A House To Die For Page 2

  He decided to walk to the back of the house, stretch his legs before he began driving once more.

  He strode across the verdant grass, damp with the morning dew. A few gulls cried out as he rounded the corner, their shrieks like screams against the early morning stillness. A rabbit darted from behind a clump of beach roses, and Emerson Phipps jumped. I’m not used to peace and quiet. I’m used to life or death.

  The cove was calm, save for the sound of a gentle swell buffeting the rocks below. Phipps peered over the craggy cliffs that jutted out like fingers and saw a path winding down to the small beach below. He’d hire a landscaper and put in stairs, so that his nephews could scamper down there and not break their necks in the process. His thoughts wandered back to the emergency room and the unfortunate patient he’d seen hours earlier. Poor Amanda had seemed rattled by the whole thing. I’ll call her later. She may want to talk. The memory of the young nurse and her bouncy little ponytail made him smile. She was pretty, in a wholesome, earnest way, not like the angular models he usually dated. Maybe I’m ready to give all that up. Be the kind of person my sister thinks I am …

  He glanced again at his watch and noted that it was nearly eight. With one last look at the cove, he turned and started back to the front of the house. There was a small orchard on the southern side of the estate, and Phipps wondered what fruit he would soon be harvesting. He wished he’d brought his PDA, but it was tucked in the glove compartment of the BMW. That, too, could wait for the journey back to Boston.

  As he approached the orchard, he heard what sounded like a low moan. He turned in the sound’s direction, expecting to see the elderly real estate agent, perhaps with a sprained ankle, hobbling toward him. He saw no one, but a shingled garden shed with its door ajar caught his attention. He listened intently. There it was again: a cry of pain, and it seemed to be coming from the shed.

  Phipps shook his head. He was off duty, for Chrissakes, and the last thing he wanted to do was play hero doctor. Nevertheless, he strode across the lawn and entered the shed, stepping gingerly on the old wooden floor. The smell of compost, oil, and cut grass mingled into a pleasing mixture he associated with summer. Inside it was dark, and dusty, and he waited for an instant so his eyes would adjust, all the while listening keenly so he could locate the victim. “Hello?” he called out. “I’m a doctor. I can help you.”

  A crackling sound split the silence and Phipps felt a jolt run through his torso. Without warning his legs buckled beneath him, and an instant later he was collapsing onto the floor of the shed. He heard the soft thud of his bones against the worn wood, felt the floor rush up to meet his face like a slap. He tried to speak, to wonder aloud what had happened, but his tongue was fat and heavy and he couldn’t move his lips. I’m paralyzed, he told himself with surprise. I’ve had some kind of stroke or something…

  He heard a muffled movement, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the wooden floor. His brain was scrambling to figure out what was happening: the moan of pain, the sudden crackle, his quick collapse. Not a stroke, he realized, some kind of attack! Before he could follow this line of reasoning further, he heard a grunt of exertion and saw the blurred outline of a body just beyond his line of vision. Another grunt, and then a searing pain as the weight of something very heavy came crashing down on his skull.

  Emerson Phipps felt the warm gush of his own blood coursing like a red river across his face, spilling down the gullies of his cheeks and making a waterfall off his jutting chin. He heard another grunt and instinct kicked in, warning him to move before he was bludgeoned again. His battered brain begged his legs to run, or crawl at least, but it was useless-he couldn’t even feel his toes. He was incapacitated, like so many of the patients he’d treated over the years. Images flashed before him like flickering strobe lightshis car, little Celina with her gap-toothed baby smile, the rows of trees lined up like sentinels in the orchard-and then, just before the blow that would split open his skull, Emerson Phipps lost consciousness.

  ONE

  DARBY FARR SLOWED HER fast run to a stop and pulled her cell phone out of the liner of her Lycra running shorts. Finally, she thought. The buyer for the Costa Brava mansion is stepping up to the plate. The fact that it was a sunny Sunday morning didn’t matter in real estate, at least not to Darby Farr. Her position as the top selling agent for San Diego’s Pacific Coast Realty meant that she conducted business at any hour of any day, to virtually anyone willing to buy one of her listings, the most inexpensive of which was a mere million dollars.

  Out of habit, she glanced quickly at the display before answering. What she saw made her heart, already pounding from her run, race even faster. Displayed on the screen was a number from a place she’d spent ten years forgetting, a place that still haunted her dreams. With a trembling hand she switched her phone to silence, stashed it back in her shorts, and ran toward the beach.

