Killer Listing

by Vicki Doudera

  That left the fly bridge.

  Darby exited the cabin, turning the light back off as she left. It wouldn’t help her on the bridge, but it had made searching the boat’s many rooms quicker. She began climbing the ladder, her sandals slapping against the metal rungs. Perhaps Jack had already been located on the vast Cameron property, and in the excitement, calls to the other searchers had been forgotten.

  The fly bridge appeared to have a large banquette plus two chairs equipped for steering. A roof overhead provided protection from the sun, but also appeared to house some sophisticated electronics, no doubt having to do with finding schools of game fish. Darby circled the bridge slowly. She felt the seats of the chairs, touching nothing but upholstered cushions. As she approached the wheel, she paused. Something was huddled on the deck.

  It was a man.

  Quickly Darby checked for a pulse. At first she couldn’t locate anything, but then she felt a faint throb, very weak. As she whipped out her cell phone, a voice called in the darkness.

  “Darby?” It was the lilting speech of Alexandra Cameron.

  “On the fly bridge,” she yelled. “I think I’ve found Jack.”

  _____

  “You’re late.” Chellie Howe unlocked the door of the hotel suite and stepped aside, allowing her husband to enter.

  “Am I?” Foster McFarlin checked his Rolex with a diffident air. “I thought I was right on time.”

  Chellie watched as he passed her, his suit tailored perfectly to his well-muscled body. How was it that the simple action of his striding across the room could still arouse her, bring color to her cheeks and a longing in the pit of her stomach? She closed the door and made her voice light.

  “The least you can do is zip me.” She strode to where he stood and pivoted on her stilettos, hands on her hips, waiting. She felt him touch the small of her back and linger a moment too long.

  He guided the zipper up slowly, and turned her around.

  “You heard the news.”

  Chellie nodded. She’d been expecting this. “Which development was she in?”

  “Esperanza Shores.” His voice was tired. “I can’t believe it. Some maniac jumped her in one of the units. She was stabbed repeatedly.” Chellie looked at his face and saw agony etched on the handsome dark features. He’s in pain, she realized. In pain over Kyle Cameron’s death.

  Anger began to rise in her, and she willed it away. It doesn’t matter anymore, she thought. Kyle was a mutilated corpse lying on cold steel in the morgue. She won’t come between us again.

  “We’ll catch the guy who did this,” she said forcefully. “I’ve got police units working around the clock on it.”

  McFarlin nodded. His cocoa brown skin had a slight sheen, as if polished, and she remembered how the feel of it could drive her mad with desire. She tried to make her voice sound sincere. “My heart goes out to Kyle’s family.”

  He barked out a laugh. “That jackass Jack Cameron? Don’t waste your time. And you know your pal Alexandra isn’t sorry.”

  Chellie counted silently to ten. She was not going to lose her temper, even though all she wanted was to scream at him, throw something, and kick the bastard between his muscular legs. She was glad—yes, glad!—to know that there was one less female on her sex-addicted husband’s radar screen. She wanted to yell that she wasn’t sorry Kyle was murdered, but he would never forgive her for that, and if she had any prayer of winning him back, she had to stay calm.

  Instead she grabbed her clutch and forced herself to smile. “Not to change the subject, but I’m happy you’re coming to this dinner, Foster. This is the perfect demographic for me.” Indeed, the wealthy donors to the Trust for Public Lands were exactly the voters Chellie needed to court if she were going to sew up the gubernatorial nomination come fall.

  “Glad to be of service.” Foster let out a breath of air and regarded his wife. Her gown was stunning: light lilac against her pale skin and golden blonde hair, thin straps that showed off her toned arms and torso, a clingy material that made her look like the knockout she was.

  “You look good, Chellie. Real good. Your lunch—how did it go?”

  She ignored his question and made a motion with her hand. “Dammit, Foster, we’ve got to fly.” Chellie Howe hated to be late for anything, especially when she was the one giving the keynote address.

  They hustled out the door and into the hushed hallway where a petite brunette with a pixie-looking face and severely short haircut hovered by the elevator. “Take the stairs,” Chellie snapped at her press secretary, and Mindy Jackson turned with a resigned look on her face and did as she was told.

