Whiskey Beach (21 page)

“If she thinks I’m lying, maybe the police do, too. That worries me a lot more.”

“They’ve got no reason to think you’re lying.”

“I’m sleeping with him.”

“You weren’t when this happened.”

“I am now.” She took another bite of brownie before dealing with the tea. “I like sleeping with him.”

“I suspected that was why you’re doing so much of it.”

“He’s good in bed.”

“You’re bordering on bragging, but under the circumstances, continue.”

With a half laugh, Abra moved her vase of baby iris from the center of her kitchen table to the stone-colored counter, then set down the teacups. “It’s really great sex.”

“Unsubstantiated. Provide an example.”

“We moved the bed.”

“People often move beds, couches, tables. It’s called rearranging the furniture.”

“While we were in it, having sex.”

“That can happen.”

Abra shook her head, got up for a pen. “Here’s the bed,” she said as she sketched. “Against this wall—the first time we had sex. And when we finished having sex, the bed was over here.” She drew a line, curved it, sketched in the bed. “From there, to there, and turned sideways.”

Munching brownie, Maureen studied the napkin. “You’re making that up.”

With a grin, Abra swiped a finger over her heart.

“Is it on wheels?”

“No, it’s not on wheels. The power of repressed sexual energy unleashed is an awesome thing.”

“Now I’m jealous, but I can flip that by knowing, without doubt, Heather has never moved the bed.”

“I’ll tell you what really pissed me off. Her acting like I’m as reckless as one of those women who write to serial killers in prison. The ones who fall in love with some guy who strangled six women with shoelaces. I don’t know how Eli deals with it, I swear, how he deals with that cloud of suspicion constantly over his head.”

“It must be easier for him now, having you.”

“I hope so.” Abra breathed again. “I hope so. I have feelings for him.”

“Are you in love with him?” Abruptly concerned, Maureen licked chocolate from her thumb. “It’s only been a few weeks, Abra.”

“I’m not saying I’m in love with him. I’m not saying I’m not. I’m saying I have feelings for him. I had them the first time I met him, though I think that was mostly sympathy. He looked so wrecked, so tired, so sad—and with this awful anger under it that must be terrible to hold in, day after day. And as I’ve gotten to know him, there’s still sympathy, but there’s respect, too. It takes a lot of courage, a lot of spine to get through what he’s been through. There’s attraction, obviously, and affection.”

“I felt like he relaxed and enjoyed himself the night we hung out at the pub.”

“He needs people, and I think even with his family, he’s felt alone for a long time.” Being alone was, in Abra’s opinion, sporadically necessary for recharging self. Being lonely was a state she pitied, and wanted to fix. “I’ve watched him relaxing and enjoying a little bit more all the time. He’s got humor and a really good heart. I’m worried about him now.”

“Why do you think all those cops are at Bluff House?”

“If Heather wasn’t exaggerating, I think they must’ve gotten a search warrant. I told you before that Detective Wolfe is convinced Eli killed Lindsay. He’s obsessed with proving it. And now with proving he killed again.”

“They have to
dis
prove you to do that.” Maureen reached over for Abra’s hand. “They’re going to question you again, aren’t they?”

“I’m pretty sure of it. Maybe you and Mike, too.”

“We’ll handle it. And we’ll all handle gossips like Heather, too. I wonder if she’ll come to your next class here, at the cottage.”

“If she does, no bitch-slapping.”

“Spoilsport. Just for that, I’m taking a brownie for the road. If you need me, you call me. I’ll be home for the rest of the day. I’ve got to get some paperwork done before the kids get home.”

“Thanks.” Abra moved in for a hug as they rose. “For being just the right antidote to the idiot.”

When Maureen left, she went to her bedroom to change. Two brownies before noon made her feel just a little bit sick, but she’d get over it. And once she finished work for the day, she was going to Eli. For better or worse.

It took hours. When they’d cleared his office, Eli retreated to it while cops swarmed the house. Once he’d put his things back in order, he’d busied himself with calls, e-mails, neglected paperwork.

He’d hated calling his father, but trouble had a way of leaking. Better the family hear directly than through other means. He didn’t bother playing it down, his father was too smart for that. But at least he could reassure him and, through him, the rest of the family.

The cops would find nothing because there was nothing to find.

He couldn’t bring himself to write, not with the police, metaphorically at least, breathing down his neck. He shifted into research instead, eating away at the day by shifting from book research to research on Esmeralda’s Dowry.

