Killer Listing

by Vicki Doudera

  One led to another and Clyde decided he’d better start the process of bringing the couple down before he fell asleep in the sun or ran out of gas. He hit the button on the automatic winch and the machine began grinding its motor, pulling the parachute and the couple closer to the boat. They had certainly gotten their money’s worth, Clyde thought. What with the sun and the pleasure of drinking a few beers, he’d left them up there for longer than usual.

  Clyde’s thoughts drifted to food. He was hungry, and the wad of twenties in his pocket meant he could treat himself to something good for dinner. Snapper, maybe. Grilled with a little butter on his neighbor’s gas grill …

  Over the groaning sound of the winch, Clyde heard a loud ping—the unmistakable sound of snapping cable. “Shit!” he spat, glancing up toward the sky. Yes, the cable had snapped like the string on a kid’s balloon, and his customers were already floating away from the boat, carried now by the currents of a stiff breeze toward the shore.

  Clyde yanked the wheel of the boat hard. The broken cable was now slithering towards him like an angry water moccasin, and Clyde turned off the winch and hauled it in. He gunned the engine as fast as it would go, racing back toward the pier where he had left the trailer earlier in the day. His mind was a whirl of questions: Would he have time to get the boat out? Would he find anyone to give him a ride? Had he left anything, other than his vehicle, at the marina? He opened the cooler where two beers remained. The release form Dylan and Lisa had signed was in the corner, a soggy mound of disintegrating paper. He exhaled with relief, ripped it to shreds, and threw it in the water.

  Still blasting through the water with the motor at top speed, Clyde rummaged in a compartment and pulled out his lucky Dolphins cap. He shoved it on his balding head and used one hand to hold it secure. The pier was only minutes’ away, and he was starting to feel calmer. He could figure this out, just as he had before. He took a deep breath. Plenty of time.

  _____

  Near & Farr Realty was a pleasant storefront office on the main street of Serenidad Key, next to a bakery and a travel agency. Tropical plants bloomed in the small waiting area, and Darby smiled as Helen absentmindedly picked a few spent blossoms from a flowering hibiscus. A petite woman with short black hair rose from a desk as Helen entered.

  “Hola, Helen,” she said in a lilting voice. She wore a short sleeved white blouse and a red skirt that draped to just above her knees.

  “Hola, Maria.” She nodded her head toward Darby. “This is Jane Farr’s niece, Darby. Darby, meet Maria Iglesias. She works at the travel agency next door and babysits this place when I’m not here.”

  Darby shook hands with the small woman. “Hola, como estas?”

  “Muy bien, gracias.” Maria raised her eyebrows. “Your accent is very good. Where did you acquire it?”

  “I live in Southern California,” Darby explained. “My assistant is from Ensenada and is kind enough to practice with me.” As she mentioned ET, she flashed back to their earlier conversation, wondering what troubles had prompted him to ask for a loan. She hoped her promise to lend him the money had been a comfort.

  Maria Iglesias gave a nod. “I’ve always wanted to go to San Diego. Working in a travel agency, I see many wonderful places to visit, so it makes it hard to choose.” She smiled and rubbed her hands together. “I’ll head back to the agency now. Nice to meet you, Darby.” Her skirt swirled as she went out the door.

  Helen beckoned Darby to the back of the office, where two large oak desks commanded most of the space.

  “This was going to be Kyle’s desk,” Helen said, her voice heavy with sadness. “You know, I think it’s all just starting to sink in. I was looking forward to working with her. She had such a wonderful energy, a vivacity that would have really perked this place up.” She looked around and sighed. “I’ve been thinking about what I’ll do. I’m not sure if I have the energy to recruit someone else.”

  “Don’t make any decisions now,” Darby advised. “It’s too soon.” She reached over and put a hand on Helen’s shoulder. In a softer voice she added, “Grief isn’t something you can rush through, my friend. Give yourself some time.”

  Helen nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” She checked her watch. “Want to work on Tag’s property before we head over to Casa Cameron? I can start Kyle’s computer for you.”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at my e-mails on a bigger screen than this.” She held up her Smartphone and watched as Helen started the gleaming new computer and punched in a password.

