A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) (12 page)

Peyton began retracing her steps to the studio when she noticed
an envelope propped against a small occasional table. She picked
it up and saw it was unopened. The envelope was from Near &
Farr Realty, and written on the outside were the words, "Back Up
-Please Read." With shaking hands, Peyton opened the envelope
and pulled a set of folded papers out.

It was another offer on Fairview, and for more money, too.
Peyton stared at it, her thoughts swirling. Mark Trimble, that son of
a bitch, she thought. Beside her, the cat rubbed against her legs and
brought her back to reality.

Angrily she shoved the envelope into her jacket pocket and
hurried back to the studio. Despite her mental state she noticed
a particularly vibrant painting and stopped. It was a cove full of
boats, their hulls bright shapes against the blue water. It really was
quite good, and she picked it up for a closer look. A price tag was
on the back and she squinted to read the numbers. $20,000. Lucy
Trimble, the junkie artist, was getting twenty grand? She grabbed
another painting and flipped it over. $25,000. Holy shit.

Still clutching the second painting, she reached back for the
first one, and though they were unwieldy, she made her way to
the door. She'd get them off this island, to the city where she knew
people who would buy them without asking questions. While it
wouldn't settle her debt with the New Jersey guys, it would be a
small down payment.

She emerged from the house holding the two canvasses and
looked around. The yard and road were deserted. She hurried to her
car, struggling against a particularly strong gust of wind. She pushed
a button on her keys and the trunk to the Mercedes popped open.
Quickly Peyton stashed the paintings, using a large beach towel
to conceal them. Emilio didn't have a set of keys to her car, so she
wouldn't have to worry about him.

Peyton drove as fast as she dared back to the Hurricane Harbor
Inn and parked her car. After locking it securely, she went back up
to her suite. The bedside clock said the time was noon, leaving her
an hour and a half until Emilio came back on the ferry.

She opened her travel jewelry box and pulled a folded piece
of paper out from under some diamond earrings. It was time for
Plan B. Her hands shook and she sat down on the bed for support.
After a moment, she pulled the envelope with the contract out
from her jacket, and searched for the buyer's name. Finding it, she
grabbed her Blackberry from the bedside table. Using the hotel's
wireless internet connection, she accessed a free IP Relay site used
by the hearing impaired to send telephone messages. She typed in
the number from the piece of paper. When the space came up for
her message, she took a deep breath and typed:

Emerson Phipps, Hurricane Harbor, Maine, Immediate.

Peyton knew that when the call was placed and someone (she
imagined a man) answered, her message would be read by the wellmeaning IP Relay telephone operator. By federal law, every call was
put through. To protect the privacy of users, phone companies were
not allowed to keep records, making IP Relay the perfect vehicle for thieves, scammers, extortionists, and anyone else involved in illicit
activities.

Including someone ordering a hit.

Her task completed, Peyton Mayerson turned off her PDA, replaced the number in her jewelry box, and pulled a bottle of scotch
from her suitcase. The room's mini fridge had a small freezer with
a few ice cubes, and Peyton clinked them into a glass. Then she
poured herself a tall one and quickly drank it down.

Darby held on to the dash as Mark Trimble drove the classic convertible expertly down the winding roads to Fairview. Only minutes before, Tina Ames had called Darby on her cell phone with
the unbelievable news of Donny Pease's grim discovery.

"Donny doesn't know who the poor bastard is," Tina had confided. "He's not good at things like this. Can't even shoot a duck
he's so squeamish. Says he can't stop running to the bushes and
puking." She'd taken a deep breath and continued. "Hurry up and
get over there before the cops do. I'm staying put here at the office,
but I'm worried about Donny. And I sure as hell want to know
who the dead guy is."

Now, as the road turned to dirt, Mark slowed the car to a crawl.
"It's got to be Phipps," he muttered. "I hope not, but it would explain why he hasn't returned my calls."

Two massive stone pillars, both stamped "Fairview" in imposing block letters, loomed on the left. Mark took the turn down the
long driveway.

Darby caught the clean scent of pine in the air and inhaled
deeply. Both sides of the roadway were lined with enormous ever greens, a type that was once called "mast pine" because of its usefulness to wooden sailing ships. It still feels timeless, she thought. Like a
medieval hunting lodge in France ...

They rounded a bend and there was the sprawling mansion
Darby remembered. She exhaled at its beauty and Mark nodded,
but said nothing.

Three vehicles were parked in the circular driveway: a truck
Darby guessed belonged to Donny Pease; a police cruiser; and a
black BMW sedan. Darby glanced at Mark. His face was grim.

"That's Phipps' Beamer," he muttered, opening the door of his
car and climbing out.

They crossed a wide expanse of lawn together. Darby recalled
games of croquet on this very spot in which the object had been
less about getting a ball through a wicket than not spilling a Rum
and Coke. She pushed the past out of her mind and matched
Mark's pace, her pulse quickening.

A man was seated on the lawn about fifty feet from the side of
a little building Darby remembered as a gardening shed. Someone
had dragged an Adirondack chair onto the grass, and the weary
soul was slumped in it, looking pale and haggard.

"That's Donny Pease," explained Mark. "We'll talk to the poor
guy later."

A strange smell assailed their nostrils as they stepped into the
garden shed.

"Now just hold on a minute there," a voice boomed from the
darkness.

"Chief Dupont," Mark said. "I'm glad to see you."

Hurricane Harbor's chief of police plodded out, his boot
smashing a piece of something as he walked. "'Course you're glad to see me," he said. "'Cause it looks like we've got ourselves some
real excitement here on your estate."

