_____
Helen Near closed and locked Near & Farr Realty and turned to Darby with a mischievous grin. “Four o’clock. Should we have a Mojito before we go to Casa Cameron for dinner?”
Darby smiled. “Actually, I’m going to run over and meet with Alexandra Cameron at her office.”
“Way the heck over to Alligator Key?”
“Yes. Her associate sent me an e-mail asking if we could meet. Truthfully, I’m not sure what it’s about, but I figured I’d check it out.” She smiled. “I’ll take a rain check on that Mojito. Should I just meet you at Casa Cameron?”
“Sure. I may very well head over early and spend some time with Mitzi. With all that has happened, I do worry about her. John’s out of the picture now, and even though it’s for the best, I still think it is hard.”
Darby agreed and headed to the black Mustang. Consulting her map, she found the skinny strip of land that composed Alligator Key and the causeway leading out to it. She started the car and headed south.
Darby recalled what she had learned—mainly from Helen—of Alexandra Cameron’s career path to date. Unlike her sorority sisters Kyle and Chellie, the beautiful heiress had not graduated from Florida State. Instead, she’d dropped out midway through her senior year to embark on a series of activities and trips designed to help her “find herself.” Spread over the last fifteen years, these diversions had done nothing but make her more and more restless and unhappy.
Then Mitzi gave her daughter a session at a spa specializing in wellness. The stay so impressed Alexandra that she returned to her old university, pursued a degree through the department of nutrition, food, and exercise science, and emerged a woman with a purpose. No one was more surprised than her family and friends when she set up a small counseling practice that specialized in eating and depression. Soon she began collaborating with a colleague on a book designed to help people eat for happiness. Together they’d rented an inexpensive office south of Sarasota on a small windy spit of land called Alligator Key.
Darby drove the Mustang across the narrow causeway and slowed at the end of the road. She consulted the directions from Alexandra’s website. As they described, she was now passing a swampy estuary. Immediately after, she spotted the low, boxy building where Alexandra Cameron worked.
Darby pulled into the parking lot. It was empty—no sign of any other vehicles. She took a look at her cell phone. Had she misread the time of their meeting?
The office had huge floor to ceiling windows with a drive-through area on the side and was painted a garish yellow and red. It looked like a fast-food restaurant, which was, in fact, what it had been. “We couldn’t resist the irony of turning an old hamburger joint into a nutrition clinic,” Alexandra had written on her website’s home page. “Fortunately the Cameron Foundation provided the means for us to get rid of the smell of greasy French fries.”
Darby regarded her surroundings while she figured out her next step. There was very little traffic on Alligator Key. In the time since she had been sitting in the lot, only one or two cars had passed. She checked the time once more, and punched in Alexandra’s number.
Her call was answered immediately.
“Darby, I am so, so, sorry I couldn’t get down there. I had an emergency with one of my anorexic patients and have just left the hospital. Did you get my message at the office? Please forgive me.”
“These things happen. Is your patient okay?”
“Fortunately, yes. We nearly lost her but she’s going to make it, at least for today.” Alexandra Cameron sighed. “Mom called about her dinner tonight. Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Then I can apologize again in person. See you soon, Darby.”
Darby hung up and started the Mustang. When things like this happened, she tried to stay philosophical. I can either get annoyed, or I can view it as an unexpected opportunity. She took a deep breath and willed her annoyance away.
Driving by the estuary, her eye was attracted to a large white bird. Heron, she thought, turning to get a better look. A flash of pink made her curious, so she pulled to the side of the road.
The bird was less than three feet tall, with long, stork-like pink legs and bright pink wings. With a sweeping motion, it swung a flattened bill back and forth in the shallow water, presumably looking for food. The bird’s bill was oddly shaped—like a spoon, Darby thought. She grabbed her Smartphone and did some quick research. She looked back at the mangrove-bordered water. She was gazing at a roseate spoonbill.
