Killer Listing (4 page)

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 America’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.

That left the fly bridge.

Darby exited the cabin, turning the light back off as she left. It wouldn’t help her on the bridge, but it had made searching the boat’s many rooms quicker. She began climbing the ladder, her sandals slapping against the metal rungs. Perhaps Jack had already been located on the vast Cameron property, and in the excitement, calls to the other searchers had been forgotten.

The fly bridge appeared to have a large banquette plus two chairs equipped for steering. A roof overhead provided protection from the sun, but also appeared to house some sophisticated electronics, no doubt having to do with finding schools of game fish. Darby circled the bridge slowly. She felt the seats of the chairs, touching nothing but upholstered cushions. As she approached the wheel, she paused. Something was huddled on the deck.

It was a man.

Quickly Darby checked for a pulse. At first she couldn’t locate anything, but then she felt a faint throb, very weak. As she whipped out her cell phone, a voice called in the darkness.

“Darby?” It was the lilting speech of Alexandra Cameron.

“On the fly bridge,” she yelled. “I think I’ve found Jack.”

_____

“You’re late.” Chellie Howe unlocked the door of the hotel suite and stepped aside, allowing her husband to enter.

“Am I?” Foster McFarlin checked his Rolex with a diffident air. “I thought I was right on time.”

Chellie watched as he passed her, his suit tailored perfectly to his well-muscled body. How was it that the simple action of his striding across the room could still arouse her, bring color to her cheeks and a longing in the pit of her stomach? She closed the door and made her voice light.

“The least you can do is zip me.” She strode to where he stood and pivoted on her stilettos, hands on her hips, waiting. She felt him touch the small of her back and linger a moment too long.

He guided the zipper up slowly, and turned her around.

“You heard the news.”

Chellie nodded. She’d been expecting this. “Which development was she in?”

“Esperanza Shores.” His voice was tired. “I can’t believe it. Some maniac jumped her in one of the units. She was stabbed repeatedly.” Chellie looked at his face and saw agony etched on the handsome dark features.
He’s in pain
, she realized.
In pain over Kyle Cameron’s death.

Anger began to rise in her, and she willed it away.
It doesn’t matter anymore,
she thought. Kyle was a mutilated corpse lying on cold steel in the morgue.
She won’t come between us again.

“We’ll catch the guy who did this,” she said forcefully. “I’ve got police units working around the clock on it.”

McFarlin nodded. His cocoa brown skin had a slight sheen, as if polished, and she remembered how the feel of it could drive her mad with desire. She tried to make her voice sound sincere. “My heart goes out to Kyle’s family.”

He barked out a laugh. “That jackass Jack Cameron? Don’t waste your time. And you know your pal Alexandra isn’t sorry.”

Chellie counted silently to ten. She was not going to lose her temper, even though all she wanted was to scream at him, throw something, and kick the bastard between his muscular legs. She was glad—yes, glad!—to know that there was one less female on her sex-addicted husband’s radar screen. She wanted to yell that she wasn’t sorry Kyle was murdered, but he would never forgive her for that, and if she had any prayer of winning him back, she had to stay calm.

Instead she grabbed her clutch and forced herself to smile. “Not to change the subject, but I’m happy you’re coming to this dinner, Foster. This is the perfect demographic for me.” Indeed, the wealthy donors to the Trust for Public Lands were exactly the voters Chellie needed to court if she were going to sew up the gubernatorial nomination come fall.

“Glad to be of service.” Foster let out a breath of air and regarded his wife. Her gown was stunning: light lilac against her pale skin and golden blonde hair, thin straps that showed off her toned arms and torso, a clingy material that made her look like the knockout she was.

“You look good, Chellie. Real good. Your lunch—how did it go?”

She ignored his question and made a motion with her hand. “Dammit, Foster, we’ve got to fly.” Chellie Howe hated to be late for anything, especially when she was the one giving the keynote address.

They hustled out the door and into the hushed hallway where a petite brunette with a pixie-looking face and severely short haircut hovered by the elevator. “Take the stairs,” Chellie snapped at her press secretary, and Mindy Jackson turned with a resigned look on her face and did as she was told.

As Chellie and Foster waited for the elevator, Foster turned to her with a rueful look on his face.

“The whole place’s covered in blood,” he said.

Chellie’s temper flared. Enough was enough. She was just about to reply when Foster shook his head and continued. “It’s gonna be impossible to sell that unit, and now the whole place will be under a cloud. Christ, I’ll have to
give
those Esperanza Shores condos away.”

The elevator arrived and its doors slid open. Foster ushered her in and Chellie bit back a smile. Her husband hadn’t changed after all. His lover was lying in the morgue with more holes in her body than a pincushion, but his thoughts were on the salability of his precious condominiums.

“You know,” she said lightly, “Kyle’s murder may win you some sympathy down the line in court. We’ll have to think about the best way to present it.” She was referring to the growing number of lawsuits filed against her husband’s company by irate investors in his multiple real estate developments, most of which had now tanked in the soured economy.

He nodded, handsome and confident no matter what the situation. “God knows I could use a little sympathy,” he muttered.

She was glad she had kept her cool, glad they were nearly at the dinner where she would charm the pants off the room. She allowed herself a secret smirk as the elevator doors opened into the hallway. Foster McFarlin still needed her. She was in charge, and that was just the way Chellie Howe liked it.