Helen took another sip of her tea. “So her dad was a Giants fan. It’s interesting, Darby, but does it help us find the poor girl’s murderer?”
Darby closed the computer and sighed. “No.” She sipped the tea again, the bold flavors announcing themselves in no uncertain terms. If only the answers to her many questions about Kyle’s murder could be as obvious.
Who had wanted Kyle dead? She’d been a driven businesswoman, actively involved on several boards of good causes, on the arm of several of Florida’s most eligible bachelors—as well as its married men. She thought again of Foster McFarlin and Chellie Howe. No matter what route Darby tried to follow, the signs kept pointing to them. When would Jonas Briggs actively investigate them? Was there anyone else?
Candy Sutton. Darby thought of the woman’s alibi for Jack Cameron. Could she be believed? Could Jack, for that matter? Could anyone?
Darby groaned, forgetting she was sitting beside Helen at the table. The older woman put a hand on her forearm. “Listen, Darby, please don’t give up yet. I just know you’re going to figure this out. I have a feeling there’s a breakthrough right around the corner.”
Darby took a last sip of her tea and rose, rinsing the cup and placing it in the drying rack.
“I hope you’re right, Helen.” She picked up her laptop and was about to head for the guest bedroom when the phone rang.
“Go on and grab it,” Helen said. “I’m too tuckered out to chat on the phone.”
Darby recognized the melodic accent of Sassa Jorgensen. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but after we spoke I had a thought. I wondered if perhaps I might give you a massage. I know you are trying to help my poor Kyle, and I would like to give you this one small thing.”
“That would be lovely,” Darby said, thinking that she heard in the woman’s voice more than a desire to massage her muscles. She wants to talk about Kyle.
“Call me when you have a free hour,” Sassa said simply. She hesitated. “There is one thing I have remembered, but I do not think it is helpful. Should I tell you some other time?”
Darby tensed. “I’d like to hear it now, Sassa.”
“Kyle made a little mention to me of something strange. This was at least three weeks ago. She said a man called her, asking for money. He said he was her father. She went downtown to meet him.”
“And what happened?”
“She said she knew just by looking at him that he was a phony. She told him if he called again, she would contact the police.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“No. She tried to laugh it off, but I think she was a little—disappointed.” Sassa Jorgensen paused. “Kyle had no blood relations, and yet family was important to her. She was always trying to find out more about her grandmother. I think the baby may have made her vulnerable to someone holding out the hope that she was not alone.” There was silence, and then Sassa Jorgensen continued. “That’s all. I look forward to hearing from you, Darby Farr.”
_____
Darby lay in Helen’s guest bedroom, knowing that sleep was a long way off. Who was the man who had posed as Kyle’s father? Could he have killed her after she refused to give him money? How, after forty years of absence, did she know so definitively that he was a fake?
Darby sighed and stood up. The windows were closed and the air felt stuffy. She crossed the room and lifted the sashes.
Darby felt the cool night air on her face, a welcome sensation. She glanced across the lawn, remembering how Clyde Hensley’s white compact car had shot down the street with him hunched at the wheel. Perhaps he had photographed Kyle as part of his plan to pose as her father. He’d tried to extort money from the wealthy real estate agent, but she’d smelled a rat. Had that rat then turned to murder?
Darby rose at six o’clock, her head fuzzy. Already it felt warm in the guest room, and as she pulled on her running shorts, she wondered again how Floridians could stand the relentless summer humidity. In Helen’s bright kitchen she took a long gulp of water, laced up her sneakers, and headed out into the day.
In three hours she was meeting Mr. Kobayashi, hopefully to take his offer on the St. Andrew’s Isle estate. The whole thing had happened with lightning speed, but Darby had learned a long time ago not to question the easy deals too much. There were far too many complicated transactions—some of which never worked out—for her to obsess over the calm ones. Hideki Kobayashi came to Florida knowing he wanted the estate, she mused, her feet pounding the cement. It’s just a matter of price now. She found herself hoping for ET’s sake that the transaction would close quickly so she could loan him his money.
