Killer Listing (3 page)

Darby washed her hands and used some of Helen’s coconut-scented lotion. Off in the distance a phone rang and Darby heard Helen say hello.

She switched off the bathroom light and went back to the living room. Helen was standing at the window, her back to Darby, her tall body rigid and still.

“Helen?” Darby sensed something strange with the woman’s stiff posture. She reached out and touched her on the shoulder. “Anything wrong?”

The older woman turned slowly, a look of horror etched on her tanned face. “That call was from my friend Mitzi. She told me the most awful news …” She swallowed, attempting to regain her composure. “She told me that Kyle—Kyle Cameron—is dead.”

Jack Cameron opened his
third can of Budweiser and took a long swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and surveyed the mangrove-dotted shoreline. The fish weren’t biting, not even the snook, and he contemplated trying another spot further down the bay. He shook his head. It was too hot, the mercury still in the high nineties, and he knew fishing in the heat of the day was basically a waste of time. He took another pull from the can and finished the beer, tossing the empty into a corner of the boat. Catching fish wasn’t high on his list of priorities today. Avoiding the phone and the mounting piles of bills on his desk, drinking beer and forgetting the past twenty-four hours—those were the reasons he had taken the aluminum skiff, a six-pack, and a bag of Doritos and headed into the mangroves.

“A guy needs to be alone with his thoughts,” he said aloud, the words slurring a little, but, he decided, not noticeably so. He watched as a snapping turtle surfaced two feet from the bow of the boat, turned its ancient reptilian head from side to side, and sunk slowly back into the water.

If only those thoughts weren’t poisoned by the image of Kyle.

He groaned, feeling the pain take hold of him again, and closed his eyes. Her face, with those perfect lips parted just slightly, and her cruel, mocking eyes, seared through his beer-induced buzz like headlights slicing through fog. He clenched his teeth, opened his eyes and welcomed the harsh glare of the sun. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? She was some kind of evil spirit, what his Cuban grandmother would have called a
mabuya,
and nothing he did—nothing—could keep her taunting visage at bay. Dead or alive she would haunt him until he himself was dead, and who knows? Maybe even after that.

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?”

“Too long!” said Helen. More peals of laughter.

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.”