A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  Darby thought back to the planning board meeting. Not even Jane Farr could have imagined a scene like that. A nagging suspicion entered Darby's thoughts. Could her aunt have known about the old deed? She told herself no, that Jane would have been just as surprised by the revelations of Soames Pemberton.

  She looked back over the pages and noticed only one signature in the seller's area.

  "Lucy hasn't signed this."

  "She will," Mark stated confidently. "She doesn't care who buys Fairview, she just wants out." "

  I see that Phipps had no contingencies-no building inspections, no water tests, and no financing. He's paying cash?'

  Mark nodded. "Yup" He took out his cell phone and glanced at his calls. "He's due to call me any time now," he said. "He wants to know as soon as possible what happened at the Planning Board meeting, and whether or not he's the lucky winner."

  "I wouldn't make that call just yet," said Darby. "I want to speak to your attorney to verify the legitimacy of Soames' claims. I was hoping he'd call me back this morning."

  "Does it matter? Whether the restrictions are enforceable or not, Peyton didn't get her approval for a liquor license or a zone change. The contract says if she doesn't get that approval by the end of today, the deal is off. I think that puts Phipps on top."

  "I'd still like to check with Willis Foster." She paused. "And if Emerson Phipps is, as you said, the lucky winner? What happens then?"

  "He's going to drive up from Boston and buy the house this afternoon."

  "Today?" Darby forced herself to focus. In the space of an hour, one deal had crashed and burned while another, even more lucrative one arose, like a phoenix, from the ashes. This is why I love real estate, she thought. And why my aunt had loved it, too.

  FOUR

  DARBY LISTENED WHILE MARK relayed the events of the planning board meeting to his sister. When he mentioned the backup offer from Emerson Phipps, his tone changed from enthusiastic to incredulous.

  "What do you mean you won't sell to Phipps?" Darby heard him say. "It doesn't matter who the buyer is, don't you see that, Lu? Who cares if it is Peyton and her silly Italian sidekick, or Phipps? What matters is that we are done with it; that we can travel, or buy new homes, or just sit around and paint. I know, I know, you don't just sit around and paint. The point is, what do we care who purchases the place?"

  There was a pause while Mark listened to his sister. Finally he said in a subdued tone, "Okay. Thanks."

  He clicked off his cell phone and turned to Darby with a frown. "She'll do it, but she's not happy" He rose and stretched his legs. "I don't get it. Yeah, Phipps is an arrogant son of a bitch, but why should she care if he takes a major headache off our hands?" He ruffled his hair in frustration. "Plus he's paying more money!"

  "Lucy says she remembers Emerson Phipps. You were around that summer, Darby. Do you remember the guy?"

  Darby thought a moment, and then shook her head. "No, I don't. Maybe when I see him, I'll have some recollection." Possessed of a photographic palate memory, Darby was unusually good at remembering faces, too. And yet the name Emerson Phipps did not spark any associations.

  "Is this why Lucy hasn't signed the back-up offer yet? If she doesn't feel comfortable with this sale..."

  "Who knows why she's going off on this tangent? She's got a big gallery opening in July and the annual art show this weekend. Maybe it's tension from trying to get ready. She's got a copy of the offer, and she says she hasn't even opened the envelope!" he sighed. "She's doing well, you know, as an artist. Her career is poised to really take off."

  He ran a hand through his hair and continued. "I don't know what her story is, but she'll get over it. She'll definitely get over it and sign anything we need her to sign. After all the work I've done to get this place sold..."

  Darby debated her next comment and her instincts as a realtor won out. "Mark, have you thought about keeping the property for a while, at least until the vote on the bridge is over? There's a good chance that you and Lucy could make even more money if that bridge from Manatuck is constructed."

  Mark Trimble wheeled toward Darby, taking her by surprise. A dark look contorted his face. "Wait? Wait? I've been waiting my whole life to get rid of that place. It's a prison, Darby, a fucking prison. I won't own Fairview one day longer than I have to. And you know what? I don't care if the man in the moon buys it." He rammed his hand on the side table and papers from the file scattered on the deck. The blast of a horn signaling the arrival of a passenger tour boat broke the silence.

