A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) (15 page)

FIREFALL WAS AN INTIMATE restaurant tucked into the exclusive
coastal town of Westerly, up the coast from Manatuck some seventy miles by car. Traveling in a fast boat across the bay cut the
journey in half, and before Darby would have imagined it possible,
she and Miles Porter were seated at a corner table, a full-bodied
bottle of Barolo before them. Darby felt a little shaky from the
boat ride, but she was surprised to note that being on the water
was becoming less traumatic with each outing.

"To Jane Farr," said Miles, clinking glasses with Darby, an impish smile on his face. "I never actually met your aunt, but we shared
a few wonderful conversations on the phone. She was not afraid to
express her opinion, so much so that I wonder if the FT would
have printed half of her comments!" He chuckled. "For instance,
she told me that any buyer she'd ever worked for was a total fraud.
`You can't trust a word they tell you,' she said. `And the bigger their
wallets, the bigger their lies"

Darby rolled her eyes. "The old `buyers are liars' routine," she
said. "You hear it all the time in real estate, and it was one of my
aunt's favorite sayings. Unlike most agents who laugh it off, I think
Jane actually believed it." She took a sip of the ruby-colored liquid.
"This wine is delicious."

"Glad you like it. This particular vintage is one of my favorites."

"Corino 99?"

"That's right. I'm impressed."

"I've tasted it before."

The waiter appeared and took their orders for dinner. Miles
pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket and placed it on the
table. "Can we get the questions out of the way before dinner?" he
asked.

Darby nodded. "I don't like being taped, but I suppose that's
the easiest way for you," she said.

"It is, but I have a pad of paper with me as well. Whichever you
prefer, I'll do."

She took another sip of the wine, feeling it warming her throat.
"Well... "

"Paper it is," Miles announced, shoving the tape recorder back
in his pocket and withdrawing a small spiral notebook and pen.
"The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable."

For the next ten minutes or so, Miles asked Darby questions
about waterfront real estate, coaxing from her a few tips that he
could share with his readers in the United Kingdom. When the
waiter arrived with their appetizers, he closed the notebook and said,
"Great. Your insightful comments, combined with a few breathtaking photos, will please my editors back in London." He grinned and
met her eyes across the table. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Darby said, gazing down at the artfully arranged
trio of pates before her. "This looks absolutely fabulous."

"Let's hope it tastes as good as it looks." Miles tried a bite of his
appetizer. "This little place has quite the reputation. I read about
it in a travel magazine back in London. I can see now the glowing
review was well deserved."

"Do you write for magazines as well?"

"No, I'm strictly a newspaper man, myself, although I enjoy
reading just about anything."

"Were you always a financial features writer?"

He shook his head. "I've only been writing for the FT for two
years now. Before that, I was an investigative reporter for the New
York Times, based in London."

"Interesting. How did a Brit get that job?"

He grinned again. "By going to school in the States. I attended
Columbia University and did an internship at the Times while I
was a senior. That led to employment following graduation, and,
eventually, to them sending me back to London. I did that for
many years, and I must say, I miss it."

"Why did you stop?"

For the first time, Miles Porter's warm eyes lost their merry look.
He looked down at the table and then back up at Darby.

"Someone close to me-one of my most trusted sources-was
shot in the back in Piccadilly Square. I spent months digging for
information, clues-any scrap of evidence I could find. I was an
investigative reporter, after all, so I figured I could unearth something ... but the murder was never solved. All the wind went out
of my sails, so to speak, and I found I no longer had the drive I
needed to ferret out the truth."

Darby put down her fork and nodded slowly. "I know what you
mean," she said. She thought back to her parents' deaths and how
her life had seemed to abruptly halt. It was like a sailboat suddenly
losing wind, she realized. Funny that she had never thought of that
analogy ...

Miles poured more Barolo into Darby's empty glass. "Not to
stay on such a gruesome subject, but I must ask: what's happened
on the little island of Hurricane Harbor to get everyone in such a
tizzy? I heard a small item on the radio, something about a doctor
from Boston found killed in a garden shed."

Darby thought for a moment. If the police had released the
name of the victim, they'd obviously located his next of kin and
informed him or her of the murder. She knew that she wouldn't
be revealing any confidential details if she told Miles Porter what
little she knew of the crime.

When she had finished recounting the facts of the case, he let
out a low whistle.

"That's a big story for a small island," he said. "I suppose an
AP reporter is on his way up here as we speak." He paused as the
waiter removed their plates and poured them each more wine.

"You sound almost wistful," she said. "As if you'd like to be covering this story yourself. Do you miss it that much?"

"I'll admit it: I do. When Sarah was killed... " Darby saw him
wince slightly as he said her name-"I threw every ounce of
strength I had into solving her case. I failed, and began to question
my whole reason for being. I have come to realize as the years have
passed that some mysteries can't be solved. Her death may be one
of them."

The waiter returned with their entrees, which he placed before
them with a small bow. "Enjoy your meal," he said, leaving them to
gaze at the masterful presentations alone.

"I almost hate to eat it, it's so beautiful," breathed Darby.

"That's the duck?"

"Quail."

"Mmm, well if you can't manage to tuck into it, just let me
know," Miles said cheerfully.

"I said I `almost' hate to eat it," Darby reminded him. "Fortunately or unfortunately, I have a healthy appetite. There's rarely a
time when I can't eat."
"

I daresay you wear it wonderfully."

Darby looked up and Miles was gazing at her with an intensity
that felt like heat. She felt the color rising in her cheeks and gave a
small laugh.

"Why, thank you sir. Bon appetit."

