"That's if you're going by car," Miles said, smiling at her surprised look. "I'll pick you up at the Hurricane Harbor dock at 6:30:' He rose and gave her another grin. "Bring a warm jacket"
SIX
FIREFALL WAS AN INTIMATE restaurant tucked into the exclusive coastal town of Westerly, up the coast from Manatuck some seventy miles by car. Traveling in a fast boat across the bay cut the journey in half, and before Darby would have imagined it possible, she and Miles Porter were seated at a corner table, a full-bodied bottle of Barolo before them. Darby felt a little shaky from the boat ride, but she was surprised to note that being on the water was becoming less traumatic with each outing.
"To Jane Farr," said Miles, clinking glasses with Darby, an impish smile on his face. "I never actually met your aunt, but we shared a few wonderful conversations on the phone. She was not afraid to express her opinion, so much so that I wonder if the FT would have printed half of her comments!" He chuckled. "For instance, she told me that any buyer she'd ever worked for was a total fraud. `You can't trust a word they tell you,' she said. `And the bigger their wallets, the bigger their lies"
Darby rolled her eyes. "The old `buyers are liars' routine," she said. "You hear it all the time in real estate, and it was one of my aunt's favorite sayings. Unlike most agents who laugh it off, I think Jane actually believed it." She took a sip of the ruby-colored liquid. "This wine is delicious."
"Glad you like it. This particular vintage is one of my favorites."
"Corino 99?"
"That's right. I'm impressed."
"I've tasted it before."
The waiter appeared and took their orders for dinner. Miles pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Can we get the questions out of the way before dinner?" he asked.
Darby nodded. "I don't like being taped, but I suppose that's the easiest way for you," she said.
"It is, but I have a pad of paper with me as well. Whichever you prefer, I'll do."
She took another sip of the wine, feeling it warming her throat. "Well... "
"Paper it is," Miles announced, shoving the tape recorder back in his pocket and withdrawing a small spiral notebook and pen. "The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable."
For the next ten minutes or so, Miles asked Darby questions about waterfront real estate, coaxing from her a few tips that he could share with his readers in the United Kingdom. When the waiter arrived with their appetizers, he closed the notebook and said, "Great. Your insightful comments, combined with a few breathtaking photos, will please my editors back in London." He grinned and met her eyes across the table. "Thank you."
"Thank you," Darby said, gazing down at the artfully arranged trio of pates before her. "This looks absolutely fabulous."
"Let's hope it tastes as good as it looks." Miles tried a bite of his appetizer. "This little place has quite the reputation. I read about it in a travel magazine back in London. I can see now the glowing review was well deserved."
"Do you write for magazines as well?"
"No, I'm strictly a newspaper man, myself, although I enjoy reading just about anything."
"Were you always a financial features writer?"
He shook his head. "I've only been writing for the FT for two years now. Before that, I was an investigative reporter for the New York Times, based in London."
"Interesting. How did a Brit get that job?"
He grinned again. "By going to school in the States. I attended Columbia University and did an internship at the Times while I was a senior. That led to employment following graduation, and, eventually, to them sending me back to London. I did that for many years, and I must say, I miss it."
"Why did you stop?"
For the first time, Miles Porter's warm eyes lost their merry look. He looked down at the table and then back up at Darby.
"Someone close to me-one of my most trusted sources-was shot in the back in Piccadilly Square. I spent months digging for information, clues-any scrap of evidence I could find. I was an investigative reporter, after all, so I figured I could unearth something ... but the murder was never solved. All the wind went out of my sails, so to speak, and I found I no longer had the drive I needed to ferret out the truth."
Darby put down her fork and nodded slowly. "I know what you mean," she said. She thought back to her parents' deaths and how her life had seemed to abruptly halt. It was like a sailboat suddenly losing wind, she realized. Funny that she had never thought of that analogy ...