  The boardwalk was dotted with bikers, bladers, and skateboarders, but Darby barely noticed their presence. While her feet beat a steady drumbeat along the wooden walkway, she sifted through a confusing maze of long-forgotten images. She saw the red pickup she’d stolen and driven cross country to San Diego’s Mission Beach. The cash that she’d found in her aunt’s desk and stuffed in her denim jacket. She remembered her final trip on the ferry, the gulls wheeling and circling, the sky a brilliant blue like today …

  She shook her head. Her long glossy black hair rippled and she forced the unwelcome memories out of her mind. She’d kept the past buried for ten years, and she wasn’t about to let it resurface now. Focus on your breathing, she told herself. Forget everything else but the coffee waiting for you back at the bungalow…

  Sirens wailing down the next street brought Darby’s thoughts back to the present. She ran off the boardwalk and onto Pacific Street, slowing her pace to begin her cool down. The next street was Palm, a mix of homes built in the 1950s, most of which had been restored in the past decade. She admired the Arts and Craftsstyle home of her neighbor, Doug Henderson, who was sweeping off his front porch as usual and humming show tunes. He gave Darby a little wave as always. She smiled and waved back, then walked up the neat little path that served as her walkway.

  “Your phone’s been ringing and ringing,” he yelled from the porch. “I don’t think your voice mail is picking up.”

  Darby groaned. Her answering machine was ready for retirement, but she’d been too busy to replace it this week. “Thank you,” she called. She picked up her newspaper and tucked it under her arm.

  “Hey!” yelled Doug. “Got a second to taste something for me?”

  “This wouldn’t be another one of your little tests, now would it, Doug?” Darby walked across the grass, a smile playing about her lips.

  “Oh, come on,” her neighbor cajoled, disappearing back into his home.

  Darby waited, enjoying the rush of post-run endorphins. She stole a glance at the headlines, heard a thrush singing in one of Doug’s flowering shrubs.

  “Here you go,” Doug said, emerging back on the porch and offering her a blue china cup full of steaming tea.

  She frowned. “Now Doug, you know the rules: white cups only. Using a colored one is cheating.” She took a moment to note the pale yellow color; inhaled the tea’s rich aroma. “However, I think I’m going to get this one even with your flagrant disregard of the rules.”

  She took a sip and smiled.

  “Doug, you’ve gone all out today. This is one expensive cup of tea.” She took another sip. “It’s delicious: sweet and lingering. I taste fresh grass, seaweed, and a hint of the woods.”

  Doug waited expectantly. “What do you think it is?”

  She smiled. “I know what it is. Hongyokuro, a rare grade of Gyokuro, from the Yame region of Japan near Fukuoka. `Precious Pearl Dew’ is the translation. Harvested in the early spring, I believe.”

  “Unbelievable!” He shook his head. “Palate memory, huh? That’s what you call it?”

  She nodded. “That’s rig
ht.”

  “Your mom was Japanese, right? Is this a tea she used to make?”

  Darby laughed. “My mother couldn’t have afforded this. She was a ‘Constant Comment’ drinker from the day she set foot in America.” Darby thought back to the first time she’d tasted the exquisite green tea now in her hands. “I tried Hongyokuro two years ago, over at the Beach House Tea Room.” She took another sip and handed him back his cup. “Delicious. Thanks for letting me enjoy it again.”

  Back at her bungalow, Darby removed her sneakers and placed them on the stoop, then reached discreetly into her jog bra to find her house key. Opening the door she inhaled the rich smell of coffee, as welcome in the morning as an embrace. She loved teas of just about every variety, but coffee was what got Darby Farr fired up each morning.

  I want nothing more than to sit in the sun and read the paper, she thought, but her intuition told her such leisure wasn’t to be. As the most sought-after real estate professional in San Diego County, she had a duty to an ever-growing list of clients with properties to market and sell, and an even longer list of eager buyers craving her expertise as a broker. She loved every minute of it, despite the fact that her newspaper often went unread. Sighing, she poured herself a cup of Hawaiian Morning Blend and took a long sip. She savored its flavor for a minute more, then pulled out her cell phone and turned it on.

  Ten missed calls. Ten, all from the same number. Her heart sank. She knew where the calls had come from, and could guess who’d made them. She just didn’t know why.

  Darby Farr took another sip of coffee, fighting the feeling of nausea that threatened whenever she thought about her hometown and Jane Farr, the only living family member she had left in the world. Her aunt Jane had swooped into Darby’s life just as she was entering her teens, becoming her guardian and destroying her previously blissful childhood. A predatory woman with shrewd eyes and jet black hair, Jane had devoured Darby and the town of Hurricane Harbor, Maine, like a fish hawk in a stocked pond.

