Whiskey Beach (20 page)

“He’s a bully.” Abra walked in with a mug of coffee. “A dangerous one, I think.”

Vinnie took the coffee, stared into it. “He’s a hard-nosed, experienced cop with a pretty solid rep. My take? Coming up against you, Eli, when his gut and the circumstantial says you’re guilty as black-eyed sin, then not being able to prove it’s got him pissed.”

“I can’t be guilty of murder just to keep his record clear.”

“He knew Duncan.”

“I got that.”

“I haven’t looked deep, but my sense is they knew each other pretty well. So now he’s got more motivation to break you down. And this time, you’ve got an alibi.”

“Which would be me.”

“And you,” Vinnie said to Abra, “he’s going to see as a liar, protecting your . . .”

“The word these days is ‘lover,’” Abra put in. “He can try to discredit me. He’s doomed to failure. And I can see on your face you’re thinking it was easier, clearer when I wasn’t sleeping with Eli. I’ve— We’ve complicated things. But the truth’s still the truth, Vinnie.”

“I just want you to know he’s going to stir things up. He’ll dig. He’s already dug as far as can be dug with Eli, so you need to expect him to do the same on you, Abs.”

“It doesn’t worry me. Eli knows about Derrick, Vinnie.”

“Okay.” With a nod, Vinnie drank some coffee. “I don’t want you worried. Just prepared.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Have they run ballistics?” Eli asked him.

“I can’t give you details of the investigation.” Vinnie shrugged, drank more coffee. “Your grandmother’s got a nice antique gun collection upstairs. She let me see it once. I don’t recall any .32 calibers up there.”

“No,” Eli said just as casually. “Nothing like that in the collection, or in the house.”

“Well . . . I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee, Abra.”

“Anytime.”

Eli rose to walk him to the door. “I appreciate you coming by like this, Vinnie. I won’t forget it.”

“You look out for her. She knows just how vicious people can be, but she’s still inclined to think they won’t be. Stay out of trouble.”

I thought I was, Eli mused. But trouble had a way of wiggling its way through the smallest opening.

When he stepped back into the parlor, she straightened from adding a log to the fire. Then she turned, flames licking and rising behind her back.

“However it happened,” he began, “whoever’s to blame, you being here, being with me, puts you in the crosshairs. Your personal life, what happened to you, choices you’ve made, your work, your family, your friends—all of everything is going to be turned over, dug into, examined, talked about. You’ve been through something like this once, and you put it behind you. But staying here will put it in front of you again.”

“That’s true. And?”

“You should take some time to think about that, to decide if you really want to put yourself under that kind of scrutiny.”

Her gaze stayed calm and quiet on his. “Which means you don’t think I have thought about it, and doesn’t say much for your opinion of my sense of self or my ability to reason out consequences for actions.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You’re not going to save me from myself, Eli. I do fine in that area. I’m not opposed to you looking out for me because I believe, strongly, people should look out for each other, but Vinnie’s wrong. Voices carry in empty houses, and I have excellent hearing,” she pointed out. “I do know how vicious people can be, but I’m not inclined to think they won’t be. I’m inclined to hope they won’t be, and that’s very different.”

“They usually are, given half a chance.”

“It’s a shame you feel that way, but given what’s happened, what’s happening now, it’s hard to blame you. Still, we could have an interesting debate on that subject sometime. But right now, do you want to know what I think?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I think while the kitchen floor looks good, that couch looks even better. Want to try it out and see?”

“Yeah.” He walked toward her. “I do.”

She stayed. When they finally made it back to bed, finally exhausted themselves, she learned he wasn’t a snuggler. But he earned half a point rather than a full one in her score book by not objecting to snuggling.

She woke in light like a gray pearl, when he shifted to ease away from her. “Mmm. You getting up?”

“Yeah. Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay.” But she curled around him again. “What time is it?”

“About six. You should go back to sleep.”

“I have an eight-o’clock class.” She nuzzled at his throat. “What’s on your plate?”

“Usually coffee and work.” But he could adjust that, he thought, and ran a hand down her long, bare back.

“Then you have time to join me for a short morning stretch and I’ll fix you breakfast as a reward before I go.”

“We can stretch right here.”

She didn’t object when he rolled over, slipped inside her. Instead, she sighed deep, smiled into his eyes. “A wonderful way to salute the sun.”

