Killer Listing (28 page)

He pulled open the single drawer of the table, checking to see if Kyle’s Smith & Wesson was there, but that, too, had vanished.
Darby Farr must have told Briggs about it.
He sighed and headed toward Kyle’s bedroom.

The creamy, serene surroundings filled him with a sadness so intense he nearly crumpled to the floor. Instead he perched on the bed and covered his face with his hands. The last time he had come here, it had been with a bottle of bourbon. Now here he was, filled with anguish again, only this time, he was defenseless.

I will be back to take care of your things,
he promised softly. Not today, but soon. He rose unsteadily to his feet and waited until he felt stronger. Then he crossed the bedroom to Kyle’s mahogany dresser.

He opened a few drawers, looking for her jewelry box, and found the wooden heart-shaped container tucked behind some silky camisoles. He pulled it out and lifted the lid. Moving aside some necklaces and bangle bracelets, he spotted the faded velvet box which held Grandma Slivicki’s little ring.

He pulled open the box, expecting to see it sparkling against the satin interior. He stopped, confused. Where the hell was the ring?

“So let me get
this straight,” Helen and Darby were at the office of Near & Farr Realty, sorting out the next few days’ plans. “You are leaving on Thursday, after we sell St. Andrew’s Isle?”

Darby nodded. “Tag and Mr. Kobayashi can pass papers Wednesday afternoon. Did you realize Tag has already moved out of the house?”

Now it was Helen’s turn to nod. “Bernie Schultz told me this morning. Everything will be totally gone by tomorrow. We’ll have the inspections, and boom! It’s done.” She paused. “I know you need to get back to California, but I’ve really enjoyed your company, and you’ve surely been a help. I’ll miss you.”

Darby smiled. “I’ll miss you, too. I’d love to come back and visit.”

“Definitely.” Helen opened the file on Stephanie Woodrow. “This is the buyer Peter Janssen asked us to represent?”

Darby nodded. “Truthfully, Helen, I don’t know why you’d want to travel so far. Maybe you can refer her to a colleague closer to Verona.”

Helen considered Darby’s advice. “Maybe. I suppose if I’m feeling fine, I may just plug away at this business for a few more years.” She smiled. “Keeps me out of trouble.”

“You and me, both.” Darby looked at her Smartphone and frowned. “I have a message from Jack Cameron. Wonder what that is all about?” She listened for a moment and turned back to Helen. “Here’s an odd thing. Kyle Cameron owned a ring that had belonged to her grandmother, Anna Slivicki. That ring was part of the story Kyle and her friend Sam Wilson were writing about Anna’s escape from Poland. In fact, I saw a photo of Anna wearing the ring.” She paused. “Jack Cameron went over to Kyle’s condo today, looking for it. He says it’s gone.”

“Was she robbed?” Helen’s face was puckered with worry.

“I don’t think so. It’s just another piece of this very complex, very frustrating puzzle.”

“Your friend Jonas Briggs hasn’t made much progress.”

Darby shook her head. “Poor guy, he is turning into a haunted skeleton of a man. He now thinks it was a random person who murdered Kyle, not someone who knew her.”

“Maybe it was someone who knew the real Kondo Killer? Maybe they were working together?”

“That’s definitely a possibility, Helen.” There was a rap on the door and the police detective entered. He looked at their faces and widened his eyes. “You two were just talking about me, weren’t you?”

“Actually, yes.” Darby told him of Helen’s theory. “Maybe that’s how the killer got the details of the East Coast crimes.”

“What details?” Helen asked.

“Confidential information about the methodology of the murders.” Briggs looked thoughtful. “You may be on to something there.” He turned to Darby. “Meanwhile, a valuable piece of Kyle Cameron’s jewelry is missing.”

“Her grandmother’s ring. Jack left me a message.” She lowered her voice as Helen headed to the back conference room, out of earshot. “You don’t suppose Kyle could have been wearing it?”

“It’s a possibility.” The skin on Jonas Briggs’ face was slack. “We find the ring, we find the killer.”