Darby remembered the chief as a trim, athletic man, with
hair just starting to gray at the temples. Now, however, his muscular physique had turned to fat, and his once-friendly demeanor
seemed tired and suspicious.

He ran a pudgy hand through his crew cut.

"Well, if it isn't little Darby Farr," he said, whistling under his
breath. "I heard you were on the island, but I wasn't sure I'd get to
see you before you flew the coop again. Where is it you're living
now? Texas?"

"California," she said.

"That's right, California" He thought a moment. "California.
You must like it there. Little easier to blend in, I imagine."

Darby felt her cheeks burning. "Now why would you say that,
Chief?"

Mark interrupted the exchange. "Can we see the body? I believe
I know the victim and can make a positive identification."

The chief touched his chin thoughtfully. "Is that so?"

"Yes," answered Darby. "Mark and my aunt were working with
a doctor from Boston for the purchase of Fairview, and Mark recognizes the vehicle in the driveway."

Chief Dupont nodded, his tiny eyes shrewd. "Go ahead then,
take a look. Seeing as how we haven't found any identification, and
old Donny out there isn't gonna be much help, let's see what you
come up with. But I warn you: it's not a pretty sight. Not only was
he stabbed, but the man's face was pounded thin as a veal cutlet.
Maybe you want to stay out here, Darby."

"I'll be all right," she said, struggling to keep her anger in check.
"Thanks for your concern."

"Watch your step, then. There's liable to be some evidence on
the ground and we don't want to destroy anything."

Darby followed Mark into the shed, picking carefully around
the debris Chief Dupont had crushed minutes earlier. Garden implements appeared to have been pulled off the walls, and pieces
of terra cotta pots lay broken on the floor. Seeping past the tire of
the riding mower was a dark puddle of blood, and in front of the
mower was a body.

Darby noticed the garden shears first. A wet circle of red ringed
the steel of the shears, like a bull's eye on a dartboard. They had
been thrust into the victim's chest in the area of the heart, and
Darby suspected that the damage done by the puncture was substantial. Her eyes traveled up to the victim's head. Whatever represented a face-nose, cheeks, lips-was now obliterated. The
killer had smashed the facial features to such an extent they were
pulverized. No doubt the victim's eyeballs remained, but the orbital sockets around the eyes were so swollen they formed a solid,
bloodied mass.

She noted sandy hair and a dimpled chin, and suddenly she
flashed back a dozen years. Emerson Phipps.

Mark echoed her thoughts. "It's Phipps. My God, who could
have done this?"

Darby scanned the shed floor, and noticed blood and pieces
of human flesh on a stone angel. "He must have been struck with
that garden statue. That's what did such a number on his face."

"Wasn't just struck with it," said Chief Dupont, coming alongside the tractor and standing by Darby and Mark. "He was mashed with it, sort of like a mortar and pestle kind of thing. Whoever did
this hated the guy. Wanted to teach him a lesson." He looked down
at his fingers for a moment, fiddling with a ragged cuticle. "You
got a positive identification for me?"

"It's Emerson Phipps, M.D.," said Mark. "He lived in Chestnut
Hill, outside of Boston."

"I've got his full address back at my office," added Darby.

"Well that's a start. I've got the medical examiner coming in
from Augusta, and she should be here-" he consulted his watch,
"in ten minutes or so. She'll determine the time and cause of death,
although from the looks of it, I'd say we can blame that pretty little
garden angel. Those shears were more for decoration, looks like.
The icing on the proverbial cake"

Mark Trimble and Darby exchanged a glance and began heading out of the shed.

"Hey," Chief Dupont called out after them. "I may have more
questions for you two. Don't leave the premises. Got it?"

The warm sunshine and clean air was a welcome contrast from
the dank darkness of the garden shed. Neither Mark nor Darby
said anything for a minute or two. They had walked the distance
from the shed to where Donny Pease was seated when Darby
sighed and said, "We need to tell Lucy."

"I know. I thought she would be here..."

"She was here," said Donny, surprising them both with his thin
voice. "She showed me her bloody hands..."

"Her what? Christ, Donny. You're going off the deep end." Mark
gave the older man a menacing glare.

Darby kneeled before the Adirondack chair and looked into
the man's pale face. "He's in shock," she said to Mark. To the older
man, she pleaded, "Tell me, Donny. Tell me what you saw."

He seemed to focus in on Darby's eyes. "I remember your parents," he whispered. "They lived at the cove..."

"That's right, Donny. Now tell me what you said about Lucy
Trimble. You thought you saw her..."

"I saw her behind the shed, dressed all in white, like an angel.
She was there, and then she ran." he pointed across the wide lawn,
"that way, to the cliffs."

Mark jerked his head up and met Darby's eyes. "The cliffs ... ?"
he asked, and then, he was off, sprinting across the lawn with
Darby close on his heels. She barely felt the grass against her ankles or the stiffening sea breeze. Panting, they reached the edge of
the grass where the land dropped off in a dangerously dramatic
fashion, its sides studded with huge slabs of ancient granite and a
few tufts of grass.

"Lucy," Mark yelled into the wind. "Lucy!"

Darby scanned the small beach below, and saw clumps of seaweed, a discarded lobster buoy, and more rocks. She glanced to
the right, toward a rocky outcropping frequented by small bands
of gulls, and saw a mooring ball that had washed up on shore and
somehow become wedged between two boulders. Oddly enough,
legs were sticking out from the ball ...

"She's down there!" cried Darby, pointing at the huddled form.

"Sweet lord," said Mark, "Not Lucy! Tell me she isn't..."

Darby was already scrambling down the sheer precipice. "Get
the chief and have him call for an ambulance. Find some rope and
a blanket. We don't have a minute to lose."