Killer Listing Page 3
He reached for another beer and flipped the top. It wouldn’t totally dull the pain, but until Jack had something much stronger, beer would have to do.
_____
Darby steered the black Mustang through downtown Sarasota, past the shopping and hospital districts, and into an established neighborhood of wide streets shaded by towering red maples. Helen sat silently beside her, motioning only occasionally for Darby to turn. Finally she shook her head, gave a sigh, and spoke.
“The Camerons’ house is on the left,” she said, “down this drive.”
Darby turned where Helen indicated and started down the gently winding drive. A gate with a small gatehouse and a security camera loomed before her, and she slowed the car. Helen waved at the camera and the gate lifted.
Magnificent old oaks lined both sides of the pavement, their arching limbs reaching out and over the flat, grassy lawns. After four hundred or so yards, the drive ended in a neat circle surrounding a marble statue of the Madonna and outlined with magnolias and flowering shrubs. Darby pulled up before a handsome plantation-style estate and turned off the ignition. She could see the Gulf just behind the house, the setting sun beginning to turn the sky a soft pink.
“Here we are,” Helen said flatly. “Casa Cameron. Nearly one and a half acres of land with 220 feet of direct frontage.” Her voice was mechanical. Sighing, she pulled the visor down so that she could see herself in the mirror. “God, I look as bad as I feel.” She reached in a small purse and pulled out a lipstick. Pursing her lips, Helen applied a swipe of coral frost. She pinched her cheeks and turned resolutely toward Darby. “Let’s go.”
They followed a twisting stone walkway to a large black door with a massive brass knocker. Darby watched as Helen let the knocker fall with a loud clang. She seemed to have added a decade to her looks—although, when the door opened, Helen transformed into the energetic person she had been before the shocking news.
“Harold, terrible thing, can’t believe it.” The butler, a portly man with a red-splotched face and kind eyes, nodded and moved aside so that Helen and Darby could enter. “This is Darby Farr, the visiting niece of a dear old friend.” She gave the man a penetrating look. “Where is Mitzi?”
The man brought his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “In the front room, Miss Near. Allow me to show you there.”
“That won’t be necessary, Harold, but thank you.”
Helen led the way through the grand entrance hallway, dominated by a curving stairway and enormous crystal chandelier. Darby’s sandals clicked on the cool tiles and echoed off the quiet hallway’s walls. Helen opened a set of French doors and indicated for Darby to step into the room.
It was a sunny, spacious living room decorated in shades of cream, with cream-colored marble tiles and overstuffed cream furniture. One whole wall was glass, overlooking an emerald green sweep of grass, beyond which lie the placid Gulf of Mexico; another was floor-to-ceiling shelves holding porcelain figurines and hardcover books. Thirty or so people could sit comfortably in the room, and Darby imagined it was often used for entertaining. She glanced to the opposite side of the room. A marble hearth and fireplace, flanked by brass sconces, dominated the wall. It was crowned by an imposing oil portrait of a stunning young woman wearing a bright blue ball gown, her black hair piled high upon her head. The subject’s coy smile was captivating.
Darby heard Helen suck in a quick breath and saw her dash to the far corner of the room. Seconds later, she, too, was hurrying toward a wheelchair holding a lifeless-looking figure. Darby glanced at the slumped woman’s timeworn face. Despite the sagging skin and creased lines, she could see it was the beauty from the painting.
To their relief, Mitzi Cameron had merely dozed off. Helen’s gentle touch awoke her friend and they regarded each other silently for a long moment. Helen stooped and hugged Mitzi, and when the two had finished embracing, Darby saw Helen wipe her eyes with a slow gesture.
“A serial killer.” Mitzi Cameron’s voice was husky, tinged with a hint of a Latin accent. “A monster who preys on real estate agents. Kyle was the third victim.”
Helen sighed. “It’s unbelievable.”
Mitzi shook her head, her black hair still lustrous, although now she wore it in a demure bun at the nape of her neck. “From what the police say, she was a random choice. He saw her notice for the open house, and decided to kill her. That’s one possibility. Or he chose her months ago, put her on his list of victims, and waited for his opportunity. If that is the case, he may now have other innocent women in his sights.” She sighed and seemed to notice Darby for the first time. “Nell, you’re forgetting your manners.”