He turned at the rap on the doorjamb. He acknowledged Corbett by swiveling the chair around, but didn’t get up, didn’t speak.

“We’re wrapping it up.”

“All right.”

“About that digging in the basement.”

“What about it?”

“That’s a hell of a trench down there.” Corbett waited a beat, but Eli didn’t respond. “No clue who’s responsible?”

“If I had a clue I’d have told Deputy Hanson.”

“It’s his theory and, I’m told, yours, that whoever broke in the night Duncan was killed dug it. And since he sure as hell didn’t do all that in one night, it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten in.”

“It’s a theory.”

Irritation flicked over Corbett’s face before he stepped in, closed the door at his back. “Look, Wolfe’s on his way back to Boston. If he comes back, unless he comes back with conclusive evidence against you, he’s on his own. There’s nothing tying you to Duncan’s murder at this time. The only connection is, person or persons unknown hired him to report on your movements. I don’t see you for it, for all the reasons discussed in our last meeting. Added to it, I’ve got no reason to doubt Abra Walsh’s word, even though my investigative powers tell me she’s spent a few nights here since, and not on the sofa downstairs.”

“Last I checked sex between consenting adults was still legal in Massachusetts.”

“And thank God for that. What I’m telling you is you’re not on my radar for this. The problem is nobody’s on my radar for this. Yet. What I’ve got is a break-in, an assault and a murder, in the same night. That makes me wonder. So if you do get a clue who’s been digging down there, it’d be in your best interest to let me know.”

He turned for the door, paused, turned back to face Eli. “I’d be pissed off if I had a bunch of cops going through my house all day. I’m going to tell you I handpicked them. If we didn’t find anything, there’s nothing to find. And I should further add that even though they were careful, this is a damn big house with a hell of a lot of stuff. Some of it may not be back in place.”

Eli hesitated as Corbett opened the door, then took the leap. “I think whoever dug that trench either pushed my grandmother on the stairs or caused her to fall. Then left her there.”

Corbett stepped back, shut the door again. “I’ve given that some thought myself.” Without waiting for the invitation, he crossed over, sat down. “She doesn’t remember anything?”

“No. She can’t even remember getting up, coming downstairs. The head trauma . . . the doctors say it’s not unusual. Maybe she’ll remember, maybe not. Maybe parts, maybe all, maybe none. She could’ve died, and probably would have if Abra hadn’t found her. Shooting a PI’s not a far reach from pushing an old lady down the stairs and leaving her to die. This is her place, her heart’s here, and she may never be able to live here, at least not on her own, again. I want to know who’s responsible for that.”

“Tell me where you were that night, the night she fell.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Let’s be thorough, Mr. Landon. Do you remember?”

“Yeah, I remember, because I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face the next morning when she came in to tell me, after Abra called the house. I wasn’t sleeping well. I hadn’t slept well since . . . in a long time. I moved in with my parents a few weeks after Lindsay’s murder, so I was there the night of my grandmother’s accident. My father and I ended up playing gin and drinking beer until about two. I guess I could’ve hauled my ass up here, tossed my grandmother down the steps, then hauled my ass back to Boston and settled in before my mother came in to tell me Gran was hurt and at the hospital.”

Ignoring the comment, Corbett took out his book, made some notes. “There are a lot of valuables in this house.”

“I know it, and I can’t understand it. There’s plenty you could basically stuff in your pockets and make a nice profit. But he spends hours, days, hacking at the basement floor.”

“Esmeralda’s Dowry.”

“It’s all I can come up with.”

“Well, it’s interesting. Any objection, if her doctors clear it, if I talk to your grandmother?”

“I don’t want her upset, that’s all. I don’t want my family dragged through another mess. They’ve dealt with enough.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I shipped a dead man back to Boston, and as far as I can tell, he was just doing his job. Because somebody broke into this house and might’ve done more than assault a woman if she hadn’t defended herself and gotten away. Because you didn’t kill your wife.”

Eli started to speak, then whatever had been in his mind just slid away. “What did you say?”

“Do you think I didn’t read and review every word of your file? You never changed your story. The wording, the delivery, but never the content. You weren’t lying, and if it had been a crime of passion, as speculated, a good criminal defense lawyer—and you had a record of being one—would’ve covered his tracks a hell of a lot better.”

“Wolfe thinks I did.”

“Wolfe’s gut tells him you did it, and I think he’s got a good gut. This time it’s wrong. It happens.”

“Maybe your gut’s wrong.”