  As Chellie and Foster waited for the elevator, Foster turned to her with a rueful look on his face.

  “The whole place’s covered in blood,” he said.

  Chellie’s temper flared. Enough was enough. She was just about to reply when Foster shook his head and continued. “It’s gonna be impossible to sell that unit, and now the whole place will be under a cloud. Christ, I’ll have to give those Esperanza Shores condos away.”

  The elevator arrived and its doors slid open. Foster ushered her in and Chellie bit back a smile. Her husband hadn’t changed after all. His lover was lying in the morgue with more holes in her body than a pincushion, but his thoughts were on the salability of his precious condominiums.

  “You know,” she said lightly, “Kyle’s murder may win you some sympathy down the line in court. We’ll have to think about the best way to present it.” She was referring to the growing number of lawsuits filed against her husband’s company by irate investors in his multiple real estate developments, most of which had now tanked in the soured economy.

  He nodded, handsome and confident no matter what the situation. “God knows I could use a little sympathy,” he muttered.

  She was glad she had kept her cool, glad they were nearly at the dinner where she would charm the pants off the room. She allowed herself a secret smirk as the elevator doors opened into the hallway. Foster McFarlin still needed her. She was in charge, and that was just the way Chellie Howe liked it.

  _____

  Helen ran a hand through her short silver hair. She poured Darby a glass of Chardonnay and sank into a chair. “What a day. Thanks for making us a little snack, Darby. I’m not sure how much I can eat, but that omelet looks delicious.”

  “Eat what you can, Helen. My feelings won’t be hurt. I’m sure you must be exhausted.”

  “I am. I can’t believe it’s only nine o’clock.” She lifted her glass and took a sip. “I hate to say it, but it feels good to be away from Casa Cameron. I’ll go back in the morning, but I did need a break.”

  “What’s the latest on Jack’s condition? “

  “Stable. You found him just in time.”

  Darby took a bite of the fluffy egg dish and chewed thoughtfully. After locating the unconscious Jack Cameron on the fly bridge, she and Alexandra had alerted the others and called an ambulance. At the hospital, the emergency room technicians had pumped his stomach in an attempt to rid his body of the bottle of sleeping pills he’d swallowed earlier.

  “Do you think Jack’s overdose was intentional?”

  Helen ran a hand through her short silver hair. “I do. I know Mitzi would never admit it, but that man has real mental problems. Kyle didn’t cause them, but when she left it made things worse. I think Jack always thought they’d get back together, even after two years of living apart. Now that she’s dead …”

  “He has to find another reason to go on living.”

  Helen shrugged. “Something like that.” She let out a big sigh and shook her head. “I love my friend Mitzi, God knows I do, and I never had children of my own, so maybe I shouldn’t pass judgment. But I’ll tell you what, that is one screwed up family.”

  “You’ve known them for years.”

  “Forever! Mitzi and I go way back. We were just kids in Miami when we became best friends.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “We
met at a city waterskiing competition. We were twelve or thirteen, I think, and both pretty good. Well, I was pretty good, Mitzi was very good.” She smiled. “She was a looker even then, and that didn’t hurt with the judges.”

  “Waterskiing. I thought golf was your big sport?”

  “It is, now. But back then I lived to get out on the water and strap on my slalom ski.”

  Darby pictured Helen as a teen, cutting her way through the water on one ski. “Did you do tricks, too?”

  “Of course! All kinds of things. It was such fun. I’ll show you some old photos later.”

  “I’d love to see them.” She took a sip of the Chardonnay, the taste clean and with a hint of oak, curious about Mitzi’s family and their Miami roots. “What made Mitzi’s family move to this coast?”

  “Her father and his brother had some kind of huge fight. Mitzi was seventeen, just graduating from high school. The next thing you know, her Dad had sold their house and brought the family to Sarasota. This was in the ’50s, probably 1954 or so. Quite a change, especially for a Cuban family, but Juan Carlos Rios was a stubborn man. He owned several companies that made air conditioning systems, and he just transferred the whole operation closer to the Gulf.”