  “There you go,” Helen said.

  “Did Kyle ever work on this machine?”

  “Not really. It came last week and I showed it to her on Saturday. She sat down and fooled around a little, but I don’t think it was more than that.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “I did. It was a welcome gift.” Helen sighed and walked back to her chair, her shoulders sagging.

  The two women worked quietly for a half hour, Darby replying to some clients in California before turning her attention to the extensive St. Andrew’s Isle property. The barrier island paradise seemed to have it all: a nine-hole golf course, a landing strip for small planes, a palatial main house with three pools and a guest house, as well as a small café where Tag and his golfing buddies could enjoy a few drinks before or after their tee times. Darby shook her head in admiration.

  “Helen, this isn’t a listing, it’s a small village!”

  The older woman let out one of her booming laughs. “No kidding!”

  “I wonder if Kyle did any work to value the property.”

  “I don’t know.” Helen thought a moment and pointed at a drawer. “Check in there. When Kyle came by on Saturday, she had a manila folder with her. I remember because I told her I’d order a file cabinet this week. I think she stuck it in there.”

  Darby opened the drawer. It was empty except for a single file. She pulled it out and looked inside.

  “Well?” Helen asked. “Come on, the suspense is killing me.”

  Darby rifled through several pieces of paper. “There’s a listing sheet on a sold property in South Africa.” She scanned the details of a forty-acre island retreat located in South Africa. As with Tag Gunnerson’s estate, there was a landing strip, a large main house, and several guest buildings. “No golf course,” she noted. “But this property boasts a ten-acre wildlife park, complete with gazelles and ostrich.” She looked closer. The property had sold the previous year for $30 million.

  “I can’t imagine having ostriches running around my front yard,” said Helen. “Leaving their droppings all over the place. Who handled the sale?”

  “Barnaby’s,” commented Darby. She looked at the remaining pieces of paper. “Here’s another comparable sale: Jupiter Island, Florida. That’s over on the Atlantic side, right?”

  Helen nodded. “I remember that trade. Twelve acres, couple of houses, forty million bucks, right?”

  Darby nodded. She rifled through the file and found one more piece of paper. Handwritten columns of numbers, headed “subject property” and “comparison property one,” and “comparison property two” were written neatly across the page.

  “Take a look at this,” said Darby. “Kyle actually did a comparative market analysis—by hand.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Helen. “She was an extremely thorough broker.” She leaned in and looked at the paper. “Wonder why she didn’t do it on the computer? I’m from the dark ages and even I don’t do CMAs on paper.”

  Darby scanned the columns of numbers and Kyle’s adjustments for dissimilar features, such as number of bedrooms and bathrooms. She could see Kyle’s mind working: adding, subtracting, and accessing the value.

  “What did she come up with?” Helen asked. “I’m dying to know.”

  Darby lowered the file and regarded Helen’s eager face.

  “I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe it.”

  “Just try me.”

  Darby shook
her head in amazement. “Forty-five million dollars. Kyle valued Tag Gunnerson’s estate at forty-five million.”

  “Mother of God,” breathed Helen. She picked up her purse and keys. “Let’s hightail it back to my house before we go see Mitzi. I need a Mojito and quick!”

  _____

  The front door of Casa Cameron opened and Darby and Helen stood before Carlotta. Her angular face registered surprise.

  “Buenas tardes, Carlotta,” said Helen. “Where’s Harold? Day off?”

  She nodded, her eyes darting toward the back of the house. “Señora Cameron is resting,” she said, unwilling to move aside to allow them entrance. “Perhaps you would like to come back later …”

  “Nonsense.” A booming voice cut through the house’s silence like a knife through a ripe melon. Darby heard a door slam and brisk footsteps followed. “I haven’t had the pleasure of a visit from my old friend Helen in years.” A tall, gray-haired man strode toward them and grasped Helen’s arm.

  “Hello, John,” Helen said stiffly. Darby noted the erect posture of the man, his hearty greeting. She had the impression of vitality and strength, a worthy match for Mitzi Cameron, who exuded the same qualities.