Her run took her down the streets of Serenidad, into the neighborhood where Belle Haven, Jack Cameron’s swanky bistro, had once stood. Darby slowed by the charred remains of the building. Most of the debris had been cleared and the sooty smell was gone from the air, but part of the blackened chimney still stood, along with a portion of the crumbling back wall.
Darby thought back to Jonas Briggs’ assertion that Jack Cameron was responsible for the fire. She still wasn’t clear why he’d had the restaurant destroyed. If he owed money to creditors, why not try to sell the building? Certainly the real estate was valuable.
And yet, the economy was in a slump and perhaps even a prime piece of commercial property such as Belle Haven would be a difficult sell. Darby sighed and began running again. She found it difficult to understand the crime, but of course Jack’s mental state had been one of confusion at that point.
None of this helps find Kyle’s killer, she thought.
Virtually no physical evidence existed. The police still had not located the murder weapon, nor the severed finger, and with every day and every hour, the chances that evidence would be found grew slimmer. Whoever killed Kyle thinks they are pretty damn smart, she thought. What if he or she was ready to strike again?
_____
Helen, clad in her pink bathrobe, met Darby at the door of the bungalow, a worried look on her face.
“Jonas Briggs called for you,” she explained, pulling the belt on the robe tighter. “He sounded awful. I hope it’s nothing to do with the Camerons.”
Darby untied her sneakers and carried them inside. “Did he leave a number, Helen?”
“He said to call on his cell.”
Darby removed her cell from the pocket of her Lycra running shorts and punched in his number. It rang without an answer, and Darby hung up before leaving a message. “That’s odd,” she said to Helen. “He’s not answering.”
The ring of Helen’s house phone startled them. She answered it and turned to Darby. “It’s him.”
Darby took the phone and heard the sound of street noise and traffic. “Jonas?”
“Darby, I’ve got some news for you—some bad news.”
Barely breathing, she asked, “What is it?”
“Candy Sutton is dead. Bludgeoned to death in an alley by her apartment.” He exhaled and Darby could hear defeat in the sound. “We aren’t sure if it’s random or not, but my gut tells me it’s related to Kyle Cameron’s killing.”
Darby was silent a moment, processing the horrible news. Candy Sutton was dead. Had she known something that put her in danger?
“How did you find her?”
“Dave DiNunzio went over there early this morning to question her and found her dog, still on his leash, whining outside the door. He went in and the place was empty. So he took the dog outside and the little guy led him to the alley next to the Video Palace. She’d been dragged behind a dumpster. We’re still waiting for the medical examiner, but it looks like she hasn’t been dead very long.”
“Any evidence at the scene?”
“Nothing yet, but we’re still looking.” He paused. “Listen, I want you to watch your back. Whoever this guy is, he’s getting desperate. I don’t know how Candy Sutton knew Kyle …”
“I do,” Darby said quietly. “She was Candy’s broker. They were looking at houses together.”
Jonas Bri
ggs whistled. “Now I’m more certain than ever that it’s not a random crime. Candy knew something—or the killer thought she did—and she was eliminated because of that fear.”
Darby was silent, thinking of the mysterious Candy and her “less is more” philosophy. “Does her cousin Marco know?”
“Yes. He was the one who made the positive ID. Pretty upset, too.” Jonas Briggs cleared his throat. “Looks like the examiner is here. I’ll keep you posted.”
Darby hung up, ready to tell Helen of the latest development, but to her surprise the older woman was not nearby. “Helen?” she called.
A glance at the kitchen made her heart skip a beat. She could see pink fabric on the floor, twisted tightly around a pair of ankles.
Darby ran to the prostrate form of Helen and felt for a pulse. Nothing. She checked the woman’s airway, to be sure nothing had lodged in her throat, but it appeared clear. Was she breathing? No expirations from her mouth or nose; no telltale rising of her chest.
