“We should have done this days ago,” I said and poured coffee down my throat in an attempt to revive after a night of gymnastics. Playing the good detective, I honed in on the white bakery bag Walter had picked up in the grocery store. Louie spotted it at the same time and pushed his head between the seats.
“I need food,” I said.
“You need sleep. Where’d you go last night?”
“Home,” I yawned and stretched. Ever hopeful, Louie licked my hand.
“Whose home?”
“It shows?”
“I haven’t seen you this relaxed since . . . never.” He sipped coffee. “I’m surprised you have the strength to complain.”
“I gotta be me.”
“That’s the problem right there.”
I took a cinnamon raisin bagel and handed the bag to Walter.
“So when do I get to see this guy?” he asked.
“You mean, when do I bring him home to meet dad?”
He chuckled and continued to watch the parking lot. On the car’s sound system, Clint Black’s “A Good Run of Bad Luck” simmered like stew over a wood fire. I knew how he felt. If we didn’t catch a break on the hunt for Pap I was going to hurt someone . . . if I could gather the strength.
Walter scrounged in the bag and dug out a sesame seed bagel. “You heard from Darby?” He broke off a piece for Louie, who wolfed it in one bite.
“No.” I broke off a piece of a cinnamon raisin and offered Louie a chunk, dry, no butter or cream cheese. He didn’t seem to mind. “You have any words of comfort?”
“No.”
We sipped coffee and sat in silence and watched the back of the market. The store had built a cement block monolith with a loading dock and a single metal door and painted everything tan. Not exactly a garden view. Twenty minutes ago Claire had parked her aging silver Toyota Corolla nose in and gone inside. We sat with the windows down, Louie roaming from front to back, his head hanging out the side and his tongue hanging out of his mouth. After last night, I knew how he felt.
I checked my cell phone. No messages. I thought about calling Mitch. Instead I said, “How long does it take to buy groceries for a fugitive?”
“As long as it takes.”
“What’s he going to eat besides P&J?”
“You have the patience of a gnat.”
I slumped in the seat. “I thought that was the attention span of a gnat.”
“Same thing in your case.”
Robert Darby Jr. worked as a bagger at the grocery store. It sat opposite the bridge to Spanish Key, not more than two miles from his parents’ home. Walter, Louie and I had staked it out with the expectation that Claire would supply Darby with groceries. Most people followed the money. We followed the food.
As long as I had the smartphone running, I checked the news—another tourist mugged on Spanish Key, another carjacking near the airport—and wondered why it had taken so long for big-city crime to find its way to paradise. The phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the caller ID but answered anyway.
Darby. No preamble. “You send someone after me?”
“Put my grandfather on the line.”
“Big guy, looks like a private eye.”
Walter raised his brows. I mouthed Darby.
“Listen to me,” I said. “I need to talk to Pap, and then I need a list of corporate. . . .”
He disconnected.
“Son of a bitch!”
Louie growled. Walter turned. “What did he want?”
I started to answer when Claire walked around the corner carrying two bags so heavy they stretched the plastic handles. She wore flip flops, baggy jeans and a royal blue T-shirt with a Superman shield on the front. Unlocking the trunk of the Corolla, she dumped the bags, got in the car and headed toward the Tamiami Trail and the bridge to Spanish Key.
“Going home,” Walter said.
“Maybe it’s the staging area.”
We followed. In the bright morning sun, the Darby estate looked even more lush than before, with its dense vegetation and bone-white walls spiraling toward the walkway like the West Indies’ version of a buttress. Walter parked the Merc by the wrought-iron gate. Ginny’s white Jag and Claire’s Toyota sat in the drive, a contrast in wealth and style.
“We have a plan? Walter asked.
I grabbed my camera and the paperwork for the listing and said, “You mind waiting here?”
Walter laughed. “Who are you talking to? Louie or me?”
I patted his knee. “You’ll be fine as long as you stay in your car seat.”
He scratched Louie beneath the ear. “Women.”
“Ginny can’t know we’re following her daughter.”
He shook his head.
“Why don’t you check out the grounds?”
“For what?” he asked.
“Buried treasure.”
“You know,” he said, “it’s OK for young women to be seen in public with older men.”
“Just a rumor.”
I climbed from the car, pushed the button on the whitewashed pillar beside the gate, identified myself and told Ginny Alexander what I wanted. She buzzed me in.
The interior of the house still dazzled. So did Alexander. She wore a red sweater with a plunging neckline, tight jeans and strappy sandals. Greeting me with an air hug, she walked me through the house to the chef’s kitchen. With its white ceiling, cabinets, counters and tile floor, the room gleamed like a hospital OR. I could have worn sunglasses.
She stood at the cooking island and, brushing her dark hair aside, fiddled with her right earlobe. Except for a tiny puncture, it looked bare.
Shifting the camera to the other hand I asked, “Did you lose something?”
“Yes, and I’m furious with myself.” She held a dark blue cloisonné earring. “They were a gift from my mother. I’ll have to ask Claire if she’s seen the other one.”
“Is she home?” I asked.
Lines formed on her forehead. “What did she do now?”
“Nothing. I just thought I’d say hello.”
“Buddies since she crashed your office?”
“She misses her father,” I said.
“God knows why.” Alexander pocketed the earring, scooped a plastic grocery bag off the counter and tossed it under the sink. “You just missed her. She took the boat. She and her brother are going fishing.”
Shit. I didn’t see that one coming. Too late to have Walter follow. “Where do they usually go?”
Alexander cocked her head. “I wouldn’t have cast you as a fisherman.”
“I’m not. My friend is.”
“You should invite him over sometime. Is he nearby? I know you said you’re from somewhere up north.”
