Killer Listing (8 page)

“Hello, John,” Helen said stiffly. Darby noted the erect posture of the man, his hearty greeting. She had the impression of vitality and strength, a worthy match for Mitzi Cameron, who exuded the same qualities.

“And you must be Darby Farr,” he said, his voice filling up the entryway and echoing off the parquet floors. “Met your aunt a few times at Nell’s little dinner parties. She was a shrewd one.”

His face was relaxed, the very picture of amiability and welcome, and yet Darby thought she could see a certain hardness in his eyes. In a moment, the impression was gone. Had she imagined it, or was John Cameron’s cheerful demeanor at odds with his true feelings?

“Mitzi’s having a little lie-down, and I was just contemplating a swim in the pool, but I’m glad you stopped by. Let’s go to the den. Carlotta will get us something—tea? Coffee?” His eyes narrowed and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Or something stronger?”

Helen shot him a look and squared her shoulders. “Tea would be fine,” she said.

“Very well.” John Cameron turned and led the women down the hall and past the living room. Darby glimpsed the sunny study where she and Helen had sat during their last visit. Now they were ushered into the adjoining den, her host’s expansive “man cave.”

Dominating the room was a long pool table with ornate mahogany feet. On one wall hung a huge flat-screen television, flanked by speakers for optimal sound. Large burgundy-colored leather club chairs were positioned in front of the screen, and Darby imagined this was where John watched sports and the news. Heavy drapes obscured the windows, no doubt to provide a darkened atmosphere conducive to television watching.

She took a quick glance around the room. Several mounted trophy fish—Darby recognized a sailfish and a striped marlin—watched from the paneled walls, while gleaming brass awards and collections of leather-bound books adorned a wall of built-in shelves. The faint yet familiar aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the air while underneath Darby’s feet the carpet was thick and plush.

John Cameron indicated that they should sit down on one of the leather sofas before the built-in bookshelves. He hit a button on a nearby phone and spoke to someone—Carlotta, presumably—regarding afternoon refreshments. Walking past the pool table to join them once more, he grabbed the black eight ball and rolled it across the smooth green surface, where it found a corner pocket and disappeared.

“Do you play pool, Darby?”

“Not really,” she answered. “It is a skill I admire, however. The precision of a good player is always impressive.”

“Yes,” John Cameron agreed. “If only life were as easy as pool. Choose the correct angle, make the shot, and in it goes.” He strode back and sank into the couch opposite the women. “Take my son, for instance. Bouncing like he’s trapped in a pinball machine, instead of focusing on something worthwhile in life.”

Helen sucked in a breath. “Sometimes I can’t believe you, John,” she said sharply. “Jack’s had an enormous blow. Two enormous blows: Kyle’s murder and now the fire at Belle Haven. I should think you would have a little more compassion.”

An amused look came over John Cameron’s face. “I love it when you’re spunky, Helen. I get to see your fiery temper so infrequently nowadays.”

A discreet knock at the door signaled Carlotta’s arrival with a tray of tea, coffee, and cookies. She poured for each of them and slipped out of the room, her face expressionless.

“Care for a snickerdoodle, Darby? These are Mitzi’s favorites.”

“Thank you.” Darby took the sugar cookie and bit into it. She remembered making the same cookies with her mother, forming the dough into small balls and then rolling each one in cinnamon sugar. She felt a familiar pang of sadness constrict her throat.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your daughter-in-law,” she said.

“Poor Kyle. I haven’t really thought of her as my daughter-in-law for quite some time. Still, it’s a tragedy.”

Darby shot a look at Helen. She had not touched her tea, and sat with her hands clasped and trembling in front of her chest.
She’s literally shaking with anger,
Darby realized.

Helen seemed about to vent some of that anger when Mitzi Cameron rolled into the den. “Good afternoon, everyone.” She put up a hand to stop Darby and Helen from rising from the sofa. “Please, don’t get up on my account.” She turned her head toward her husband, her face noticeably more lined and weary than the day before. John returned her gaze without making any attempt to rise and greet his wife.

