She walked farther into the house, into the barn that served as Lucy's studio. Canvasses were stacked against one wall and finished works were everywhere, waiting, she supposed, for frames. A door was ajar leading into another room and Peyton walked gingerly toward it. Inside it was gloomy and dark, the shades drawn against the June sun.
Peyton began retracing her steps to the studio when she noticed an envelope propped against a small occasional table. She picked it up and saw it was unopened. The envelope was from Near & Farr Realty, and written on the outside were the words, "Back Up -Please Read." With shaking hands, Peyton opened the envelope and pulled a set of folded papers out.
It was another offer on Fairview, and for more money, too. Peyton stared at it, her thoughts swirling. Mark Trimble, that son of a bitch, she thought. Beside her, the cat rubbed against her legs and brought her back to reality.
Angrily she shoved the envelope into her jacket pocket and hurried back to the studio. Despite her mental state she noticed a particularly vibrant painting and stopped. It was a cove full of boats, their hulls bright shapes against the blue water. It really was quite good, and she picked it up for a closer look. A price tag was on the back and she squinted to read the numbers. $20,000. Lucy Trimble, the junkie artist, was getting twenty grand? She grabbed another painting and flipped it over. $25,000. Holy shit.
Still clutching the second painting, she reached back for the first one, and though they were unwieldy, she made her way to the door. She'd get them off this island, to the city where she knew people who would buy them without asking questions. While it wouldn't settle her debt with the New Jersey guys, it would be a small down payment.
She emerged from the house holding the two canvasses and looked around. The yard and road were deserted. She hurried to her car, struggling against a particularly strong gust of wind. She pushed a button on her keys and the trunk to the Mercedes popped open. Quickly Peyton stashed the paintings, using a large beach towel to conceal them. Emilio didn't have a set of keys to her car, so she wouldn't have to worry about him.
Peyton drove as fast as she dared back to the Hurricane Harbor Inn and parked her car. After locking it securely, she went back up to her suite. The bedside clock said the time was noon, leaving her an hour and a half until Emilio came back on the ferry.
She opened her travel jewelry box and pulled a folded piece of paper out from under some diamond earrings. It was time for Plan B. Her hands shook and she sat down on the bed for support. After a moment, she pulled the envelope with the contract out from her jacket, and searched for the buyer's name. Finding it, she grabbed her Blackberry from the bedside table. Using the hotel's wireless internet connection, she accessed a free IP Relay site used by the hearing impaired to send telephone messages. She typed in the number from the piece of paper. When the space came up for her message, she took a deep breath and typed:
Emerson Phipps, Hurricane Harbor, Maine, Immediate.
Peyton knew that when the call was placed and someone (she imagined a man) answered, her message would be read by the wellmeaning IP Relay telephone operator. By federal law, every call was put through. To protect the privacy of users, phone companies were not allowed to keep records, making IP Relay the perfect vehicle for thieves, scammers, extortionists, and anyone else involved in illicit activities.
Including someone ordering a hit.
Her task completed, Peyton Mayerson turned off her PDA, replaced the number in her jewelry box, and pulled a bottle of scotch from her suitcase. The room's mini fridge had a small freezer with a few ice cubes, and Peyton clinked them into a glass. Then she poured herself a tall one and quickly drank it down.
Darby held on to the dash as Mark Trimble drove the classic convertible expertly down the winding roads to Fairview. Only minutes before, Tina Ames had called Darby on her cell phone with the unbelievable news of Donny Pease's grim discovery.
"Donny doesn't know who the poor bastard is," Tina had confided. "He's not good at things like this. Can't even shoot a duck he's so squeamish. Says he can't stop running to the bushes and puking." She'd taken a deep breath and continued. "Hurry up and get over there before the cops do. I'm staying put here at the office, but I'm worried about Donny. And I sure as hell want to know who the dead guy is."
Now, as the road turned to dirt, Mark slowed the car to a crawl. "It's got to be Phipps," he muttered. "I hope not, but it would explain why he hasn't returned my calls."
Two massive stone pillars, both stamped "Fairview" in imposing block letters, loomed on the left. Mark took the turn down the long driveway.