“No,” I said, “he’s right around the corner.”
“Good. Maybe he could take the damned boats off my hands. Darby always left the keys in them—I told you that the last time, didn’t I. I think he wanted to make a fast getaway. Your friend can take them for a test drive, or whatever you call it.”
“He did get away,” I said.
“Not far enough, if you ask me.”
“And you’re not worried about theft in the neighborhood?”
She scowled. “No one else has reported anything.”
“And you have no idea who broke in, or what they wanted.”
“Not a clue,” she said.
“And nothing’s missing.”
“Just my peace of mind.”
“Well,” I said, putting the file folder on the countertop, “I hope this will help. I’ve brought the agreement and disclosure documents. I’ll need some basic numbers for the MLS listing—age of the house, square footage, number of bedrooms, full- and half-baths. We can do a walk-through together and discuss the age of the appliances and any upgrades you’ve made, and then you can sign and date the forms. I’m sure you’ve been through this before.”
“Many times. Sometimes I think my husband was a nomad.”
I raised the camera. “I’d like to take some photos, too, inside and out, if you don’t mind.”
“Anything to unload this elephant before the IRS comes knocking.”
As we toured the house, I looked for details I’d missed the first time, such as clues to Darby’s location, or where he might hide a few million in cash. I didn’t see any. I did see a motive for the attempted burglaries. If Darby had hidden money in the house, was he trying to retrieve it? Was someone else? If I could locate his stash, maybe I could trade it for Pap. Against the law but so was kidnapping.
I’d photographed most of the interior when we came full circle to the kitchen. The house loomed large. Built to Miami-Dade hurricane standards, it spread over 7,200 sq. ft. with five bedrooms, four-and-a-half baths and 4,000 sq. ft. of covered and open terrace. I asked Alexander how much she wanted to ask.
“Seven point two million should do it.”
“I’ll do comps,” I said, “but the high-end market is recovering much faster than other segments of the housing industry here. You have a salt-water pool and beach and bay access, so I think we can start there.”
We moved into the living room and stood in front of the glass. “What’s your time frame for moving?”
“As soon as possible. This house has too many memories.”
“I can help you relocate,” I said. “What are you looking for?”
“A new husband to start.”
She opened a slider in the living room wall and we stepped onto the lanai. I’d walked into hotels less lavishly furnished. Thick posts formed arches to cap a ceiling of inlaid tile as blue as the South Pacific. Paddle fans whirred. Wooden chairs with wheels and sky-blue cushions formed a seating group in front of a fireplace topped with a TV the size of a Jumbotron. An outdoor kitchen nestled into the back wall.
“This is a beautiful view,” I said, taking in a panorama that ran from Spanish Bay to the Gulf of Mexico with the white sands of Largo Key in between. As I watched the beach where Mitch and I had picnicked, my stomach jumped like a trampoline and I hoped the seismic upheaval wouldn’t show in my voice. “And the furnishings are exquisite.”
“Philanthropy doesn’t work if you’re poor,” she said. “A girl needs cash. If Darby is alive, the insurance company will want its money back.”
“What will you do after you sell the house? Can you stay with anyone? Friends, relatives?”
“Honey,” she said, “ever since that bastard stole money from our wealthier citizens, I haven’t exactly made anyone’s A-list.” She stared across the pool at the waters of the Gulf, as still as the noonday air. Then she turned and gave me a crooked smile. “You’re not adverse to a little larceny, are you?”
“Larceny?”
“Why don’t you help me find the money Darby stole and we’ll split it fifty-fifty.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” I stammered.
Her laugh sounded like a bark. “No, you look too honest. That’s probably what attracted him to you.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, he likes them young and innocent.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “The only thing your former husband and I have in common is my grandfather.”
She looked down her nose with cool eyes and a solid mouth. “No, well maybe you’re not his type.”
“Maybe you’d be more comfortable with another agent.”
She waved a bug from her head. “Don’t mind me. I’m still reeling from the news that he’s back from the dead.”
“You don’t know where he is then.”
“No, and I don’t care to know.”
“What would you do,” I asked, “if you did find him?”
She cackled. “I’d tell him to go back to the ferry and finish the job.”
To keep my mind off Darby and Mitch, I photographed the exterior of the house. A quick review of the photos showed flaws I hadn’t caught during my first visit. Several roof tiles had cracked, a portion of the mortar had bled through the paint and the lawn needed mowing. By the sides of the house, vegetation ran wild, with branches poking from once neatly trimmed hedges. On the other hand, the pool looked immaculate, from its polished blue rim to the sparkling pebble finish that lined the bottom. Alexander said she couldn’t afford maintenance yet the pool looked perfect. She was not one to get her hands wet, and Claire could care less, so who?
“The pool looks lovely,” I said. “Is the person who maintains it willing to continue while we sell the house?”
She laughed. “That’s Harvey. He likes to swim.”
“I think I saw the two of you at the film festival.”
She smiled. It came out as more of a grimace. “I hate being alone. Don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” I said, feeling that Shaw did more maintenance on her than on the property.
“So,” Ginny said, taking in the property with a sweep of her hand. “Back to business. How are you going to sell this dump? Do I have to put half of my furniture in storage and sprinkle potpourri around the house like the witches from Macbeth?”
“We’ll hold an open house for buyers’ agents. And we’ll bake cookies . . . gingerbread.”
“We?”
“I’ll come over before the showing if I get enough notice and put the cookies in the oven. You won’t have to do a thing.” I glanced at her figure. She looked cut, with the kind of muscle definition male weightlifters develop. “Or eat any of them.”
“We’ll just leave them for Santa with a glass of milk.”
Or the burglar, I thought, but didn’t have a chance to respond because my phone rang.