Miles poured more Barolo into Darby's empty glass. "Not to stay on such a gruesome subject, but I must ask: what's happened on the little island of Hurricane Harbor to get everyone in such a tizzy? I heard a small item on the radio, something about a doctor from Boston found killed in a garden shed."
Darby thought for a moment. If the police had released the name of the victim, they'd obviously located his next of kin and informed him or her of the murder. She knew that she wouldn't be revealing any confidential details if she told Miles Porter what little she knew of the crime.
When she had finished recounting the facts of the case, he let out a low whistle.
"That's a big story for a small island," he said. "I suppose an AP reporter is on his way up here as we speak." He paused as the waiter removed their plates and poured them each more wine.
"You sound almost wistful," she said. "As if you'd like to be covering this story yourself. Do you miss it that much?"
"I'll admit it: I do. When Sarah was killed... " Darby saw him wince slightly as he said her name-"I threw every ounce of strength I had into solving her case. I failed, and began to question my whole reason for being. I have come to realize as the years have passed that some mysteries can't be solved. Her death may be one of them."
The waiter returned with their entrees, which he placed before them with a small bow. "Enjoy your meal," he said, leaving them to gaze at the masterful presentations alone.
"I almost hate to eat it, it's so beautiful," breathed Darby.
"That's the duck?"
"Quail."
"Mmm, well if you can't manage to tuck into it, just let me know," Miles said cheerfully.
"I said I `almost' hate to eat it," Darby reminded him. "Fortunately or unfortunately, I have a healthy appetite. There's rarely a time when I can't eat." "
I daresay you wear it wonderfully."
Darby looked up and Miles was gazing at her with an intensity that felt like heat. She felt the color rising in her cheeks and gave a small laugh.
"Why, thank you sir. Bon appetit."
The two enjoyed several bites in silence. Darby's quail was delicately flavored, with a very light glaze that enhanced, rather than overpowered, the tender meat. She offered Miles a bite and he accepted.
"I've never had anything like that," he marveled. "So fresh! Here, try my beef. You do eat beef, I hope?"
"Definitely." Darby tasted a morsel and smiled. "That reminds me of something my mother used to make," she said. "A French dish-Boeuf a la Lyonnaise."
"Your mother was French?"
"No," Darby laughed. "She was Japanese. But she was also a talented cook who decided to tackle the art of French cuisine."
"How intriguing! Tell me more."
"I think I was nine or so when she found a copy of Julia Child's book, and that was the start of her love affair with la cuisine Fran- caise." She smiled at the memory. "Not all of her efforts were successes. There were the souffles that didn't rise, the gateau that was more like soup-but she persevered. I guess that was true of her personality in many ways. She taught herself English, she grew to love sailing, and she made herself fall in love with the coast of Maine. She was quite a determined woman"
"And your dad? Tell me about him"
"He was an adventurer. A world-class sailor who raced around the world. He wasn't afraid of anyone or anything, and he rose to any challenge."
"Did they meet on the island?"
"No. They met in Boston, at a wor
ld cup sailing event. My dad was there representing the American team, and my mother was part of a Japanese delegation on a tall ship. They saw each other at a cocktail party and fell in love."
"The classic `love at first sight'," commented Miles. "What brought them to the island?"
"They didn't come up here right away. They lived in Boston, where Mom worked as a translator, and Dad continued to race the world cup circuit. When my mother became pregnant with me, he decided it was time to embrace the landlubber life. Somebody told him about the job as the sailing director at the Hurricane Harbor Yacht Club. They moved up here and I was born a few months later, at the hospital in Manatuck."
"So you are a Maine native."
"No, being a native is a generational thing. I was always an anomaly on the island. Not a native, not a summer person, not your white-bread American. Hard to categorize."
"That's not necessarily a bad thing," he teased.
"True, but it isn't always easy on an island." Darby placed her fork on her plate and sighed. "That was delicious." "
I agree." He glanced at his watch. "We have time for coffee, or an after dinner drink before the boat meets us. What would you like?"