Darby caught the clean scent of pine in the air and inhaled deeply. Both sides of the roadway were lined with enormous ever greens, a type that was once called "mast pine" because of its usefulness to wooden sailing ships. It still feels timeless, she thought. Like a medieval hunting lodge in France ...
They rounded a bend and there was the sprawling mansion Darby remembered. She exhaled at its beauty and Mark nodded, but said nothing.
Three vehicles were parked in the circular driveway: a truck Darby guessed belonged to Donny Pease; a police cruiser; and a black BMW sedan. Darby glanced at Mark. His face was grim.
"That's Phipps' Beamer," he muttered, opening the door of his car and climbing out.
They crossed a wide expanse of lawn together. Darby recalled games of croquet on this very spot in which the object had been less about getting a ball through a wicket than not spilling a Rum and Coke. She pushed the past out of her mind and matched Mark's pace, her pulse quickening.
A man was seated on the lawn about fifty feet from the side of a little building Darby remembered as a gardening shed. Someone had dragged an Adirondack chair onto the grass, and the weary soul was slumped in it, looking pale and haggard.
"That's Donny Pease," explained Mark. "We'll talk to the poor guy later."
A strange smell assailed their nostrils as they stepped into the garden shed.
"Now just hold on a minute there," a voice boomed from the darkness.
"Chief Dupont," Mark said. "I'm glad to see you."
Hurricane Harbor's chief of police plodded out, his boot smashing a piece of something as he walked. "'Course you're glad to see me," he said. "'Cause it looks like we've got ourselves some real excitement here on your estate."
Darby remembered the chief as a trim, athletic man, with hair just starting to gray at the temples. Now, however, his muscular physique had turned to fat, and his once-friendly demeanor seemed tired and suspicious.
He ran a pudgy hand through his crew cut.
"Well, if it isn't little Darby Farr," he said, whistling under his breath. "I heard you were on the island, but I wasn't sure I'd get to see you before you flew the coop again. Where is it you're living now? Texas?"
"California," she said.
"That's right, California" He thought a moment. "California. You must like it there. Little easier to blend in, I imagine."
Darby felt her cheeks burning. "Now why would you say that, Chief?"
Mark interrupted the exchange. "Can we see the body? I believe I know the victim and can make a positive identification."
The chief touched his chin thoughtfully. "Is that so?"
"Yes," answered Darby. "Mark and my aunt were working with a doctor from Boston for the purchase of Fairview, and Mark recognizes the vehicle in the driveway."
Chief Dupont nodded, his tiny eyes shrewd. "Go ahead then, take a look. Seeing as how we haven't found any identification, and old Donny out there isn't gonna be much help, let's see what you come up with. But I warn you: it's not a pretty sight. Not only was he stabbed, but the man's face was pounded thin as a veal cutlet. Maybe you want to stay out here, Darby."
"I'll be all right," she said, struggling to keep her anger in check. "Thanks for your concern."
"Watch your step, then. There's liable to be some evidence on the ground and we don't want to destroy anything."
Darby followed Mark into the shed, picking carefull
y around the debris Chief Dupont had crushed minutes earlier. Garden implements appeared to have been pulled off the walls, and pieces of terra cotta pots lay broken on the floor. Seeping past the tire of the riding mower was a dark puddle of blood, and in front of the mower was a body.
Darby noticed the garden shears first. A wet circle of red ringed the steel of the shears, like a bull's eye on a dartboard. They had been thrust into the victim's chest in the area of the heart, and Darby suspected that the damage done by the puncture was substantial. Her eyes traveled up to the victim's head. Whatever represented a face-nose, cheeks, lips-was now obliterated. The killer had smashed the facial features to such an extent they were pulverized. No doubt the victim's eyeballs remained, but the orbital sockets around the eyes were so swollen they formed a solid, bloodied mass.
She noted sandy hair and a dimpled chin, and suddenly she flashed back a dozen years. Emerson Phipps.
Mark echoed her thoughts. "It's Phipps. My God, who could have done this?"