Corbett smiled thinly. “Whose side are you on here?”

“You’re the first cop who’s looked me in the face and said I didn’t kill Lindsay. It takes some getting used to.”

“The prosecutor didn’t think you did it either. But you were all they had, and Wolfe was dead sure, so they pushed until they ran out of room.”

Corbett rose. “You got a raw deal. You won’t get one from me this time around. You’ve got my number if you think of anything relevant.”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“We’ll get out of your hair.”

Alone, Eli sat back and tried to sort out his mixed feelings.

One cop saw him as innocent, one cop saw him as guilty. It felt good to be believed, to have the words still hanging in the air.

But any way he cut it, he was still stuck in the middle.

S
HE WORRIED HOW SHE’D FIND HIM.
D
EPRESSED AND
brooding? Angry and dismissive?

Whatever his reaction, she couldn’t blame him for it. His life had been disrupted, again, his morality questioned, again. And his privacy shattered—not only by the police, but by people like Heather. Again.

She prepared herself to be understanding, which might mean firm and matter-of-fact or supportive and sympathetic.

She didn’t expect to find him in the kitchen working at a cluttered island with a look of exasperation on his face and a bulb of garlic in his hand.

“Well. What’s going on here?”

“Chaos. Which is apparently what happens when I try to cook.”

She set aside the plate of brownies. “You’re cooking?”

“‘Try’ is the operative word.”

She found the trying both sweet and positive. “What are you trying?”

“Some chicken-and-rice thing.” He shoved at his hair, scowled down at the mess he’d made. “I got it off the Internet under ‘Cooking for Morons.’”

She came around the island, studied the printout of the recipe. “Looks good. Want some help?”

He turned the scowl on her. “Since I qualify as a moron in this area, I should be able to handle it.”

“Great. Mind if I get a glass of wine?”

“Go ahead. You can pour me one, too. In a freaking tumbler.”

Though she found cooking relaxing, she understood the frustrations of the novice or very sometimes cook. “What inspired this domestic bliss?” she asked as she got out glasses—wineglasses, despite his comment.

His eyes narrowed as she slipped into the butler’s pantry for the wine. “Are you looking for a kick in the ass?”

“Actually, I’m looking for a nice pinot grigio,” she called out. “Ah, here we go. I hope I’m invited to dinner,” she continued as she brought the bottle back to the kitchen. “It’s been a while since anyone’s cooked for me.”

“That was the idea.” He watched her uncork the wine she’d very likely stocked herself in the wine cooler. “Is nine-one-one on speed dial?”

“Yes.” She gave him a glass, and a friendly kiss on the cheek. “And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until we rule out kitchen fire and food poisoning.”

Willing to risk both, she sat on a stool, enjoyed her first sip of wine. “When’s the last time you cooked anything that didn’t come out of a can or a box?”

“Certain smug people smirk at food from cans and boxes.”

“We do. Shame on us.”

He turned his frown back on the garlic bulb. “I’m supposed to peel and slice this garlic.”

“Okay.”

When he just stared at her, she shifted, picked up the knife. “I’ll demonstrate the procedure.”

She tugged off a clove, held it up, then, setting it on the cutting board, gave it a kind of smack with the flat of the knife. The peel slid off, easy as a stripper’s breakaway. Once she’d sliced it, she handed him back the rest of the bulb and the knife. “Got it?”

“Yeah.” More or less. “We had a cook. When I was growing up, we always had a cook.”

“Never too late to learn. You might even like it.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. But I ought to be able to follow a recipe for morons.”

“I have every faith.”

He mimicked her slicing procedure, and felt marginally more hopeful when he didn’t cut off a finger. “I know superior amusement when I’m standing in it.”

“But it’s superior and affectionate amusement. Affectionate enough I’ll teach you a trick.”

“What trick?”

“A quick and easy marinade for that chicken.”

Fear and loathing of the very idea echoed in his voice. “It doesn’t say anything about marinade.”

“It should. Hold on a minute.” Rising, she went to the walk-in pantry. It gave her a jolt, seeing everything mixed up, out of order, jumbled. Then she remembered the police.

Saying nothing, she picked up a bottle of liquid margarita mix.

“I thought we were drinking wine.”

“And so we are. The chicken’s going to drink this.”

“Where’s the tequila?”

She laughed. “Not this time. Actually the chicken I use for tortilla soup drinks tequila, but this one just gets the mixer.”

She got out a large bag, slid the chicken inside, dumped the liquid in with it. Sealed the bag, turned it a few times.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, that’s all.”

