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

confusing maze of long-forgotten images. She saw the red pickup she'd stolen and driven cross country to San Diego's Mission
Beach. The cash that she'd found in her aunt's desk and stuffed in
her denim jacket. She remembered her final trip on the ferry, the
gulls wheeling and circling, the sky a brilliant blue like today ...

    She shook her head. Her long glossy black hair rippled and she
forced the unwelcome memories out of her mind. She'd kept the
past buried for ten years, and she wasn't about to let it resurface
now. Focus on your breathing, she told herself. Forget everything else
but the coffee waiting for you back at the bungalow...
    Sirens wailing down the next street brought Darby's thoughts
back to the present. She ran off the boardwalk and onto Pacific
Street, slowing her pace to begin her cool down. The next street
was Palm, a mix of homes built in the 1950s, most of which had
been restored in the past decade. She admired the Arts and Craftsstyle home of her neighbor, Doug Henderson, who was sweeping
off his front porch as usual and humming show tunes. He gave
Darby a little wave as always. She smiled and waved back, then
walked up the neat little path that served as her walkway.
    "Your phone's been ringing and ringing," he yelled from the
porch. "I don't think your voice mail is picking up."
    Darby groaned. Her answering machine was ready for retirement, but she'd been too busy to replace it this week. "Thank you,"
she called. She picked up her newspaper and tucked it under her
arm.
    "Hey!" yelled Doug. "Got a second to taste something for me?"

    "This wouldn't be another one of your little tests, now would
it, Doug?" Darby walked across the grass, a smile playing about her
lips.
    "Oh, come on," her neighbor cajoled, disappearing back into
his home.
    Darby waited, enjoying the rush of post-run endorphins. She
stole a glance at the headlines, heard a thrush singing in one of
Doug's flowering shrubs.
    "Here you go," Doug said, emerging back on the porch and offering her a blue china cup full of steaming tea.
    She frowned. "Now Doug, you know the rules: white cups only.
Using a colored one is cheating." She took a moment to note the
pale yellow color; inhaled the tea's rich aroma. "However, I think
I'm going to get this one even with your flagrant disregard of the
rules."
    She took a sip and smiled.
    "Doug, you've gone all out today. This is one expensive cup
of tea." She took another sip. "It's delicious: sweet and lingering. I
taste fresh grass, seaweed, and a hint of the woods."
    Doug waited expectantly. "What do you think it is?"
    She smiled. "I know what it is. Hongyokuro, a rare grade of
Gyokuro, from the Yame region of Japan near Fukuoka. `Precious
Pearl Dew' is the translation. Harvested in the early spring, I believe."
    "Unbelievable!" He shook his head. "Palate memory, huh?
That's what you call it?"
    She nodded. "That's right."
    "Your mom was Japanese, right? Is this a tea she used to make?"
    Darby laughed. "My mother couldn't have afforded this. She
was a 'Constant Comment' drinker from the day she set foot in America." Darby thought back to the first time she'd tasted the exquisite green tea now in her hands. "I tried Hongyokuro two years
ago, over at the Beach House Tea Room." She took another sip and
handed him back his cup. "Delicious. Thanks for letting me enjoy
it again."

    Back at her bungalow, Darby removed her sneakers and placed
them on the stoop, then reached discreetly into her jog bra to find
her house key. Opening the door she inhaled the rich smell of coffee, as welcome in the morning as an embrace. She loved teas of
just about every variety, but coffee was what got Darby Farr fired
up each morning.
    I want nothing more than to sit in the sun and read the paper,
she thought, but her intuition told her such leisure wasn't to be. As
the most sought-after real estate professional in San Diego County,
she had a duty to an ever-growing list of clients