“Darling, join us for some tea,” he said, the lightness of his voice sounding hollow to Darby’s ears. “We’ve been having such a wonderful chat.”

Mitzi gave her husband a cold stare and said nothing. She turned to her old friend. “Forgive me, Nell, for my tardiness. I didn’t sleep last night and I’m exhausted.”

Concern knitted the brow of Helen Near. “Of course you are.” She rose and went to Mitzi’s side and gave her friend’s narrow shoulders a heartfelt squeeze. “Please, Mitzi, tell me what I can do to help you.”

Mitzi glanced toward John, who seemed to comprehend his wife’s desire to be alone with her friend. He rose and gave a diffident wave. “Ladies, I’ll leave you to your tea and crumpets,” he said. Pausing at the door he turned and looked at Darby. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I have a feeling we’ll see each other again.” Once more Darby saw cold steel in John Cameron’s penetrating gaze.

While Helen and Mitzi murmured in low voices regarding Jack’s condition and the plans for the services for Kyle Cameron the next day, Darby found her thoughts wandering to the investigation surrounding Kyle’s murder and whether any progress had been made in finding the killer. She thought of Jonas Briggs, the detective on the case, and wondered if he’d been working with the lead investigators on the other side of the state. In the distance, a phone rang. Carlotta was at the door moments later, motioning to Mitzi Cameron.

“It is the police,” she said softly. “Detective Briggs.”

Darby nearly choked on her last bite of snickerdoodle. Hadn’t she just been thinking of the detective moments before?
Get a grip,
she told herself.
He’s the lead investigator of a murder and you’re sitting in the living room of the murdered woman’s family. It makes total sense he would call here.

Helen stood by Mitzi, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She glanced at Darby, both of them wondering what the call could mean. Mitzi took the cordless phone, said “Hello,” and listened for several minutes.

“Thank you, Detective,” Mitzi said. “That is good news indeed.” Darby noted that her voice sounded empty of all emotion.

Mitzi let the phone fall into her lap. “The police in Stuart have found the man who killed Kyle,” she said. “They tracked him down and stormed his house. They have enough evidence to prove that he is the Kondo Killer.” She exhaled. “Thank God.”

Helen returned her friend’s weary gaze. “It will be some relief to Jack, at least. Don’t you think so, Mitzi?”

“Perhaps.” She rolled away from Helen and into the center of the room. She turned the chair sharply as if in frustration and glanced down at a cell phone on her lap. “I have no idea where Jack is. He doesn’t answer when I call.” She closed her eyes. “He needs to know about this before he sees it on television or hears about it at his bar.”

“Try the Dive,” Helen suggested. “Darby and I were just there and spoke to him.”

Mitzi nodded and punched in a number. She asked to speak to Jack and then hung up once more. “He left forty-five minutes ago.”

“Could he be at Kyle’s condominium?” Darby asked.

“Whatever makes you say that?” Mitzi had an edge to her voice.

Darby rose to her feet. “A hunch. It’s obvious that he’s deeply upset over Kyle’s death, and in a strange sort of way he might find it comforting to be among her possessions.” She paused. “If you’d like, I’ll head over there and see if my guess is correct. I can go by the restaurant as well.”

Helen regarded her friend. “Darby could be right,” she said softly. “Someone should check it out. We could call Alexandra …”

“No. She’s counseling clients today.” Darby detected pride in the older woman’s voice. “I’d appreciate your help, Darby. There is one problem: I don’t have a key to Kyle’s condominium, and I have no idea where to find one.”

“Just give me the unit number and I’ll figure it out.” Darby gave Mitzi what she hoped was an encouraging smile. The poor woman was in need of some encouragement—that much was obvious. “I’ll know if Jack is there,” she assured her. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

_____

Darby was sure that Jack Cameron was seeking solace at Kyle’s condominium. Something about his haunted demeanor hours before, the hollows beneath his eyes and his furtive glances led her to believe she would find him at Somerset Sound, the development where Kyle Cameron’s condominium was located. Seated in the Mustang, Darby consulted a hand-held GPS that Mitzi had pressed into her palm back in John Cameron’s study. She typed in Somerset Sound and began following the device’s directions.