The two enjoyed several bites in silence. Darby's quail was delicately flavored, with a very light glaze that enhanced, rather than
overpowered, the tender meat. She offered Miles a bite and he accepted.

"I've never had anything like that," he marveled. "So fresh!
Here, try my beef. You do eat beef, I hope?"

"Definitely." Darby tasted a morsel and smiled. "That reminds
me of something my mother used to make," she said. "A French
dish-Boeuf a la Lyonnaise."

"Your mother was French?"

"No," Darby laughed. "She was Japanese. But she was also a talented cook who decided to tackle the art of French cuisine."

"How intriguing! Tell me more."

"I think I was nine or so when she found a copy of Julia Child's
book, and that was the start of her love affair with la cuisine Fran-
caise." She smiled at the memory. "Not all of her efforts were successes. There were the souffles that didn't rise, the gateau that was
more like soup-but she persevered. I guess that was true of her
personality in many ways. She taught herself English, she grew
to love sailing, and she made herself fall in love with the coast of
Maine. She was quite a determined woman"

"And your dad? Tell me about him"

"He was an adventurer. A world-class sailor who raced around
the world. He wasn't afraid of anyone or anything, and he rose to
any challenge."

"Did they meet on the island?"

"No. They met in Boston, at a world cup sailing event. My dad
was there representing the American team, and my mother was
part of a Japanese delegation on a tall ship. They saw each other at
a cocktail party and fell in love."

"The classic `love at first sight'," commented Miles. "What
brought them to the island?"

"They didn't come up here right away. They lived in Boston,
where Mom worked as a translator, and Dad continued to race the
world cup circuit. When my mother became pregnant with me, he
decided it was time to embrace the landlubber life. Somebody told
him about the job as the sailing director at the Hurricane Harbor
Yacht Club. They moved up here and I was born a few months
later, at the hospital in Manatuck."

"So you are a Maine native."

"No, being a native is a generational thing. I was always an
anomaly on the island. Not a native, not a summer person, not
your white-bread American. Hard to categorize."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," he teased.

"True, but it isn't always easy on an island." Darby placed her
fork on her plate and sighed. "That was delicious."
"

I agree." He glanced at his watch. "We have time for coffee, or
an after dinner drink before the boat meets us. What would you
like?"

"Coffee, thanks." Miles ordered coffees and asked for the check.
The waiter returned a few moments later with two steaming
mugs.

Miles added some sugar to his and took a sip. "Did I hear there
is a suspect in the Fairview case?"

"For an ex-investigative reporter, you're awfully curious." She
grinned. "Maybe you should be writing about this murder after
all."

He thought a moment. "I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind.
There is something so compelling about a mystery, isn't there?
Come on, tell me what you know."

"My instincts tell me a local guy named Soames Pemberton
could be guilty. He's a former Navy SEAL with some big-time
anger management issues, a substance abuse problem, and a history of criminal behavior. Hopefully, he's the one Chief Dupont is
focusing on."

"This Soames character sounds like a total beast"

Darby nodded. "Murder seems like something he'd relish, and
yet..."

"What?"

"I don't know. Something about it doesn't feel exactly right,
that's all." Darby finished her coffee and shrugged. Was it his appearance at the planning board meeting the day after the killing took
place? Was that why she felt he was the wrong man?

"I can't explain it. When I can, I'll give you a call."

"It's a deal."

They rose and left the restaurant, walking the short way to the
private wharf where the sleek speedboat waited. Darby felt her
palms grow clammy, but she climbed into the boat without her
legs wobbling too much. Thirty minutes later, Darby was thanking
Miles Porter for dinner and walking through the damp grass to
Jane's guest cottage. She undressed and got into bed, wondering,
as she drifted off to sleep, why in the world she doubted Soames
Pemberton's guilt.

Darby awoke the next morning with the sun. Her first thought was
to contact Peyton Mayerson and discuss a new offer, but it was
barely past dawn and too early for calls.

Instead, she tied on her sneakers and went running toward
Fairview. She had barely looked at the old estate the day before,
and she wanted a chance to see the grounds without Chief Dupont
and his deputies breathing down her neck.

The morning air was clean and crisp. Darby ran past the cove
and through the village, along the harbor and then up the woodsy
hill and out toward Pemberton Point. The road soon turned to
dirt and Darby kicked up small dust clouds as she ran. She came to
the massive stone pillars, ducked under a "crime scene" tape, and
ran down the road.

The house loomed up before her. She avoided looking toward
the garden shed, and instead, crossed the wide green lawn to the
house.

She peered in a window. A vast, empty room with deep paneling,
parquet floors and two enormous fireplaces surrounded by marble
loomed before her-the formal living room. Darby moved to another window. A second room, equally as large, adjoined the first
room, and had been used as the casual, family space. In this room
the look was rustic-rough-hewn paneling and two fireplaces built
with local stone. The room had been large enough to accommodate
not only two seating areas, but a game area, complete with a huge
slate pool table.

The two living rooms were separated by a hallway wide enough
to accommodate a car. This was the formal entryway, at its end was
one of Fairview's most stunning features: a wide, arching staircase
that separated midway into two mirror images. Darby knew the
flying staircase was one of the finest examples in the Northeast.
The effect was magical and grand, and Darby imagined brides
floating down in a cascade of rose petals.

Darby left her vantage point and walked around the side of
the house to peer in at the dining room. She remembered that an
enormous table had presided over the room, with seating for ten or
maybe even fifteen guests at a side. It was gone, as were the chairs
and sideboards she remembered. Along with the elaborately carved
mantel and fireplace, the only detail she could see was the giant crystal chandelier, now ghostly thanks to a few spiders who'd taken up
residence.