Slow and easy, like floating on a quiet sea. The lazy counterpoint to the night’s rush and thunder slid through her like the sunrise, like that promise of the fresh and the new and the hopeful.

She could see him now, the lines of his face, the clarity of his eyes with the dark trouble still shadowed in them.

Her nature urged her to banish shadows, to bring the light. So she gave herself to him for his pleasure, for her own. She took that gentle ride up the crest, down again, and watched for a moment, for their moment, that light burn through.

She lay with him, wrapped around him, and basked in that moment.

“You should think about me today.”

He turned his head to brush his lips against her throat. “I think the odds are pretty good on that.”

“Deliberately think of me today,” she amended. “Say around noon. And I’ll deliberately think of you. We’ll send strong, positive, sexy thoughts into the universe.”

He lifted his head. “Sexy thoughts into the universe.”

“It couldn’t hurt. Where do writers and artists and inventors and all the creative people get their ideas?” She lifted her hands, circled her index fingers in the air.

“Is that where they come from?”

“They’re out there.” Lowering her hands, she ran her fingers in a firm line down his spine, up again. “People have to open up, reach for them. Positive or negative thoughts, it’s up to you. One of the ways to grab the good ones is to start the day opening up.”

“I think we accomplished that.”

“Step two.” She nudged him aside, made a dash toward the bathroom. “See if you can hunt me up a pair of sweatpants or shorts. Drawstrings would work. I’m using one of the spare toothbrushes stocked in the cabinet in here.”

“Okay.” She’d know more about the amenities than he did, he figured, as she’d probably put them in there.

He found a pair of shorts with a drawstring and dragged on a pair of sweats himself.

“They’re going to be too big,” he told her when she came out.

“I’ll make do.” She pulled them on, began adjusting them. “You can meet me in the gym.”

“Oh. I really—”

“We’ve spent considerable time naked and intimate, Eli.”

Hard to argue when she stood there in his shorts, naked from the waist up.

“I think breathing and stretching comes pretty low on the list of embarrassments.” She grabbed her white tank, wiggled into it. “I need a hair tie—got one in my bag. In the gym,” she repeated, and left him.

Maybe he stalled a little. It wasn’t embarrassment, he told himself. He just preferred starting the day with coffee, like normal people.

But he found her in the gym, sitting cross-legged on one of the two yoga mats she’d laid out, her hands on her knees, her eyes closed.

She should’ve looked ridiculous in his shorts. So why did she look sexy, and peaceful, and just exactly right?

Eyes still closed, she reached over and patted the second mat. “Sit down, be comfortable. Take a couple minutes to breathe.”

“I usually breathe all day. At night, too.”

Her lips curved a little. “Conscious breathing now. In through the nose—expanding the belly like blowing up a balloon, out through the nose, deflating the balloon. Long, deep, even breaths. Belly rises and falls. Relax your mind.”

He didn’t think he was very good at relaxing his mind, unless he was writing. And that wasn’t relaxing it but using it. He’d get coffee quicker if he breathed, though.

“Now, inhale your arms up till your palms touch, exhale them down. Inhale up”—she continued in that quiet, soothing voice—“exhale down.”

She had him stretch over his crossed legs, from side to side. Over one extended leg, the other, over both. He relaxed into it, a little. Until she told him to stand at the front of his mat.

Then she smiled at him, the day dawning behind the window at her back. If she’d asked him to twist his body into a pretzel, he’d have given it a shot.

Instead she had him repeat vertically what they’d done on the floor. Just breathing, reaching, bending, with a few variations of lunges, all as slow and easy as their morning lovemaking.

In the end she had him lie on his back, palms up, eyes closed. She spoke of letting go, of inhaling light, exhaling dark, while she rubbed his temples with her fingertips.

By the time she brought him back, had him sitting again, bending forward to—as she called it—seal his practice, he felt like he’d had a little nap, in a warm sea.

“Nice.” She gave him a pat on the knee. “Ready for breakfast?”

He looked into her eyes. “They don’t pay you enough.”

“Who?”

“Whoever comes to your classes.”

“You don’t know what I charge for my classes.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“I charge more for private lessons.” Grinning, she walked her fingers up his arm. “Interested?”

“Well . . .”