  “And you must be Darby Farr,” he said, his voice filling up the entryway and echoing off the parquet floors. “Met your aunt a few times at Nell’s little dinner parties. She was a shrewd one.”

  His face was relaxed, the very picture of amiability and welcome, and yet Darby thought she could see a certain hardness in his eyes. In a moment, the impression was gone. Had she imagined it, or was John Cameron’s cheerful demeanor at odds with his true feelings?

  “Mitzi’s having a little lie-down, and I was just contemplating a swim in the pool, but I’m glad you stopped by. Let’s go to the den. Carlotta will get us something—tea? Coffee?” His eyes narrowed and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Or something stronger?”

  Helen shot him a look and squared her shoulders. “Tea would be fine,” she said.

  “Very well.” John Cameron turned and led the women down the hall and past the living room. Darby glimpsed the sunny study where she and Helen had sat during their last visit. Now they were ushered into the adjoining den, her host’s expansive “man cave.”

  Dominating the room was a long pool table with ornate mahogany feet. On one wall hung a huge flat-screen television, flanked by speakers for optimal sound. Large burgundy-colored leather club chairs were positioned in front of the screen, and Darby imagined this was where John watched sports and the news. Heavy drapes obscured the windows, no doubt to provide a darkened atmosphere conducive to television watching.

  She took a quick glance around the room. Several mounted trophy fish—Darby recognized a sailfish and a striped marlin—watched from the paneled walls, while gleaming brass awards and collections of leather-bound books adorned a wall of built-in shelves. The faint yet familiar aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the air while underneath Darby’s feet the carpet was thick and plush.

  John Cameron indicated that they should sit down on one of the leather sofas before the built-in bookshelves. He hit a button on a nearby phone and spoke to someone—Carlotta, presumably—regarding afternoon refreshments. Walking past the pool table to join them once more, he grabbed the black eight ball and rolled it across the smooth green surface, where it found a corner pocket and disappeared.

  “Do you play pool, Darby?”

  “Not really,” she answered. “It is a skill I admire, however. The precision of a good player is always impressive.”

  “Yes,” John Cameron agreed. “If only life were as easy as pool. Choose the correct angle, make the shot, and in it goes.” He strode back and sank into the couch opposite the women. “Take my son, for instance. Bouncing like he’s trapped in a pinball machine, instead of focusing on something worthwhile in life.”

  Helen sucked in a breath. “Sometimes I can’t believe you, John,” she said sharply. “Jack’s had an enormous blow. Two enormous blows: Kyle’s murder and now the fire at Belle Haven. I should think you would have a little more compassion.”

  An amused look came over John Cameron’s face. “I love it when you’re spunky, Helen. I get to see your fiery temper so infrequently nowadays.”

  A discreet knock at the door signaled Carlotta’s arrival with a tray of tea, coffee, and cookies. She poured for each of them and slipped out of the room, her face expressionless.

  “Care for a snickerdoodle, Darby? These are Mitzi’s favorites.”

  “Thank you.” Darby took the sugar cookie and bit into it. She remembered making the same cookies with her mother, forming the dough into small balls and then rolling each one in cinnamon sugar. She felt a familiar pang of sadness constrict her throat.

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your daughter-in-law,” she said.

  “Poor Kyle. I haven’t really thought of her as my daughter-in-law for quite some time. Still, it’s a tragedy.”

  Darby shot a look at Helen. She had not touched her tea, and sat with her hands clasped and trembling in front of her chest. She’s literally shaking with anger, Darby realized.

  Helen seemed about to vent some of that anger when Mitzi Cameron rolled into the den. “Good afternoon, everyone.” She put up a hand to stop Darby and Helen from rising from the sofa. “Please, don’t get up on my account.” She turned her head toward her husband, her face noticeably more lined and weary than the day before. John returned her gaze without making any attempt to rise and greet his wife.

  “Darling, join us for some tea,” he said, the lightness of his voice sounding hollow to Darby’s ears. “We’ve been having such a wonderful chat.”

