A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) (4 page)

"Your plane leaves today at 12:45 your time," Tina continued.
"Your ticket and a packet of documents are waiting at the ticket
counter. I'll meet you in Portland when you land, just before nine."
She paused. "I think you'd better get packing."

The phone went dead and Darby looked at it incredulously.
Ready or not, she was headed to Hurricane Harbor.

"Ms. Farr? Ms. Darby Farr?"

The voice was confident and strong. Darby Farr's eyes opened
instantly and looked into the perfectly made up face of the flight
attendant.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she continued smoothly. "A message
just came in from the Portland Jetport. Your aunt's assistant, Tina
Ames, will meet you at the baggage claim."

Darby Farr nodded. "Thank you. How long until we land?"

"About an hour. Coffee?"

"Thanks" Darby twisted her hair into a quick bun before accepting the steaming cup. The flight attendant gave her a smile
and offered cream and sugar.

"Congratulations," she murmured. "You passed the exam."

Darby shook her head and took a deep breath as the flight attendant continued down the companionway. The first hurdle was
over: unbelievably, she was now licensed to sell houses in Maine.
Time to take a look at what the heck I'm doing here, she thought.

Darby fingered the mysterious manila envelope she'd been
given at the ticket counter back in California. She took a sip of her
coffee, opened the packet, and began reviewing the typed pages.

On the top of the pile was the agreement for the sale of Fairview. Darby scanned it quickly, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. As Tina Ames had mentioned, the transaction was scheduled
to close on Tuesday. Purchasing the property was a corporation
called Pemberton Point Weddings, whose president was a Peyton
Mayerson from Boston. The sellers were listed as Mark and Lucy
Trimble. The deed to Fairview, also enclosed, confirmed that they
owned the property.

Darby took another sip of coffee and sat back in the spacious
first-class seat. She pictured Mark Trimble as he had been ten years
earlier: tall, tanned, and handsome. He had a square jaw and a
wide, easy smile, straight brown hair that he parted on the side in a casual style. His teeth were straight and very white, thanks not
only to good orthodontics but to the deep tan he acquired from
his hours on the water as an avid sailor and sailing instructor.

In her early teen years, Darby-along with just about every girl
in the sailing class-had had a huge crush on Mark, something his
sister, Lucy Trimble, could never seem to fathom.

"Ugh," she'd exclaimed when her friend Darby had confessed
she found Mark to be "sort of cute." "Are you kidding? I'm counting the days until he goes away to school! He leaves his dirty socks
all over the front parlor and chews with his mouth open. You call
that cute? I call that disgusting!"

Darby had shrugged and let the matter go-at fourteen, she
preferred to admire boys from afar, anyway. By the time she was
sixteen, she had put Mark Trimble out of her mind as a romantic
prospect. He was off at college and never seemed to have time for
his local friends.

Darby's thoughts turned to Lucy Trimble. A lithe, blonde charmer
with the same good looks as her brother; she'd been Darby's closest friend until the third year of high school. Darby remembered the
surprise she'd felt when Lucy did not show up for their first day as
high school juniors.

"She's in Connecticut, at a boarding school," Mrs. Trimble had
sniffed on the phone when a concerned Darby had called.

Connecticut? Darby's confusion had turned to anger over her
friend's abrupt departure. Why didn't she tell me? She didn't even
say goodbye ...

After a month, she was over her anger, and phoned Mrs. Trimble for Lucy's address at her new school.

"It's best if you don't contact her at all," Lucy's mother answered crisply. "Her adjustment will be hard enough without hearing from her island friends."

Island friends. She'd said it like Darby carried a disease her precious Lucy could catch. Darby, dejected, told herself she'd lost her
friend forever.

Unlike her brothers, Lucy didn't stay behind the ivy walls. Whatever the reason for her foray into the world of boarding school, it
was a short tenure. By the following summer, Lucy Trimble was back
on the island and enrolled in the senior class at Hurricane Harbor
High. And yet she had changed ...

Darby's initial delight at the return of her friend turned quickly
to despair. Lucy Trimble had transformed into someone Darby
barely recognized. Frequently drunk or stoned, even in class, her
friend exhibited all the classic symptoms of chemical addiction,
but no one-not even her parents-seemed to care or comment
on her bizarre behavior. That was the summer she became an addict, Darby realized with a pang.

I could have done something to help her. I could have told someone...

The flight attendant interrupted her thoughts with the offer of
a refill. Darby accepted more coffee and went back to looking at
the documents spread before her.

It was clear from the contract that Peyton Mayerson was buying Fairview to operate a wedding retreat, something the company
name indicated as well. Pemberton Point Weddings was an apt
choice. Even though the estate was named Fairview and locals referred to it as "the Trimble place," the beautiful promontory which
jutted out from the property into the crashing surf was known as Pemberton Point. No doubt the promontory would be the spot
where lucky brides and grooms would pose for their wedding photos, perhaps even take their vows.

A glossy four-color photograph caught Darby's eye. It was an
advertisement for Fairview, and penciled in the margin were the
two publications in which it had run: the New York Times and Boston Magazine. Pretty pricey advertisements, Darby knew, but demographically perfect for a buyer of this ilk. Darby regarded the
photograph with a critical eye. She saw a magnificent structure,
with eight bedrooms, a giant wraparound porch filled with wicker
rocking chairs, and several jutting eaves. Fair-view's symmetry and
design were truly unparalleled.

