A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) (42 page)

Darby remembered seeing the small blonde girl sitting at the
kitchen table with her crayons. She smiled. "I don't believe it. I
wish she had told me."

"Oh, your aunt was like that," Tina said. "Liked to have a few
tricks up her sleeve." Tina downed her champagne and looked
around for the bottle. "When it comes down to it, everyone likes to
have their little surprises, I guess."

"Or big ones," said Mark.

Lucy Trimble handed Darby a large canvas wrapped in tissue
paper. "We wanted to give you something to show our appreciation for everything you've done, Darby," she said. "I hope you'll be
able to bring it on the plane."

Darby unwrapped the canvas. Lucy had painted a vibrant sky
with an island surrounded by a tranquil azure sea.

"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed. She read the title of the painting. "New Beginnings." She smiled at Lucy. "Thank you. It's very
appropriate."

Miles Porter stepped forward to admire the scene and give
Darby a secret squeeze on the waist. "It's brilliant, Lucy, absolutely
brilliant."

"I feel like we all have a fresh start," said Lucy with feeling. "I'm
going to see if I can find that baby boy I gave up years ago, and if
he wants to see me, I'm going to try."

Mark Trimble glanced at Ryan Oakes. "I know I'm charting a
new course.

Darby Farr looked around the room at the faces she had come
to love. "Here's to new beginnings," she said, "and happy endings,
too."

I owe a debt of gratitude to many people who have helped me on
my journey.

First, to my parents-thank you for teaching me to love books
and mysteries. To my friends in Camden and beyond, especially
Elaine, Patty, Nancy, Cindy, Becky, Lynda, Valerie, Marya, and
Trish-thanks for your friendship and support. To fellow members of the Mt. Battie Book Club. I'm grateful for our insightful
discussions of all kinds of books. And to my hiking group, "Twelve
Wild Women"-you keep me moving! Thanks for the enthusiasm
over the years.

I appreciate the skill of my manuscript readers: Becky Ford,
Lynda Chilton, Lucy Morgan, Gloria Guiduli, Valerie Alex, and Ed
Doudera. A big thanks to Alexandra Doudera for her design talent,
and Erika Doudera for her insight into Darby's heritage.

For specialized assistance when I needed it, thank you to Attorney Linda Gifford of the Maine Association of REALTORS@; William J. Albany, Chief of Police, Limerick Township, Pennsylvania;
Patricia McGee Albany, R.N.; and Public Affairs Specialist Philip
Edney, Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Thank you to my literary agent, Tris Coburn, and to all the
good people at Midnight Ink, including Marissa Pederson, Connie
Hill, Brian Farrey, and Terri Bischoff. I'm looking forward to our
continued partnership.

Much appreciation to my fellow real estate agents in Maine,
above all the team at Camden Real Estate, and to Tess Gerritsen, a
friend who has taught me so much over the years.

Finally, this book would not have been possible without the
support, love, and encouragement of my family. Thank you Mom,
Will, and Lucia-as well as Matt, Nate, Lexi, and especially, Ed.

T
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Vicki Doudera never imagined her career as a top selling real estate agent would lead to her dream job: fiction writing. A graduate
of Hamilton College and the author of several non-fiction books,
she entered real estate in 2003, joining a firm specializing in coastal
properties and becoming one of its most successful brokers. Meeting
clients, touring luxurious homes, and negotiating deals prompted
her to pick up her pen and create Darby Farr, a gutsy agent selling
houses-and solving murders. The thrilling result is her brilliantly
twisted debut novel, A House to Die For.

Vicki has written two nonfiction books, Moving to Maine and
Where to Retire in Maine. Her magazine credits include Yankee,
Parenting, Reader's Digest, The Old Farmer's Almanac, Down East,
and People, Places & Plants.

She belongs to the National Association of REALTORS(r) and
is president of her local Habitat for Humanity. She lives with her
family on the coast of Maine.

Contact Vicki at www.vickidoudera.com.

If you enjoyed reading A House to Die For, here's an excerpt
from the next Darby Farr Mystery,

Open for Murder

KYLE CAMERON LET OUT a long moan of pleasure as her massage
therapist gave one more long, gliding stroke to her lightly tanned
shoulders.

"Like sex, only better, eh?" asked Sassa Jorgensen, smiling with
satisfaction at her client's inert form.

"Ummmm ... way better." Kyle lay motionless for a few precious
moments, savoring the feeling of total relaxation she always experienced after her weekly session with the talented practitioner.

"You are the best, Sassi." Kyle rolled over slowly, pulling the soft
terry towel over her torso. She didn't care if the older woman saw
her naked-she'd done so many times and besides, Kyle was justifiably proud of her firm, forty-two-year-old body-but the towel was
warm and soft, and the temperature in the air-conditioned condominium was beginning to feel chilly.

Sassa capped the multi-vitamin lotion she'd slathered on Kyle's
skin and placed it in her satchel. She gave a sly smile, the corners
of her eyes crinkling with mischief. "Your Sassi can make you feel as good as your big-shot boyfriend, eh?" she teased, handing Kyle
her plush terry robe. "Even with his fancy dinners, private jet, and
undoubtedly large-"

"Now that's enough," Kyle interrupted, laughing. "I've told you
before, there's no competition between you and any of my lovers.
Are you this probing with all of your clients?"

Sassa shooed Kyle off her massage table and began folding it up.
"Just the ones I worry about." She leaned the folded table against the
hallway wall and reached for her satchel, her air of lightheartedness
suddenly gone.