"Coffee, thanks." Miles ordered coffees and asked for the check. The waiter returned a few moments later with two steaming mugs.
Miles added some sugar to his and took a sip. "Did I hear there is a suspect in the Fairview case?"
"For an ex-investigative reporter, you're awfully curious." She grinned. "Maybe you should be writing about this murder after all."
He thought a moment. "I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind. There is something so compelling about a mystery, isn't there? Come on, tell me what you know."
"My instincts tell me a local guy named Soames Pemberton could be guilty. He's a former Navy SEAL with some big-time anger management issues, a substance abuse problem, and a history of criminal behavior. Hopefully, he's the one Chief Dupont is focusing on."
"This Soames character sounds like a total beast"
Darby nodded. "Murder seems like something he'd relish, and yet..."
"What?"
"I don't know. Something about it doesn't feel exactly right, that's all." Darby finished her coffee and shrugged. Was it his appearance at the planning board meeting the day after the killing took place? Was that why she felt he was the wrong man?
"I can't explain it. When I can, I'll give you a call."
"It's a deal."
They rose and left the restaurant, walking the short way to the private wharf where the sleek speedboat waited. Darby felt her palms grow clammy, but she climbed into the boat without her legs wobbling too much. Thirty minutes later, Darby was thanking Miles Porter for dinner and walking through the damp grass to Jane's guest cottage. She undressed and got into bed, wondering, as she drifted off to sleep, why in the world she doubted Soames Pemberton's guilt.
Darby awoke the next morning with the sun. Her first thought was to contact Peyton Mayerson and discuss a new offer, but it was barely past dawn and too early for calls.
Instead, she tied on her sneakers and went running toward Fairview. She had barely looked at the old estate the day before, and she wanted a chance to see the grounds without Chief Dupont and his deputies breathing down her neck.
The morning air was clean and crisp. Darby ran past the cove and through the village, along the harbor and then up the woodsy hill and out toward Pemberton Point. The road soon turned to dirt and Darby kicked up small dust clouds as she ran. She came to the massive stone pillars, ducked under a "crime scene" tape, and ran down the road.
The house loomed up before her. She avoided looking toward the garden shed, and instead, crossed the wide green lawn to the house.
She peered in a window. A vast, empty room with deep paneling, parquet floors and two enormous fireplaces surrounded by marble loomed before her-the formal living room. Darby moved to another window. A second room, equally as large, adjoined the first room, and had been used as the casual, family space. In this room the look was rustic-rough-hewn paneling and two fireplaces built with local stone. The room had been large enough to accommodate not only two seating areas, but a game area, complete with a huge slate pool table.
The two living rooms were separated by a hallway wide enough to accommodate a car. This was the formal entryway, at its end was one of Fairview's most stunning features: a wide, arching staircase that separated midway into two mirror images. Darby knew the flying staircase was one of the finest examples in the Northeast. The effect was magical and grand, and Darby imagined brides floating down in a cascade of rose petals.
Darby left her vantage point and walked around the side of the house to peer in at the dining room. She remembered that an enormous table had presided over the room, with seating for ten or maybe even fifteen guests at a side. It was gone, as were the chairs and sideboards she remembered. Along with the elaborately carved mantel and fireplace, the only detail she could see was the giant crystal chandelier, now ghostly thanks to a few spiders who'd taken up residence.
The kitchen at Fairview had always been a bit of an eyesore, constructed as it was in the days before cooking was elevated from a servant's chore to an owner's pastime. Darby was curious as to whether Mark and Lucy had updated the gloomy space, so she headed to the back of the house to take a peek. The sight of the ocean, however, made her stop dead in my tracks. I didn't notice this incredible view when I was scrambling to save Lucy, she thought. Fairview possessed an almost 300-degree vantage point, thanks to the jutting promontory of Pemberton Point. Here was the open ocean in all of its glory, crashing against the boulders and sending up a spray that misted the wild roses along the cliff. At one point there had been a low fence along the jagged edge, but it was now gone. What was the point? It had been generations since small children had played on the pristine lawns of Fairview.