“Think about it,” she said as she rose. “And for now, do those neck stretches I showed you every couple hours when you’re at the keyboard. Those and the shoulder rolls for now,” she continued as they started downstairs. “Since I’m smelling spring, I’m thinking spring omelet. You can make the coffee.”

“You don’t have to go to the trouble. You have a class.”

“I’ve got time, especially if I can come back for my massage equipment when I bring the groceries and do the house.”

“It feels—I feel—a little weird having you take care of the house, and cook, and everything when we’re sleeping together.”

She opened the refrigerator, began taking out what she wanted. “Are you firing me?”

“No! I just think it feels like taking advantage.”

She got a cutting board, a knife. “Who initiated sex?”

“Technically you did, but only because you beat me to it.”

“That’s nice to hear.” After washing the asparagus and mushrooms, she brought them to the board to slice. “I like working here. I love the house. I love cooking, and I get a lot of satisfaction seeing my cooking work for you. You’ve put on a little healthy weight since you’ve been eating it. I like sex with you. Why don’t we say if any of those things change, I’ll let you know, and we’ll deal with it. If you decide you don’t like how I take care of the house, or cook, or don’t want to have sex with me, you let me know, and we’ll deal with it. Fair enough?”

“More than.”

“Good.” She got out a frying pan, olive oil. Smiled. “How about that coffee?”

H
E COULDN’T CALL TIME WITH
A
BRA A ROUTINE, BUT HE
supposed they developed a kind of pattern over the next few days.

She cooked, either at Bluff House or her cottage. They walked the beach, and he, too, began to smell spring.

He grew accustomed to having food put in front of him, to having a house filled with flowers, candles, her scent, her voice.

Her.

His work progressed to the point where he began to think he actually had something other than an escape from his own head.

He read, he worked, he dragged himself into his grandmother’s gym. And for a few precious days even the idea of murder seemed to belong to another world.

Then Detective Corbett came to his door, with a team of cops and a search warrant.

“We have a warrant to search the premises, any outbuildings and vehicles.”

Stomach knotted, Eli took the warrant, skimmed it. “Then I guess you’d better get started. It’s a big house.”

He stepped back, spotted Wolfe. Saying nothing, Eli walked out, grabbed the kitchen phone and took it out to the terrace to call his lawyer. Better safe—he’d learned that the hard way—than sorry.

Yeah, he could smell spring, he thought when he’d finished the call. But spring brought storms just like winter. He’d just have to ride this one out like the rest.

Corbett came out. “That’s quite a collection of guns upstairs.”

“It is. And unloaded, unfired, as far as I know, for at least a generation.”

“I’d appreciate the keys to the cases.”

“All right.” Eli went inside, wound through to the library and the drawer in his grandfather’s desk. “You know damn well none of those guns fired the shot that killed Duncan.”

“Then you don’t have a problem.”

“I’ve got a problem as long as Wolfe ignores evidence, timelines, witness statements and everything else but me.” Eli handed over the keys.

Corbett’s face remained impassive. “I appreciate the cooperation.”

“Detective,” Eli said as Corbett turned to go. “When you finish with this, find nothing? If you come back without real evidence, real motive, actual probable cause, I’m going to file suit against your department and the BPD for harassment.”

Now Corbett’s eyes flicked just a touch of heat. “That sounds like a threat.”

“You know it’s not. What it is, it’s enough. It’s way past enough.”

“I’m doing my job, Mr. Landon. If you’ve got nothing to hide, the more thoroughly I do it, the sooner you’re in the clear.”

“Tell that to someone who hasn’t been hounded for more than a year.”

Eli walked out, got a jacket. He knew he shouldn’t leave the house, but he couldn’t stomach watching them go through Bluff House, through his things, through his family’s things. Not again.

Instead he went to the beach, watched the water, the birds, the kids he realized must be on spring break.

His mother wanted him to come home for Easter dinner. He’d intended to go, to ask Abra to come with him. He’d been ready for it, primed for it—the family event, with Abra in it, the big ham Alice would bake and his mother would insist on glazing herself. The baskets, the candy, the colored eggs.

The tradition of it. And the comfort of it.

But now . . . It seemed smarter to stay put, to stay out of everyone’s way, everyone’s life, until the police found Duncan’s killer.

Lindsay’s killer.

Or his own investigator found something that turned at least one key in one lock.

