Vicki Doudera - A House to Die For

Vicki Doudera

MIDNIGHT INK
WOODBURY, MINNESOTA

A House to Die For (c) 2010 by Vicki Doudera. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2010 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover illustration (c) Dominick Finelle / The July Group Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Publications

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data. Doudera, Victoria, 196 1A house to die for / Victoria Doudera. -1st ed. p. cm. - (A Darby Farr mystery) ISBN 978-0-7387-1950-4 1. Women real estate agents-Fiction. 2. Murder-Investigation-Fiction. 3. Real estate business-Fiction. 4. San Diego (Calif.)-Fiction. I. Title. PS3604.0895H68 2010 813'.6-dc22 2009050087

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Midnight Ink Llewellyn Publications 2143 Wooddale Drive, Dept. 978-0-7387-1950-4 Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 USA www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to my family, and in particular, my husband Ed, for his unflagging help, love, encouragement, and countless dinner preparations; and to Scott Horty, with grateful thanks for giving me my start in real estate.

PROLOGUE

THE RING OF THE hospital pager ripped through the quiet night like a gunshot. Dr. Emerson Phipps woke instantly, his body tuned to the sound from years of interrupted slumber. He reached for his watch and swore. Three A.M. So much for a decent night's sleep.

Phipps pulled himself out of his king-sized bed, unable to suppress a groan. Fumbling in the dark for his cell phone, he hit the speed dial for Boston Memorial Hospital. "Phipps. What is it?"

A hesitant voice on the other end described an accident in West Roxbury and the badly damaged spine of the victim. "The patient fell off a rooftop deck during a party. I know Dr. Masterson is on call, but he's in the neonatal ICU with a spina bifida delivery. I thought..."

"You thought correctly." The nurse calling was new to the hospital, but Phipps could picture her ponytailed hair and ready smile. "It's Amanda, isn't it? I really appreciate your diligence and quick thinking."

"Thank you, Doctor." She was flattered, he could tell, and as he hung up the phone he allowed himself to imagine Amanda in his penthouse. A little wine, a look at his fabulous view of the skyline, a few questions about her work at the hospital ... He yanked off his silk pajamas and tossed them on the bed.

Once dressed, Phipps padded on the plush carpet down the hallway, his powerful body tensing as he thought about the patient awaiting his skilled hands. No telling how long the operation would take. Depending on the spinal cord injury, he could be in surgery for hours. He stopped before the hall closet and frowned. He'd planned to drive up the coast today, and now he'd have to change his plans. Dick Masterson was a fairly decent surgeon, but he was notoriously slow. It might take all day before the plodding doctor stepped in to relieve him.

Phipps pulled a butter-soft leather jacket from a hanger, inhaling its rich scent. For a few seconds he was transported back to Milan and the posh store where he'd purchased it. He saw the clerk's appreciative nod of approval when he chose the highest grained leather without regard to the cost, the admiring glances the women on the street had thrown his way. There's a man who knows fine things, their faces said. A man who can afford life's greatest luxuries ...

And one of those luxuries was waiting for him on an island in Maine: Fairview, a magnificent estate overlooking the Atlantic, a place that spoke of privilege, prestige, and power. He'd wanted it since the first time he saw it, and now, a dozen years later, it would finally be his. He glanced at his overnight bag, already packed for the trip. Why not throw it in the car and leave straight from the hospital? That way, no matter how long Dick Masterson took with his surgery, Phipps would be ready to blow out of town and head north.

The bag felt light in Phipps' confident grasp, but he knew without looking that he'd packed all that he needed: a few polo shirts, a sailing jacket, and shorts, attire suitable to the yachting haven of Hurricane Harbor. A little different than Haiti, he thought wryly. On his frequent trips to volunteer for the non-profit group Surgeons Who Serve, he lugged a large duffel bag crammed with malaria medication and clothing appropriate for mosquito-infested jungles and Third-World accommodations. It was a different world, and one in which the surgeon found himself oddly at home. A place where money, looks, prestige, and power paled in comparison to medical training and talent.

Taking one final opportunity to glance in the hall mirror, Phipps made a minute adjustment to the jacket's collar. He grabbed his car's key fob from the antique chest beneath the mirror, where a framed photo of one of his Haitian patients, a toddler named Celina, leaned against the wall. She smiled crookedly at him, her dark hair covered with tiny plastic barrettes, and he remembered the sobs of her mother outside the makeshift operating room in Trou du Nord. Eight hours of surgery to correct the little two-year-old's scoliosis: eight hours cutting gaps between vertebrae, grafting bone from her pelvis, and installing metal rods to hold the spine still while the vertebrae fused correctly, all under a weak 60-watt lightbulb dangling from a piece of jute. The conditions had been atrocious, and yet the little girl could now run normally through the village, a testament to his skill and her tenacious spirit.

He sighed and willed himself not to wonder whether Celina was still robust and healthy. Instead, he made sure his door was locked and stepped into a waiting elevator.

The parking garage was eerily quiet and Emerson Phipps' footsteps echoed sharply in the darkness. He strode purposefully to his space and popped open the back of his BMW 760Li, tossing in his overnight bag and closing it securely. Once inside the rich leather interior, he wasted no time in pushing the start button and speeding into the night. Behind him, the garage echoed with the sound of the twin turbocharged engines.

The streets were vacant and dark, unusually quiet for the tail end of a Saturday. Phipps noted an oily slickness coating the pavement; it had obviously rained while he slept. Despite the slippery surface, he drove the sedan a good twenty miles over the limit. He'd been stopped several times for speeding, but so far had not received a ticket, or a warning for that matter. In fact, the cops who'd approached him and asked for his license and registration had been embarrassed when he explained his haste. Officer, I'm a surgeon, on my way to save a life...

Minutes later he was inside the brightly lit corridors of Boston Memorial's Emergency Room. The sights and sounds of the ER -haggard relatives slumped on plastic chairs, the drone of CNN on the television, the smell of bitter coffee and hand sanitizer-no longer registered. Oblivious to the banality around him, Emerson Phipps made his way to the trauma rooms, pausing to peer at the charts to find his patient. He felt a light touch on his arm and turned sharply. Amanda's round face quickly colored.

"Dr. Phipps-I didn't mean to startle you..."

"No problem," he said smoothly, giving her a dazzling smile. "So where's this SCI you interrupted my beauty sleep for?"

She giggled softly and pointed at an adjoining room. "In 3. Dr. Chan checked his vitals and she said to tell you she'd be back. The patient's on a backboard-the paramedics did that-but Dr. Chan didn't want him moved until you had a look."