  “Rios is Mitzi’s family name?”

  “That’s right. Her full name is Maria Magdalena Rios Cameron. Her parents called her Maria Magdalena, but to me she’s always been ‘Mitzi.’ I think she saw it in the movies or something.” Helen smiled at the memory.

  “How did she meet her husband?”

  “I can’t remember. It was a few years after she’d moved. I was still in Miami, but we saw each other as much as we could. I remember she called, all excited, said she had met a dashing and wealthy man and that they were engaged. I met John Cameron once before the wedding. I was not impressed.”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought he was a phony.” Helen took a drink of her wine. “That Chardonnay’s not bad, is it?” She set down her glass and continued. “John has everyone believing he’s a smart, rich guy when he’s nothing of the kind. He’s one of those superficial, charming sorts of fellows. I think Kyle saw right through him, too.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She’d give a look, kind of an amused face with her eyebrows way up, whenever he named-dropped about famous Floridians. You’ve heard of the Ringlings?”

  “As in Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus?”

  “Yes. They’re a big name in these parts. Here’s the short version: John Ringling and four of his brothers started their operation in the late 1800s, and bought Barnum and Bailey in the early 1900s. A few years later, John Ringling jumped on the Florida land boom and bought a big chunk of the Sarasota Keys. Eventually he and his wife Mable owned nearly a quarter of Sarasota’s total area. They built a Venetian Gothic mansion on the water during the roaring twenties, plus a museum to house their art collection. When John Ringling died in the late 1930s, he left it all to the state.” She took a breath and waved her hand in the air. “I used to volunteer at the Ringling Art Museum in case you’re wondering how I know all this.”

  “It’s interesting. How does John Cameron fit in?”

  “He claims to be a distant cousin of Mable Ringling, but I have my doubts. I think he married Mitzi because she has a fortune. I’d never say this to my friend, but I don’t think John Cameron ever loved her.”

  Darby ate a few bites of omelet in silence, thinking about Mitzi Cameron’s loveless marriage. “Why is she in a wheelchair?”

  Helen rose from the table and cleared her plate with a shaking hand. Darby listened as it clattered against the countertop. The older woman poured herself more wine and sat down with a sigh.

  “The accident happened when Alexandra was two. John and Mitzi were out on the Gulf, just for a few hours, you know? Mitzi decided to go skiing. There was no spotter, and they crashed with another boat. Mitzi was badly injured. She lost the use of her legs and sustained some internal damage, as well.”

  “God, what a tragedy.”

  “Yes. She was unable to have more children, and that was a real blow. The next year they adopted Jack, and he seemed to give Mitzi a new outlook on life.” Helen’s face brightened. “That’s the year I moved to Sarasota. He was such a cute baby and Alexandra loved him from the start. They made a beautiful little family: the dark-haired mother and daughter and the blonde boy and his father. If only John could have been happy, they might have had a chance. But Mitzi’s condition was not something he could accept, nor could he unconditionally love an adopted child. If their marriage was shaky before the accident, it was in shambles following it.”

  “And yet they have stayed married?”

  “Mitzi is a devout Catholic. He’d have to commit some major crime for her to divorce him.” She finished her Chardonnay and sighed. She looked exhausted.

  “I guess that explains the enormous estate,” Darby said, clearing the remaining dishes from the table.

  “Yes,” Helen said sadly. “Casa Cameron is a big, empty, black hole of a house. John and Mitzi can avoid seeing each other for days, even weeks.”

  _____

  After doing the dishes and saying goodnight to Helen, Darby retreated to Helen’s cheerful guest room and checked her phone and e-mail messages. Two calls from Maine, but none from California, where she worked as a top-selling broker for Pacific Coast Realty. She checked her watch and figured the time difference. Enrique Tomaso Gomez, her capable West Coast assistant, would be relaxing in front of one of those home decorating TV shows, a glass of Napa Valley Zinfandel in hand. She smiled, thinking of the man who had served as her assistant for nearly three years. He deserves his off time, she thought. I’ll call him tomorrow.

