Oblivious to the two grieving women, Darby backed away from her aunt and her painful past. Across the sleeping patient, Tina sniffed and sighed, taking Darby's movement as a signal that it was time to leave. "You're right, Darby," she nodded. "We'd better go get our boat."
The gray-shingled building that served as the state's ferry terminal was a trim structure surrounded by a white picket fence and neatly mowed lawn. As she steered the truck into line for the ferry, Tina explained that the old terminal had burned five summers earlier during a severe thunderstorm. "Your aunt gave some money to the new building fund. Her name's on a granite marker over on the water side."
"It's almost 11:30," Darby noted. "Surely there isn't a ferry at this time of night?"
Tina nodded. "Yep. That was part of the deal Jane made when she gave the money. Weekend ferries at one A.M., so that islanders can party on the mainland, go to the movies, whatever, and still get home. Sunday through Thursday, the last one's at 11:30," Tina grinned. "Kinda made her a hero, making negotiations like that."
Darby glanced at the building her aunt had helped create. The little parking lot was well lit, and Darby thought she saw two people holding signs.
"That couple over there-they can't be protestors?"
Tina parked the truck and yanked her keys out of the ignition. "They're picketing, all right. The state wants to put a bridge here, some huge thing like they did over in Canada, you know, to Prince Edward Island? The vote's not for a couple of months, but people are pretty upset already. They've got petitions and whatnot, a citizen's group, you name it." She reached for the turquoise pocketbook and slung it over her shoulder.
"I'm goin' to grab our tickets and a Diet Coke. You want anything?"
"Just the bathroom."
"Back of the building," Tina slammed the truck door. "Unisex, but a sorry sight better than one of those port-o-pottys, which is, if you remember, what used to be here." She began strutting toward the picket fence, her heels clicking against the parking lot like the hooves of a deer. Darby saw the protesters try to hand her something but she waved them away and kept walking.
The night air held the tang of the Atlantic, a musky, sharp scent that seemed more intense than it did on the West Coast. Overhead a gull cried, his body glowing white against the stars. Darby walked across the parking lot, feeling the salty air on her face. In the faint glow of the parking lot's lights, she noticed more lupines blooming against the back of the building, their pastel shades luminescent in the moonlight.
Darby opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. It was dark, without the benefit of the overhead lamps outside, and Darby's eyes strained to adjust to the dimness. The heavy door shut with a bang. She ran a hand down the cool surface of the wall, hunting for the light switch, and heard a small sound like an animal exhaling ...
Her pulse quickened. There was something trapped in the bathroom. As Darby reached for the door handle to escape, she felt the force of someone grabbing her from behind in a bear hug, pinning her arms back in a painful squeeze. She screamed and twisted toward her attacker. Getting a good look at a face before escaping meant identification. Of course, that would be the last thing her assailant would want ...
A huge man loomed over her.
Bushy black hair in the form of a beard and thick black eyebrows covered most of his face. A tangle of black curls sprung from his head and his plaid flannel shirt. The smell of unwashed skin assailed her senses, but that was the least of Darby's problems.
"Where ya headed, little girl?" His voice was thick, slurred, dangerous.
Quickly she reacted with the defensive fighting skills she'd honed at San Diego's Akido Academy. Keeping her breathing controlled and forcing herself to focus, she brought her knee up hard, hoping to connect with his groin. Instead, she encountered hard musclehis thigh. She refused to give into the panic that was rising like bile in her throat.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Let go of me!" Her screams were accompanied by the hardest stomp on his foot she could muster.
His eyes widened in surprise. Darby could see the edge of a large tattoo on his forearm.
"You always were a wildcat. A little Oriental spitfire." He lunged closer, his face now only inches from hers.
"I saw you in the truck with Tina," he whispered, his lips brushing the edge of her ear. "What're you doing back on the island, Darby Farr?"
Cold dread washed over her body. He knows my name ...
She took a quick breath and forced herself to focus. His arms were on her neck, squeezing against her throat. With all the strength she could muster, she raised her arms above his shoulders, and brought them down hard on his forearms. He pulled his hands back in surprise, the hold broken. Darby tried to flee the small space, but her attacker's instincts were too quick. Before she could wriggle out of the bathroom, he lunged at her torso, pinning her against the grimy wall.