Not that that angle was going anywhere yet.

He looked up at Laughing Gull Cottage. Where was Abra? he wondered.

Teaching a class? Running errands for a client or cleaning a home? Tucked into her own kitchen cooking, or in the little room she used for making earrings and pendants?

He’d been crazy to get involved with her, to drag her into this mess. Or, more accurately, let her push her way into it.

She had things in Bluff House. Clothes, shampoo, a hairbrush—little bits of intimacy. His stomach clenched into angry knots as he pictured the police pawing through what was hers because she’d left it in what was his.

He knew the comments, the smirks, the speculation—and worse, the guilt by association that would root in Wolfe’s brain.

They’d search her house next if they could get a judge to sign off.

The thought galled him, infuriated him and sent him back to the house for the phone he hadn’t thought to take with him.

Once again he took it out to the terrace, and once again contacted his lawyer.

“Change your mind?” Neal said when he came on the line. “I can be there in a couple hours.”

“No, no point. Listen, I’m involved, on a personal level, with Abra Walsh.”

“I already knew that, unless you’re about to tell me you’re sleeping with her.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

He expected the sigh, and wasn’t disappointed. “All right, Eli. Since when?”

“A few days ago. I understand about perception, Neal, so don’t bother. The facts remain the facts. I’m asking for you to keep an ear to the ground in case Wolfe pushes for a search warrant for her place. Laughing Gull Cottage. She rents, but I can find out the owner if you need it. I don’t want her hassled over this. She isn’t part of it.”

“She’s your alibi, Eli. The cops have squat on you for Duncan, but she’s a big part of the reason they have squat. It wouldn’t hurt for her to get her own lawyer. She knows how it works.”

His body, his voice stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“Eli, you’re my client. She’s your alibi. Wolfe insinuated the two of you were lovers when Lindsay was alive. Do you think I didn’t run background on her? Exactly as you’d have done in my place? She’s clean, she’s smart, and from all accounts, she can hold her own. There sure as hell isn’t a law against the two of you having a relationship, so relax. If they take a pass at her, she’ll come through it. But she should get a lawyer. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“No. She brought me some damn stew, Neal, and ended up getting attacked and tossed in the middle of a murder investigation. I want to do something. God damn it, I want to do something besides just standing here.”

“You did. You called me. I reached out to a contact on the BPD. Wolfe pushed and pushed hard for this warrant. He’s about used up his currency where you’re concerned. Let this play out, Eli. It’s going nowhere. And the Piedmonts’ suit has throttled back to a few mutters to reporters who bother to listen to them these days.”

“There are cops swarming all over my grandmother’s house. It’s hard to shrug that off.”

“Let it play out,” Neal repeated. “Then close the door. If they push again, they’re going to get slapped with a suit. Trust me, Eli, the brass doesn’t want that—the wrangling or the publicity. They’ll shut Wolfe down. Let me know when they’re out of there.”

“Sure.”

Eli hung up. Maybe his superiors would shut Wolfe down, officially. But Eli didn’t believe for a moment that would stop him.

Because of an emergency call for a grocery run due to a preschooler with strep, Abra arrived a bit later than she liked for her church-basement yoga class.

She dashed in. “Sorry! Natalie’s kid’s down with strep, and she needed some supplies. She won’t make it to class, obviously.”

Even as she set down her mat, her tote, the vibes hit her. She caught the speculative looks, and more, the furious flush on Maureen’s face.

“Something up?” she said, casually enough, as she unzipped her hoodie.

“There’s police—a lot of police—at Bluff House. Don’t give me that look, Maureen,” Heather snapped. “I didn’t make it up. I saw them. I think they must be arresting Eli Landon for killing that poor man. And maybe for his wife, too.”

“A bunch of police?” Abra repeated as calmly as possible.

“Oh, at least a dozen. Maybe more. I slowed down when I drove by, saw police going in and out.”

“So you think they’d send a dozen, or more, cops to arrest one man? Did they bring in a SWAT team, too?”

“I understand you’d be defensive.” Heather’s voice dripped with sugary sympathy. “Considering your relationship.”

“Are you considering that?”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Abra, it’s not like you’ve been making a secret of it. People have seen your car parked there late at night or early in the morning.”