So there, she thought, as she turned carefully back into the road. It was as if the spoonbill had been placed there just for her to observe. She drove back to the city limits of Sarasota feeling as if she’d been given a gift.
_____
“What’s up?” asked Dave DiNunzio, setting a stack of papers on Kelly McGee’s desk with a thump.
“Ugh,” she groaned. “Not more paperwork!”
“That’s right. All for you.” Dave gave a wolfish grin. “You’re the one who wants to make detective before you’re thirty, remember?”
“Hey, I told you that in confidence.”
“I didn’t tell anyone.” He smirked down at her. “Just the guys I play poker with.”
“Great. That’s just great. Do you tell them everything?”
“Pretty much.”
Kelly fidgeted at her desk, annoyed. She had no idea who played in his precious poker game but she didn’t like the idea of his discussing her hopes and dreams with anyone. Not for the first time, she doubted Dave’s ability to keep his darn mouth shut.
“Where’s Detective Briggs?” she asked, as she began sorting through the stack. That morning she’d made it through half of the appointments on her list, but so far, she was no closer to finding anything new in Candy Sutton’s murder.
“I think he had a meeting with Lieutenant Governor Howe.” He checked his watch. “She called around four and he left to go meet her.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Wonder what that’s all about?”
Kelly felt her cheeks growing hot. “The task force, I guess.”
He grinned and shrugged. “Maybe.”
She watched him walk to his desk. Any goodwill she’d felt for him after their shared foray into Burmese python territory was gone. She was back at square one, finding him childish and downright annoying.
Kelly grabbed the first bunch of papers from the pile and glanced at her watch. Was it even worth starting when it was nearly five o’clock? Don’t procrastinate, Kelly! Whatever you get done today is that much less for the morning. The self pep talk gave her the little bit of motivation she needed, and with a small sigh Kelly McGee started in on the pile before her.
_____
Driving through an unfamiliar part of Sarasota, Darby felt as if another gift was thrust her way. She was on a lonely stretch of road, miles inland from the Gulf, in a part of the city that time seemed to have forgotten. An old industrial plant of some kind sprawled across a weedy field, the company’s sign so faded she could not make out even one word. Beside it was a small clearing dotted with narrow gray headstones. “Pine Grove,” read a small metal marker.
Darby slowed the Mustang. This was the cemetery Peter Janssen had mentioned, the place where African-Americans could bury their dead during the time of segregation. It certainly was in a remote part of the city. On a whim, she pulled down the long, narrow dirt road that led to the back of the cemetery.
She stepped out of the car for a stretch. Huge longleaf pines, more than one hundred feet tall, bordered the tiny graveyard, nearly blocking out the late afternoon sun. She heard the shriek of a bird in the distance, cutting through the silence like a siren. She walked toward the graves to give her legs some exercise.
The cemetery dated back to post-Civil war days, and was very different from the manicured park-like burying grounds of the Euro-American tradition. Trees and vegetation were native. No attempt to landscape had been attempted, and grass was sparse. The headstones were modest,
small, and, in some cases, made of rough pieces of wood.
She wandered among the graves, reading the spare epitaphs and names of the dead. Jedediah Owens … Maybelle Hunt … Samuel Lincoln Jones … Some had years carved into the modest stones, and Darby noted that the oldest grave was at the end of the nineteenth century, while the most recent appeared to be in the 1950s or so.
Nothing appeared to have been touched for a long, long time. Strangler figs wound their sinuous vines in and around the gravestones, giving it an abandoned look, and yet hadn’t Peter mentioned something about a gardener? Oddly enough, Darby felt the setting was more moving in its forlorn state than the elaborate, artificially landscaped cemeteries dotting the hillsides of California. This place seemed to say that death was inevitable and yet natural, as natural as the pinecones that littered the mounds of dirt and crunched underneath her sandals.
She wondered where Genevieve Walker was buried. She looked at a few more rows of gravestones and then turned back toward the Mustang. It was getting on dusk and time to head to Casa Cameron.