_____

Chellie Howe gave her new assistant, R.B. Cloutier, a stack of policies to read over and asked him to close her office door as he left. She thought a moment and then took a deep breath and made the call. Jonas Briggs answered immediately. “Yes, Lieutenant Governor?”

“Detective Briggs, I have information about the murder of Kyle Cameron.” She swallowed. “I need to speak with you.”

“I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes.”

Chellie hung up the phone and went into the outer office. “I have to run a few errands, R.B.” she lied. “If I’m not back by five o’clock, lock up for me.”

He nodded. “Do you need a hand? Would you like me to call you a car?”

She shook her head, wishing she could ask the handsome assistant to accompany her. She grabbed her pocketbook and slid her sunglasses on her face. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

_____

Helen Near closed and locked Near & Farr Realty and turned to Darby with a mischievous grin. “Four o’clock. Should we have a Mojito before we go to Casa Cameron for dinner?”

Darby smiled. “Actually, I’m going to run over and meet with Alexandra Cameron at her office.”

“Way the heck over to Alligator Key?”

“Yes. Her associate sent me an e-mail asking if we could meet. Truthfully, I’m not sure what it’s about, but I figured I’d check it out.” She smiled. “I’ll take a rain check on that Mojito. Should I just meet you at Casa Cameron?”

“Sure. I may very well head over early and spend some time with Mitzi. With all that has happened, I do worry about her. John’s out of the picture now, and even though it’s for the best, I still think it is hard.”

Darby agreed and headed to the black Mustang. Consulting her map, she found the skinny strip of land that composed Alligator Key and the causeway leading out to it. She started the car and headed south.

Darby recalled what she had learned—mainly from Helen—of Alexandra Cameron’s career path to date. Unlike her sorority sisters Kyle and Chellie, the beautiful heiress had not graduated from Florida State. Instead, she’d dropped out midway through her senior year to embark on a series of activities and trips designed to help her “find herself.” Spread over the last fifteen years, these diversions had done nothing but make her more and more restless and unhappy.

Then Mitzi gave her daughter a session at a spa specializing in wellness. The stay so impressed Alexandra that she returned to her old university, pursued a degree through the department of nutrition, food, and exercise science, and emerged a woman with a purpose. No one was more surprised than her family and friends when she set up a small counseling practice that specialized in eating and depression. Soon she began collaborating with a colleague on a book designed to help people eat for happiness. Together they’d rented an inexpensive office south of Sarasota on a small windy spit of land called Alligator Key.

Darby drove the Mustang across the narrow causeway and slowed at the end of the road. She consulted the directions from Alexandra’s website. As they described, she was now passing a swampy estuary. Immediately after, she spotted the low, boxy building where Alexandra Cameron worked.

Darby pulled into the parking lot. It was empty—no sign of any other vehicles. She took a look at her cell phone. Had she misread the time of their meeting?

The office had huge floor to ceiling windows with a drive-through area on the side and was painted a garish yellow and red. It looked like a fast-food restaurant, which was, in fact, what it had been. “We couldn’t resist the irony of turning an old hamburger joint into a nutrition clinic,” Alexandra had written on her website’s home page. “Fortunately the Cameron Foundation provided the means for us to get rid of the smell of greasy French fries.”

Darby regarded her surroundings while she figured out her next step. There was very little traffic on Alligator Key. In the time since she had been sitting in the lot, only one or two cars had passed. She checked the time once more, and punched in Alexandra’s number.

Her call was answered immediately.

“Darby, I am so, so, sorry I couldn’t get down there. I had an emergency with one of my anorexic patients and have just left the hospital. Did you get my message at the office? Please forgive me.”

“These things happen. Is your patient okay?”

“Fortunately, yes. We nearly lost her but she’s going to make it, at least for today.” Alexandra Cameron sighed. “Mom called about her dinner tonight. Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Then I can apologize again in person. See you soon, Darby.”

