Deadly Offer (2 page)

She lowered the glass onto the teak table with a trembling hand.
That’s odd,
she thought.
Another symptom to add to the list
. She placed her hands on her lap and sighed.
Face it; you’re like an old mare out in the pasture. But I’m not old,
she couldn’t help but protest.
I’m only forty-four.

She picked up a cracker, placed a cube of cheese atop, and took a nibble. She swallowed and felt an uncomfortable pressing sensation on her chest, bearing down hard against her ribs, as if a huge piece of furniture was being lowered onto her midsection. She shook her head, determined to ignore it. Perhaps a soak in the hot tub.

She rose to her feet, waited until she had her balance, and walked
the few steps to the hot tub, her wine glass in hand. The jets were
off, as usual, the surface of the water a placid pool. Placing the glass
on the side of the tub, she eased herself in, smiling in gratitude at the water’s warmth. She let it engulf her body until only her head bobbed on the surface.

The hot tub was as soothing as ever, and yet the pressing sensation continued; in fact, it was intensifying with alarming rapidity. She took in a sharp breath
. I’m overwrought
, she thought.
That whole thing in the barn took more out of me than I realized.

She reached with a shaking hand for her wine and took a long sip. Suddenly the pain in her chest seemed to seize her whole midsection and she doubled over, her face hitting the hot tub’s warm water. She drew in a huge, frightened breath but the pain was upon her once more, even stronger, like a tidal wave swamping the tiny craft of her.
What is going on
?
This feels like
…

Before Selena could finish her thought she was seized with a crippling cramp. She forced herself to stand up.
I’ve got to get out of here
. Dizziness engulfed her and the trees surrounding the hot tub began to spin. She gripped the edge of the tub in terror.

Blood drained from Selena’s face in a quick rush. A terribly cold chill swept down her body and her vision became a wavy tangle
. The bright afternoon dimmed and then went black as she slumped to her knees.

All pain was forgotten as the unconscious Selena slid slowly under the water. As she sank, her braid floated up, coiling on the surface like a dark water moccasin. Air bubbles from her mouth and nose rose languidly for a few minutes, and then subsided. The surface of the water grew deadly calm.

The air took on a chill as the light of day faded. The birds and small mammals living in the vineyard’s underbrush were still, so that the only sound was a light wind rustling the leaves on the vines and olive trees. A figure emerged from the shadow of the cabana and crept toward the hot tub. With a gloved hand, the intruder nudged Selena’s wine glass into the water. It splashed and then sank, coming to rest on her mottled white thigh.

One

“Drop dead gorgeous.” Doug
Henderson ran a hand through his bushy hair, still mussed from rolling out of bed, and shook his head. “I tell you, Darby, she is just beautiful—inside and out.” He gave a shy grin and then hefted a box full of record albums and carried them to the front porch. “Whew. Look at these old things. Wish I could part with stuff like this, you know? Had a guy in L.A. offer me two thousand bucks, but that just made me want to hang on to them. You know how it is.”

Darby Farr pushed her long black hair back from her face and smiled. Her neighbor was not only in love, he was in the throes of moving, and having a hard time parting with his possessions. It was a process with which Darby was very familiar. As a top real estate agent for San Diego’s Pacific Coast Realty, the young star had seen it all with her many clients over the years. The ones who couldn’t part with their size-four wardrobe, even though they were now a size ten, or the parents who held on to box after box of children’s toys although their “children” were having kids of their own. There had even been a few clients who stayed put in houses they no longer wanted because they could not deal with paring down their possessions. She knew all too well her friend Doug’s dilemma.

Darby lifted a box of albums labeled “Tony Winners” and followed Doug to the porch, where the morning sun was just starting to creep in the old windows.

“You can’t part with your collection of old show tunes, and I’m sure Rhonda wouldn’t want you to. They’re so much a part of who you are.” She gave him a teasing look. “Plus, how will she hear you singing ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly?’ at the top of your lungs if you can’t play the album?”

His look was sheepish. “Come on, you never heard me singing.” Frowning slightly, he asked, “Did you?”

Darby laughed. “I did, and I enjoyed every rendition.” She plunked the box down and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Okay, the living room is looking good. What’s next?”

“I’m not sure, but let’s head to the kitchen.” He thumped through the Arts and Crafts style home and sighed. “I’m going to miss this place, you know? It’s been a great house.”

“Yeah, if only you’d had better neighbors, you might be sticking around.” Darby grinned, grabbing an empty box and heading toward the kitchen.

Doug Henderson stopped and faced her. “The neighbors are wonderful, and be sure you tell anyone looking at the place that they won’t find a better street in all of Mission Beach, or San Diego for that matter.” He entered the sunny kitchen and opened a cabinet. “You do think it will sell, right?”

Darby nodded. She’d been through this with Doug many times, but knew he needed to be reassured once more. “It is a fabulous house, Doug. Authentic and yet updated with a great sense of taste and flair.” She ticked off more selling points. “You have terrific curb appeal and your price is fair. I think we’ll have it sold by this fall for sure.”

