Killer Listing

by Vicki Doudera

  _____

  Helen was tearing up lettuce for a salad as Darby entered the cheerful little kitchen.

  “Helen, I’m sorry to be late. I stopped by Barnaby’s to ask Marty Glickman a few questions.”

  Helen groaned. “Now why do you want to ruin a good dinner by bringing him up? I’d much rather talk about something more pleasant, such as your new friend, Mr. Kobayashi.” She smiled as Darby took two plates down from the shelves. “Let’s eat on the patio. This heat’s finally broken some.”

  Darby carried the plates outside. A fresh breeze off the Gulf ruffled the leaves of the citrus trees, sending the spicy scent throughout the enclosed area.

  “Now who’s Mr. Kobayashi?” Darby teased, laughing at the startled look on her friend’s face. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you that Mr. Kobayashi does find the property attractive.” She reentered the kitchen to fetch the bottle of Pinot Grigio that was chilling in the refrigerator.

  Helen raised an eyebrow. “Finds it attractive, huh? Darby, you and I both know he flat-out loves the place! You watch, you’ll be writing me up an offer by five o’clock tomorrow.”

  Darby smiled. She wasn’t going to let on just how much Mr. Kobayashi wanted St. Andrew’s Isle. It was strange, really, how determined the man had seemed about owning the property. He spoke as if he already did own it, a sign, Darby knew, that he was hooked.

  She thought back to her time with the courtly gentleman. After they had toured the extensive grounds and buildings, Darby had attempted to find out why her new client found St. Andrew’s Isle such a perfect fit. “As your broker, I want to make sure we’ve explored all the options,” she said. “I agree that St. Andrew’s Isle is exquisite, but perhaps we should see some other listings for comparison’s sake.”

  Mr. Kobayashi showed the barest hint of a smile.

  “Your advice is wise, Miss Farr,” he said. “I appreciate the fact that you do not wish merely to make the sale, but that you are thinking of my needs.” He paused, and seemed about to say more, when his cell phone rang. He peered at it, frowned, and excused himself to answer.

  It had been years since Darby had heard anyone speaking rapid-fire Japanese, and she smiled at the melodic tone of the conversation. There were those who loved the sound of Italian, or Russian, but for Darby, the Japanese language was musical, comforting. She was about to check her cell phone when she distinctly heard two words she was sure she knew.

  Nihon Maru. They were rattled off quickly, as part of Mr. Kobayashi’s conversation, and yet Darby recognized them. She glanced his way, heard him say goodbye, and watched as he hurried back to her.

  “I am afraid I must excuse myself to take an important conference call,” he explained as he strode toward her, his normally placid manner slightly ruffled. “If you are able, I would like to meet in the morning for breakfast and to discuss my offer.”

  “Certainly.”

  “There is a small café in Sarasota, the Daily Grind. I will meet you there at nine o’clock. If possible, I would like to come back here following that, to speak with the staff. If Mr. Gunnerson is amenable, I will not need your presence for that.”

  Darby had said she would check and watched as Mr. Kobayashi hurried away.

  Nihon Maru. He’d said those words and she’d recognized them, although she had no idea why they held any significance, nor did she have the foggiest notion of what they meant. Just because you’ve got some Japanese DNA doesn’t make you an expert on the language, she chided herself.

  Her musings were cut short by Helen’s booming laugh. “Well look at you, caught in a trance. What are you thinking about, girl?”

  “Dinner,” Darby answered firmly. She pulled out a chair for Helen and watched her sink into it gratefully. “Have you heard from the Camerons? How is Jack doing?”

  “Mitzi cannot believe the change in him. She says he is a rock. Something happened to him when he stared down that shark. It’s as if he realizes he was given a second chance.”

  “Jack looked death in the face and survived,” Darby said quietly, having done the same thing a month earlier while in Maine. “He’s a changed man.”

  The phone rang and Darby rose to answer it. The honeyed voice of Jonas Briggs was instantly recognizable.

  “I’m sorry to bother you and Helen at suppertime, but I need to meet with you tonight, if that’s possible.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I think it’s time to put our heads together again and really work on this case. I’ll pick you up at seven and we’ll go to the station. Okay?”