  "Shit, I'm sorry, Darby." He ran a hand through his thick hair. "I shouldn't take it out on you. It's just that-well, I didn't expect Lucy to react in this way. I thought she'd be happy." He sighed. "She's been through so much, I thought she'd be able to let the old place go as easily as I can." He knelt and collected the papers and placed them back in the file. "She's headed over to Fairview shortly. Let's go over there together. I know she'd love to see you, and I sure as hell hope she'll sign this backup offer."

  Darby consulted her watch. "Okay. I'll do my best to point out the advantages of this sale, but I represent both you and your sister. If she refuses to sign, the deal is off."

  He looked up quickly. "I'll just have to hope she comes around," he said.

  "Stop at the office," Darby requested, as she and Mark climbed into his vintage blue convertible. "I need a copy of this contract."

  "Fine. I'll run over to the Cafe for a sandwich. Want anything?"

  Darby declined. They pulled into the parking lot and he strode across the street.

  Tina met Darby at the door. "Mark Trimble's attorney returned your call. It's on your voice mail."

  "Thanks" Darby listened to the message, wondering whether the restrictions on the Pemberton property could possibly be for real.

  "That old covenant against drinking and dancing could certainly be legitimate," the voice on the machine equivocated, "but then I can't be sure until I have a chance to look at the old deeds in the registry on Manatuck. Prohibitions like that were common at the time. Why, we even have some dry towns remaining here in Maine."

  Darby groaned as she saved the message from Willis Foster. A typical lawyerly response, she thought. It tells me absolutely nothing.

  Her gut told her that the crazy story was somehow the truth, and yet she had a hard time imagining that Soames Pemberton had merely happened upon the old deed. I'll go to the registry myself and search the records, she thought. Chances are, I can find what I need in an afternoon. She rose and made copies of the agreement with Emerson Phipps. Whoever he was, a twist of fate was putting him in the position to buy his dream house. Some people are born lucky, Darby thought.

  Copies in hand, Darby was about to leave when the door flew open and Peyton Mayerson, boyfriend in tow, burst into the office.

  "Darby Farr," she spat. "Where do I stand on my purchase of Fairview?"

  The handsome Italian man beside her was silent, his hands jammed into the pockets of a rich, chocolate-brown leather jacket.

  "Ms. Mayerson, Signor Landi-won't you both have a seat." Darby indicated two wooden chairs in her aunt's small conference room.

  "I'm not in the mood for tete-a-tetes. Just tell me, do we still have a deal?"

  "I'm afraid not, Ms. Mayerson. An amendment to the contract stipulated that you would have planning board approval today, or the deal was null and void."

  "I don't remember any amendment," Peyton sputtered. "What are you talking about?"

  Darby withdrew the contract from her file and showed her the index card. "Aren't these your initials?"

  "On this scrap of paper? Who cares? That can't be legal, and besides, I've changed my mind. I don't care if I have approval from that board."

  "You can't throw a wedding without dancing and booze," piped Tina from across the office.

  Peyton glared at her. "That fool of a man and his ridiculous claims! If it hadn't been for him..." her voice trailed off and one glance at her face revealed the fury s
he felt.

  Her companion cleared his throat. "Scusi, the house-it is still possible we buy him?"

  Darby nodded. "Yes. It is still a possibility. My clients want to sell Fairview, and as quickly as they can."

  "Then we have some time to figure this out," Peyton said, making an effort to calm herself down. Darby caught the faint scent of the rare French perfume once more. "Right? It isn't as if anyone else is lined up to buy Fairview."

  Darby remained silent.

  "Oh my God," screeched Peyton Mayerson. "Are you telling me someone else wants to buy it?"

  "I can't answer that."

  Peyton pulled a cigarette out of an expensive leather purse. Her hand was shaking as she lit it and took a long drag. "Wonderful, just wonderful." She inhaled once more and seemed to get control of her emotions. "I'll take it without the board's approval then. How's that? I'll call the other investors and come back with an offer that will satisfy that greedy bastard Mark Trimble." She gave Darby a shrewd look. "I see his car in the parking lot. Just what the hell are you two cooking up? Do we have a deal or not, Miss Farr?"

