“Gotcha. Hey, how about that whole discussion regarding Barnaby’s? It certainly doesn’t sound like they had any real client relationship with Tag.”
“I agree. Maybe Marty Glickman is posturing, hoping to end up with some of the money. It would be interesting to talk to the other broker—what did you say his name was?”
“Peter Janssen. I’m sure you’ll get your chance, Darby. I’m betting he’ll be at Kyle’s service.” She checked her watch. “We’ve just got time to get dressed. I’d have a quick sandwich, but Mitzi will have plenty of food at Casa Cameron. She always puts out a big spread.”
Darby glanced out the window. Coconut palms had given way to large slash pines.
“It’s not going to be an easy time for Jack,” Darby noted, watching a blue heron swoop over the roadway, a small fish in his beak. “Maybe once the service is over, he’ll seek some professional help.”
“Maybe,” Helen said darkly. “If it isn’t already too late.”
_____
“You’ve got to pull it together, hear me, Jack? Two hours of your precious time—that’s not a lot to ask. Then you can go and drink yourself into oblivion, if that’s what you want.” John Cameron’s handsome features were contorted in a sarcastic snarl. His hands, balled into tight fists, were on his hips. He tapped his foot, impatient to rejoin the guests gathered to remember Kyle Cameron, one of whom was a very pretty and very well-endowed sales associate from Barnaby’s.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack muttered, rising from his prone position on the bed. His eyes darted to the bedside table, looking for the bottle of antidepressants Dr. Menendez had prescribed. Gone. No doubt his mother had removed them earlier in the day.
He waved a heavy arm in his father’s direction. “Go on, I’m coming.” His voice was flat, but if his father cared or noticed, he said nothing.
“Fine. I’ll tell your mother you are on your way.”
Jack watched the tall man turn and leave, his suit impeccably tailored, face tanned and healthy looking. Not like his own, blotched and bloated with grief.
Kyle was gone. She was really, truly, gone, and he would never have the chance to say goodbye, much less tell her how sorry he was that he had ruined everything. Now that the voices in his head had stopped, he could sense the raw pain of her death just below the drug-induced numbness. She was not coming back, not ever, and he knew that was a truth he couldn’t face.
Tomorrow, he thought. If I can make it until tomorrow …
He lurched up from the bed and loped to a mirror to adjust his tie. He finger combed his hair and slapped some color into his face. He looked like hell, but it would have to do. One more day, he promised himself. Just one more day.
_____
“Are you Ms. Farr? Ms. Darby Farr?”
A pleasant-looking man in his early sixties approached Darby as she stood by a table laden with salads, cold-cuts, and trays of sliced fruits.
“I am,” she answered, surveying the man. He wore a navy suit with a crimson tie, and held what looked to be a glass of whiskey. “And you are …?”
“Peter Janssen, from Barnaby’s.” He held out his hand and gave a brief smile. “I am—I was—a friend of Kyle’s.”
“I’ve heard your name, Mr. Janssen. I’m sorry for the loss of your colleague.”
He swallowed hard and the pleasantness left his face. “Thank you. This is—very difficult.” He sighed and seemed to collect his emotions. “Won’t you call me Peter? I was headed for the verandah, and I’d love it if you’d join me.”
Darby threaded her way through the groups of people, amazed at how many mourners had come out to Casa Cameron for the reception following Kyle’s funeral. “She was obviously well-known,” Darby commented, as Peter stopped in a relatively quiet spot on one end of the porch.
“Well-known and well-loved,” said Janssen, pausing to indicate even more clusters of people assembled across Casa Cameron’s verdant lawns. “Everyone liked Kyle. You couldn’t help it. She was sunny, energetic, and a hell of a real estate broker.” He pointed at a wrought iron bench. “Care for a seat?”
“Thank you.” Darby sat down, her glass of Chardonnay in hand. She took a sip and regarded Peter Janssen.
“How long did you work with Kyle?”
“Six years at Barnaby’s, but we knew each other before that. You know how it is in real estate. You end up doing deals with other brokers, some of whom you like and respect, others whom you keep an extra sharp eye on. Kyle was one of the best. She was thorough and communicative. Working with her was a pleasure.”