Darby scanned the shed floor, and noticed blood and pieces of human flesh on a stone angel. "He must have been struck with that garden statue. That's what did such a number on his face."
"Wasn't just struck with it," said Chief Dupont, coming alongside the tractor and standing by Darby and Mark. "He was mashed with it, sort of like a mortar and pestle kind of thing. Whoever did this hated the guy. Wanted to teach him a lesson." He looked down at his fingers for a moment, fiddling with a ragged cuticle. "You got a positive identification for me?"
"It's Emerson Phipps, M.D.," said Mark. "He lived in Chestnut Hill, outside of Boston."
"I've got his full address back at my office," added Darby.
"Well that's a start. I've got the medical examiner coming in from Augusta, and she should be here-" he consulted his watch, "in ten minutes or so. She'll determine the time and cause of death, although from the looks of it, I'd say we can blame that pretty little garden angel. Those shears were more for decoration, looks like. The icing on the proverbial cake"
Mark Trimble and Darby exchanged a glance and began heading out of the shed.
"Hey," Chief Dupont called out after them. "I may have more questions for you two. Don't leave the premises. Got it?"
The warm sunshine and clean air was a welcome contrast from the dank darkness of the garden shed. Neither Mark nor Darby said anything for a minute or two. They had walked the distance from the shed to where Donny Pease was seated when Darby sighed and said, "We need to tell Lucy."
"I know. I thought she would be here..."
"She was here," said Donny, surprising them both with his thin voice. "She showed me her bloody hands..."
"Her what? Christ, Donny. You're going off the deep end." Mark gave the older man a menacing glare.
Darby kneeled before the Adirondack chair and looked into the man's pale face. "He's in shock," she said to Mark. To the older man, she pleaded, "Tell me, Donny. Tell me what you saw."
He seemed to focus in on Darby's eyes. "I remember your parents," he whispered. "They lived at the cove..."
"That's right, Donny. Now tell me what you said about Lucy Trimble. You thought you saw her..."
"I saw her behind the shed, dressed all in white, like an angel. She was there, and then she ran." he pointed across the wide lawn, "that way, to the cliffs."
Mark jerked his head up and met Darby's eyes. "The cliffs ... ?" he asked, and then, he was off, sprinting across the lawn with Darby close on his heels. She barely felt the grass against her ankles or the stiffening sea breeze. Panting, they reached the edge of the grass where the land dropped off in a dangerously dramatic fashion, its sides studded with huge slabs of ancient granite and a few tufts of grass.
"Lucy," Mark yelled into the wind. "Lucy!"
Darby scanned the small beach below, and saw clumps of seaweed, a discarded lobster buoy, and more rocks. She glanced to the right, toward a rocky outcropping frequented by small bands of gulls, and saw a mooring ball that had washed up on shore and somehow become wedged between two boulders. Oddly enough, legs were sticking out from the ball ...
"She's down there!" cried Darby, pointing at the huddled form.
"Sweet lord," said Mark, "Not Lucy! Tell me she isn't..."
Darby was already scrambling down the sheer precipice. "Get the chief and have him call for an ambulance. Find some rope and a blanket. We don't have a minute to lose."
FIVE
THE EMERGENCY MEDICAL TECHNICIAN slammed the back door of the ambulance with a curt nod to Darby and Chief Dupont. Mark Trimble was already inside the vehicle, crouched beside his sister with another EMT.
"She's going to make it," the EMT said, as he opened the driverside door and climbed in. "Her fall caused a few broken bones, but we don't see any signs of internal trauma."
"What's all that blood from?" Chief Dupont asked. "Can you tell?"
"Not from any wound that I could see" The technician pulled his door closed and started the ambulance. The chief turned to Darby with a frown.
"My guys took a sample, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out she's wearing Phipps' blood. It's all over her white blouse, for Chrissake. Backs up the old guy's story, too. Apparently she didn't want to sell the old place, probably had sentimental reasons-and so she killed this guy Phipps."
"That doesn't make sense," Darby said. "For one thing, Donny Pease saw Lucy running before he discovered the body. Why wouldn't she have taken off before he came to?"