  The messages from Maine were also not pressing, and Darby found her thoughts straying back to Casa Cameron and Kyle’s murder. Helen’s stories about Mitzi and her early life with John Cameron had whetted Darby’s interest in the family. Where did Kyle Cameron fit in? What had she seen in Jack Cameron, and why had she wanted to be a part of the dysfunctional Cameron clan?

  Darby climbed into the comfortable bed and willed herself to stop thinking about the day’s events. In the morning she would help Helen to figure out her next step with the business, and on Wednesday she would fly back to California. In the meantime, she needed rest. She rolled over on her side and visualized herself running through the woods behind her childhood home in Maine. In minutes, she was fast asleep.

  Tuesday morning dawned reliably hot and sunny. Over a breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, poached eggs, and grapefruit, Darby asked Helen whether Mitzi or any of the other Camerons had known of Kyle’s plan to join Near & Farr Realty.

  “I don’t think so,” Helen said, handing Darby a plate of buttered toast. “Mitzi has never said anything about it, so I think Kyle kept it quiet. These things can be so sensitive. I never felt it was my place to talk about her plans. Now that Kyle’s dead, I’m still not sure if I should say anything.” She glanced at Darby. “What do you think?”

  “I agree that it is tricky. When I’m in doubt, I keep my mouth shut.” She paused. “Had Kyle told Barnaby’s that she was leaving?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think so. A man named Marty Glickman is in charge of the office, and he gave me quite a glaring look when I saw him on Friday at the County Clerk’s office. Kyle represented a very big chunk of that office’s sales, so I wasn’t surprised at his reaction.”

  A knock at the front door startled Helen and Darby. “It’s only 8:30,” Helen said, rising from the table and looking at her watch. “Who could be coming by this early?”

  Darby listened as she spoke with someone with a deep, slightly Southern drawl. A moment later Helen was back in the kitchen with a tall man wearing tan pants and a light jacket.

  “Darby, this is Detective Jonas Briggs,” she said, wringing her hands as she spoke. Darby had often noticed that the very appearance of a police officer was enough to make even the mos
t law-abiding citizens nervous.

  “Briggs, Ma’am,” he said politely. He turned to Darby and nodded. “Good morning. I’m sorry to intrude on your breakfast.”

  “Please, sit down,” Helen said. “Can I get you something? Eggs? Orange juice? Coffee?”

  “A cup of coffee would be nice. Thank you, Mrs. Near.”

  Helen poured the detective a cup of coffee and indicated the cream and sugar. “It’s Miss Near, Detective. I’m not married.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Near.”

  Darby thought all of the politeness was a bit excessive, but this was, after all, the South. She wondered what information the Detective hoped to glean from Helen. With Kyle Cameron’s murder part of a serial killer’s pattern, there probably wasn’t much local questioning to be done.

  “I’m here as part of a routine follow-up into the murder of Kyle Cameron,” the detective explained. “As you’ve no doubt heard, we have good reason to believe that Ms. Cameron was killed by the same person responsible for two murders on the east coast of the state. Nevertheless, I have to ask a few questions.”

  Helen licked her lips and nodded. “Of course.”

  “When was the last time you saw Kyle Cameron?”

  Helen thought a moment. “Saturday morning. I was at my office downtown—that’s Near & Farr Realty, on Main Street—and Kyle dropped by. She told me she was excited about a new listing, and that she’d tell me more about it when we got together here—at my house—on Monday afternoon. She said she was looking forward to it.”

  “Was that unusual for her to drop by your office? You did work for competing companies.”

  “It wasn’t unusual. Kyle was leaving Barnaby’s and coming to work with me. She was prepared to buy my late partner’s share of the company from Darby.”

  The detective glanced back at Darby. “I see. Did Barnaby’s know about her plans?”

  “I’m not sure. I think she was planning to tell them this week.”

  Jonas Briggs made a note on a small pad. “Thank you, Miss Near. We saw your name in her calendar for 4:30 on Monday. She had two appointments before yours, and a cocktail party out on St. Andrew’s Isle, none of which, obviously, she made.” He turned to Darby and frowned. “I’m sorry you won’t get to meet Kyle Cameron. She was quite a star around here, wasn’t she, Miss Near?”