As she made her way back to the convertible, she noticed one grave with a fresh bunch of wildflowers poking out of a blue enameled pitcher. Curious, she walked toward it, and noticed that the name on the stone was indeed Genevieve’s.
A small metal box was wedged beside the flowers. Darby wondered what it held and leaned in for a closer look.
“Go ahead, take a peek.” The pleasant voice behind her made Darby nearly jump two feet with fright.
“Peter! You scared the heck out of me!” She smiled in relief at the affable man dressed in tan slacks and a navy blue zip-front jacket. “What are you doing here?”
“I come here often,” he explained. “I hadn’t planned on it today, but here we are.” He gestured at the grave. “I was hoping you’d find Genevieve.”
Darby looked at the small marker memorializing the woman who had helped raise Peter Janssen. “I see what you mean about this cemetery being remote. I literally stumbled upon it.” She looked at the towering pines and noticed that the sky was becoming grayer. “It’s a very peaceful place.”
“That it is,” he said. He had his hands in the pockets of his jacket as if he were waiting for something.
Darby felt her heart rate speed up. Something was off balance. She looked around for Peter’s Buick.
“Where did you park?”
He jerked his head in the direction Darby had driven. “Back at the old canning factory. I didn’t want to startle you with my engine.”
“But creeping up on me by foot was no problem?” Darby croaked out a harsh chuckle. She licked her lips; they were incredibly dry. “Peter, did you follow me?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be alone with you.” He smiled. “Did you see the little gift I gave Genevieve?”
Darby turned back toward the box. “Yes, but I didn’t want to—pry,” she said. “And I really should be heading out.” She glanced in the direction of the Mustang, one hundred or so yards away.
“Take a look in the box.” His voice had a slight edge. “See what I’ve given Genevieve, and then you can head out to the Cameron estate for dinner.”
Darby felt a chill wash over her. How did he know about her dinner plans?
“Actually, I do need to get on the road—”
He loomed over her petite frame. “Take a look!”
Slowly, she reached for the box.
It was no bigger than a cigarette pack, made out of tin, with small pink rosebuds stamped on the lid. The metal was smooth and cool to the touch.
“I don’t want to open it.”
“Do it.” His voice was low and dangerous. Darby’s hands trembled as she pushed up on the lid.
The box’s hinges made a soft squeak of protest as the cover opened. Inside, nestled in a bed of cotton batting, was an exquisite little cocktail ring, oval shaped, with an old-fashioned cut diamond surrounded by small sapphires. Her heart nearly in her throat, she raised her eyes to Peter’s face.
“This was Kyle’s ring,” she whispered.
His eyes narrowed and he nodded, slowly, watching as horror washed over Darby like a wave. “This was her grandmother’s …”
She dropped the box and bolted toward the Mustang.
Kelly McGee was reading through a stack of pawn shop reports when Dave DiNunzio tapped on her shoulder. “Almost quitting time. How about a pick-me-up cappuccino? My treat.”
Kelly shrugged. It was kind of sweet, the way he was trying to be friends, even if he was the most irritating man on two feet. She gave a quick smile. “Sure.”
He grinned and walked down the hallway, whistling a tune that seemed familiar.
Kelly groaned and resumed her study of the data. She was comparing the pawn shops’ new inventory against stolen property sheets, hoping to find a few matches. Jonas Briggs had asked her to be on the lookout for something specific: an ornate cocktail ring. Kelly circled an entry labeled “jewelry.” She added the shop to her list of follow-ups.
As she worked, snatches of the melody Dave had been whistling kept flitting through her thoughts. Why was it, she wondered, that the smallest bit of a song could stay stuck in your brain, even as you willed it to be forgotten? The melody was one she recalled from the radio—and maybe TV, too—although she had no idea when it was recorded. Kelly was about to scream with frustration when a fragment of the song’s lyrics came to her. She hummed a few bars and snapped her fingers. “The Gambler.” It was a song made famous by that kindly looking country singer with a big white beard. A song about playing cards.”
