A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  Darby pulled open the heavy door. Inside, the meeting room was set up theatre style with a few long tables across the front where the planning board members sat. Although the meeting wouldn't start for another fifteen minutes, already several people were milling about, claiming their seats, and greeting fellow islanders.

  Darby glanced at the others and spotted a tall man dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. He turned around and she locked eyes with Mark Trimble.

  She would have recognized him anywhere. He had a strong, square jaw, and eyes that were very blue against his tanned skin. His face was rugged-looking, but friendly, although perhaps a little more lined than Darby remembered. He's still a heck of a handsome guy.

  He strode across the room to hug her and she caught a whiff of suntan lotion.

  "Darby Farr! I can't believe it's you." He flashed his grin again and gave her an appraising glance. "You look fantastic. Still the same beautiful girl you always were. Man, your dad would be so proud of you. What was it he used to call you when we were racing? Wasn't it Little Bird?"

  "Little Loon. He always said my mother was as graceful as a swan, but that I darted through the water like a loon." She cleared her throat. It felt raw again. "You look pretty good yourself."

  Mark laughed. "Why, thanks. Have you seen my sister yet?"

  "No. Will she be here?"

  "Not a chance. Lucy likes these things about as much as a hangover." He glanced around the room. "I, on the other hand, find these exercises in democracy highly entertaining. So did your aunt." He paused. "I'll miss her, Darby. Lots of us on this island will miss Jane Farr. I want you to know how sorry I am that she's gone.

  "Thanks" She forced herself to focus on the steady stream of people filing in, hoping Mark didn't see the way she was fighting to stay in control of her emotions. "How did you know she died?"

  "Oh, you know life on an island. There are no secrets." He pointed in the direction of the door. "Look, there's Peyton and Emilio."

  A tall woman with upswept brown hair and a handsome, curlyhaired man entered and surveyed the room. The woman's eyes settled on Mark and she gave a nod and a small smile. She indicated where her partner should sit and then glided up to Darby and Mark.

  "Mark, darling, it's all so exciting." She gave him an air kiss and turned to Darby with an eyebrow raised. "And you are ... ?"

  "Peyton, this is Darby Farr, Jane's hotshot niece." Mark paused a moment. "Jane passed away yesterday and Darby is taking over for her."

  Peyton seemed to make an effort to appear as if she cared. "I'm sorry to hear that. Well, welcome Darby." She directed her glance back at Mark. "Lot of people, aren't there? Considering it's just a city council thing? Of course, there's hardly anything to do on this island. Quaint and charming, but rather boring when you compare it to the city. The resort should bring a little life to the place now won't it? We'll have some shows, and a martini bar, and a first-rate restaurant, not like that blah little Hurricane Harbor Inn. So pedestrian. As if all anyone wanted to eat was broiled haddock night and day."

  Darby listened, taking in the woman's expensive clothes and careful makeup job. Peyton Mayerson was close to forty, she guessed, and was already taking advantage of plastic surgery to keep time at bay. Darby caught the scent of her fragrance, and smiled in surprise.

  "You're wearing Fleurettes," she noted. "It's lovely."

  Peyton Mayerson raised her eyebrows in surprise. "That's correct. How in the world did you recognize it?"

  "I love vintage perfume. My aunt used to wear Molinard's Ver- veine" She paused, remembering the scent of Jane Farr as she'd brushed by her niece so many times, off to list an island property or meet with a buyer. "If I'm not mistaken, Molinard introduced the two perfumes the same year, 1948."

  Peyton pursed her lips. "Fleurettes was reintroduced in 1948," she corrected. "The fragrance first debuted in 1908." She gave Darby a patronizing smile. "In case you're wondering, I'm wearing the original."

  "We'd expect nothing less," grinned Mark. He waved in the direction of Emilio Landi. "Why didn't you bring your fiance over?"

