A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) (11 page)

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 she 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 weak 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.

She walked farther into the house, into the barn that served as
Lucy's studio. Canvasses were stacked against one wall and finished works were everywhere, waiting, she supposed, for frames. A door
was ajar leading into another room and Peyton walked gingerly toward it. Inside it was gloomy and dark, the shades drawn against the
June sun.