Playing poker …
She felt the same excited feeling as when she’d stumbled upon Kyle’s middle initial and knew it would lead to something. Carefully she put down the stack of papers in her hands and glanced toward the office door. It was swinging shut behind DiNunzio, now strolling down the aisle, clutching a tray with two coffees. He was about to give her one when she put up a hand.
“Dave,” she began, her mouth suddenly dry. “About your Thursday poker game.”
“Yeah?” he asked, shifting his weight to one side.
“Who are the players?”
_____
Wham! Darby Farr’s face met the driver’s side door of the black Mustang, thanks to a hard shove by Peter Janssen. “Nice try,” he growled. “But you’re not the only one who knows how to run.”
Darby’s head was up against the window, her cheekbone and nose throbbing from the impact. He relaxed his hold and she felt a wave of dizziness, followed by nausea. She willed them both away and tried to focus.
“Let me go. I’m sure there’s a good reason why you’ve got that ring.” She tasted blood in her mouth; his shove had loosened some of her teeth.
He chuckled. “Oh, yeah, there’s a good reason. It was on Kyle’s finger when I lopped it off.” He used both hands to push her back against the car. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to cut off a finger, even a pinkie?” He brought his face in close to hers. “Like cutting the head off a chicken, only tougher. You have to try and get your knife in between the joints.”
He pulled back again and shook his head. “Shit, Darby, I thought you were headed back to California, or Maine, or wherever the hell you came from, and you’d leave this little mystery behind.” He glanced around the graveyard, his voice and Darby’s panting the only audible sounds. “I didn’t think I’d have to hurt you.”
“I can still do that,” she said, her tongue becoming thicker. “Let me go and I’ll just get on a plane.”
“Oh sure! Right after you go running to your little law enforcement friends. No thank you. Like it or not, you’re a part of the problem now.” He paused. “Luckily, most problems can be dealt with.”
Slowly he pulled something from his jacket pocket. “Get away from the car,” he said calmly.
Darby’s mind was spinning. Peter Janssen was holding a gun and it was aimed at her heart. At only two feet away, there was
no way he would miss. The words of her martial arts teacher rang in her head. “Once you see a gun, the game is over.” She tried to stall until she could figure out a way to escape.
“Peter, what’s this all about? You and Kyle were friends.”
A soft laugh from the older man sent chills down her spine. “Friends? I’m not sure if Kyle had any friends, to tell you the truth. Conniving little bitch.” He waved the gun in the direction of Genevieve’s grave. “Walk.”
Darby shuffled away from the Mustang, trying to judge how she could bolt from Peter without being fatally shot in the head or heart.
“What did Kyle do to you?” Darby’s legs felt like lead. She tried to shake them, to get them ready for escape.
“Let’s see. She stole from me, for one. She stole from me every single chance she could get.”
“Your clients.”
“Damn right. It started long before she came to work at Barnaby’s. She targeted every single person I worked with and wooed most of them away from me. Can you imagine what that felt like?”
They had reached Genevieve’s grave. Darby stopped and turned to face her captor. “You must have been furious.”
“I tried to tell Marty what kind of person she was. I warned him six years ago not to hire her, not to let her work at Barnaby’s, but he just laughed.” He waved the gun as he spoke, clearly agitated.
“And then?”
“I gave him an ultimatum, said it was her or me. If she came to work with us, I was quitting.” He gave Darby a look of cold fury. “He didn’t even care.”
“Why didn’t you quit?”
“Don’t you think that occurred to me? Where else was I going to go? Barnaby’s was my dream!”
He gave her a helpless shrug. “The truth of it was, I couldn’t leave. My sales figures were dropping—no one wanted me. So I stayed and sucked it up, year after year after year. I pretended to like Kyle Cameron. I acted like she was the best thing since air conditioning. I offered to help her out when she took her little trips with her husband, and later, McFarlin. I had Marty and everyone else believing that we were good little buddies.”
Killer Listing Page 26