Darby pulled her eyes away from the view and gazed back at the house. The wraparound porch took full advantage of the scenic setting, and she recalled the solid line of wicker rockers that had once been positioned like sentries along the side of the house. There had been a ping-pong table at one end of the porch, where Lucy and Darby tested their lightning fast serves in endless world championships. Darby sighed. The past was all around her, and she felt it pulling her down, toward depths of sadness that would swallow her like quicksand.
She jogged to the far side of the house, where a stand of blooming lilacs tried valiantly to prevent the erosion that was wearing away at the hill. Here the cliff was very sheer, and she marveled once more that Lucy had not been critically injured. Whoever bought Fairview would need to put in a retaining wall as soon as possible, Darby thought.
She was backing away from the cliff when she heard a low chuckle. Her scalp prickling, she turned slowly toward the noise. Planted squarely between where Darby stood at the rocky edge and the corner of Fairview was Soames Pemberton.
"Well, well," he said softly, moving toward her like a predator stalking prey.
Darby tried not to show her panic.
"Stay away from me, Soames," she yelled. She estimated the space between the big man and the edge of the cliff and tried to see the best way to safety.
He paused momentarily and seemed to weave back and forth. His pupils were glossy black circles and he licked his lips several times as if parched. He's high, thought Darby, knowing that made him even more dangerous. She felt her mouth go dry, waiting for him to make the first move.
Soames Pemberton lunged quickly for a large man, and he dove at Darby, forcing her to dodge him, her heel teetering on the edge of the grass and sheer cliff. Quickly she regained her balance and darted to his left, as fast as she was able, away from his grasp. His huge paw of a hand grabbed her T-shirt, and she twisted, the material stretching and then finally coming free from his hand. As tempted as she was to deliver a resounding kick that would break his jaw, she knew her smartest course of action was to run, and run quickly.
Without another thought she
began sprinting.
He gave a grunt and she felt him behind her, in hot pursuit, but she forced herself not to waste precious time by looking back. Make it to the woods, she told herself. Just make it to the woods ...
It was a sprint of pure adrenalin, a quarter of a mile covered in a blur. The woods rose up before her and she dodged the trees, barely slowing her speed. Somewhere there was a path she and Lucy had taken through these same pines, a path that led back to the main road. She was tiring, but she didn't dare slow her pace. She leapt over a huge maple that had fallen in a storm and grazed the back of her calf, barely feeling the injury. She was in flight mode, with every cell in her body telling her to escape.
A huge mass of granite appeared before her and Darby racked her brain to figure out where she was. The outcropping was dimly familiar. As tall as a two-story building, there were small caves between the boulders that she and Lucy had imagined held pirate treasure. Suddenly she knew she had missed the start of the path, and had run past Fairview's boundaries, into the abutting property, an undeveloped swath of forest belonging to the heirs of Thaddeus Pemberton. She had blundered into Soames Pemberton's lair.
All she saw of his leap from the boulder was a flash of something silver in the edge of her peripheral vision. He landed on her calves, sending her thudding to the ground with a force that could have knocked her out. His thick arms encircled her legs and he whipped her over onto her back, grunting with satisfaction at her terror. She felt the full weight of him on her pelvis as he pinned her arms out to their sides. Never before had Darby felt so trapped.
"Get off me," she spat, twisting to free herself from his body.
He grunted. "You shut up before I slit your throat. You're the enemy, you hear me? And you're dead... "
"I am not the enemy," Darby yelled. "I'm here to bury my aunt. Tina called me and asked me to come. I didn't do anything to you.' She struggled against his considerable weight, not daring to look at his expression.
"You are the enemy," he insisted. "You've been hiding in these caves ...
A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 10