Darby hung up and started the Mustang. When things like this happened, she tried to stay philosophical.
I can either get annoyed, or I can view it as an unexpected opportunity.
She took a deep breath and willed her annoyance away.

Driving by the estuary, her eye was attracted to a large white bird. Heron, she thought, turning to get a better look. A flash of pink made her curious, so she pulled to the side of the road.

The bird was less than three feet tall, with long, stork-like pink legs and bright pink wings. With a sweeping motion, it swung a flattened bill back and forth in the shallow water, presumably looking for food. The bird’s bill was oddly shaped—
like a spoon
, Darby thought. She grabbed her Smartphone and did some quick research. She looked back at the mangrove-bordered water. She was gazing at a roseate spoonbill.

So there
, she thought, as she turned carefully back into the road. It was as if the spoonbill had been placed there just for her to observe. She drove back to the city limits of Sarasota feeling as if she’d been given a gift.

_____

“What’s up?” asked Dave DiNunzio, setting a stack of papers on Kelly McGee’s desk with a thump.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Not more paperwork!”

“That’s right. All for you.” Dave gave a wolfish grin. “You’re the one who wants to make detective before you’re thirty, remember?”

“Hey, I told you that in confidence.”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” He smirked down at her. “Just the guys I play poker with.”

“Great. That’s just great. Do you tell them everything?”

“Pretty much.”

Kelly fidgeted at her desk, annoyed. She had no idea who played in his precious poker game but she didn’t like the idea of his discussing her hopes and dreams with anyone. Not for the first time, she doubted Dave’s ability to keep his darn mouth shut.

“Where’s Detective Briggs?” she asked, as she began sorting through the stack. That morning she’d made it through half of the appointments on her list, but so far, she was no closer to finding anything new in Candy Sutton’s murder.

“I think he had a meeting with Lieutenant Governor Howe.” He checked his watch. “She called around four and he left to go meet her.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Wonder what that’s all about?”

Kelly felt her cheeks growing hot. “The task force, I guess.”

He grinned and shrugged. “Maybe.”

She watched him walk to his desk. Any goodwill she’d felt for him after their shared foray into Burmese python territory was gone. She was back at square one, finding him childish and downright annoying.

Kelly grabbed the first bunch of papers from the pile and glanced at her watch. Was it even worth starting when it was nearly five o’clock?
Don’t procrastinate, Kelly!
Whatever you get done today is that much less for the morning.
The self pep talk gave her the little bit of motivation she needed, and with a small sigh Kelly McGee started in on the pile before her.

_____

Driving through an unfamiliar part of Sarasota, Darby felt as if another gift was thrust her way. She was on a lonely stretch of road, miles inland from the Gulf, in a part of the city that time seemed to have forgotten. An old industrial plant of some kind sprawled across a weedy field, the company’s sign so faded she could not make out even one word. Beside it was a small clearing dotted with narrow gray headstones. “Pine Grove,” read a small metal marker.

Darby slowed the Mustang. This was the cemetery Peter Janssen had mentioned, the place where African-Americans could bury their dead during the time of segregation. It certainly was in a remote part of the city. On a whim, she pulled down the long, narrow dirt road that led to the back of the cemetery.

She stepped out of the car for a stretch. Huge longleaf pines, more than one hundred feet tall, bordered the tiny graveyard, nearly blocking out the late afternoon sun. She heard the shriek of a bird in the distance, cutting through the silence like a siren. She walked toward the graves to give her legs some exercise.

The cemetery dated back to post-Civil war days, and was very different from the manicured park-like burying grounds of the Euro-American tradition. Trees and vegetation were native. No attempt to landscape had been attempted, and grass was sparse. The headstones were modest, small, and, in some cases, made of rough pieces of wood.

She wandered among the graves, reading the spare epitaphs and names of the dead. Jedediah Owens … Maybelle Hunt … Samuel Lincoln Jones … Some had years carved into the modest stones, and Darby noted that the oldest grave was at the end of the nineteenth century, while the most recent appeared to be in the 1950s or so.