Without hesitation, Darby began cardiopulmonary resuscitation. With every chest compression she shouted at the lifeless woman beneath her hands. “Take a breath!” she urged, as she started puffing air into Helen’s lungs. “Please, Helen, take a breath!”
Darby knew the quick arrival of the ambulance was critical. Although she hated to stop CPR for even a minute, she whipped out her phone and called 911. Seconds after relaying the address, Darby was back on the floor.
After about a minute, she felt again for a pulse. Was there the faintest flutter?
Darby had just resumed chest compressions when the paramedics burst through the door. “Any pulse?” one of them shouted.
“I don’t think so.” Darby felt tears welling up in her eyes. “Please be okay, Helen,” she prayed. “Please, please …”
One paramedic prepared the electrode patches of a defibrillator while his companion felt for a pulse. “I got one,” he yelled. “Let’s transport her.”
The emergency team bundled Helen onto a stretcher, administering oxygen as they moved her out the front door. “You can follow us to the hospital,” one of them suggested.
Darby nodded, grabbing her purse and phone. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she climbed into the Mustang, started the ignition, and prepared to follow the ambulance.
_____
An hour later, Helen was alert and telling Darby to get herself home and showered for the appointment with Mr. Kobayashi.
“Don’t let a little thing like this screw up the deal,” she rasped, her throat raw from the tubes that had been removed only moments before.
“Sshh. Don’t talk, Helen. I’ll take off in just a few minutes, don’t worry.” Darby looked into the kind blue eyes and felt her own grow moist once more. “What else can I do for you?”
“Check my calendar at the office. I think I have an appointment at noon with a new buyer. And I was going to meet Foster McFarlin today to discuss getting his listings.”
Darby nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” She gave the older woman’s hand a squeeze. “You rest and get better, okay?”
Helen gave a wan smile. “It’s a deal.” She closed her eyes. “You can bet I’ll want a Mojito when I get out of here. And an offer on St. Andrew’s Isle.”
Darby smiled and whispered goodbye, keeping her eyes on the prone form as she backed toward the door. Helen had suffered a mild heart attack, probably only seconds before Darby had found her. The good news was that her doctor felt she would recover without any heart damage. The not-so-good news was that she’d probably require surgery in the future to remove several blockages.
Without a doubt, the CPR had saved her life, a fact that made Darby shiver. What if she hadn’t returned from her run when she had? What if Jonas hadn’t called and Darby had been in the shower, oblivious to her friend lying on the kitchen floor?
She shook off the worrisome questions as she climbed back into the rental car. There was no use in revisiting what might and might not have happened. The important thing was that Helen was alive and expected to recover.
Darby looked at the digital time display on the dash. Nearly eight o’clock. She had just enough time for a quick shower before driving to meet Hideki Kobayashi at the café. And then, between Helen’s appointments and her own plans, she was in for a very busy day.
_____
Jack Cameron wiped down the bar at the Dive and surveyed the empty restaurant. He was free on bail, thanks to Dr. Menendez’s expert opinion and his mother’s ample checkbook. He scrutinized the furniture. Some of the chairs needed replacing, he noted, and one of the awnings was starting to look a little tattered. In the past, he would have gotten angry about the constant upkeep a business required. Now he smiled, took out a small pad of paper, and made a few notes.
The Dive was a lucrative spot and Jack felt at home among its patrons. Hopefully they’d still support him while he served his sentence for destroying Belle Haven. I’ll need a manager, somebody to keep the place in good shape, he thought. Maybe Marco would be up for the job.
Jack thought back to his state of mind before Kyle was killed. Had he really done something so stupid as hiring an arsonist to torch his property? At least no one was hurt, he reminded himself. But the lack of any injuries had merely been luck, perhaps the first lucky thing that had happened to him in years.
Now don’t start thinking like that, Jack, he chided. Don’t go throwing yourself a pity party. Because that’s what it is when you blame your actions on bad luck. Helen Near had been right when she’d admonished him about taking responsibility for his behavior, told him that was the way a real man approached things. She had said the first true thing that anyone had dared say to him, and he appreciated her tough love.