  “I’m not sure what I can bring to the table,” Darby admitted, “but I’m happy to help.” She paused. “Did you get the message I left about Candy Sutton?”

  “I did, and we plan to follow up with more questions for her tomorrow.”

  This time Helen did not tease Darby when she relayed her plans.

  “I’m glad you’re helping Detective Briggs, and I hope the two of you can solve poor Kyle’s murder. When I think of Jack sitting there in that cell, arrested for a crime he did not commit—” she shook her head.

  Darby nodded her agreement. What worried her was not so much Jack’s confinement as the fact that the real murderer was perhaps still at large, waiting for the right opportunity to strike again.

  _____

  “Cameron may be guilty after all,” Jonas Briggs said, handing Darby a cup of coffee from the deli across the street. They were at the Serenidad Police Station, sitting in an empty conference room around the corner from Briggs’ office. She thanked him and placed the styrofoam cup on a section of newspaper. The surface of the table was marred with rings and scrapes, but Darby was a creature of habit, even when taken aback by a statement.

  Jonas lowered himself into a chair and pulled another coffee out of a brown bag. “Well? Aren’t you going to disagree with me?’

  “I’m waiting for you to complete your statement. What’s he guilty of?”

  Jonas wagged a finger at Darby. “You’re sharp, Darby Farr, I’ll give you that. You didn’t rise to my bait, although I did see you do a little double-take.” He tossed a few creamers on the table and removed his coffee cup’s lid. “We think Jack paid an arsonist to destroy Belle Haven the night Kyle was killed.” He ripped the foil wrapper off two creamers and poured the contents into the steaming beverage. “I’ve suspected arson from the beginning. Granted, I’m no fire expert, but this thing spread quickly, and the point of origin was just behind the back door leading to the alley. Somebody set it and ran. We just needed some proof.”

  Darby took a creamer and removed the foil lid. She poured it into her cup and stirred it thoughtfully.

  “And now you have it?”

  Briggs nodded. “Yeah. The State Fire Marshall’s office has found a delay device—a cigarette tied to a matchbook—that proves it was arson. We have a witness who saw someone running out of the building late Monday night. This morning we picked up a punk from Miami who’s been suspected of setting other fires, and our witness identified him. Our punk promptly turned around and named Jack Cameron as the guy who hired him.”

  “What does Jack say?”

  “He doesn’t think he did it.” Briggs took a gulp of his coffee. “He says he certainly thought about it, but he doesn’t remember taking any action. Hard to believe he was that messed up, but there you go.” Jonas Briggs shook his head.

  Darby took a sip of her coffee. “So it was purely a coincidence that the Miami arsonist set the fire the same night Jack’s wife was killed?”

  “That’s right. Here’s what I think happened that Monday. Jack drank a few beers on his skiff, and then called Ms. Sutton. Thanks to your visit with her, we know she met him and provided a few hours of company while he rambled on and on. She was there from approximately noon until five, getting paid a thousand bucks an hour to sit in the sun. She told DiNunzio on the phone that Jack never left, and that she’d swear to it.” He took a look at his notes. “Dave’s going to see her in the morning first th
ing.”

  “So Jack is off the hook for murder, but on the hook for arson.”

  “Looks that way.” Jonas Briggs grasped his coffee cup and took a long gulp. “Now we move on to Clyde Hensley. A few hours ago we found him, on the edge of the Everglades.”

  Darby leaned forward. “No kidding. Alive?”

  Briggs shook his head. “Most decidedly dead. Killed by a Burmese python, a type of constrictor. The thing crawled in his car and got him while he was passed out, or napping.” Jonas Briggs remembered Kelly’s description of the mangled face and shuddered. “In the trunk we found some names and addresses of his parasailing clients. Dave DiNunzio gave them all a call. Hensley took two college girls out on Monday, met them at the dock at 11:30. They were on the water for two hours—during the time Kyle Cameron was murdered. There’s no way Clyde Hensley could have been over at Esperanza Shores.” Jonas Briggs shrugged. “Hensley was a low-life ex-con, responsible for the electrocution of that poor girl, but he wasn’t Kyle Cameron’s killer.”