  Peyton Mayerson tittered. "Hold your horses, Trimble ... we're not engaged yet." She tilted her head in his direction. "Mark's talking about Emilio Landi, my Roman boyfriend. Gorgeous, isn't he?" She blew a kiss in his direction. "I have no doubt we'll get married one of these days, right at Pemberton Point perhaps. Emilio's an absolute doll. No head for business, but he's very good at other things." She laughed again. "Hey, how about a drink tonight? See if we can shake up this sleepy old town?"

  "Good idea," said Mark, as the sound of a gavel rang through the room. "I'll have my people talk to your people."

  Peyton laughed again and strutted back toward Emilio, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floor.

  "So," whispered Mark as he leaned toward Darby. "That's Peyton Mayerson. Do you think my ancestors are rolling over in their graves when they contemplate her at the helm of their precious Fairview?"

  "Pemberton Point will never be the same."

  "Let's hope not."

  His words had an unexpectedly bitter ring. Darby looked up, but he had turned away and she could not read his expression.

  The gavel sounded and the room grew quiet. The man wielding it called for order, and then ran his committee through several agenda items in quick succession. "Now we come to Pemberton Point Weddings, Inc., looking for a change of zoning for the property known as Fairview, over there on the Point, and along with that a liquor license." He cleared his throat. "I think we've gone over this request enough and I feel comfortable voting to grant what the buyer, Ms. Mayerson, needs."

  "All those in favor-"

  The door to the committee room burst open and Darby, along with the rest of the crowd, spun toward the commotion. A powerfully built man filled the door frame. He wore a white T-shirt that showed off his bulging biceps, jeans, and black combat boots. His face was clean-shaven, with a jagged scar over one cheek, and he sported a short, military-style buzz cut. He surveyed the room as if looking for possible threats, his cold eyes taking in each person. Darby recognized those eyes-they belonged to the man who'd assaulted her at the ferry terminal. Soames Pemberton. Her anger turned to fear as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and began pulling out an object...

  There was a horrified gasp from the audience, and then a low chuckle from the intruder. "What are you scared of? Think I got a weapon, or something?" He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and brandished it before the room. "I thought you'd like to see this little item I found in my great-granddaddy's things."

  Soames Pemberton moved deliberately toward the planning board members and held the paper up as if taunting them. Slowly he unfolded it and pretended to read it for the first time. "Why look at this. It's a deed from Thaddeus Pemberton to his son, Josiah, written about a hundred years ago."

  He paused for effect and scanned the room. "My great-grandfather was a Methodist, deeply devoted to the Lord. He believed in the devil and all the ways he could lead us astray." A slow smile crept across his face. Darby felt her palms grow clammy.

  "That's why he decided, all those years ago, that any Pemberton lands had to be free of alcohol, dancing, and wild women. Old Thaddeus put that right here, in writing." He waved the paper and said softly, "There isn't going to be any fancy resort on Pemberton property."

  The room erupted in conversation, punctuated with a shriek that Darby suspected came from Peyton Mayerson. The man with the gavel banged it repeatedly, to no avail.

  The gavel banged again and Soames Pemberton chuckled, raising the hair on the back of Darby's neck. "I've got copies for all of you," he said, making his way toward a table in the back of the room. He picked up a stack of paper, approached the planning board, and began passing sheets out.

  Darby's throat felt dry and she avoided making eye contact with Soames. She heard the rustle of paper and saw Mark accept a copy. After a cursory glance, he handed it to Darby.

  Quickly she scanned
the photocopied document. It had the look of an original deed, plus the archaic language, but this version contained a much shorter description of the property than the documents she'd painstakingly reviewed.

  Darby stood and felt the eyes of the room upon her. "This deed refers to an abutting piece of property up on the road," she said. "Not the parcel in question."

  The members of the planning board breathed a sigh of relief and turned toward Soames Pemberton for his response.

  "The little lady is right," he said, his eyes staring straight at Darby with icy hatred. "This is all that's left of the property once owned totally by the Pemberton family. Great-granddaddy's widow sold it all-every last little piece-except for this worthless ten acres of cow pasture." He gave a sly look around the room. "You see, she couldn't sell this piece, because it had already been deeded to my grandfather before she got her hands on the estate. But old Thaddeus Pemberton made it clear in this deed: No drinking, dancing, or whoring, on this or any other piece of Pemberton property."