His phone buzzed and he glanced at the display. Marco. He answered and heard his bartender’s familiar voice.
“Something bad’s happened, Jack.”
Jack noted the flatness of Marco’s speech. “Yeah?”
“It’s Candy. She’s dead.”
Jack reached for the bar to support his suddenly weak legs. “No.”
A sob escaped Marco’s throat. “Somebody killed her last night.” He was crying now, gulping big heaving mouthfuls of air like a fish on a dock. Jack felt his chest constrict. No, he thought. Not Candy …
“Marco, I don’t believe it.”
There was the sound of a long exhale. “Somebody got her in the alley while she was walking her dog.” He exhaled again and Jack could tell he was trying to pull himself together.
Jack felt his insides writhing with anger. Candy—dead—it couldn’t be. “We’ll get the bastard who did this,” he vowed. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. “You need anything for Candy, you call me, you understand?”
He hung up and narrowed his eyes. It could only be one person, the same person who had killed Kyle. And he would have to pay.
Jack looked down at his hands. He was still holding the damp rag, but it was twisted it into a tight knot.
_____
Hideki Kobayashi rose to his feet when he saw Darby arrive. “I hope you have not eaten breakfast,” he said.
“No,” admitted Darby. “I haven’t.” She realized suddenly that she was starving, absolutely starving. Between her run and the trip to the hospital, combined with a hurried shower and drive downtown, she was famished, and nearly everything on the cheerful plastic menu looked appealing.
The waitress came and took their order, bringing Darby a much-needed cup of strong black coffee. She sipped it gratefully and smiled at Mr. Kobayashi.
“Before we talk about St. Andrew’s Isle,” she said slowly, “could you solve a mystery for me? The other day you said some Japanese words that I recognized. Nihon Maru. May I ask, what does that mean?”
Mr. Kobayashi nodded his head vigorously. “Ah, yes, Nihon Maru, I did mention her the other day.”
“It’s a person, then?”
He laughed. “Nearly. The Nihon Maru is a boat, a beautiful sailing ship owned by
my company. She is about to start a voyage from Yokohama to your home port of San Diego. I was thinking that perhaps I would fly to California and meet her.”
Darby leaned back in her chair. “Is it an old boat?”
“No. The Nihon Maru is a replica, but built faithfully in the style of the old four-masted schooners. She is a training vessel.”
“Nihon Maru.” Darby said it softly, trying to remember more. “What does it mean?”
“Nihon is an old term for my country. Maru means boat. So it’s something like, ‘Boat of Japan.’”
Darby took a sip of her coffee, puzzled.
“I can see that I did not solve your mystery. Perhaps a photograph might help.” He reached across the table with his cell phone and pointed at the screen.
Darby picked up the phone and looked at the photograph. A lovely schooner with billowed sails filled the screen.
“What a beautiful boat.”
“Yes, she is lovely, the Nihon Maru,” Mr. Kobayashi said proudly. “That was taken just after she won a prestigious award. The Boston Teapot Trophy.”
Darby froze. Boston Teapot Trophy. She remembered hearing about the famous race, and the tall ships that competed for the prize. She heard her mother’s voice telling her what it had been like to sleep under a canopy of stars …
“My mother sailed on the Nihon Maru,” she said suddenly. She looked at Hideki Kobayashi and pointed at the image. “My mother was on that boat in Boston. That’s where she met my father.”
He regarded her with a steady look. The waitress arrived with their food and departed in silence.
“Your mother, she is no longer living?”
Darby nearly winced. Was her status as an orphan that apparent?
“She and my father died when I was young.” She looked down at her Eggs Florentine, inhaled the aroma of a perfectly cooked breakfast. This was the here and now, this elegant dish of eggs, spinach, and Mornay sauce; her parents were the painful past. She gave her client an apologetic look. “I’m keeping you from your breakfast. Please, let’s eat and I’ll stop chattering.”
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