A second passed with no sound. Darby's attacker let out a low chuckle, crystallizing her dread into pure fear.
"Where'd you learn those moves, huh kitten?" He gave her arm a wrench that made her wince in pain, and then, to her surprise, shoved her away.
"Stay away from the island," he snarled. His eyes, cold and black, seemed to bore right through her. "Unless you want to end up like your parents."
Darby felt for the doorknob behind her back and yanked it hard. Pain shot through her wrist as she swung open the heavy metal door.
"Don't threaten me, you sack of shit," she spat, backing away and beginning to run.
The door clanged shut as Darby dashed toward the truck, his throaty laugh ringing in her ears.
Tina was sipping a Diet Coke when Darby, panting, reached the truck.
"What the hell?" Tina asked, seeing the younger woman's ripped shirt and bloodied hand.
Darby looked back toward the bathroom. "Call the police. That guy-there-" She pointed at the flannel-clad figure now slouched by the outside of the bathroom door. "He jumped me in the bath,, room.
Tina's mouth set in a grim line. "Soames Pemberton," she said. "You okay? What'd he do?"
"Pinned me from behind, told me to stay off the island." She tried to catch her breath. Soames Pemberton-the name was definitely registering. For some reason, she didn't want to mention his threat about her parents. Without meaning to, she shuddered. "Is he as dangerous as he seems?"
"Oh yeah. He's as bad as they come, now. Used to be a boat captain and drive this ferry, but the state yanked his license when he came back from the Gulf. Drug use-heroin to be exact." Her eyes lingered on the man before flitting to Darby. "Was he high? Could you tell?"
"Possibly. I couldn't exactly administer a drug test." She rubbed her wrist. "Why isn't he locked up?"
"Has been, here and there. But you barely turn around and he's out again, you know?"
Darby did know, all too well. In California there were similar creeps who never seemed to get what they deserved.
Tina gave her another of her sideways glances. "Soames' grandfather or great-grandfather owned the whole of Pemberton Point at one time, from where the Trimble estate is right clear around to the cove. I think the family got it way back from the King of England or something. Little by little they sold chunks of it off, and I think the only piece of land any Pembertons own now is Soames' sorry little doublewide on the property line."
She started up the truck and followed the line of cars onto the ferry, then parked behind a small economy car and turned to face Darby. "I'm surprised you don't remember him. Left before you did and joined the Navy. Became a SEAL-you know, the ones who never get taken prisoner? It was a big deal for the island. Only a small percent of guys make it, and Soames was one of them." "
I think I do remember. There was a parade and a ceremony at the dock." She had the sudden image of her father, tanned and smiling, holding tightly to her hand. He had spoken to Soames Pemberton, told the powerful-looking young man something in a low voice. After that he'd clapped him on the back, wished him good luck.
"Nobody really knows. He finished his training and got sent to the Gulf War, the first one, in the early 90s, some top-secret guerilla warfare missions that he could never talk about. He came back with that post-traumatic stress disease, plus the heroin habit. And he was never what you'd call a nice person to begin with."
Her voice softened. "An island's not an easy place to live, you know? It pushes some people right around the bend. They start talking to themselves, running around in their pajamas in broad daylight, that kind of thing. But Soames?" She shuddered. "He's become a monster, pure and simple."
"Then let's call the cops. Get him locked up, at least for tonight."
Tina put the truck keys in the turquoise purse. Her brilliant blue eyes were suddenly brittle and Darby could see she was furious. "Believe me, it will only make it worse. Listen, just stay away from Soames Pemberton. One of these days he's gonna kill someone and get locked up for good, but until then, he's like a great white in a plastic kiddie swimming pool."
She reached across Darby and yanked open the glove compartment, rummaged around and pulled out a small cylinder which she tossed on Darby's lap. "Pepper spray. I got a bunch of 'em. Stick it in your pocket and don't be afraid to use it. Way more effective than calling the cops any day."