Helen clasped her hands together and turned toward Darby. “So I am. Mitzi Cameron, meet Darby Farr.”
Darby shook the small, chilly hand of Mitzi Cameron. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.
The older woman’s face hardened. “Thank you.” She then added, in a softer tone, “And I for yours. I didn’t know your aunt well, but I know my friend Nell thought the world of her.”
She wheeled herself away from the window and Helen and Darby followed. “Let’s go into the study,” she said. “I’ll ask Carlotta to bring us some tea.” She stopped and turned to face Helen. “Or would you rather join me in a cocktail?”
Helen appeared to think about the offer. She shot a look in Darby’s direction and then back to Mitzi Cameron. “I’ve got a designated driver. Why the hell not?”
The study was a cozy, sunny space, a small part of what Darby was beginning to realize was an enormous house, perhaps ten thousand square feet or so. It was down the hall from the grand living room, adjacent to a large den where Darby glimpsed a pool table, shelves of brass trophies, and mounted game fish.
“This is my favorite part of Casa Cameron,” said Mitzi, maneuvering her chair into the study. “It reminds me of the little living room in Miami, back in my family’s home in Coral Gables. Do you remember it, Nell?”
Helen nodded, moving toward a table on which an elegant array of crystal paperweights was displayed. “Yes, and I recall your collection as well. I’ve always loved this one the best.” She picked up a small glass oval and held it up to the light. “That tiny little pink shell …”
Mitzi laughed, a silver sound that belonged to a much younger woman. “Helen Near, you always tell me you like that paperweight. You’re so damn predictable!”
“I can’t help it. I’m drawn to this one.” Her voice was defensive.
“And you never seem to remember that you’re the one who gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday!”
Helen’s booming laugh joined Mitzi’s and Darby smiled. It was obvious that these two women shared a special bond of friendship. Little wonder Helen had moaned in anguish when the car radio’s news report described the details of Kyle Cameron’s grisly murder. Multiple stab wounds … identical to two murders on the East Coast … It was not only the tragic death of her new business partner and colleague: it was the pain this fatality caused her oldest and dearest friend.
Mitzi rolled her chair to face a chintz-covered couch and indicated that they should sit. Moments later a trim, dark-haired woman wearing a white uniform arrived with a tray of drinks. Mitzi and Helen took martini glasses filled with an orange colored liquid. Darby accepted a glass of sparkling water and lime.
“Thank you, Carlotta,” said Mitzi, and the servant retreated from the room. The hostess held aloft the cocktail and regarded her friend. “I thought we should have one of Kyle’s favorites in her honor.” She gave a sad smile. “To Kyle.”
The three clinked glasses and drank.
“Delicious,” said Helen. “Say what you want, but the Florida Cocktail is one good drink.”
“Hard to go wrong with Triple Sec, cherry brandy, and gin,” murmured Mitzi. “Of course, it’s the lemon and orange juices that really give it a punch.”
The older women giggled and Darby couldn’t help but smile. “How long have you two been friends?”
Mitzi’s gaiety was short-lived. She sighed and regarded Darby. “I’m not usually this animated, even around my best friend Helen. I think I’m somewhat in shock.” She set her drink down on the coffee table. “That poor girl. Alone and at the mercy of a maniac. She was stabbed more than two dozen times. I just pray she died quickly, without too much pain.” Tears began to roll slowly down her thin cheeks and Helen handed her an embroidered handkerchief. She looked as if she was ready to cry as well.
“How is Jack taking all this?”
“Not well. At first we couldn’t find him … he was fishing somewhere south of the city. And then, when we did, well, he was not in good shape.” She gave Darby an apologetic look. “My son’s been having a hard time. He’s depressed, and—” she took a deep breath. “Dr. Menendez came over right away and gave Jack a sedative. He’s resting in his room now.”
Darby glanced at Helen. Did Jack—who had to be in his forties—still live at home?
