Whiskey Beach (23 page)

“So you clean his place every other week.”

“And run errands. He doesn’t do much driving anymore. His next-door neighbor has a kid about ten who’s crazy about Stoney, so he rarely gets a day when somebody’s not dropping in or calling. I’m fairly crazy about him myself. If I marry him, he’s promised to build me my own yoga studio.”

“I could . . .” Eli considered his carpentry skills. “I could have a yoga studio built for you.”

On a flutter of eyelashes, she tipped her face up to his. “Is that a proposal?”

“What?”

She laughed, curled her arm through his. “I should’ve warned you Stoney has an impressive capacity for alcohol. He likes to say he was reared on the whiskey of Whiskey Beach.”

“We were switching off. He bought the first round, so I bought the second. Then he bought a third, and I felt obligated. I don’t quite remember how many times I felt obligated. There’s an awful lot of fresh air out here.”

“There is.” She tightened her hold when he weaved a bit. “And gravity, too. This place is lousy with air and gravity. We should get inside. My place is closer.”

“Yeah, we could . . . except I don’t like leaving the house empty. It feels wrong.”

With a nod, she forgot the shorter walk. “It’s good for you to walk in the fresh air and gravity anyway. I’m glad you came in tonight.”

“I wasn’t going to, but I kept thinking about you. Then there was the whole Easter thing happening.”

“The Easter Bunny came already?”

“What? No.” Now he laughed, the sound rolling down the empty street. “He hasn’t finished laying the eggs yet.”

“Eli, the Easter Chicken lays the eggs. The bunny hides them.”

“Whatever, they’re doing it at Bluff House this year.”

“They are?” She glanced at her cottage as they passed, but didn’t think she should run in for a quick change of clothes. She might come out and find him curled up asleep in the middle of the road.

“That’s what my mother said. They’re all coming up on Saturday.”

“That’s great. Hester’s able to travel?”

“She’s going to talk to the doctor first, but it looks good for it. The whole bunch of them. There’s stuff I have to do first. I can’t think what it is right now, except I don’t have to bake a ham. But you have to come.”

“I’ll drop in, sure. I’d love to see them, Hester especially.”

“No.” While he felt slightly steadier with the sea breeze blowing, Eli had a sudden, wicked craving for potato chips. Or pretzels. Or just about anything that would sop up some of the excess beer in his belly.

“You have to be there,” he continued, “for the thing. Easter. I thought I should tell my mother we were seeing each other so it wouldn’t be weird. Then it got weird, like I’d won a blue ribbon or something, then she started crying.”

“Oh, Eli.”

“She said happy crying, which I don’t get, but women do.” He glanced down at her for verification.

“Yes, we do.”

“So it’s probably going to be weird, but you have to come anyway. I need to buy stuff. And things.”

“I’ll put stuff and things on the list.”

“Okay.” He weaved again. “It’s not the beer, it’s the bumps. . . . My grandfather used to drive a motorcycle with a sidecar. I didn’t know that. It seems like I should have. I didn’t know there used to be servants’ passages in the house. There’s too much I don’t know. Look at it.”

Bluff House stood silhouetted in starlight, illuminated from within. “I’ve taken it for granted.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Too much of it. I haven’t paid attention, especially in the last few years. Too wrapped up in my own stuff, and couldn’t seem to roll my way out of it. I need to do better.”

“Then you will.”

He stopped a moment, smiled at her. “I’m a little drunk. You look amazing.”

“I look amazing because you’re a little drunk?”

“No. Some of it’s just knowing who you are and being good with it, doing what you do, and, well, being happy doing it. And some of it’s those sea-witch eyes and that sexy mouth with that little mole right there. Lindsay was beautiful. She took your breath away.”

A little drunk, Abra reminded herself. Allowances could be made. “I know.”

“But she, I think, she didn’t really know who she was, and wasn’t good with it. She wasn’t happy. I didn’t make her happy.”

“Everyone has to make themselves happy first.”

“Now you remember.”

“I remember.” He leaned down to kiss her, there in the shadows of the great house under a sky mad with stars. “I need to sober up some because I want to make love with you, and I want to be sure I remember that, too.”

“Then let’s make it unforgettable.”

The minute they were inside and he’d punched in the alarm code, he pulled her against him.