“She certainly had her hands full with all of Foster McFarlin’s properties.”
“Indeed. But she wasn’t daunted by the prospect. Kyle enjoyed a challenge, and she would have weathered this economic downturn just fine. If only she had had the chance.”
He shook his head sadly and took a sip of his cocktail. “Why she insisted on doing open houses alone is beyond me. I’d offered to help her, numerous times, but she always said she’d be fine. You know that real estate can be dangerous, especially for women. Maybe it’s different in other markets, but down here it’s a gamble.” He paused. “I wish to hell I had been there, so I could have protected her from that psycho.” He drained his drink and the bitterness left his voice once more. “You’re from Maine, right? Here to help out Helen Near?”
“Actually, I grew up in Maine, but my home is Southern California now.” She took another sip of her wine. “Helen is an old friend of my family’s, and we reconnected a short while ago after the death of my aunt, Jane Farr.”
“You’re Jane’s niece?” Peter gave a broad smile as Darby nodded. “Well, I’ll be damned. So you’re the one she went to Maine to take care of.” He grinned again. “Tell you what. Let me refresh our drinks, and then I’ll tell you some stories about that rascally aunt of yours.”
Darby smiled, wondering whether she had a choice in the first place. A few moments later he returned, new drinks in hand. He passed her another Chardonnay, which she placed on a nearby planter. Peter Janssen took a swig of his whiskey and turned to Darby.
“I met Jane Farr when I was first starting out in real estate,” he said, smiling at the memory. “I had some young clients looking to buy their first house—a tiny little place over in Bradenton. We put in an offer, and Jane flat out refused it. I’ll never forget what she said. ‘What’s the matter with you, Janssen? Don’t you want to make even a little money here?’” He laughed, throwing back his head to reveal rows of perfectly white, capped teeth. “And that was my first introduction to Jane Farr.” He shook his head. “She was quite something.”
Darby gave a rueful grin. She was becoming used to the stories about her aunt’s prowess as a broker both in Maine and in Florida. It seems everyone who’d worked with the wolfish Jane Farr had some sort of story, and usually more than one, and they often highlighted her aunt’s less-than-flattering qualities.
“What about Kyle?” she prompted, searching Janssen’s lightly creased face. Like everyone in Florida, his skin was bronzed and he radiated sunny good health.
His manner changed from playful to somber in a flash. He tilted back his head and downed his drink, and when he looked back at Darby, his brown eyes were sorrowful.
“What can I say? Kyle was my friend as well as my partner. We worked together very closely for six years, and I’ll miss her more than I can say.” He rose heavily to his feet. “Forgive me, Darby, but I think I need to pay my respects to the Camerons and go home. I’ve enjoyed meeting you and reminiscing about your aunt. How long are you here in Sarasota?”
“Just a few days more,” she said, rising to meet him. “Good bye, and again, I’m sorry for your loss.” She watched the older man walk slowly away, his shoulders hunched in grief. A moment later, there was a tap on her elbow.
“Miss Farr?”
A short, stocky woman with a stylish short haircut stood before her. She held out her hand. “I am Sassa Jorgensen. I was Kyle’s massage therapist.�
��
Her words were accented—German? Scandinavian? Darby watched as she bit her lip, as if holding back her emotion.
“How nice to meet you.”
She nodded. After a few moments she took a breath and said in a soft voice, “I must speak to someone. It is information about Kyle.”
“You need to speak to the police. Detective Jonas Briggs—”
“I saw your name in Kyle’s appointment book.”
Darby raised her eyebrows in surprise and the older woman nodded. “I know she was going to meet with you and Ms. Near. When I came to her house on Monday, she asked me first to read her afternoon appointments. She wanted to have them in her mind so that then she could relax for the massage.” She paused. “I’m not sure if this is information for the police, or not. Maybe you could tell me.”
Darby exhaled and steered Sassa Jorgensen to a nearby corner of the verandah that offered some privacy. “I’m willing to listen, but I will go to the police if it is information they need to know.”