“Good.” He clinked together two china teacups as he pulled them from the cabinet. “I think we’ve earned a cup of tea on this lovely Friday morning.” He lit the gas flame under a kettle of water. “Okay with you?”

“Sure.” She perched on a small oak stool at Doug’s formica-topped kitchen table. Picking up a postcard with a glossy photo of a palm-tree dotted beach, she saw a scribbled message and the signature of Doug’s new girlfriend. She flipped it back over to the photo.

“So Rhonda is beautiful—drop dead gorgeous, as you say. What else can you tell me about this mystery woman?”

Doug plunked a rose-patterned sugar bowl on the table.

“She’s a surfer, big time, and runs a small gift shop in one of the tourist towns, Sunset Beach. We hit it off instantly.”

Darby nodded. Doug had met Rhonda on a computer dating website only a month before, and their on-line relationship had escalated at lightning pace, so quickly that he was selling his home and moving to Hawaii to live with her. She glanced again at the postcard. “Looks like a pretty place. How big is her house?”

“It’s a three-bedroom ranch. Did I tell you that it’s only a few blocks from the beach? Just like what we’ve got here.” His sandy hair fell in his face and he brushed it back in a boyish gesture. “Can you believe that at fifty years old, I’ve finally found the woman of my dreams?”

You may have found her, but you haven’t met her
, Darby wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. Instead she looked into his eyes and gave a gentle smile.

“I’m so happy for you, Doug.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I’ll miss you, but I am absolutely thrilled that you are embarking on this adventure. My only suggestion is that you wait to list your house. What’s the rush? Get settled in Hawaii, and then I’ll put it on the market for you.”

“I don’t see the point, Darby. It’s crazy to have it sit here empty.”

“Let me rent it for you then. At least until you’re sure you want to stay.”

“I am sure.” He frowned, and then glanced at the kettle of boiling water. “Ready for your test?”

Darby groaned. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Can’t a girl just have a nice cup of tea without being quizzed by her neighbor?”

“Not when that girl has super-duper powers.” He chose a gleaming silver canister from a cupboard and spooned some tea leaves into an infuser. He added water, let it slowly steep, and then strained it into a cup. “Let’s see if your famous palate memory can figure this one out with a blind taste test.”

“Blind?”

“That’s right. You have to close your eyes.”

Darby shook her head and complied. Doug’s little tests were nothing new. He was fascinated with her extraordinary ability to discern tastes and smells, and was forever playing “stump the neighbor.”

She felt his rough fingers press a warm china cup into her hands. She bent forward, eyes closed, and inhaled the scent of the tea. A heavy smell of overripe fruit, bordering on unpleasant. She pictured acres of tea fields in a far off place … Asia? India? Africa?

Africa! That was the origin of this unusual brew. She took a tentative sip, letting the liquid linger on her tongue. Sweet, slightly nutty—definitely more appealing than its fragrance, thank goodness. She took another sip and smiled.

“I ought to disqualify this entry, Doug, but since you’re moving I’ll let it slide.” Raising the cup to her lips for another sip, she smiled again. “Technically, what I’m drinking is not a true tea. It comes from the plant
Aspalathus linearis
, rather than the
Camellia
plants that produce traditional brews. It’s from Africa—South Africa to be precise—and the reason you did not let me look at the tea is because of its distinctive red color.” She paused. “This is Rooibos tea, also called Red Rooibos. Can I open my eyes now?”

Doug shook his head in amazement. “Darby Farr nails it again. That’s what this is alright, Red Rooibos.” He poured himself a cup of the bright red liquid and took a sip. “Smells a little funny but it tastes good, and it is supposed to be very healthy. Rhonda told me about it.”

Darby smiled. “She’s going to have her work cut out for her, changing you into a healthy eater. Does she know about your addiction to Sugar Babies?”

He colored. “No, and she never will. I’m done with processed sugar.”

Darby put down her tea cup. “I see.” She decided to change the subject. “Does Rhonda have family in Hawaii?”

“No. She moved out there a few years ago, from the Midwest of all places. Chicago, I think. Anyway, she says the laid-back lifestyle is just great. She runs her store, surfs every day, and tends a little garden. It’s a paradise on earth.”

“It certainly sounds idyllic.” She glanced at her watch, a slim silver old-fashioned piece of jewelry that was a gift from a family friend in Florida. “I’ve got about half an hour, Doug, and then I need to head into the office. It’s Friday, and I’d better get there on the early side. Shall I start with the upper cabinets?”

“I think we can skip the kitchen and go to the basement. I’m only bringing a few things from here.”

Darby rinsed her teacup in the kitchen sink and turned to face her friend. “Why’s that?”

“Rhonda said she’s got a kitchen full of stuff already.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes. They were a brilliant blue against his tanned face, and framed by laugh lines that gave him a friendly, open appearance. “Man, I’ve accumulated a lot of stuff in my five decades, haven’t I? It truly boggles the mind.”

Darby pulled a ponytail holder from the pocket of her jeans and pushed her long black mane into a messy bun. She put a hand on her slim hip and surveyed Doug’s glassware. “Your possessions aren’t just ‘stuff’; they reveal who you are. Your collection of shot glasses, for instance. How many have you got?”