Darby fingered the spray and jammed it in her denim jacket as instructed. She'd used the stuff back in California on a guy who'd grabbed her when she was out running, and he'd hit the pavement like a sack of bricks, giving Darby enough time to sprint to safety and call the police. "I wouldn't have the least problem giving Soames Pemberton a blast or two," she said.
"Good." Tina looked at her carefully. "You want some night air? Let's go on top."
The two women left the truck and climbed up a set of stairs to an observation deck. The ferry began moving, heading purposefully across the bay with engines sounding as if they were at full capacity. In the wake of the vessel, two porpoises followed along, their bodies jet black and shiny in the foamy water. Tina pointed through the darkness at a small island, no bigger than a parking space, where Darby could see nothing but boulders and a few spruce trees. "Your aunt sold that a couple of months ago. Two million dollars. Amazing what these flatlanders will buy."
The sky overhead was studded with stars. Darby and Tina picked out the few constellations they recognized: the Big Dipper, the Pleiades, and the Little Dipper. Outwardly, Darby Farr looked content, her episode with Soames Pemberton nearly a memory. Inside, however, her thoughts churned like the water behind the boat. Any minute now and she'd see the island emerging out of the inky black night. Was she prepared?
She let her thoughts wander back to California and the various deals she'd left in her assistant's capable hands. Enrique Tomaso Gomez, or "ET" as Darby called him, was an aging Ricky Martin, debonair and suave, his back always ramrod straight and his sense of propriety even straighter. Because she depended so much on her solo employee, Darby compensated him well, paying a hefty salary plus commission, most of which, she suspected, he spent on designer-label clothes. He favored silk shirts, open at the neck to reveal a thick forest of slightly graying chest hair, and pressed pants.
Just then the ferry's engines slowed as the vessel entered the slow harbor zone. Darby took a deep breath and looked toward the bow of the boat. There it was: Hurricane Harbor. In the darkness she could just make out the tiny ramshackle ticket office, just as she remembered, with a curving road leading up the hill and past the Cafe.
Darby reached out to grab the handrail with shaking hands. Her heart was beating so quickly she could barely catch her breath. She felt like an engine that was constantly revving and would seize up at any moment. Get a grip. This isn't life or death.
Tina motioned to return to the truck and Darby followed her down to the parked lines of vehicles. Tina started the engine and drove off the ferry and onto the road.
I'm back, Darby thought. I never thought this day would come, but I'm back on Hurricane Harbor.
She stole a glance in the passenger side mirror. I look exactly the same. Straight black hair parted in the middle and hanging to the middle of her back; arched black eyebrows; and dark, almondshaped eyes. Anyone looking would see a slim half-Asian, halfCaucasian woman in her late twenties. Your typical Islander, Darby thought wryly. Just another kid from Maine.
If Darby Farr's outward appearance hadn't changed in ten years, neither had the look of her hometown. Even in the dark, Darby could see that the Cafe and neighboring bar were exactly the same: tall, wooden structures with weathered paint and tattered awnings. So, too, was the Hurricane Harbor Inn, where Darby had waited tables one summer. Inexplicably, Darby felt strangely comforted by the familiar buildings. These landmarks feel like a life raft, she thought, as she watched Tina maneuver the truck on the narrow island roads.
The bar was called The Eye of the Storm, or, in local parlance, "the Eye." It was the only real nightspot on the island, unless one counted the gas station on the other end of town, where islanders often hung around the dumpster and downed a six-pack or two. Darby remembered at least one occasion when she and Lucy Trimble had managed to sneak into the Eye and order rounds of Cape Codders. While picking at their chicken wings and fried clams they'd gotten pretty drunk. One night the two girls were so inebriated they had passed out on the floor of Fairview's potting shed, only to have the gardener scream bloody murder when he discovered them in the morning.
The road curved uphill from the Hurricane Harbor Cafe and around a bend Darby had once known very well. She held her breath and there it was: Long Cove, stretching before them in moonlit beauty, a smile-shaped piece of beach with gently ebbing water. It had been Darby's playground as a child and her sanctuary as a teen. Now, as an adult, she saw it for what it truly was: a beautiful piece of nature, unspoiled and tranquil. Her heart ached for what she knew lay around the next bend.