  Everyone in the room was silent, listening to the deep, flat, voice of Soames Pemberton. Finally the silence was broken by one of the planning board members.

  "Somebody put this in plain English," she said.

  The man with the gavel looked imploringly toward Darby. She rose from her chair, feeling her legs shaking beneath her.

  "If this piece of Pemberton property was conveyed first, and there was a covenant on this, as well as all the rest of the land, it would seem that these restrictions do apply to all former holdings of Thaddeus Pemberton." She paused, trying to swallow. "Even Fairview."

  The room exploded in arguing and the planning board chairman turned to the rest of the members. Darby heard him mutter, "This board can't approve anything without a legal opinion." The other members nodded. "I'll entertain a motion to postpone this decision until our next meeting, twenty days from now." Darby heard someone make the suggested motion, and then the chairman asked for a vote. A moment later he banged the gavel and the din dropped to a dull murmur, with the only audible sound Peyton Mayerson's voice screaming obscenities at her lawyer. Darby turned to Mark Trimble.

  "I'm sorry, Mark. This restriction-it's totally from left field."

  Mark nodded. "You remember my parents and their blow-out cocktail parties. No one ever mentioned an anti-drinking law to them, that's for sure." He fixed his eyes on Darby and said carefully, "This means the deal is off."

  Darby's heart sank. "I'm afraid you're right. That amendment to the contract-the one written on the index card-stipulated that Peyton needed this approval to proceed. She didn't get it, so the contract is null and void." She thought a moment, her natural optimism giving her an idea. "I wouldn't say it is dead in the water, though. We can certainly grant her an extension, give her some time to figure out, with her lawyer, how to approach this..."

  "No" Mark's tone was sharp. He looked around the room and lowered his voice. "Let's get out of here, go somewhere we can talk." Around him, the noise of the crowd had barely abated, and Darby thought she could hear an angry Peyton Mayerson above the din.

  Mark rose from the folding chair and offered an arm to Darby. "There's more to this than what's happened today," he confided. "I know just the place where we can talk privately."

  Darby stood and scanned the room for Soames Pemberton.

  "He's gone," Mark said, steering her toward the exit with a firm hand. "Chances are, you won't be seeing Soames for a while."

  Darby recalled the look of pure menace in the man's face and suppressed a shiver. Let's hope not, she thought.

  It was a short walk from the town office to the harbor and the dock where Mark's boat, Lucy T, was moored. She was a large, beautiful sloop, and the pride Mark felt in her fine lines and handsome rigging was evident.

  "Isn't she sweet? Almost as nice as the real thing, my adorable sister." He pointed at a smaller boat tied up beside the Lucy T. "That cute little Seafarer belongs to the minister. I've been giving her private lessons and she's turning out to be a heck of a sailor."

  Darby glanced at the twenty-four-foot vessel and then back at Mark. "Is that how you've been spending your time, teaching and taking care of Fairview?"

  Mark jumped aboard and glanced quickly at his cell phone, before jamming it into a pocket. "Pretty much. I still teach at the yacht club, too." He flashed the grin she remembered so well. "Guess I'm still trying to figure out what to do with my life. Having a significant trust fund makes it that much harder to find motivation, not that I'm whining about it or anything."

  Mark grinned again and wiped off the canvas seat of a director's chair with his hand. "Come aboard, Darby. We'll sit out here in the fresh air." He darted quickly below deck, emerging with a folder of papers which he placed on a small side table. "You do any sailing in California?"

  Darby hesitated, still on the dock, her heart beginning to thud in her chest. With the exception of the ferry ride, she hadn't set foot on a boat for more than ten years. She'd convinced herself that it wasn't fear that kept her off the sea, but a lack of interest. When invitations came her way to sail in the bay of San Diego, she politely declined, thinking to herself that she had better things to do. Now she knew the truth. She was petrified.

  Mark misinterpreted her delay. "Hey, don't worry about your shoes. I'm not one of these boat owners who care about that. Come on, climb aboard."

  He reached out a hand and Darby grabbed it.