  “Any idea why he had all those photos of her in his apartment?”

  “Maybe he was planning to film her.”

  “And the significance of Donald Bergeron?”

  “He was a prison connection. We’re not sure if there’s more.”

  Darby opened a black and white composition book she’d purchased earlier at a stationery store. Jack Cameron was no longer a suspect, and neither was Clyde Hensley. Next on her list was Foster McFarlin.

  “Kyle wanted out of her relationship with Foster McFarlin,” Darby mused. “Sassa Jorgensen, Kyle’s massage therapist, says they argued before breaking up. Kyle was pregnant, perhaps mending things with Jack …”

  “You think McFarlin didn’t want to lose her, so he killed her?” Briggs’ face was skeptical.

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Like people getting choked by snakes?” Briggs bit his tongue. “I shouldn’t have said that. This whole snake thing’s got Lieutenant Governor Howe all worked up.” He paused. “Is she in your little book, too?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. She certainly had motive. Maybe not opportunity, but motive.”

  Jonas Briggs held up a hand. “You didn’t hear this from me, but apparently the Lieutenant Governor missed the luncheon as well as her speech, and when she did finally show up at the tail end of the Q and A, she was wearing a different set of clothes.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. I confirmed it with the staff at the hotel, as well as the head of the Women’s Club. They were annoyed, but accepted her substitute, none other than her assistant Mindy Jackson. Incidentally, it was Mindy who blew Chellie’s cover.”

  “Hell hath no fury like an assistant scorned?”

  Briggs grinned. “Something like that.” His face took on a more serious cast. “You can understand the delicacy of this situation. Investigating McFarlin is hard enough, but implicating Chellie in any way …” He frowned. “You heard about the mugging?”

  “I did. The press is reporting that she’s fine.”

  He nodded. “For once they’ve got the story right.” He leaned across the table. “Darby, I’m prepared to pursue both of them as suspects, but I’ve got to do it very carefully. You, on the other hand, don’t have the same constraints. I want to know Chellie Howe’s whereabouts on Monday. Why did she miss that luncheon?”

  Darby met his level gaze. She could well imagine the intense political pressure Jonas Briggs was feeling, and knew that it would escalate if word leaked out. “I understand.” She tapped on her composition book with her pen. “What about people from Kyle’s past?”

  “Such as?”

  “Alexandra Cameron.”

  Jonas Briggs looked baffled. “They were sisters-in-law …”

  “And they went to FSU, the same school Chellie Howe attended. In fact, they were friends and sorority sisters.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Sassa Jorgensen says Alexandra was angry that Kyle separated from Jack. She said Kyle used to joke about it, never taking it seriously.”

  “What else?”

  “It may sound silly, but years ago, they were contestants in the same Miss Florida competition. Kyle won the pageant, and Alexandra was runner-up.” She searched Jonas Briggs’ face for any trace of amusement, but to her surprise he nodded.

  “I remember that year. Everybody in Sarasota thought Alexandra was a shoo-in.” He thought a moment. “What about Helen? What does she think about the relationship between Alexandra and Kyle Cameron?’

  Darby looked into his eyes. “That’s just what got me thinking. Helen swears that Alexandra worshipped Kyle. To all appearances, they were the best of friends.”

  Jonas Briggs downed the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Friggin’ appearances,” he said, shaking his head. “They can definitely screw you up.” He gave Darby a shrewd look. “So you’re thinking the answer to Kyle’s death may be in her past. Something from her youth, or her marriage?”

  “Perhaps. I do think we need to focus on finding out more about her everyday life. I could call Sassa Jorgensen and see what else she knows. That woman saw Kyle every week for nearly two years. There’s a good chance she has valuable information.”

  “It seems she was the closest thing Kyle had to a friend, other than her work colleagues.” He considered. “Yeah, go ahead and call her, see what you find out.”

  “Done.” Darby gave a quick glance around the conference room. “I spoke to Marty Glickman today, and I think it would be good to interview more brokers at Barnaby’s and see where that leads. We need to check out Kyle’s hobbies, where she exercised, and the ways in which she spent her non-working time.”