  Darby answered carefully. "No, Ms. Mayerson, we do not have a deal at this point. But my clients certainly welcome your offer."

  "Welcome my offer? How dare you..." she snatched up her purse and gave Darby a murderous look. "We'll see who ends up with Fairview," she hissed, sweeping out the door. Emilio shrugged and followed her, his leather jacket swaying as he walked.

  "Whew," Tina said once they were headed down the street. "That woman is so obnoxious I can hardly stand it. Do you think she will come back with more money for Fairview?"

  "It's possible." She certainly didn't like hearing there was other interest on the property, thought Darby. In fact, she had seemed almost desperate.

  "I doubt she can outbid the new guy. From what I hear, he's got deep pockets."

  Darby glanced at Tina. "How did you hear about a 'new guy'?

  Tina paused and looked down at her bright red fingernails. "Your aunt mentioned something about it last week. She was pretty excited about his interest in Fairview. She called it an `obsession"'

  "Why didn't you tell me there was a backup? Why wasn't there a copy of it in my file?"

  "I didn't know there was one," Tina said earnestly. "Jane mentioned that this doctor was a great prospect if the deal with Peyton flopped, but she never told me he signed anything. To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure if this mystery man was for real or not. He never came into the office, and your aunt wasn't making tons of sense. I kind of listened and then chalked it up to the tumor."

  Darby pulled out the index card and looked at the scribbled date. Was this why her aunt had seemed distracted in the week before her death? Because she was trying to figure out a way to make the sale of Fairview an even bigger moneymaker? Darby shook her head and wondered if Jane Farr had let greed cloud her once-razor sharp judgment. She put the index card back in the file and faced Tina. "I hope you remember that contracts and offers are confidential."

  "I know, I know. I'd never spill the beans, but you know as well as I do that things get out on an island." She gave Darby a meaningful look.

  Darby opened the door and scanned the street for Mark Trimble. Tina was right-Hurricane Harbor had always been a place where everyone knew his or her neighbors' business. Most of the islanders' gossiping was harmless, but with a multimillion-dollar deal at stake, Darby feared loose lips could turn out to be deadly.

  Donny Pease came around slowly, wincing as the pain in the back of his head registered. What the hell had happened? He dimly remembered driving his truck to Fairview to meet with the new owner. And then? It was a blur. He tried to get to his feet. His head throbbed and his sixty-five-year-old limbs were stiff from lying on the ground. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but it must have been an hour at least.

  "Some bastard clocked me," he muttered to himself. "Clocked me one good, but he didn't kill me." He chuckled to himself. The Pease men were notorious for being hard headed; at least that's what his mother had claimed on more than one occasion. "Comes in handy," he muttered again, with another painful chuckle.

  Slowly he pushed up with his hands and rose to his feet, feeling the back of his head gingerly for blood. There was none, but a nice lump the size of a golf ball had formed just over the rise of his shirt collar. It was tender to the touch and he nearly yelped in pain. Still, he felt lucky to be alive.

  The garden shed was fifteen feet in front of him, and Donny remembered he'd been on his way to see why the doors were ajar. Cautiously he made his way to the building and peered in. What if his attacker was hiding in the shed? Shouldn't he grab a rake or a shovel, to be on the safe side? Inside it was as dark as a cave. Donny could barely make out its contents, although he knew, practically by heart, where everything was located.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he frowned in amazement. What had been an orderly storage room now bore the marks of a rampage. All the tools were strewn on the floor in a haphazard mess, like that game children used to play called "Pick up Sticks." Stacks of clay pots once destined to be filled with red geraniums and placed on the back deck had crashed to the ground from their shelves, and most were smashed into jagged pieces. A bag of compost was ripped open, gutted like a dead animal. The riding mower looked untouched, but oozing around the front tire was a thick substance Donny took to be gasoline. Funny that the air didn't smell much like gas ...