Darby recalled what she knew of the property's history. Built
in the style of the sprawling, shingle-style mansions of the turn
of the century, the house was the residence of a notoriously cantankerous steel baron from Pittsburgh, the great-grandfather of
Lucy and Mark's mother. According to local legend, the gentleman
was asked by a Pittsburgh newspaper reporter to describe the view
from his dwelling's huge porch. Looking out upon the crashing
surf and massive boulders, a sight that anyone would find divine,
the man waved a dismissive hand and pronounced the view "fair."
Or so the story claimed.

Darby remembered the home's high ceilings, ornate ballroom,
and sweeping main staircase. Fairview was a gem, and Jane Farr
had marketed it as such. No one who sees Fairview forgets her, read
the advertisement on her lap. Darby had to admit that her aunt's
sappy copy was probably dead on.

She glanced over the property description detailed in the listing
packet. A multitude of outbuildings dotted the property's twenty acres, and all of them were conveyed with the sale. A guesthouse,
gardening cottage, garage, and caretaker's house, along with a fanciful gazebo, were listed as part of the property inventory. Darby
found a release from the buyer concerning the condition of the
entire property. It seemed all of the buildings had been scrutinized
by Pemberton Point Weddings' team of building inspectors and
deemed satisfactory.

Darby gathered up the papers. She was still drowsy, but now
that she'd done her homework, sleep was an appealing option. As
she tried to slip the papers into the envelope, she met with resistance. Something was stuck at the bottom.

Reaching in, her fingers touched a piece of paper. It was an index
card, three by five inches, without lines. In handwriting Darby recognized as belonging to her aunt was scrawled a single line: Subject
to planning board approval for zoning change and liquor license by
6/21. The sentence was initialed by "PM," "MT;" and "LT."

Darby frowned. The index card appeared to be an amendment
to the contract, although it was a highly unusual and sloppy one.
What could her aunt have been thinking, using such vague language? An index card? And yet Darby knew of multimillion dollar
deals that had been scribbled on paper napkins ...

She looked back at the purchase and sale agreement, but saw
no reference to a planning board meeting. Apparently this little
scrap of paper represented an unmet condition to the contract. A
planning board meeting on the twenty-first of June. That's tomorrow, she realized with a shock.

The transaction was not quite a "done deal" as Tina had said.
The zoning change was no doubt to modify the current residential
status of Pemberton Point to commercial, since Pemberton Point Weddings was to be more than just a home business. Certainly a
liquor license was a key component in Peyton Mayerson's plans to
host elaborate and expensive weddings. Darby knew that, although
a few towns in Maine were still "dry"-meaning alcoholic beverages could not be sold within the city limits-Hurricane Harbor
was not one of them. Generations of cocktail parties, dances, and
wild nights at the town's bar had seen to that.

Nevertheless, the successful sale of Fairview was now contingent upon the common sense of a group of volunteers, serving on
a town committee that met once a month to decide issues of licensure and zoning. These islanders would listen to the proposal
to modify the zoning code, as well as for a permit to serve and sell
alcohol, and then they would vote. It was a process as old as democracy itself, and one, Darby realized with a sinking heart, over
which she had no control.

She leaned back in the airplane seat and closed her eyes. Worry
was settling like a wet blanket on her shoulders, weighing her
down with a damp feeling of doom. She exhaled slowly and tried
to relax, but one question kept pounding at her brain. What in the
world am I doing?

TINA AMES WAS TALL and thin, with a long, straight nose and large
dark sunglasses, which she sported inside the terminal although
it was nearly ten P.M. She carried a large turquoise pocketbook
over one shoulder and a can of Diet Coke in her hand. Her hair
was a mass of red curls in a shade that nearly matched her long
fingernails.

"Knew it was you," she said, extending her free hand and shaking Darby's vigorously.

"How? Because I'm the only Asian woman in the airport?"

Tina gave her a sharp look. "Nah, I've seen your picture. You
look pretty much the same as the one Jane's got in her office. Still
got the long hair, the pretty almond eyes..." She contemplated
Darby for a moment and then cocked her head to the side, like an
egret on the lookout for a school of minnows. "You look a little
older. Wiser, maybe. Where's your other bag?"

She lifted her duffel. "I've got everything with me. I'm only
here for a few days."

Tina Ames pursed her lips and said nothing. She turned and
began to walk toward the exit doors, her heels clicking on the hard
floor of the terminal.

Darby watched her walk away. After a few seconds, Tina stopped
and turned around.

"Let's get a move on. You're on the clock, you know."

"When is my flight back?"

"You really want to discuss this now?"

"I do. You've dragged me all the way across the country. I'm not
going a step farther until I know when my flight back is booked."

Tina shook her head slowly and looked off to the side. "Well,
that depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you plan to stay for your aunt's funeral."

"She's not-"

"Not yet. But the doctor says it could be any time." She dabbed
at her eyes with a tissue and Darby could see that beneath the sunglasses they were red from crying.

The two women stood for a moment. Darby absorbed the news
of her aunt's condition and tried to think about her options. She
was a master negotiator, and part of her talent was knowing when
to back down-at least for the moment. "Look, I'm sorry that my
aunt's health is failing. I'm sorry that she didn't have anyone else to
call. But I do have a life and career back in California, and I hope
you understand that I want to be on that plane back to the West
Coast as soon as possible." She approached the distraught woman,
placing a hand on her shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze. "I'm
sorry if we got off to a bad start. Let's go"