  Mitzi gave her husband a cold stare and said nothing. She turned to her old friend. “Forgive me, Nell, for my tardiness. I didn’t sleep last night and I’m exhausted.”

  Concern knitted the brow of Helen Near. “Of course you are.” She rose and went to Mitzi’s side and gave her friend’s narrow shoulders a heartfelt squeeze. “Please, Mitzi, tell me what I can do to help you.”

  Mitzi glanced toward John, who seemed to comprehend his wife’s desire to be alone with her friend. He rose and gave a diffident wave. “Ladies, I’ll leave you to your tea and crumpets,” he said. Pausing at the door he turned and looked at Darby. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I have a feeling we’ll see each other again.” Once more Darby saw cold steel in John Cameron’s penetrating gaze.

  While Helen and Mitzi murmured in low voices regarding Jack’s condition and the plans for the services for Kyle Cameron the next day, Darby found her thoughts wandering to the investigation surrounding Kyle’s murder and whether any progress had been made in finding the killer. She thought of Jonas Briggs, the detective on the case, and wondered if he’d been working with the lead investigators on the other side of the state. In the distance, a phone rang. Carlotta was at the door moments later, motioning to Mitzi Cameron.

  “It is the police,” she said softly. “Detective Briggs.”

  Darby nearly choked on her last bite of snickerdoodle. Hadn’t she just been thinking of the detective moments before? Get a grip, she told herself. He’s the lead investigator of a murder and you’re sitting in the living room of the murdered woman’s family. It makes total sense he would call here.

  Helen stood by Mitzi, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She glanced at Darby, both of them wondering what the call could mean. Mitzi took the cordless phone, said “Hello,” and listened for several minutes.

  “Thank you, Detective,” Mitzi said. “That is good news indeed.” Darby noted that her voice sounded empty of all emotion.

  Mitzi let the phone fall into her lap. “The police in Stuart have found the man who killed Kyle,” she said. “They tracked him down and stormed his house. They have enough evidence to prove that he is the Kondo Killer.” She exhaled. “Thank God.”

  Helen returned her friend’s weary gaze. “It will be some relief to Jack, at least. Don’t you think so, Mitzi?”

&
nbsp; “Perhaps.” She rolled away from Helen and into the center of the room. She turned the chair sharply as if in frustration and glanced down at a cell phone on her lap. “I have no idea where Jack is. He doesn’t answer when I call.” She closed her eyes. “He needs to know about this before he sees it on television or hears about it at his bar.”

  “Try the Dive,” Helen suggested. “Darby and I were just there and spoke to him.”

  Mitzi nodded and punched in a number. She asked to speak to Jack and then hung up once more. “He left forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Could he be at Kyle’s condominium?” Darby asked.

  “Whatever makes you say that?” Mitzi had an edge to her voice.

  Darby rose to her feet. “A hunch. It’s obvious that he’s deeply upset over Kyle’s death, and in a strange sort of way he might find it comforting to be among her possessions.” She paused. “If you’d like, I’ll head over there and see if my guess is correct. I can go by the restaurant as well.”

  Helen regarded her friend. “Darby could be right,” she said softly. “Someone should check it out. We could call Alexandra …”

  “No. She’s counseling clients today.” Darby detected pride in the older woman’s voice. “I’d appreciate your help, Darby. There is one problem: I don’t have a key to Kyle’s condominium, and I have no idea where to find one.”

  “Just give me the unit number and I’ll figure it out.” Darby gave Mitzi what she hoped was an encouraging smile. The poor woman was in need of some encouragement—that much was obvious. “I’ll know if Jack is there,” she assured her. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  _____

  Darby was sure that Jack Cameron was seeking solace at Kyle’s condominium. Something about his haunted demeanor hours before, the hollows beneath his eyes and his furtive glances led her to believe she would find him at Somerset Sound, the development where Kyle Cameron’s condominium was located. Seated in the Mustang, Darby consulted a hand-held GPS that Mitzi had pressed into her palm back in John Cameron’s study. She typed in Somerset Sound and began following the device’s directions.