She welcomed his mouth, his hands, but eased away. “First things first,” she said, drawing him through the house. “What you need is a big glass of water and a couple aspirin. Hydration and hangover anticipation. And I’m going to have a glass of wine so you’re not so far ahead of me.”

“Fair enough. I really want to tear your clothes off.” He blocked her, shoved her back against the counter. “Just tear them off because I know what’s under them, and it drives me crazy.”

“Looks like we’re going to get to the kitchen floor this time.” With his teeth at her throat, she dropped her head back. “I think it’s going to live up to the hype.”

“Just let me . . . wait.”

“Oh, sure, now it’s wait after you’ve—”

“Wait.” He set her aside, his face stony now. She followed his gaze to the alarm panel.

“How did you manage to smudge that up? I’ll clean it tomorrow,” she said, reaching for him.

“I didn’t.” He stepped over, examined the door. “I think the door’s been forced. Don’t touch anything,” he snapped when she went to him. “Call the police. Now.”

She dug into her bag, then her hands froze when he pulled a knife out of the block. “Oh God, Eli.”

“If there’s any trouble, you run. Do you hear me? You go out that door and you run, and don’t stop until you’re safe.”

“No, and now you wait.” She punched numbers on the phone. “Vinnie, it’s Abra. Eli and I just got back to Bluff House. We think someone’s broken in. We don’t know if he’s still here. In the kitchen. Yes. Yes. Okay. He’s coming,” she told Eli. “He’s calling it in on the way. He wants us to stay right where we are. If we see or hear anything, we go out, and get gone.”

Her heart picked up another speed when she saw Eli’s gaze turn toward the basement door. “If you go down there, I go down there.”

Ignoring her, he walked to the door, turned the knob. “It’s locked from this side. The way I left it.” Still holding the knife, he walked to the back door, unlocked it, opened it, then crouched.

“Fresh marks here. Back door, facing the beach at night. Nobody to see. He had to know I wasn’t here. How did he know?”

“He must be watching the house. He must have seen you leave.”

“On foot,” Eli remembered. “If I’d just been taking a walk, I might have been gone for ten, fifteen minutes. It’s a lot of risk.”

“He might’ve followed you, seen you go into the bar. A calculated risk that he’d have more time.”

“Maybe.”

“The alarm pad.” Still wary, Abra edged a bit closer. “I’ve seen that somewhere—TV, movies—I thought it was just made up. Spraying something on the pad so the oil from fingerprints comes up. You know what numbers have been pressed. Then a computer thing runs different patterns until it breaks the code.”

“Something like that. It’s how he might’ve gotten in before, when my grandmother was here. He could’ve gotten her keys, made copies. Just let himself the fuck in after that. But he didn’t know we’d changed the code, so he cut the power the last time when the old code didn’t work.”

“That makes him stupid.”

“Maybe desperate or panicked. Maybe just pissed off.”

“You want to go down there. I can see it. You want to know if he started digging again. Vinnie will be here any minute.”

If he went down and she came with him, and anything happened, he’d be responsible. If he went down and she stayed put, and anything happened, he’d be responsible.

So, Eli concluded, he was stuck.

“I was gone about three hours. God damn it, I gave him a nice, big window.”

“What are you supposed to do? Pull a Miss Havisham and never leave the house?”

“The alarm system sure isn’t doing any good. We’re going to have to beef that up.”

“Or something.” She heard the wail of sirens. “That’s Vinnie.”

Eli slid the knife back into the block. “Let’s go let him in.”

Cops swarmed his house again. He was getting used to it. He drank coffee, and walked the house with them, starting with the basement.

“Determined bastard,” Vinnie remarked as they studied the trench. “He got another couple feet in. He must’ve brought in more tools, and took them away with him this time.”

Eli glanced around to make sure Abra hadn’t come down. “I think he’s crazy.”

“Well, he ain’t smart.”

“No, Vinnie, I think he’s crazy. He’d risk breaking in, again, to spend a couple hours hacking at this floor? There’s nothing here. I talked to Stoney Tribbet tonight.”

“Now there’s a character.”

“He is, and he also said something that makes clear sense. Why would anyone bury anything here? It’s damn hard dirt and rock, or a lot of it is. It’s why we never bothered to lay concrete. If you bury something—excluding a body—don’t you usually intend to dig it back up, at some point?”

“Most likely.”

