something else to pester me about.”

  Sassa Jorgensen smiled. So then it isn’t too late, she thought, trying to dismiss the feeling of foreboding she’d possessed since entering Kyle’s condo. She nodded briskly and picked up her massage table. “I am glad,” she said simply, moving down the hallway to the door. “Until next Monday, then.”

  Kyle locked the door behind Sassa and padded down the hallway, past her carefully chosen furnishings. She paused before a carved table, upon which was an exquisite cut glass bowl filled with water. Inside the bowl swam a solitary goldfish.

  “Hey, Buddy. How many laps are you up to today?” The scales on the fish flashed brilliantly as the little creature completed another circle, seeming to swim even faster with an audience. “Don’t overdo it, huh?” Kyle opened a drawer and pulled out a small box. Was it her imagination, or did Buddy seem to notice that it was lunchtime? She pinched a small amount of the flakes and sprinkled them on the surface.
Immediately, the fish streaked to the food, gobbling up a slowly sinking morsel or two and darting back down, only to repeat the process until all of it was eaten.

  Kyle chuckled and replaced the box in the drawer. She’d purchased Buddy when she moved into the condo, going on two years now, and was amazed at his longevity. No fancy aquarium, no special water, and yet he seemed to be thriving. He’s got straightforward—but expensive—taste in property, she thought. Real estate applies even to fish.

  The bowl had been one of her grandmother’s most treasured possessions, one of the few things she’d managed to remove from her elegant Warsaw apartment while fleeing the Nazis. Kyle imagined the elderly woman’s delighted expression if she’d lived to see her Lalique crystal inhabited by a goldfish. “She’d have welcomed you with open arms,” Kyle said. The fish seemed to slow his swimming to ponder Kyle’s words.

  Warm-hearted Grandma Anna was without a doubt the biggest influence in Kyle Cameron’s life. When she was five, her mother disappeared after going on a particularly long drinking binge, and in her place appeared a silver-haired angel who announced she was Kyle’s grandmother. She took the entranced child to her apartment at the Sunshine Senior Home in Sarasota, Florida, and made her a snug little room out of an oversized closet. The presence of a precocious little girl, along with the excitement of duping the Sunshine staff (there were rules about roommates, and grandchildren were totally forbidden) buoyed Anna’s and all the rest of the residents’ spirits immeasurably. Kyle grew up surrounded by dozens of loving grandparents, always eager to assist with her homework, teach her Canasta, or read her a story. Despite her mother’s disappearance and her lack of knowledge of her father, Kyle’s was a blissful—if somewhat unorthodox—childhood.

  Sighing at the memory of Anna Slivicki, Kyle turned on the shower and reflected on the rest of her day’s schedule. Her Esperanza Shores open house at noon was first and foremost on her agenda. Following that, she had several appointments, as well as a cocktail party on the very chic St. Andrew’s Isle, home of the PGA’s leading golfer. She stepped into the steaming shower and pondered her wardrobe, knowing there would be no time to change once she left her condo. Professional attire was needed for most of the day, with something classy for the party. She pictured her navy blue suit with the pencil skirt. If she paired it with a cream-colored sleeveless cashmere shell and pearls, she could remove the jacket at the party and look properly elegant. I’ll bring my new Marc Jacobs clutch for the cocktail party, she decided, uncapping her lightly-scented lavender shampoo.

  Everything she needed for the open house—business cards, flyers, several signs—was already stashed in her Miata. Idly she wondered who would show up on a hot July Monday. Open houses always brought out curious neighbors, eager for free food, as well as the “ladies who lunch” crowd, looking for a peek into the Sunshine Coast’s finest properties. On occasion, the events brought out true home buyers as well—making the work, expense, and lost time worth the effort. Not only is it excellent publicity for the project, Kyle reminded herself, but it will give me something positive to report to Foster.

  Kyle rinsed her hair and let her thoughts drift back to the previous night’s breakup with Florida’s largest developer. Neither one of them had seemed truly surprised, nor were they overly regretful. Their affair had run its course, the passion and intensity waning over the weeks as both realized there was nothing more to be gained than an hour of illicit pleasure once or twice a week. Even if he had been single, Kyle was not interested in marrying Foster McFarlin. After being wined, dined, and eventually seduced by the man, Kyle had nothing more to gain by continuing the liaison, and had gently initiated the discussion following a hop to Miami in Foster’s private jet.

  McFarlin had taken the news well, seeming to share Kyle’s feelings that it was time for their love affair to end. It was as if he’d achieved his conquest of the desirable and driven Kyle Cameron—a goal he’d been trying to achieve since college—and with that mission accomplished, was only too happy to part romantic ways. He agreed we’d keep our professional relationship cordial, and today will be the test.

  Two years earlier, she’d secured his business, chiefly several large and extremely lucrative real estate projects for which Kyle was the exclusive agent. Sales of Foster McFarlin’s properties thus far had made her very wealthy, and if she could manage to weather the economic slowdown and remain his agent, she knew her good fortune would continue. My life is changing, and I’ll need those listings. I’ve got to safeguard them at all costs.