As if anticipating Darby's tenseness, Tina slowed the truck and lowered the volume on the radio. They rounded the bend, and there was the low white farmhouse with its wide front porch, framed by magnificent maples that Darby knew turned a vivid bright orange in October. In the darkness she could make out a tricycle parked on the patch of green lawn in front, and a swing hanging from one of the maples. Darby's eyes welled with tears. Once again she told herself to get control of her emotions.
"That's one sale I can never forget," Darby said, keeping her voice deceptively light. She thought about what the house had meant to her and made a vow. I'll never forgive Jane for letting itgo, she thought. Tina glanced her way but said nothing. Instead, she honked at a battered red jeep as it passed.
"What's Donny doing out so late?" she wondered.
"Who's Donny?"
"One of the Pease boys. He's the caretaker for Fairview, plus he fixes things at the Hurricane Harbor Inn." Her voiced sounded a little pinched and she cleared her throat. "You must be exhausted. I'm taking you right to Jane's so you can get a good night's sleep. We'll tackle all this Fairview stuff in the morning."
Darby nodded. As Tina steered the truck around a curving road past the old Ice Pond, the ringing of her cell phone startled them both. She answered it and listened for a minute, her posture stiffening. "Shit," she muttered. And then, "Thanks."
Tina said nothing as she slowed the truck before a tall Victorian that Darby recognized. It was Jane Farr's home, the house from which Darby had fled ten years earlier. Tina turned into the driveway, parked and turned to Darby, her full red lips pursed.
"I'm going to give you this truck," she announced. "Your aunt can't use it now and anyway, I figure you're sort of used to driving her vehicles?"
"Very funny." Darby smiled in the darkness. "How will you get home?"
"Donny. I'll give him a call and he'll pick me up." She sighed and placed the truck's keys on the dashboard.
"Tina, is
there something you're not telling me? Something to do with that phone call?"
Tina turned to face Darby and nodded. Outside a lone cricket chirped mournfully. "That was Laura Gefferelli, calling from the hospital. I'm sorry, Darby. Your aunt is dead."
THREE
FOR A WOMAN WHO'D made a small fortune selling houses, Jane Farr's own property was downright modest. A neat little Queen Anne Victorian with a turret and a trim, picket-fenced yard, it gave every impression of propriety and poise. Darby remembered the polished wood floors, crisp white moldings around the doors, and furniture covered in lots of flowery chintz. She recalled an impression of warmth: fires crackling in the fireplaces; the walls painted in soothing tones-an environment that lulled a visitor into thinking they were in a safe haven, when in fact the cozy home was a lioness' den.
Darby Farr was in for a surprise.
While Tina flicked on lamps and overhead lights in each of the rooms, Darby saw that, although the "bones" of the house hadn't been altered, gone were the furnishings that had given it a welcoming atmosphere. The oversized sofas, chairs, and occasional tables were missing, and the walls, once dotted with tastefully done oil paintings of the craggy Maine coast, were bare.
"This is a bit of a shock," said Tina, as she pointed to the gleaming exercise machines that now lined the walls of the living room and front hall. A treadmill took up most of the dining room. A rowing machine blocked one of the fireplaces. Even the kitchen was not immune: in place of the old farm table Darby remembered was a large computer monitor and printer. Jane's comfortable home had morphed into a YMCA with office space.
Tina looked at Darby and shrugged. "She got into exercise in a big, big, way," she explained. "Might have been some sort of latelife thing, I don't know. It started with one of those tummy crunching machines, the kind they sell on television? Then it kind of went off from there." She waved a hand in the general direction of the exercise machines. "Anyway, your aunt was in very, very, good physical shape. I've seen her doing that machine over there-" she pointed to a bench press, "with so many of those big weights on it, I thought for sure it would collapse and crush her to death. And you should have seen her on that treadmill! She walked so fast the thing couldn't hardly keep up with her. No sooner would she finish with that, she'd take a couple swigs of water and start rowin', or jumpin' rope" Tina paused and shook her head. "Hard to believe she wasn't strong enough."
A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 4