“Then why make it so damn much work? Bury it in the garden, plant a fucking bush over it. Out front where the ground’s softer, or where it’s mostly sand. Or don’t bury it at all, but hide it under floorboards, behind a wall. If I’m looking for the damn treasure, I’m not going to use a pick and shovel down here. Or if I’m crazy enough to believe it’s here, I’m going to wait until I know the house is empty for a couple days—like it is when my grandmother visits Boston—and I’m going to go at it with a jackhammer.”

“I’m not going to argue, but this is what it is. I’m going to let Corbett know about this, and we’ll increase the patrol. We’re going to make noise about the extra patrols.” Vinnie added, “If he’s in the area, he’ll hear about it. It should give him second thoughts about trying this again.”

Eli doubted second thoughts would stop anyone willing to risk so much for a legend.

I
N THE MORNING,
A
BRA RETURNED TO
B
LUFF
H
OUSE FROM
her tai chi class via the market, then detoured for a secondary stop. She couldn’t guarantee Eli’s reaction to what she’d picked up, but she had a pretty good idea what it would be—initially.

They’d work around it. Or, she admitted, she’d work around him. Not entirely fair, and she really hated to manipulate. But in this case, she firmly believed it was for the best.

She gauged her time as she unloaded the car. She had not only her regular cleaning on the slate, but the reordering after the police search. But no reason she couldn’t get it all done, maybe throw a meal together, then get home for her in-house yoga class.

It was all about prioritizing.

She stepped inside, instantly recalculated everything as instead of working in his office, Eli stood at the counter pouring coffee.

“I thought you’d be working.”

“I was. Am. I needed a walk around to think through . . .” He trailed off as he turned and looked down at the big brown dog currently sniffing at his pants leg. “What’s this?”

“That’s Barbie.”

“Barbie? Seriously?” Automatically, he scratched the wide head between the ears.

“I know. Barbie’s blond and busty, but dogs don’t really get to choose their names.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she put groceries away. He’d stopped what he was doing to pet the dog, and had that easy appreciation on his face people who enjoy dogs tend to wear around them.

So far, so good.

“Well, she’s pretty. Yeah, you’re pretty,” he said, rubbing as Barbie murmured in her throat and leaned against him. “You’re dog-sitting?”

“Not exactly. Barbie’s a sweetheart. She’s four. Her owner died a couple of weeks ago. The owner’s daughter tried to take the dog, but her husband’s allergic. There’s a grandson, but he lives in an apartment with a no-pet clause. So poor Barbie lost her best pal, and couldn’t go with family. She’s been fostered for the last week or so while the local organization tries to find her a good home. She’s been really well trained, she’s healthy, she’s spayed. But people usually want puppies, so an older dog takes a bit longer to place, especially since they’re trying to stick with Whiskey Beach. It’s her beach.”

“Beach Dog Barbie?” He grinned, crouching as Barbie rolled over to have her belly rubbed.

Nearly there, Abra calculated. “‘Beach Bitch Barbie’ would’ve given you the alliteration, and have been accurate. But she’s so sweet, it’s hard to use the B word. Actually, I thought of taking her myself. I volunteer off and on at the shelter. But with my schedule I’m just not home enough. It didn’t seem fair when she’s used to companionship. She’s a Chesapeake Bay retriever with a little something else mixed in. Retrievers love being around people.”

Abra closed the last cupboard, smiled. “She really likes you. You like dogs.”

“Sure. We always had a dog growing up. In fact, I imagine my family will bring . . .” He straightened as if shot out of a rubber band. “Wait a minute.”

“You work at home.”

“I’m not looking for a dog.”

“Sometimes the best things you get you weren’t looking for. And she comes with a strong plus.”

“What?”

“Barbie? Speak!”

Sitting again, the dog lifted her head, obligingly sent out two cheerful barks.

“She does tricks.”

“She barks, Eli. I actually got the idea thinking about how Stoney’s dog barked when we walked him home. Someone’s been getting into the house, past your high-tech alarm. So go low-tech. Barking dogs deter break-ins. You can Google it.”

“You think I should foster a dog because she barks on command?”

“She barks when she hears anyone coming to the door, and stops barking on command. It’s in her bio.”

“Her bio? Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not.”

“Most dogs bark,” he argued. “With or without bios and head shots or whatever else she has. It’s not a qualified reason to foster a dog.”

“I think you could try fostering each other for now. Because she barks, and needs a home in Whiskey Beach, and you’d be company for each other.”