The route took her past a series of strip malls and big box stores, before coming once more into a residential section at the edge of Serenidad Key. Darby waved at the gatehouse keeper who smiled back with a nonchalant wave, then began surveying the numbered buildings.

She passed a pool and two tennis courts before locating Kyle Cameron’s building. Her condo was a ground floor corner unit with landscaping identical to its neighbors’. A red pick-up truck with Florida plates was parked in Kyle’s parking space. Whose vehicle was it? Jack Cameron’s?

She parked the convertible and walked quickly down the winding path. Late-blooming azaleas graced the front of the unit and a few geckos skittered beneath them as she passed. She paused at the front door. Should she knock, ring the bell, or simply enter? She tried the door. It pushed open noiselessly.

Darby stepped into the cool interior. The air conditioning was still doing its best to keep the inhabitants comfortable, even though there was no one at home. Or was there? Darby listened intently. She heard nothing except the usual hum of plugged-in appliances.

A pristine white carpet in a plush pile prompted Darby to slip off her sandals and leave them on a small sisal mat by the door. The walls were white as well, but creamy, so that rather than seeming sterile and cold, the effect was clean and somehow warm. Strategically placed artwork helped: Darby noted that Kyle seemed partial to tropical landscapes in vivid colors.

Darby stepped quietly into the living room. Two oversized love seats, slip covered in a nubby white material, were flanked by warm wood tables. A few books were piled on one of them and Darby glanced at the subject matter.
Pre-War Poland, Warsaw, City of Survivors,
and
The Poles of Warsaw
.
A little light reading material
, she thought wryly.

Darby left the large living room, glancing at the kitchen and dining area. Nothing stirred and nothing seemed amiss. The theme of white on white was repeated, with only occasional bursts of color to enliven the serene surroundings.

She entered the immaculate kitchen, wondering if Kyle was a cook. No appliances on the counters; no dishes draining in the sink. Opening the oven door, Darby saw that it was spotless, as if Kyle Cameron had never turned it on.

Just outside the kitchen, a crystal bowl filled with water and a small goldfish caught her eye. The creature was swimming in circles, his scales flashing against the cut glass. Had Kyle been the last one to feed him? If so, he was probably hungry.

The bowl was on a delicately carved table with a single drawer. She opened it and saw a small box of fish food.

Darby had never owned a fish but knew they required only a pinch of food. Sprinkling it at the surface of the water, she was surprised to note the creature’s acute awareness of her actions. Instantly he darted upwards toward the flakes, but to her surprise, did not take any.

Darby replaced the box. Perhaps he didn’t like to be watched while he ate.

She was about to close the drawer when she spotted the gun. It was a small revolver, a Smith and Wesson by the looks of it, black and very practical looking. Darby opened the drawer further and was stopped by a man’s voice.

“What the fuck are you doing?” It was Jack Cameron, holding a bottle, weaving unsteadily on his feet in the doorway of what Darby imagined was the master bedroom.

Darby caught her breath.
Why didn’t I hear him?
More important, why didn’t I check to see if he was here before I started feeding Kyle’s pet?

“I said,” he bellowed, his voice becoming thick and dangerous, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Darby closed the drawer and turned to Jack. “I’m feeding the fish, Jack, and looking for you. I’m Darby Farr. I met you a few hours ago, at the Dive. I ordered the grouper sandwich with your godmother, Helen Near.”

Jack licked his lips and seemed to consider her response. He lifted the bottle to his lips, took a drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That’s Buddy,” he said, pointing toward the fish. “Buddy the goldfish. You’re going to have to take him with you ‘cause he’s all alone.”

Darby nodded. “Your family is looking for you, Jack. Can I give you a ride home?”