A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) Read Free Page A

brought his PDA, but it was tucked
in the glove compartment of the BMW. That, too, could wait for
the journey back to Boston.

    As he approached the orchard, he heard what sounded like a
low moan. He turned in the sound's direction, expecting to see the
elderly real estate agent, perhaps with a sprained ankle, hobbling
toward him. He saw no one, but a shingled garden shed with its
door ajar caught his attention. He listened intently. There it was
again: a cry of pain, and it seemed to be coming from the shed.
    Phipps shook his head. He was off duty, for Chrissakes, and
the last thing he wanted to do was play hero doctor. Nevertheless,
he strode across the lawn and entered the shed, stepping gingerly
on the old wooden floor. The smell of compost, oil, and cut grass
mingled into a pleasing mixture he associated with summer. Inside it was dark, and dusty, and he waited for an instant so his eyes
would adjust, all the while listening keenly so he could locate the
victim. "Hello?" he called out. "I'm a doctor. I can help you."
    A crackling sound split the silence and Phipps felt a jolt run
through his torso. Without warning his legs buckled beneath him,
and an instant later he was collapsing onto the floor of the shed.
He heard the soft thud of his bones against the worn wood, felt the
floor rush up to meet his face like a slap. He tried to speak, to wonder aloud what had happened, but his tongue was fat and heavy
and he couldn't move his lips. I'm paralyzed, he told himself with
surprise. I've had some kind of stroke or something...
    He heard a muffled movement, the sound of something heavy
being dragged across the wooden floor. His brain was scrambling
to figure out what was happening: the moan of pain, the sudden crackle, his quick collapse. Not a stroke, he realized, some kind of
attack! Before he could follow this line of reasoning further, he
heard a grunt of exertion and saw the blurred outline of a body
just beyond his line of vision. Another grunt, and then a searing
pain as the weight of something very heavy came crashing down
on his skull.

    Emerson Phipps felt the warm gush of his own blood coursing like a red river across his face, spilling down the gullies of his
cheeks and making a waterfall off his jutting chin. He heard another grunt and instinct kicked in, warning him to move before he
was bludgeoned again. His battered brain begged his legs to run,
or crawl at least, but it was useless-he couldn't even feel his toes.
He was incapacitated, like so many of the patients he'd treated over
the years. Images flashed before him like flickering strobe lightshis car, little Celina with her gap-toothed baby smile, the rows of
trees lined up like sentinels in the orchard-and then, just before
the blow that would split open his skull, Emerson Phipps lost consciousness.

ONE

    DARBY FARR SLOWED HER fast run to a stop and pulled her cell
phone out of the liner of her Lycra running shorts. Finally, she
thought. The buyer for the Costa Brava mansion is stepping up to
the plate. The fact that it was a sunny Sunday morning didn't matter in real estate, at least not to Darby Farr. Her position as the
top selling agent for San Diego's Pacific Coast Realty meant that
she conducted business at any hour of any day, to virtually anyone
willing to buy one of her listings, the most inexpensive of which
was a mere million dollars.
    Out of habit, she glanced quickly at the display before answering. What she saw made her heart, already pounding from her run,
race even faster. Displayed on the screen was a number from a
place she'd spent ten years forgetting, a place that still haunted her
dreams. With a trembling hand she switched her phone to silence,
stashed it back in her shorts, and ran toward the beach.
    The boardwalk was dotted with bikers, bladers, and skateboarders, but Darby barely noticed their presence. While her feet beat a steady drumbeat along the wooden walkway, she sifted through a