  “Find anything interesting out from Glickman?”

  “Not really. He said he was her champion, that they had a good working relationship.”

  “Then why’d she want to leave?” Jonas Briggs thought a moment. “I’m going to have Kelly look into the data on Kyle’s computer—her work on her grandmother, all that stuff.”

  “Good idea.” Darby glanced at her watch and sighed. “I’d like to see if I can reach Sassa Jorgensen before it gets any later.”

  “Come on then, let me drive you back.”

  They headed into the warm summer evening, both of them quiet. The uncertainties about Kyle Cameron’s death swirled in Darby’s head. So many questions, and precious few—if any—answers.

  _____

  Sassa Jorgensen answered the phone on the first ring. Darby heard a tired wariness in the masseuse’s voice.

  “Sassa, this is Darby Farr. I met you at the memorial service for Kyle.”

  The older woman cleared her throat. “I remember you.”

  “I hope I’m not calling too late, but I had a question for you about Kyle. Did she ever mention any family members? Other than her grandmother?”

  “Anna Slivicki was the only family member that mattered to Kyle.”

  “I understand. But did she ever talk about her parents? Cousins? Anyone?”

  Sassa thought a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember her saying anything like that.”

  Darby thanked her and said goodbye. Disappointed, she went into the little kitchen, where Helen was pouring a cup of tea.

  “You don’t look like your chipper self,” she commented. “How about I fix you a cup? It’s decaffeinated.” She reached into the cabinet and pulled down an orange mug. A moment later she was handing Darby a steaming cup full.

  Darby inhaled the aroma and smiled. “Constant Comment. My mother’s favorite.”

  Helen raised her eyebrows. “Really? Me, too.” She settled herself down at the table. “I don’t care for all the fancy teas they make now. Ginger, ginseng, pomegranate—you name it, they put it in a tea. Last week a client gave me cup of watermelon tea. Can you imagine that? Watermelon! I want to drink something plain and simple, that’s what I want.”

  Darby smiled. She thought of her friend�
��s penchant for Mojitos and wondered whether a mint tea would elicit such surprise.

  “My mother had similar sentiments, Helen. She was raised on green teas—her province was famous for one kind—but when she married my father and he bought Constant Comment, she thought it was the best thing she’d ever had.” Darby pictured her mother’s slim frame, the way she would slowly fill the red teapot with steaming water, and add two teabags. She felt a pang of sadness. It was difficult to think about her parents, even years after their deaths. At least I have memories, she thought. Unlike Kyle …

  She took a sip of the steaming beverage, letting the flavors of clove, cinnamon, and orange rest on her tongue like a wine connoisseur.

  “Helen, do you recall Kyle Cameron ever talking about her family? Anyone besides her grandmother?”

  Helen leaned back in the chair and thought a moment. “I don’t think she knew them. From what Mitzi’s told me, her mother disappeared when Kyle was a small child, and she never knew who her father was.” She removed her tea bag and placed it on a small saucer. “I did ask her once how she got the name Kyle. I mean, to me, it sounds like a boy’s name, and I was curious.”

  Darby felt a stirring of interest. “What did she say?”

  “Her father had the name all picked out before she was born. Didn’t matter whether she was male or female, Kyle was to be the name. Had to do with a pro football player.”

  Darby took another sip of her tea. “A football player?” She rose and went to the guest bedroom, returning with her laptop.

  “Yes, that’s what she said. Somebody famous, I think.”

  Darby booted up her computer and punched in a few words. “Let’s see. I’m searching for football players with the name “Kyle.” She looked over at Helen and groaned. “Unbelievable! There are dozens of sports celebrities with that name—as a first name and as a last name.” She typed in more information. “Kyle Cameron was born in 1964, right, so it would have to be someone who played before that.” She typed some more and then sat back, satisfied. “Now this is more like it. Only one entry comes up before 1964, and that’s an athlete named Kyle Rote. He played running back for the New York Giants, 1951 to 1961. I bet you he’s the one.”