Mitzi continued. “The police told us that Kyle’s murder follows the pattern of two others on the East Coast. One was in Stuart, I think it was, and the other somewhere by Daytona Beach.” She shuddered. “The press is calling this maniac the ‘Kondo Killer.’ All of the murders have taken place in condominiums during real estate open houses.”
Helen placed her drink on the coffee table and gave her friend a shrewd look. “I’m worried about you.”
Mitzi waved her hand with a dismissive gesture. “Nell, you know I’ll survive. It’s Jack I’m worried about. He was crazy about that girl.” She sighed. “I called Alexandra, and she’s due to arrive any moment.” She paused. “She’s taking it hard, too, but she’s tough like her mother, and I think she’ll rally to help Jack.”
Helen picked up her drink and gulped the last of it down. “Was Jack still trying to win Kyle back?”
Mitzi nodded. “I don’t know whether it would have worked. Kyle had changed—we all saw it—and sometimes I think she saw reconciliation with Jack as a step backward.”
Darby sipped her water and listened. The family dynamics at Casa Cameron were tangled, much as hers had been until recent memory. She wondered what the change had been in Kyle Cameron, but an interruption stopped the flow of conversation.
Carlotta appeared in the doorway. “Señora, a car has just driven in. I believe it is Alexandra.”
“Thank you. Please show her to us.” Mitzi smoothed her hair with her hands, an unconscious gesture Darby had noted earlier, and frowned at the glasses. “I should have asked Carlotta to take our drinks. You know how Alexandra is around alcohol.” She lowered her voice. “Since she became a nutrition fanatic, it’s even worse.”
Helen raised her eyebrows. “For goodness sake. Your daughter-in-law was just stabbed to death. You go ahead and have a drink or two if you want.”
A bustling sound in the hall announced the arrival of Alexandra Cameron. She strode into the study, a tall, slim woman with the same beautiful bone structure as her mother, and the same mane of thick, lustrous, hair, although hers was a deep brown, abundantly streaked with blonde. Her eyes, accentuated with eyeliner, flashed as she looked around the room, noticing Darby but then just as quickly dismissing her.
“Mother,” she breathed. Her lips were full and red. She kneeled at Mitzi’s chair, putting her head in her mother’s lap. Great sobs wracked her body.
“There, there,” Mitzi smoothed her daughter’s hair and shot Helen a mournful look.
Alexandra lifted her head. “I just can’t believe it. Kyle—taken from us—it’s too horrible.” She wiped her eyes with a sweep of a graceful hand. “Where’s Jack?”
“In his room.”
“And Dad?”
Mitzi’s face hardened. “Out.”
Alexandra rose to her feet, swinging her hair off her shoulders. She was in her early forties, wearing jeans and a white tee shirt, with a thin, turquoise-studded belt and flat sandals. Her figure was slim through the hips like a model’s. The resemblance to her mother was remarkable: in an elegant dress and with slightly darker hair, she was a dead ringer for the portrait of Mitzi Cameron in the salon.
“I’m going up to see Jack. He’s got to be devastated.”
“He may be sleeping.”
“I won’t wake him.”
The three watched her stride from the room. Mitzi turned to Darby. “Forgive me for not introducing you. I’m not thinking clearly.” She added in a softer voice, almost to herself, “It’s so awful. Alexandra and Kyle have known each other for years. They were like sisters.”
Darby was about to reply when she heard the staccato thumping of someone running down stairs. Alexandra’s voice rang out. “Mother!” she cried. Moments later she bounded into the room. “Jack’s not there.”
“What do you mean?” Mitzi snapped. “Dr. Menendez gave him something to sleep …”
“I mean he’s gone. I can’t find him anywhere upstairs.”
The women looked at each other in confusion.
“She’s right, Señora.” A breathless Carlotta appeared in the doorway. “I went upstairs to see if he needed anything, and I could not find him either. Should I call the police?”
“No,” said Mitzi. “Heavens, not yet. He’s probably just wandered somewhere.” She looked up at Helen, her eyes pleading for help. “I pray he hasn’t gone outside …”
Helen glanced at Darby. The situation called for a cool head and quick thinking, qualities which the young agent was fortunate to possess.