“So wondering why it takes a platoon of cops to arrest one man—one, since I happened to be with him, I know didn’t kill
that poor man
—is defensive because Eli and I are sleeping together?”

“I’m not criticizing you, honey.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Maureen exploded. “You’ve been standing around here pretending to feel sorry for Abra while gleefully questioning her judgment. And you’ve already arrested, tried and convicted Eli without knowing
dick
about
squat
.”

“I’m not the one suspected of murder—
twice
—or with police in my house. I don’t blame Abra, but—”

“Why don’t you stop right there,” Abra advised. “I don’t blame you either, Heather, for gossiping or for jumping to conclusions about someone you don’t even know. For now, let’s consider this a no-blame area, and we can get started.”

“All I did was say what I saw with my own eyes.” And now those eyes brimmed with tears. “I have children. I’m allowed to be concerned we may have a murderer living right here in Whiskey Beach.”

“We’re all concerned.” Greta Parrish patted Heather’s shoulder. “Especially since we don’t know who killed that detective from the city, or why. I think we’re better off sticking together than we are pointing fingers.”

“I wasn’t pointing fingers. There are police at Bluff House. That PI was from Boston, where Eli Landon’s from, and somebody shot him here, where Eli Landon
is
. I have every right to talk about it, and to be worried about my family.”

Choking on tears, Heather grabbed her things and fled.

“Now she’s the victim,” Maureen sighed.

“Okay, Maureen. Okay.” Abra drew a long breath. “Let’s just clear the air. Heather’s upset. Someone was killed. We’re all upset and concerned. I know Eli wasn’t responsible, because I was with him the night it happened. He can’t be in two places at once. My personal life is my business unless I choose to share it. If anyone’s uncomfortable with my personal choices, that’s fine. If anyone wants to cancel their classes with me, I’ll issue refunds, no problem. Otherwise let’s take seats on our mats for a minute, and breathe.”

She unrolled her own mat, sat. When the others did the same, the fist clenched in her belly loosened a little.

Though she couldn’t find her center, her balance, her own sense of calm, she took the class through the hour.

Maureen lingered after the class ended. Abra expected no less.

“Your place or mine?” Maureen asked.

“Mine. I have a cleaning job in an hour, I need to change.”

“Good. You can give me a lift. I walked.”

“Sundaes last night?”

“Toaster Strudel this morning. I shouldn’t have them in the house, but I’m weak.”

“Prepare to be weaker,” Abra warned as they walked out together. “I made brownies.”

“Damn you.”

They piled into the car. “I’m trying to consider the source.”

“The source is an idiot.”

Abra sighed. “She can be, but so can we all.”

“Idiot is Heather’s default.”

“No, gossiping is her default, and you and I both enjoy it from time to time. And occasionally between times. I’m also trying to remember she does have kids, and tends to be overprotective by my gauge. But I don’t have kids.”

“I do, and she’s way over the top. She’d put GPS implants in her kids if she could get away with it. Don’t sit there being tolerant and understanding. She crossed a line. Everybody, including her best bud, Winnie, knew it. Jesus, Abra, she was
gloating
about seeing police at Bluff House.”

“I know it. I know it.” Abra pulled up at the cottage with a squeal of brakes. “Most of the gloat was because she got to announce it, but there was plenty left over for Eli’s misery. I’m
not
tolerant and understanding.” She shoved out of the car, snatched her bag, heaved the door shut. “I’m pissed.”

“Good. Me, too. Let’s eat a whole bunch of brownies.”

“I want to go down there,” Abra said as they walked to the door. “But I’m afraid I’ll just make it harder for him. And I want to go hunt down Heather and give her one good bitch slap, and that would only make me feel crappy after.”

“Yeah, but it’d feel good doing it.”

“It really would.” Leaving her bag by the door, Abra walked straight to the kitchen, pulled the clear wrap off a plate of brownies.

“What if I bitch-slapped her and you just watched?” At home, Maureen grabbed napkins while Abra put on the kettle. “Would you still feel crappy?”

“Probably.” Abra grabbed a brownie, bit in while she gestured with her free hand. “She thinks I’m lying about being with Eli when Duncan was killed. She had that ‘You poor, deluded thing, I’m worried about you’ look on her face.”

“I
hate
that look.” In solidarity, Maureen bit into her own brownie. “It’s superior, fake and infuriating.”