“That part should’ve been for morons. I could’ve done that.”

“Next time you will. It’s good on fish, too, just FYI.”

When she sat again, he went back to focusing on slicing garlic, and not his fingers. “The police were here today, all day, executing a search warrant.” He glanced up. “And you already knew.”

“That they were here, yes. I assumed the search.” Reaching across the island, she brushed her fingers over his wrist. “I’m sorry, Eli.”

“After they left I went through a couple of the rooms, put things back together. It started pissing me off again, so I decided to do something else.”

“Don’t worry about any of that. I’ll take care of it.”

He only shook his head. He intended to do a couple rooms at a time until the house was back to normal. Bluff House and everything in it were his responsibility now.

“It could’ve been worse. They could’ve trashed the place. They were thorough, but I’ve seen searches before, and they didn’t just dump things.”

“Fine, points for them, but it’s still unfair. It’s still wrong.”

“Unfair and wrong happen every hour, every day.”

“That’s a sad and cynical viewpoint.”

“Realistic,” he corrected.

“The hell with that.” Her temper spiked, making her realize it had been in there bubbling all along. “That’s just an excuse to do nothing about it.”

“Do you have any suggestions on what to do about a duly authorized warrant?”

“Having to accept it isn’t the same as accepting it’s just the way life goes. I’m not a lawyer, but I was raised by one, and it’s pretty damn clear they had to push the envelope and push it hard to get a search warrant. And it’s just as clear that Boston cop did the pushing.”

“No argument.”

“He should be sanctioned. You should sue him for harassment. You should be furious.”

“I was. And I talked to my lawyer. If he doesn’t back off, we’ll talk about a suit.”

“Why aren’t you still mad?”

“Jesus, Abra, I’m making chicken from a recipe I got off the Internet because going around the house cleaning up cop mess pissed me off all over again, and I needed something to do with the mad. I don’t have any more room for the mad.”

“Looks like I do, and plenty of it. Just don’t tell me unfair and wrong is just the way it goes. The system’s not supposed to kick people around, and I’m not naive enough to believe it doesn’t sometimes do just that. But I’m human enough to wish it didn’t. . . . I need some air.”

She shoved up, strode to the terrace doors, and out.

Considering, Eli set down the knife, absently swiped his hands on the hips of his jeans, and followed.

“Not helpful.” She waved a hand at him as she paced around the terrace. “None of that was helpful, I know.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It’s been stuck in my gut since I heard, even though I put two enormous brownies in there with it.”

He knew the classic female reliance on chocolate, though he’d go for the beer instead. “How did you hear about it?”

“My morning yoga class, one of my students. Gossip’s her religion. And that’s bitchy. I hate being bitchy. Negative vibes,” she added, shaking her arms as if to shake those vibes loose to be carried off by the breeze. “It’s just that she’s so goddamn self-righteous, so
concerned
, so full of it. The way she talked it was like they’d sent in an assault team to pin down the crazed killer, who I have the bad judgment to sleep with. And she acts like she’s just worried for the community, and of course for me as you could smother me in my sleep or bash my head in or—

“Oh God, Eli.” She stopped short, appalled. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was stupid. Stupid and bitchy and insensitive—three things I most hate to be. I’m supposed to cheer you up or support you—or both. Instead I’m snapping and slapping at you, and saying horrible and stupid things. I’ll stop. Or I’ll go and take my crappy mood with me.”

Anger and frustration flushed her face, he noted. Horrified apology lived in her eyes. And the breeze from the sea streamed through her hair so the wild curls danced.

“You know, my family, and the friends I have left, don’t talk about it. I feel them creeping around it like it’s a . . . not an elephant in the room but a fucking T. rex. Sometimes I felt it would swallow me whole. But they crept around it, didn’t want to talk about it any more than was absolutely necessary.

“‘Don’t upset Eli, don’t make him think about it, don’t depress him.’ It was damn depressing knowing they couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me how they felt, what they thought other than the ‘It’ll all be fine, we’re behind you.’ I appreciated knowing they’d stand up for me, but the screaming silence of that T. rex, and what they felt inside, almost buried me.”

“They love you,” Abra began. “They were scared for you.”

“I know it. I didn’t just come here because Gran needed someone in the house. I’d already decided I had to get out of my parents’ place, find a place—I couldn’t or hadn’t drummed up the energy to do it, but I knew I had to get away from that creeping silence—for myself and for them.”