She nodded. “I visited Kyle every Monday. Every single Monday, unless she was on a trip somewhere. I have given her massages for two years. I know her—knew her. I knew her body.”
Darby listened, wondering what the older woman was trying to say.
“I mean, I would know if some change in her body was happening.”
“Like an illness?” Perhaps that was why Kyle had decided to leave Barnaby’s.
“Yes. Like an illness. Or something that is not an illness, but that creates changes …”
Darby grasped the massage therapist’s meaning.
“Pregnancy?”
Sassa nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “I have noticed changes for several weeks now, and this week I was certain. The glow of her face, the new roundness of her hips and breasts … I have seen it before, many times, and I know the early signs. I am sure Kyle Cameron was going to have a baby.”
Darby swallowed. Pregnancy could certainly have accounted for Kyle’s decision to leave the fast-paced Barnaby’s International Realty and go to work for Helen.
“Kyle never actually told you she was pregnant?”
“No. She didn’t have to. I knew without her telling me.” She nodded, remembering. “My first clue was a few weeks ago. Suddenly she was sensitive to the scent of a lotion, something we had used for months and months. I had to find another kind, it bothered her so much.” She sniffed and said matter-of-factly, “That is very common in the early parts of pregnancy. Women become very sensitive to odors.”
Darby nodded, still absorbing the masseuse’s news.
“Next, her body started changing, as I have already said. I was convinced she was going to have a child. And then, on Monday, I used her bathroom. There in the corner I saw a book—a new book. It was a manual for expectant mothers.” She leaned back, satisfied.
“You didn’t ask her about it?”
Sassa shook her head. “I nearly did. But she was already sick of my meddling and asking questions about that man McFarlin …” her face darkened.
“Foster McFarlin?”
She nodded. “Kyle knew I did not like McFarlin, didn’t trust him. ‘You don’t need to worry,’ she told me. ‘I am through with him.’”
“Do you think she had broken up with Foster McFarlin?”
“The night before. He had flown her in his fancy airplane somewhere for dinner. She said they were finished with each other. She said that McFarlin wasn’t angry, but I didn’t believe her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I heard her arguing with him on the telephone, just before I came in. She was saying that she didn’t need his help, that she would be fine without him.” She paused. “I think now that perhaps she told him about the baby.”
Darby looked the other woman in the eye. Her face was calm, nearly unlined, but she had a set to her jaw that was defiant.
“You think Kyle’s baby was fathered by Foster McFarlin?”
“Yes,” Sassa Jorgensen said, nodding. “I feel certain of it. And that is not a man who wanted the burden of a little one, I am sure.” She stood and placed her hands on her hips. “Is this information for the police, Darby Farr? If a crazy man killed my Kyle, does it even matter?”
Darby thought about what she knew of Jonas Briggs’ suspicions concerning the Kondo Killer. “I think your information could be very important,” she told Sassa Jorgensen. “I am going to tell Detective Briggs, and chances are, he’ll want to follow up with some questions.”
“That is fine.” She gave a quick nod and Darby thought she saw relief in her eyes. “Thank you for your time. I am sorry you did not get to meet Kyle. I know she would have liked you.”
Darby watched the massage therapist slip back into the crowd. Could Kyle Cameron have been pregnant at the time of her death? And would that have been a reason for her to die?
_____
Jack Cameron threaded his way through the throngs of guests, stopping to hear the many murmured condolences, words to which he’d bow his head, nod it somberly, and move slowly along. After leaving his room, he’d found the bottle of Valium in his mother’s medicine cabinet and had taken several, so shuffling through the crowd felt like being underwater, away from the sharp sounds and bright lights of the surface. He smiled at his own metaphor, thankful that he’d had the good sense to call Tank Webber about diving tomorrow. Jack paused before a group of women that included his sister, Alexandra. She looked at him with concern, but Jack gave what he hoped was a confident nod and moved on.