  Half an hour later, Kyle put all thoughts of Foster McFarlin out of her mind and was dressed and ready to leave. Her makeup was expertly applied, the navy blue suit clung perfectly in all the right places, and her new purse was ready for its evening tour of duty. She glanced critically at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her chin-length bob looked chic and professional, her chestnut hair shiny and smooth. But something was needed to offset the pearls …

  Her jewelry box yielded nothing satisfactory and Kyle was about to give up when she noticed a small red box tucked behind some beads. With a stab of recognition, she opened the velvet lid and removed the ring inside. It was an unusual little piece: antique rose gold with six sapphires set three on either side of an old European cut diamond. The design was unique. Rather than a circular setting, the sapphires formed a long oval that accentuated Kyle’s tapered fingers. It was striking: old-fashioned, and yet strangely modern too, and never failed to elicit compliments.

  Kyle slipped the ring on her little finger and thought once more of Grandma Anna. This had been her treasured cocktail ring, one of her favorite pieces of jewelry, the ring that had bought her way out of danger more than once. Kyle sighed and closed the box. Moments later she gathered up her Smartphone, clutch, and briefcase, and strode out the door.

  Her blue Miata waited outside the condo, parked under a striking fan palm, and Kyle noted with annoyance that it needed a wash. No time for that now, she thought as she revved the engine and sped down the streets of the development. She glanced at the neighboring properties with the practiced eye of a real estate agent. Green, well-watered lawns dotted with palm trees, pedestrian-friendly sidewalks, and ample street lighting: it all added up to a feeling of well-being and security. Somerset Sound, one of Foster McFarlin’s earliest projects, was aging well.

  Kyle drove by one of two inviting pools, the scent of chlorine and suntan lotion taking her back to childhood days at a much smaller pool, presided over by her grandmother. Passing by the Somerset Sound gatehouse, Kyle waved to the uniformed man on duty, who gave a friendly smile and waved back. She sped out onto the two-lane highway, cruising past a few shopping centers with liquor stores, Chinese food, and pet supply centers, relieved to see that the late morning traffic was light. Driving through several small beach towns, she went over a causeway and onto Serenidad Key. She smiled as she drove by the trim little office of Near & Farr Realty. Her appointment with the firm’s owner was later in the day; “cocktail hour” as Helen Near called it, and Kyle knew there would be some sort of frothy—and alcoholic—beverage waiting when she arrived.

  Esperanza Shores was at the end of the key, tucked onto a gently curving swath of waterfront land McFarlin had purchased twenty years ago. Construction was nearly complete, but the project was not the blazing success its creators had hoped. Out of 48 condominium units, only a dozen were sold and occupied. Esperanza Plaza, in the center of the development, had promised several boutiques and a four-star restaurant—none of which were finished, much less open for business. Kyle tried not to think of the many lawsuits against McFarlin and whether she, also, would come under investigation. What was the point in worrying? Better to focus on staying positive. “Don’t let your mind dwell on bad thoughts,” Grandma Anna would have said. Kyle turned into the model unit and began unloading the Miata. Perhaps today’s open house would mark the end of Foster McFarlin’s streak of bad luck.

  _____

  The humidity was
stifling, and as Kyle emerged from the Miata, she felt it envelop her like a wet blanket. She grabbed the open house signs and set them at the foot of the driveway, knowing she wouldn’t want to venture into the heat again once she was back inside an air-conditioned space. She took her cards and flyers out of the Miata and locked it. Trying to stay cool, she forced herself to walk slowly to the condo, watching a few geckos scatter into the bushes as she passed. She unlocked the door, flipped off the alarm, and set the publicity materials on a circular table just inside the door.

  She glanced quickly at the living room and down the hallway to the bedrooms. Everything was neat and clean, furnished tastefully but rather blandly. She checked the bathrooms and the upstairs suite, turning on lights as she entered the rooms. Satisfied with what she saw, Kyle nodded. All was fine.

  The condo’s kitchen smelled faintly of lemons. Kyle knew the cleaning staff had been by earlier to spruce it up and let in the catering company. On one of the granite counters were several plastic bags of finger rolls along with a small stack of white plates and napkins embossed with the Esperanza Shores logo. Kyle opened the refrigerator. The appliance’s sparkling clean shelves held two trays of sliced deli meats, a plate of artfully arranged fruits, and an array of bottled waters. Kyle glanced at her watch. Eleven fifteen. She had plenty of time to put out the caterer’s fare before anyone arrived. First, she wanted to put on some background music.

  She turned on the condo’s stereo system and located a radio station that played light jazz. Nothing crazy or discordant—just pleasant music that would soothe and provide a mellow backdrop. With that accomplished, she straightened and contemplated opening more blinds. She had started down the hallway when she heard the click of a door opening.

  Kyle frowned. The open house didn’t start for forty-five minutes, but apparently some of the neighbors couldn’t wait. My fault, she thought. I did put out the signs …