She understood exactly. A lot of people had crept around her after Derrick had attacked her. Afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid to say anything at all.

“It’s been a terrible ordeal for all of you.”

“And back again because today I had to tell them what was going on before they heard about it from somebody else.”

Sympathy rolled through her again. She hadn’t thought of that part. “It was hard to do.”

“Had to be done. I played it down, so I guess that’s the Landon way of handling things. You’re the first one who’s said what you think, what you’re feeling, without filters. The first one who doesn’t pretend that T. rex isn’t right here, that somebody beat Lindsay’s head in, and plenty think it was me.”

“Thoughts and feelings and the passionate expressing of same were big in my house.”

“Who’d have guessed?”

That teased out a wisp of a smile. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I must have used up my quota of restraint today when I didn’t knock Heather on her butt.”

“Tough girl.”

“I know tai chi.” She deliberately rose up on one leg in the Crane.

“I thought that was kung fu.”

“Both are martial arts, so watch it. I’m not so mad anymore.”

“Me, either.”

She walked to him, linked her arms around his neck. “Let’s make a deal.”

“All right.”

“Thoughts and feelings on the table, whenever necessary. And if a dinosaur walks into the room, we won’t ignore it.”

“Like cooking, you’re going to be better at it than I am, but I’ll give it a shot.”

“Good enough. We should go back in so I can watch you cook.”

“Okay. Now that we’ve . . . set the table, there are some things I should say.”

He led the way back in. At the island, he picked up a pepper, studied it as he tried to figure out how to cut it.

“I’ll demonstrate again.”

While she topped, cored, sliced, he picked up his wine. “Corbett knows I didn’t kill Lindsay.”

“What?” Her head shot up, her hand stilled on the knife. “Did he say that to you?”

“Yeah. I’ve got no reason to think he’s bullshitting me. He said he read the files, looked at everything, and he knows I didn’t kill her.”

“I’ve just completely changed my mind about him.” She reached across to take Eli’s hand for a moment. “No wonder you weren’t as mad as I was.”

“It lifted something. There’s still plenty there, but it lifted some of it.”

He tried his hand at slicing as he told her what Corbett had said.

“So he thinks it’s possible, too, that whoever was in the house that night was in the house when Hester fell. And also possible that person shot Duncan.”

“I think it’s an angle he’ll work. My lawyer would kick my ass, and rightfully, if he knew how I’d talked to Corbett, what I told him. But—”

“Sometimes you have to trust.”

“I don’t know about trust, but he’s in the best position to find Duncan’s killer, and if and when, we’re going to get some answers.”

He set the green pepper aside, picked up the red. “Meanwhile, there’s someone out there who wants in this house, someone who’s already attacked you, and may have hurt my grandmother. There’s someone out there who’s killed a man. Maybe it’s the same person. Maybe it’s a partner, or a competitor.”

“Competitor?”

“A lot of people believe Esmeralda’s Dowry exists. When treasure hunters found the wreck of the
Calypso
some thirty years ago, they didn’t find the dowry. Haven’t found it yet, and more have looked. Then again, there’s no solid, corroborated evidence the dowry was on the ship when it wrecked on Whiskey Beach, or was ever on it. For all we know, it went down with the family’s trusted liaison when the
Calypso
attacked the
Santa Caterina
. Or the liaison absconded with the dowry and lived fat and rich in the West Indies.”

“Absconded. That sounds so classy.”

“I’m a classy guy,” he said, and finished the pepper. “Most of it’s rumor, and a lot of rumors conflict. But anyone who’d go to the trouble this guy has, who’d kill, is a true believer.”

“You think he’ll try to get back in, while you’re in the house?”

“I think he’s taking some time, waiting for everything to settle down some. Then yeah, he’s got to get back to it. That’s one thing. The other is there are people in the village, people you know, you work for, you give classes to, who—like what’s her name—are going to believe I did it, or at least wonder. That puts you in the middle—of possible harm, of certain gossip. I don’t want you there.”

“You can’t control what other people say and do. And I think I’ve already proven I can defend myself in the possible-harm category.”

“He didn’t have a gun—or didn’t think he needed to use it. Then.”

She nodded. She couldn’t deny the idea unnerved her, but she’d decided long before not to live her life in fear. “Killing me, or both of us, for that matter, in our sleep, or when I’m scrubbing the floor, only brings the cops in, again. I’d think that would be the last thing he wants. He needs to avoid attention, not only to himself but to Bluff House.”