“Sixty-one, last time I counted.” He opened the cabinet and pulled out a clear glass with a red hammer and sickle emblazoned across the front. “Take a look at this one. I drank a fair amount of vodka in this baby.”

Darby peered at the shot glass. “This is from your student days?”

He nodded. “1985. Just as the whole thing started unraveling.”

“You mean
glasnost
?”

“The dissolution of the USSR into separate states.” He replaced the shot glass and closed the cabinet door. “It was an amazing place to be. To watch a country—an empire, really—in transition like that. Scary, but fascinating, too.” He sighed. “I can’t get rid of these, so I’m renting one of those storage units out on the freeway until I decide what to do with them. I’ll probably put the albums there, too.”

Darby nodded. She hated the thought that people had to spend good money to rent space to store things, but in Doug’s case it made some sense. She glanced at her watch. “You know, I think I’d better head out after all. See you tonight to pack up some more.”

Doug gave her a grateful look. “Dinner’s on me, okay?” His voice grew louder as she jogged across the yard and toward her own bungalow. “My last night in California. I’ll order in from the Thai place.
Chicken Mas Sa Man
.”

Darby smiled as she entered her bungalow and yanked off her sneakers. Her friend had her favorite yellow curry dish just right.

———

Dan Stewart maneuvered his ancient Jeep up the twisting road to Carson Creek Estate & Winery, frowning at the time on the dusty dashboard’s clock. Eight-thirty. Normally he liked to be at work by eight: have a quick cup of coffee with Selena, and then get right to work. But today it had been a challenge to get out of the house at all. He gritted his teeth and the image of Sophie Stewart, long and lean, her sandy brown hair hanging to her shoulders, and that teeny-weeny little red skirt that just barely covered her butt …

He slammed the steering wheel with his fist, still furious over his teenaged daughter’s choice in dress. Didn’t she know that skimpy scrap of fabric was like a red flag to all the hormone-flooded boys of Valley High School? A little voice piped up in his ear:
Isn’t that the point?

Ugh! He took a deep breath and tried to let their shouting match over a piece of clothing become a memory. She’d changed and still managed to catch the bus, but Dan suspected that the miniscule skirt had been tucked into one of the pockets of her backpack and was probably already on her slender frame. Really, how could the teachers let their students wear clothes like that? Didn’t Principal Horowitz care that his daughter’s backside was nearly exposed for the whole student body? Dan exhaled, and tried relaxing again. Maybe he could tell Selena about it with some humor, get her to laugh a little, and she’d help him to see the funny side of it as well.
She has a knack for seeing the bright side of things.

He rounded the bend, downshifted, and took in the rows of grapes shrouded in mist, the sun just starting to peek through the Ventano Valley’s cloud cover. He grinned at the beauty of the place, the ancient stones that dotted the landscape and the fertile soil surrounding them. There was always much more to do than he could fit into the day, but that was why he loved working at Carson Creek. It was a beautiful, rewarding, never ending project, the closest he would get to actually owning his own vineyard. Selena Thompson understood his feelings, and he prayed that the new owner would as well.
If not, there are plenty of other vineyards in this part of California
, he told himself.
Yeah, but none as pretty as Carson Creek.

Nor were there many vineyards with owners as special as Selena,
a woman who had taught him how to be brave in the face of
adversity, who epitomized grace under fire.

He parked the jeep and jumped out, running a hand through his hair. Once the same shade as his daughter’s long tresses, it was now several shades lighter, thanks to the growing number of gray strands she was causing him to acquire. Teenagers! It was difficult enough to raise them in the most perfect of conditions, never mind as a single parent.

Dan Stewart took long strides across the pebbled driveway, his body fit and muscled from years of fieldwork and his daily routine of jumping rope and sweating through pushups and crunches. The air was still, without the usual hum of the cicadas, and the unnatural quiet unnerved him. He whistled a few lines from an old Cat Stevens song, “Morning Has Broken,” more to interrupt the silence than because he actually liked it.

He entered the old farmhouse, restored to perfection, and glanced around the immaculate kitchen. “Selena?” he called out, not wanting to startle her with his sudden presence. He glanced at the butcher block counter. No coffee in the pot, which was odd, as it was his employer’s habit to have it ready before eight. He lifted the empty glass carafe from the drip-brew machine. His eyes and nose told him that she had not made coffee since yesterday.

Probably on an errand,
he thought, grabbing the bag of beans from the freezer and pouring some into the grinder. The appliance’s harsh staccato startled him with its severity. He finished grinding, found a filter, and was pouring in the ground coffee when his legs were brushed by something furry.

“Jesus, Jasper!” The cat was like a stealth bomber, never making a sound, and sneaking up to rub against calves when least expected. Dan glanced down at the black and white animal in relief. Jasper gave him a penetrating look, his amber eyes unblinking. “What is it?” Dan glanced at the feline’s hand-painted food and water dishes and his heart skipped a beat. They were empty.