"He surprised her in the act," the chief said confidently. "Happens all the time. Then Miss Trimble had a fit of remorse and threw herself over the cliff."
Darby shook her head. "Lucy wasn't attached to that house. She and her brother both wanted to sell it." Although Lucy hadn't wanted to sell it to Emerson Phipps.
"I'm not arresting her-not yet, anyway. I need the medical examiner to get here and give me a time of death. Then you can bet I'll be bringing Miss Lucy in for questioning."
He leaned back on the heels of his scuffed shoes and regarded Darby.
"So, where are you staying while you're here? Your aunt's place?"
Darby nodded.
"You here until her memorial service?"
"I'm not sure."
She saw the chief raise his eyebrows at her indecision. Her feelings about the old woman were complicated, to say the least. Am I staying for her service? My schedule has opened up. I could take a more active role in putting Jane Farr-and my past-to rest. She made a mental note to call the minister about arrangements.
"There's a new restaurant in Manatuck with family-style dinners and such," continued Chief Dupont. "If you're not busy, we could talk about old times..."
This is exactly why I'm single, Darby thought. She shot him a grimace that she knew he'd interpret as a smile.
"Thanks, but I'm not up to a dinner date. Will you call me when you know the time of death?"
Charles Dupont nodded. "What will you do in the meantime? There's no place to hide on this island."
Darby kept her anger in check. "I won't be hiding," she said briskly. "I've got a funeral to plan."
Real estate deals do not always work out. As skilled as she was, Darby Farr knew that there were forces beyond her control that could scuttle a transaction, and she did her best to prepare her clients for that possibility ahead of time. Still, there were times even Darby was caught off guard.
Mark Trimble's reaction to the abrupt end of his second Fairview deal astonished her.
"Easy come, easy go," he said lightly, as he perched on the edge of his sister's hospital bed. "I mean, it was a good deal, don't get me wrong, but maybe it was too good to be true?" He gazed down at Lucy Trimble's bandaged arm and pale complexion. "Besides, Lucy didn't like the guy anyway."
Darby pulled up a chair and sat down by the hospital bed.
"You've got your priorities straight, and I like that," she said, watching Lucy's chest rise ever so slightly with her breathing. "But I get the sense you feel responsible for what happened tod
ay. Selling your estate doesn't mean you're a neglectful brother. I'll call Peyton as soon as I leave the hospital. She still wants Fairview. We can make a deal happen."
"But I didn't listen to my sister, Darby," he said, his voice a whisper. "Lucy told me how she felt and I didn't even care. And now...
"She had an accident, Mark, and she's going to be okay. Seeing Phipps upset her, and she had an accident."
"But the blood..."
"She was trying to help the guy! Isn't that what she said to you in the ambulance? You can't think for a minute that she had anything to do with his death."
"No" Mark stood up, walked across the room and looked out the window. With its proximity to Manatuck Harbor, the hospital's rooms boasted a few five-star views of the ferry landing and a seaweed processing plant. "I saw her lying there, and all I could think of was Wes."
He turned and Darby saw the pained expression on his face. "I've already lost one sibling. I can't bear to think that Lucy..."
There was a soft knock on the door. Laura Gefferelli, holding a bouquet of lupines, peered into the room. "May I come in?"
Mark nodded and the minister closed the door softly behind her. "How is Lucy?"
"Stable. No internal injuries, thank God." He gave a guilty glance at Laura. "I mean..."
Laura smiled. "I couldn't agree with you more. Thank God" She walked to the bed and put a hand on Lucy's shoulder. "Has she regained consciousness at all?"
No.
"She will. Her body is just recovering from the shock." She turned to Darby. "And how are you holding up? You couldn't have imagined such an eventful trip east."
"I'm fine, thanks." Darby glanced at her watch. The courthouse in Manatuck was a short walk away; if she left now, she would be there before they closed. "I think I may do a quick deed search for Fairview," she said. "I'd like to see if I can find any proof of that anti-drinking language in the original deed."
Mark sighed. "I don't even care anymore, Darby. Lucy and I can keep Fairview, rent it out or something. Maybe I'll even move back in there."
A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 8