  "Thanks," she managed. She wondered if Mark could see how her legs were shaking. She sank into a deck chair and waited for her body to return to some degree of normalcy.

  "Thirsty? I've got some drinks below."

  "Sure" She took a deep breath and felt her pulse slowing.

  Mark disappeared below deck, and Darby heard the clink of glasses. She took out her cell phone and called the office of Willis Foster, the Trimble family lawyer. "Have him call me as soon as possible," she told the secretary who answered.

  She glanced idly at the papers on the table. On top was a file folder, the same kind Jane Farr used. She looked at the tab. File 2 was written in neat letters.

  Mark reappeared with two glasses of an amber liquid, one of which he handed to Darby. "Ginger ale." He raised his glass in a toast. "To old friends," he said.

  "To old friends," echoed Darby. She took a sip, feeling the crisp carbonation on her tongue. What was Mark doing with Jane Farr's folder?

  "Your boat's a real beauty," she said, admiring the pristine condition of the Lucy T. Every inch was scrubbed and shining, from the aft decks to the polished stairway banister.

  Mark grinned. "Thanks" He snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot. I've got some nibbles for us." He hopped up and went below deck. Darby heard him rummaging in the boat's little galley. Carefully, she lifted the cover of the file folder.

  Inside was a contract for the sale of Fairview. Darby scanned the page and stopped, confused. The name of the buyer was not Peyton Mayerson, but an Emerson Phipps, III. She let the folder close.

  Mark Trimble emerged from below deck a minute later carrying a tray with a few cheeses, crackers, and some sliced fruit. He eased himself into a deck chair next to Darby and offered her the plate. "You never answered my question. You do any sailing in California?"

  "No," she admitted. "I admire the boats from the shore, but I haven't been on the water in a long, long, time." There was an awkward silence. Darby spread some aged blue cheese onto a rice cracker and popped it into her mouth. "So who is Emerson Phipps?"

  Mark managed a shaky laugh. "How did-"

  "This folder is twin to one in Jane's office and I've been looking for it. I recognized it immediately, and yes, I looked inside. I don't mean to snoop, but I'm now the listing agent for Fairview, and I have a right to know what's going on. So why don't you stop with the snack service and tell me exactly what is happening."

  Mark took a deep breath. "I was about to do just that." He took a sip of his drink and continued. "Phipps is an old college friend. We were in a few c
lasses together our second year at Dartmouth, and he came up here to see me the following summer. We were twenty or so at the time. He visited twice, and then he never came again. But he never forgot Fairview, or so he says.

  "About three weeks ago, I had a call from Phipps. It was quite a surprise, as we hadn't been in touch since graduation. He went to medical school after Dartmouth and became a surgeon in Boston. Spinal injuries, I think. He's done quite well from what I hear. Anyway, he saw an ad for Fairview in some Boston magazine. He recognized the place and tracked me down. I told him to get in touch with Jane and left it at that. Last week he called again and I said he was too late. He chuckled and said it was never too late to buy something if you had the right price. I told him about Peyton and the contract and figured that was the end of it."

  He took a long drink, draining his ginger ale.

  "Jane called me a day later. She'd spoken with Phipps and she seemed excited. We met in her office and drew up another contract, one that only went into effect if Peyton's fell through."

  "A backup," Darby said softly.

  "That's what she called it. A backup. She said it was a long shot but that you never knew how things would turn out." He paused. "Wouldn't she love to know what happened today! Soames Pemberton shows up with that old deed, totally taking Peyton out of the picture..."

  "And now Emerson Phipps is our new buyer." Darby reached for the folder and opened it. Her brow knotted with concern. "The price on Peyton's contract was $5.5 million."

  "I was waiting for you to notice," said Mark. "When Phipps came on the scene, Jane told him the price had gone up to $5.8 million. She wasn't going to budge, and Darby, he didn't even care. `The price really doesn't matter,' he said. Jane was in heaven."

  "I bet," Darby said dryly.

  "I think she had a premonition that something would go wrong with Peyton's plans, you know? She'd been at this so long; it was like she could predict the future."