“Dogs need to be fed and watered and walked. They need a vet, equipment, attention.”

“All true. She comes with bowls, food, toys, her leash, her medical records—she’s up-to-date there. She was raised from a pup by a man in his eighties, and she’s very well behaved, as you can see for yourself. The thing is she really loves men, is happier around men as she bonded with one as a pup. She loves playing fetch and tug, she’s great with kids, and she barks. If you needed or wanted to go out for a couple hours, someone would be in the house.”

“She’s not someone. She’s a dog.”

“Hence the barking. Listen, why don’t you try it for a few days, see how it goes? If it just doesn’t work, I’ll take her, or I’ll talk Maureen into taking her. She’s a soft touch.”

The dog sat like a lady, watching him with big brown eyes, her head slightly cocked as if asking: Okay, what’s it going to be?

And Eli felt himself sinking. “A guy shouldn’t have a dog named Barbie.”

Victory, Abra concluded, and stepped to him. “No one will hold that against you.”

Barbie nuzzled her nose at his hand, politely.

Sinking fast.

“A couple of days.”

“Fair enough. I’ll go out and get her things. I thought I’d start upstairs today, work my way down. I won’t vacuum up there until you take another break.”

“Fine. You know this was an ambush. And you know I know you know.”

“I do.” She took his face in her hands. “It was, and I do know.” She laid her lips on his, soft and lingering. “I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you.”

“That’s pandering.”

“It
is!
” She laughed and kissed him again. “Now I have to make it up to you twice. Go on back up to work,” she suggested as she started out. “I’ll show Barbie around.”

Eli studied the dog; the dog studied Eli. Then she lifted a paw in invitation. Only a heartless man would have refused to take the offered paw in his for a shake. “It looks like I’ve got a dog named Barbie. For a couple days.”

When he started out, Barbie fell in at his heel, tail wagging enthusiastically. “I guess you’re coming with me.”

She followed him up, into his office. When he sat she moved up to sniff at his keyboard. Then she wandered off, her toenails clicking lightly on the hardwood.

Okay, Eli thought, so she wasn’t pushy. A point for Barbie.

He worked through the morning, then sat back, held an internal debate before taking the plunge.

He e-mailed his agent, a woman who’d stuck with him since his law school days, to tell her he thought he had enough for her to take a look. Struggling to ignore all the whining voices in his head, he attached the first five chapters. Hit send.

“Done it now,” he said, and sighed.

And since he had, he wanted to get out of the house, away from those whining voices.

He stood up, and nearly tripped over the dog.

Sometime during the last couple of hours, she’d come in silent as a ghost, to curl up behind his chair.

Now she lifted her gaze to his, bumped her tail politely on the floor.

“I guess you’re a pretty good dog.”

The tail picked up its beat.

“Want to go for a walk on the beach?”

He didn’t know the key word, or if she just understood whole sentences, but she scrambled to her feet, a gleaming joy in her eyes. It wasn’t just her tail wagging now, but her whole body.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She trotted downstairs with him, gave another wiggle when he picked up the leash Abra had left on the counter, then added a happy yip when they stepped into the laundry room where Abra was unloading the dryer.

“Hey there, how’s it going?” Abra set the laundry in the basket to give Barbie a rub. “Good day so far?”

“I was going to take a walk. She opted to come.” He pulled a jacket off the peg. “Why don’t you?”

“I’d love it, but I’m on a schedule today.”

“Your boss says you can take a break.”

She laughed at him. “I’m my own boss—you just pay me. Go bond with Barbie. You can have some lunch when you get back. Oh, take this.” She plucked a red ball out of a basket of dog toys on the washing machine. “She likes to fetch.”

“Right.”

She was right, too, about being her own boss, he thought. He liked and admired that about her, her ability to find and do work that satisfied her on so many levels. Once he’d thought he’d found that with the law, and his writing served as a kind of creative perk.

Now he was all in, and his life—on so many levels—depended on the reaction of a woman in New York with a colorful collection of cheaters, a broad Brooklyn accent and a sharply critical eye.

Not going to think about it, he told himself as he led Barbie down the beach steps. And because he couldn’t stop thinking about it as they walked, as the dog trotted and wiggled with joy, he stopped and scanned the beach.

Technically, she should stay on the leash, but hell, nobody, or hardly anybody, was out there.

He unclipped her, pulled the ball out of his pocket and winged it.