  Darby took a deep breath and another sip of coffee. It had been hard work, putting distance between herself and the craggy island. It had meant attempting to forget the people and things she had loved, too. Darby didn’t know if it was coincidence, or the fact that her thirtieth birthday was in sight, but lately she had wondered whether it was time to face her demons, chief amongst whom was Aunt Jane Farr. And yet, there was so much at stake …

  Darby looked at the last call from Maine. Fifteen minutes had elapsed; perhaps Jane Farr had given up on reaching her runaway niece. If she calls again, I’ll answer, Darby promised herself. If not, I’ll forget all about it. A second later, the ring of the phone made her jump.

  Darby braced herself for the voice of her aunt, a sound she recalled as quite similar to the rasp of a rattlesnake.

  “Is this Darby Farr?”

  “Who’s calling please?” The speaker’s voice was definitely not the one she remembered as belonging to her father’s only sister.

  “This is-this is Tina Ames. From Hurricane Harbor. I worked with your aunt…” She paused and Darby felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. Apprehension, mixed with curiosity …

  Darby heard the other woman sniffle and attempt to regain her composure. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Jane’s in the hospital in Manatuck. She’s in a coma and the doctors don’t think she’ll pull through.” The woman choked, and Darby could hear her soft sobs.

  Jane Farr was on a bed, comatose. The news shocked Darby, and yet she felt oddly detached as well.

  “What happened?”

  “She has a brain tumor, and it was scheduled to be removed next week. But this morning, she was rushed to the hospital for the operation, and she still hasn’t come around.” The sound of Tina’s sniffles grew louder.

  “I’m sorry about Jane. I appreciate your tracking me down and I hope you’ll keep me in the loop…” Darby paused, not wanting to state the obvious “when she dies” and add to Tina’s pain.

  Tina blew her nose. “There’s something … something she’d like you to do.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes” Tina paused. “Your aunt needs you to finalize a deal she’s been working on for months.”

  “What are you talking about? A real estate transaction?”

  “The sale of the old Trimble property, Fairview. One of the prettiest places on the island. You must remember it…”

  “Look, I-“

  “Just listen. Last week your aunt sat me down and made me promise to call you if anything happened to her. She knew her surgery would be risky, and that there was a chance she’d be hospitalized before they got her on the table.” She paused, took a breath. “I’m the one who types up all the documents for your aunt, and believe me, the sale of Fairview is a done deal. I’ve got all the files, and everything’s in order. The parties pass papers on Tuesday.”

  “Tina, I’d like to help, but I’m really busy with my own work. And I’m on the other side of the country. I’m sure you’ve got brokers there who can handle this for her.”

  “I know where you are, Darby. I’m only asking for a few days of your time. And as for other brokers, your aunt didn’t trust them to handle this. She wants you.”

  “I’m not even licensed to practice real estate in Maine.”

  Tina barked out a laugh. “You think your aunt hasn’t got that figured out? You’ll take the Maine law portion of the exam on the plane. You pass it, and you’re licensed.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Not for Jane Farr it’s not. That means you’ll get the commission, too.”

  Darby shook her head. Her compassion for Tina was fast turning to irritation. Who was this woman and why did she think she could summon her to Maine on what certainly appeared to be a whim? Her aunt had always been a master manipulator, and apparently nothing had changed.

  She struggled to keep her voice neutral, despite her annoyance.

  “Look, it’s not about the money… “

  “Jane says it’s always about the money,” Tina interrupted, “which in this case is $5.5 million with a 6% commission. You get half and Jane keeps half. It’s not exactly pocket change.”

  Darby closed her eyes. No amount of money is worth the pain of going back, she thought. I’m just not ready…

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  Tina was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her tone was stony. “Are you getting what I’m trying to tell you? Your aunt is lying here unable to brush her own teeth, never mind conduct business. You’ve been given power of attorney to handle her decisions: medical, financial, you name it. And, in the event of her death-” Tina choked a little, “you’ve been appointed her personal representative. You’ve got responsibilities here. This isn’t some whimsical jaunt back to Maine.” She paused and continued. “No one can force you-least of all me-but I hope you see that it’s the right thing to do. If it’s money that’s on your mind, the real estate company will pay all of your expenses, and, like I said, you’ll earn commission as well.”

  The implications of Tina Ames’ words struck Darby like a blow. Why, after ten years of silence, had her aunt chosen her to step in like this? Was there truly no one else to whom Jane Farr could turn? Darby knew she was not bound by law to go to Hurricane Harbor, and yet it seemed the old woman had made it impossible for her to refuse. And, she realized with some surprise, I’ll admit that I’m intrigued …

  “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.
r />   “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.