Darby looked at the concerned faces and formulated a plan. “Let’s get out there and search the grounds as quickly as we can.” She pointed toward the doorway. “Carlotta, you check the rest of the upstairs rooms, closets—anywhere he could be. Mitzi, you do the same for the downstairs. Helen, you check with the security staff to be sure no one has left the property. Alexandra, you and I will take the grounds.” She thought a moment. “I’ll ask the butler—Harold, isn’t it?—to check the length of the driveway and stop in at the gatehouse.” She looked up and saw relief etched on Mitzi Cameron’s face. Darby continued. “If anyone sees anything, they call Helen on her cell.” She read out the number. “Everyone got that?”
Hurried nods answered Darby’s question.
“Good. Now let’s go and find Jack.”
_____
The searchers spread out inside Casa Cameron and around the property, with Harold heading away from the Gulf and toward the gatehouse. Darby suggested that Alexandra comb one side of the house, while she would take the other.
“I’ll check the northern part of the property,” Alexandra Cameron offered. “If you go that way, I’ll meet up with you at the boathouse.” She pointed toward the setting sun. “You can’t miss it.”
Alexandra hurried off, her hair swaying as she ran. Darby surveyed the southern end of the grounds, forming a quick plan. She’d scan the beach and pool first, then, provided she hadn’t located Jack, head to the Cameron’s massive boathouse.
The air was still humid although the sun’s slow sink into the Gulf had lowered the temperatures a few degrees. Darby sprinted across the grass, keeping her breathing even to conserve her energy. The pool lay before her, an undulating swoosh of brilliant blue surrounded by a low wooden fence. Darby swept her gaze over the pool’s tiled bottom. Nothing. She opened the door of a small beach cabana and a bright green anole skittered out. She saw a stack of clean towels and a bottle of suntan lotion, nothing more.
The beach looked empty as well. Darby glimpsed a trio of porpoises swimming by the setting sun, their fins black and shiny as they crested the surface. She turned toward the boathouse and ran.
The structure was impressive. Tall, shingled, with a beautiful laurel oak framing one side, the boathouse jutted partially into the Gulf. Built to store a vessel at least sixty feet long, Darby knew it was one of a handful of such icons that remained intact. Once common for members of the leisure class living along the coast of Ame
rica’s oceans and bigger lakes, boathouses were now a rare sight, the few still standing relics of history and objects of conservation.
Inside it was dark, the only sound that of water lapping gently against the boathouse’s sides. The odor of gasoline mingled with the smell of old wood and the tang of salt water. In the gloom Darby could see the outline of a large powerboat. She approached it, her heart starting to beat faster.
Ever since her parents’ disappearance in a sailing accident when she was fourteen, Darby Farr reacted adversely to watercraft. Anxiety in the form of a racing heart, clammy palms, and rubbery legs gripped her whenever she climbed aboard any kind of vessel, from ferries to rowboats.
Nevertheless, a man’s life was at stake and Darby knew she could overcome her body’s reactions. With trembling hands, she gripped the side of the boat and climbed aboard.
It was a sleek sport fishing boat of fifty-five or so feet in length. Darby could make out a tall fly bridge rising into the darkness, equipped, no doubt, for serious fishing. Darby willed her legs to stop shaking and surveyed her surroundings. A wide deck, with two swivel chairs and what appeared to be a dive platform. Slowly she searched the area for any signs of Jack Cameron, but found nothing.
Next Darby turned her attention to the bow of the boat. Crawling along the side of the vessel, she held on to the metal rails and felt for anything out of the ordinary. The deck seemed to be empty.
The center of the boat was dominated by a large cabin that appeared to be all glass. A door led into the cabin, and to the right was a ladder leading up to the fly bridge. Darby tried the door and to her surprise it opened. She listened for sounds but heard nothing but the background rhythm of the waves.
Inside the cabin it was even darker, and Darby let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. She noticed a faint, spicy scent lingering in the air—pipe tobacco? This was the salon, a cozy space with cushioned banquettes and a few tables. A sconce was to her left. Hoping it ran off the boat’s battery, Darby tried it.
Light flooded the cabin and Darby sighed in relief. Quickly she scanned the salon, three staterooms, the galley, and two heads, but there was no sign of anyone.