She charged, sand kicking, legs blurring. She clamped the ball in her teeth, raced back to him and dropped it at his feet. He winged it again, and again. Lost count of the number of times. When he timed it right, she was fast and accurate enough to leap, snatch the ball out of the air.

And each time she did, trotted back to drop it at his feet, they just grinned at each other.

She didn’t chase the birds, thankfully, though she did give them longing looks.

He argued with himself, but curiosity and the little boy inside him won. He hurled the ball over the water to see how she’d react.

She gave a bark of sheer, unmistakable delight and roared into the sea.

She swam like—well, a retriever, he decided, laughing all the way down in his gut until he had to brace his hands on his thighs. She swam back to shore, red ball in her teeth, wild happiness beaming from her big brown eyes.

She dropped the ball at his feet again, shook herself. Soaked him.

“What the hell?” He threw it out over the water again.

He stayed out longer than he’d planned, and his pitching arm felt like overcooked spaghetti. But man and dog were relaxed and pleased with themselves when they walked back into Bluff House.

On the kitchen island sat a clear-wrapped plate holding a cold-cut sandwich on a long roll, two pickle spears and a scoop of pasta salad. Beside it lay a Milk-Bone.

The sticky note read:

Guess which is whose.

“Funny. I guess we eat.”

He picked up the dog biscuit. The minute she spotted it, Barbie dropped her butt to the floor while the look in her eyes went slightly crazed. Like a crack addict, he thought, about to take the pipe.

“Damn it, Barbie. You’re a good dog.”

He went out on the deck and ate lunch in the sun with the dog sprawled contentedly by his chair.

His life, he decided, if you didn’t count murder, break-ins and clouds of suspicion, was pretty damn good right at the moment.

When he went back upstairs, he heard Abra singing. He poked his head into his bedroom first and, since the dog walked right in to explore, went over to see what towel art she’d left on the bed.

Unmistakably a dog, he thought. Especially since she’d fashioned a heart out of a Post-it. On it, she’d written:

BARBIE LOVES ELI

He glanced over, saw Abra had brought up a wide brown cushion. It sat on the floor near the terrace doors. Obviously, the way the dog snuggled into it, it had served as her bed before.

“Yeah, sure, make yourself at home.”

He left the dog to follow the singing.

In his grandmother’s bedroom, she had the terrace doors opened wide, though it was a bit cool yet. He saw the duvet clothespinned to some sort of portable pole flapping in the breeze.

And though Hester wasn’t there, a little vase of wild violets stood on the nightstand.

A small thing, Eli thought. Abra was good at small things that made big differences.

“Hi. How was your walk?” She picked up a pillow, shook it out of its case.

“Nice. The dog likes to swim.”

She’d noticed as she’d watched them from the terrace, and as she’d watched, her heart had simply glowed—and melted.

“It’s a perk for her, being right on the beach.”

“Yeah. She’s in on her bed, taking a nap.”

“Swimming wears you out.”

“Yeah,” he said again as he skirted the bed to her side. “What are you doing?”

“I thought since your family’s coming I’d air out the linens so they’ll be nice and fresh.”

“Good thinking. They look nice and fresh already.”

He backed her up until she fell on the bed under him.

“Eli. My schedule.”

“You’re your own boss,” he reminded her. “You can adjust the schedule.”

She accepted defeat when his hands and mouth got busy, but tried a token protest. “I could. But should I?”

He lifted his head briefly to pull off her tank. “I’m keeping the dog. No less of an ambush,” he said when her eyes lit up. “So you still have to make it up to me.”

“When you put it that way.”

Rearing up, she tugged off his shirt. “Somebody’s been working out.” She trailed her tongue over his chest.

“Some.”

“And eating his protein.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, stretched up, canted forward until she had him on his back. “I’m supposed to be cleaning your house, earning my pay, not getting naked with you in this gorgeous old bed.”

“You can call me Mr. Landon, if that helps ease your conscience.”

Her laugh was warm against his skin. “I think my conscience can be flexible in this case.”

So was she, he thought, flexible. Those long arms, long legs, the long torso. All so smooth and fluid as she moved over him, as all that wild hair feathered over his skin.

Muscles he’d begun to recognize again bunched and tensed as she glided her lips over him, as her skilled hands pressed, kneaded, stroked. Arousing, soothing, seducing the already seduced.