"What is it?" Kyle asked, hugging the robe closer to her body,
longing for the hot shower she always took after one of Sassa's sessions. She glanced at the masseuse's frowning face and felt a trickle
of irritation. "You're giving me the creeps."

The older woman waited a moment before speaking. "It's that
man McFarlin, the one you are seeing. He's always in the papers.
This party, that party... with a tall woman on his arm..."

"His wife?" Kyle gave a harsh laugh. She ran a hand through her
tousled chestnut hair. "He doesn't love her any more than she cares
for him. It's just convenient."

"Then it is convenient also that he has your warm bed, eh?" Sassa
glanced up quickly, hoping she had not overstepped her bounds
with her best-paying client. To her relief, she saw that Kyle's countenance remained serene. The therapist bit her lip and continued. "I
have a bad feeling about him. I've warned you before..."

"I know," Kyle interjected, trying to keep her tone light. "You
think he's using me. I wasn't born yesterday, Sassa, and I'm not
some silly twenty-year-old who's gaga over him and his billions."
She paused and tilted her chin in defiance. "I enjoyed what Foster
could give me, it's true, and I liked the `no strings attached' nature
of our relationship. It worked for both of us." She glanced at her perfectly manicured nails and frowned. "I used him as much as he's
used me, if you want to know the truth."

"You talk almost as if..."

"As if it's over between us?" Kyle gave a quick grin, raising her
expertly arched eyebrows. "Yes, you little Swedish worrywart. I'm
finished with Foster McFarlin, and he knows it. We had it all out last
night." She rose and reached for a soft leather clutch, one of the few
items out of place in the immaculate room, and opened it. Handing
the masseuse a check that included a generous tip, she smiled again.
"Here you go. You'll have to find something else to pester me about
next week."

Sassa Jorgensen smiled. So then it isn't too late, she thought, trying to dismiss the feeling of foreboding she'd possessed since entering Kyle's condo. She nodded briskly and picked up her massage
table. "I am glad," she said simply, moving down the hallway to the
door. "Until next Monday, then."

Kyle locked the door behind Sassa and padded down the hallway, past the carefully chosen furnishings. She paused before an
exquisite cut-glass bowl filled with water, inside of which swam a
solitary goldfish.

"Hey, Buddy. How many laps are you up to today?" The scales on
the fish flashed brilliantly as the little creature completed another
circle, seeming to swim even faster with an audience. "Don't overdo
it, huh?" Kyle opened a drawer and pulled out a small box. Was it
her imagination, or did Buddy seem to notice that it was lunchtime?
She pinched a small amount of the flakes and sprinkled them on the
surface. Immediately, the fish streaked to the food, gobbling up a
slowly sinking morsel or two and darting back down, only to repeat
the process until all of it was eaten.

Kyle chuckled and replaced the box in the drawer. She'd purchased Buddy when she moved into the condo, going on two years now, and was amazed at his longevity. No fancy aquarium, no special water, and yet he seemed to be thriving in the simplest of environments. He's got straightforward-but expensive-taste in property.

The bowl had been one of her grandmother's most treasured
possessions, one of the few things she'd managed to remove from
her elegant Warsaw apartment while fleeing the Nazis. Kyle imagined the elderly woman's delighted expression if she'd lived to see
her Lalique crystal inhabited by a goldfish. "She'd have welcomed
you with open arms," Kyle said to the busy creature, who seemed to
slow his swimming to ponder Kyle's words.

Warm-hearted Grandma Anna was without a doubt the biggest
influence in Kyle Cameron's life. When she was five, her mother disappeared after going on a particularly long drinking binge, and in
her place appeared a silver-haired angel who announced she was
Kyle's grandmother. She took the entranced child to her apartment
at the Sunshine Senior Home in Sarasota, Florida, and made her a
snug little room out of an oversized closet. The presence of a precocious little girl, along with the excitement of duping the Sunshine
staff (there were rules about roommates, and grandchildren were
totally forbidden) buoyed Anna's and all the rest of the residents'
spirits immeasurably. Kyle grew up surrounded by dozens of loving grandparents, always eager to assist with her homework, teach
her Canasta, or read her a story. Despite her mother's disappearance
and her lack of knowledge of her father, Kyle's was a blissful-if
somewhat unorthodox-childhood.

Sighing at the memory of Anna Slivicki, Kyle turned on the
shower and reflected on the rest of her day's schedule. Her Esperanza Shores open house at noon was first and foremost on her
agenda. Following that, she had several appointments, as well as a
cocktail party on the very chic St. Andrew's Isle, home of the PGA's leading golfer. She stepped into the steaming shower and pondered
her wardrobe, knowing there would be no time to change once she
left her condo. Professional attire was needed for most of the day,
with something classy for the party. She pictured her navy blue suit
with the pencil skirt. If she paired it with a cream-colored sleeveless
cashmere shell and pearls, she could remove the jacket at the party
and look properly elegant. I'll bring my new Marc Jacobs clutch for
the cocktail party as well, she decided, beginning to wash her hair.

Everything she needed for the open house-business cards, flyers, several signs-was already stashed in her Miata. Idly she wondered who would show up on a hot July Monday. Open houses always brought out curious neighbors, eager for free food, as well as
the `ladies who lunch' crowd looking for a peek into the Sunshine
Coast's finest properties. On occasion, they brought out true home
buyers as well, making the work, expense, and lost time worth the
effort. Not only is it excellent publicity for the project, Kyle reminded
herself, but it will give me something positive to report to Foster.