Munching a sushi roll from one of the several uniformed wait staff, Jack recalled his conversation with Tank only a half hour or so before. “You want to go on a wreck tomorrow?” Tank had been puzzled, knowing full well about Kyle’s murder and probably knowing about the service, too, but he’d listened as Jack mumbled something about needing to escape, to get on a wreck, to forget about his grief for a while.
Tank had been silent for a few moments before speaking. Finally he sighed and Jack knew he had won. “Okay, okay, I get it, Cam. I’ll squeeze you onto the ten o’clock charter. It’s the Bay Ronto. Meet you at the dock at nine thirty, and don’t be late.”
Jack thanked Tank, the only one in his life to ever call him “Cam.” The Bay Ronto was a four-hundred-foot British freighter that had lain on the Gulf’s sandy bottom since 1919. As wrecks went, it was not a particularly interesting dive. Whatever treasures the old boat had once held had been surrendered to the sea or other divers long ago.
No matter, thought Jack, watching his father flirt with a woman barely out of her teens. It was a wreck, a nice deep one. He grabbed a beer from an ice-filled chest and drank it down. Any wreck would do.
_____
“Peter Janssen told you a story about Jane, huh?” Helen Near was in the kitchen, fixing herself a Mojito and offering one to Darby. “I don’t remember any deals they did together, but I do recall that Jane didn’t really care for the guy.” They were back at Helen’s bungalow, about to relax on the patio before dinner.
“No, thanks,” Darby said, refusing the minty drink. The glass and a half of Chardonnay had given her the beginnings of a headache, and she didn’t think a Mojito would help. “Why didn’t my aunt like him?”
“Who knows? She had her little quirks like that. Maybe she picked up on some resentment of her success. That happened to us, especially with some of the male brokers.”
Darby considered Helen’s words as she poured a glass of water.
“Peter Janssen also said that he and Kyle Cameron were partners.”
“Partners? In what way?”
“I took him to mean real estate partners. Did they ever co-list any properties?”
“Not that I know of,” Helen sniffed. “Why wouldn’t Kyle have mentioned that to me?” She sat down at the kitchen table and frowned. “All of a sudden things are cropping up, things that Kyle Cameron never disclosed to me. This partnership with Janssen, and the referral agreement on St. Andrew’s Isle …” She grunted. �
�Marty Glickman sent me a copy of it. It’s a standard form, signed by Kyle and Peter Janssen, stating she was going to pay him 25 percent of the listing commission.” Groaning, she shook her head slowly from side to side. “Why can’t things ever be straightforward?”
Darby thought about Kyle’s possible pregnancy and felt a pang of guilt. If Helen felt out of the loop now, the news of Kyle’s condition certainly wouldn’t help. As much as she wanted to convey the information she’d gleaned from speaking with Sassa Jorgensen, she’d decided to say nothing until she’d had a chance to speak with Jonas Briggs.
“There are some questions that are going to be difficult—if not impossible—to answer,” admitted Darby. “We can’t ask Kyle about the agreement. But in the long run, it doesn’t really matter, does it Helen? You’re getting the St. Andrew’s listing, not Kyle. You won’t owe Barnaby’s any of that commission. So what if Kyle and Janssen occasionally worked together? She obviously wanted out of Barnaby’s.”
“You’re right,” said Helen. “Kyle Cameron wanted nothing more to do with that place. And you know what, Darby? I’m starting to really see why.”
_____
While Helen excused herself to take a short nap, Darby headed into the heat of the Florida afternoon to call Jonas Briggs. He answered with a quick hello, his voice softening when he learned it was Darby.
“I looked for you at Kyle’s service,” he said. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk.” He paused. “I hope I didn’t frighten you this morning.”
“No, but I have been thinking about the possibility that Kyle’s murderer is still free.” She squinted in the sun, realizing she’d forgotten to wear her sunglasses. “Any news on Clyde Hensley?”
“Nothing yet. But don’t worry—we’ll find him.” He paused. “What else can I do for you?”
Darby sought the shade of one of Helen’s massive palm trees, and felt the temperature lower by a mere degree or so. “I have some information that might bear on the investigation.”
“Yes?” She could hear the interest in Jonas Briggs’ voice.
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