  He plowed through the debris, his anger mounting at the destruction, until he saw that the puddle came not from the machine, but from a man lying face up on the wooden floor. Without knowing how or why he knew, Donny realized he was dead.

  Instantly Donny looked at his face: was this poor guy someone he knew? But the head was crushed so completely it was impossible to find any features among the pulverized flesh. Donny stared, stupefied, a feeling of nausea building within him like a wave. Who was this guy, and why was he here? Who had attacked him so brutally? Was it the same person who'd knocked him out, and if so, was he waiting to kill Donny at this very minute?

  A feeling akin to curiosity kept Donny Pease from fleeing the scene. He willed his eyes to travel down the body and saw something lodged in the victim's chest: a pair of gardening shears, sticking out of the torso like a meat thermometer.

  Donny Pease took it all in for another full minute: the prostrate figure, the tools littering the floor, the gasoline that wasn't really gasoline but blood ... and then, overcome with fear and disgust, he bolted faster than he thought capable out of the garden shed and into the noon sunshine. As he lost his breakfast on the boxwood hedge, he saw a curious sight: an angel, wandering out of the woods behind the shed, the front of her white dress all streaked with blood.

  Peyton Mayerson gave a half-hearted wave at the ferry as it receded into the distance. Finally! she thought. Emilio will be off souvenir shopping for a few hours, and I can do what I need to and get this damn deal back on track. God, he got on her nerves. If he wasn't so wonderful between the sheets, she'd have ditched him a long time ago, or sent one of the New Jersey guys to take him on a very long ride. She smiled, but then her grin slowly faded. They'd be after her if she couldn't come up with the money she owed them. If she couldn't make this deal happen ...

  Peyton got behind the wheel of her Mercedes and felt the calming quiet of the leather interior embrace her like a cashmere wrap. It was good to be alone, to have a chance to think. She went over her conversation with Darby Farr and felt her anger rising. The nerve of Mark Trimble, that smug greedy bastard! Darby Farr hadn't said as much, but he was going to sell Fairview right out from under her, after she'd worked so hard to convince her investors that she could make them money. Big money.

  She took a deep breath. She couldn't afford to get emotional now. She had to come up with a plan, and fast. Who was this new buyer? How quickly was he or she prepared to move? She knew Mark Trimble was too smart to tip his hand, but that sister of his ...

  Lucy Trimble is the we
ak link in that partnership, Peyton thought Perhaps she can be influenced. Peyton thought about what she knew about Lucy Trimble. She was an artist, and apparently quite good. She had some sort of substance abuse problem, although the island scuttlebutt was that she'd kicked it. She still looked like a junkiescrawny and pale ...

  Peyton started her car and heard the rich rumbling of the engine. Lucy Trimble's studio was in her house, a mile or so from the ferry dock. As the Mercedes hummed down the island road, Pey ton worked out a plan of attack. She'd appeal to Lucy Trimble as an artist. Flatter her and offer to put her work in a Manhattan gallery. That would work, she was sure of it. What hick Mainer would turn down the chance to be famous in New York?

  She parked in front of a small house with an attached garage and walked up a muddy path to the door, hugging her Armani jacket more tightly around her torso. The wind had picked up and it whipped her long hair in her eyes. It would be a rough ride to Manatuck. Maybe Emilio wouldn't have such a pleasant journey after all.

  "Knock, knock, anybody home?" She called out in a high voice. A cat meowed from the side of the house and Peyton jumped and swore under her breath. She waited, listening intently. There was no other sound, so she tried the door. To her surprise, it opened.

  Peyton's first thought was that a security system might sound, but after a minute or two, she realized the property was unprotected. Trusting islanders! Leaving their doors practically wide open ...

  The entrance led directly into a sitting room, and Peyton tiptoed in. A worn couch and a comfortable chair were arranged in front of a fireplace with a simple wooden mantel. A painting hung above it, and Peyton guessed it was one of Lucy's. She stopped to scrutinize it. She really is quite good, she thought. Now that she thought about it, perhaps her offer of the Manhattan gallery wouldn't be smoke and mirrors. Lucy Trimble had the talent to actually make some sales off this dinky little island.