Whiskey Beach (33 page)

“Don’t! Eli!”

She went into the surf with him, rolled and tumbled. Gasping, she managed to gain her feet, just as the next wave struck and sent her sprawling.

Laughing like a maniac, Eli pulled her up again. “I wanted to see what it was like.”

“Wet. And cold.” She shoved back her dripping hair as the excited dog swam around them. What did it say about her, she wondered, that his impulsive, silly act had wiped away her earlier annoyance and nerves? “Moron.”

“Mermaid.” He pulled her against him again. “That’s what you look like, just as I thought.”

“This mermaid has legs, currently freezing. And sand in very uncomfortable places.”

“It sounds like a long, hot shower’s on tap.” Gripping her hand, he pulled her to shore. “I’ll help you out with that sand.” He laughed again when the wind struck. “Christ! It’s freezing. Come on, Barbie.”

Caught up, that’s what it said about her, she thought. She was just caught up. She managed to snag her shoes as they ran across the beach.

T
HE INSTANT SHE DASHED INSIDE THE MUDROOM,
A
BRA
peeled off her dripping hoodie, toed off her soggy shoes.

“Cold, cold, cold,” she chanted, teeth chattering as she dragged off her wet top, wiggled out of her clinging pants.

The distraction of wet, naked, shivering Abra slowed Eli’s progress. He was still struggling with his sodden jeans when she streaked away.

“Hold on a minute!” He fought off the jeans, his boxers, left the whole mess in a pile and a spreading pool of seawater and wet clumps of sand to race after her.

He heard her chanting still.

“Cold, cold, cold!”

He caught up just after the shower spray exploded along with her garbled cry of relief.

“Warm, warm, warm.”

She let out a little shriek when he grabbed her from behind.

“No! You’re still cold.”

“Not for long.”

He spun her around, plastering her against him, and grabbed a hank of her hair. And, covering her mouth with his, felt the heat rise.

He wanted to touch, everywhere, all that wet skin, those long lines, those subtle curves. He wanted to hear her throaty laugh, the catch of her sigh. When she shivered now, it was from arousal, anticipation, while the flood of hot water rained over them both.

Her hands glided over him, a light scrape of nails, an erotic dig of fingers. She turned with him under the spray, around and around through the pulsing waterfall, with her mouth a wet, hot demand against his.

He wanted her happy, wanted to erase the trouble he’d seen in her eyes on the beach. He wanted to shield her from the trouble to come, as it surely would.

Trouble, he thought, that seemed to cling to him like skin.

At least here, here and now, there was only heat and pleasure and need. Here and now, he could give her all he had.

She held on to him, even when he turned her around to slide his hands over her, she hooked an arm back, around his neck to keep him close. And lifting her face as she might to the rain, opened.

Her body yearned toward more. Touch here, taste there—and patient, relentless, he stoked the yearning to a deep, glorious ache.

When she turned, mouth to mouth again, he braced her against the wet tiles, and filled her.

Slow now, slow, rising like the steam, falling like the water, floating on thick, wet clouds of pleasure. She looked through the mists, into his eyes. There were the answers, she thought. She had only to accept what she already knew, only to hold what her heart already wanted.

You, she thought, as she let herself go. I’ve been waiting for you.

When she pressed her face to his shoulder, shuddering with him on that final fall, she carried love.

Lost in her, he held her another moment, just held. Then he tipped her face back, touched his lips to hers. “About that sand.”

Her laugh made the moment perfect.

In the kitchen, warm and dry, she plotted out dinner while he poured wine.

“We can just throw a sandwich together,” he began.

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you trying to guilt me again, because I missed lunch?”

“No, I think I notched that belt.” She set garlic, some plum tomatoes, a chunk of Parmesan on the counter. “I’m hungry, and you should be. Thanks.” She took the wine, tapped her glass to his. “But since you brought it up, you should tell me what you were so caught up in.”

“I met with the investigator today.”

“You said she was coming.” Intrigued, Abra turned from her hunt in the refrigerator. “You said before she had something new.”

“You could say that.” When a thought struck, he held up a finger. “Wait. I want to try something. It’ll just take a couple minutes.”

He went to the library for the files, slipped out the photograph of Justin Suskind. Taking it up to his office, he made a copy. He closed his eyes, tried to see the police artist sketch in his mind.

With a pencil he tried adding longer hair, shadowing the eyes. He couldn’t claim to be Rembrandt, he thought—or even Hester H. Landon—but it was worth a shot.

He took the photo and copy back downstairs, detoured back to the library for the files and his notes.

When he got back to the kitchen she had two pots on the stove. A narrow tray of olives, marinated artichokes, cherry peppers sat on the island while she minced garlic.

“How do you do that?” he wondered, and popped an olive into his mouth.

“Kitchen magic. What’s all that?”

“Files the investigator left, notes I’ve made. She went back to the beginning.”

By the time he’d wound through it, pausing before telling her of Suskind’s presence in Whiskey Beach, she’d tossed a bowl of campanelle, mixed with tomatoes, basil and garlic. He watched her grate Parmesan over it.

“You did that in like a half hour. Yeah, yeah, kitchen magic,” he said before she could reply. He dug into the pasta, filled her bowl, then his.

Sliding onto the stool beside his, Abra sampled the dish. “Nice. It worked. So she thinks it’s all connected, too?”

“Yeah, she— Nice?” he said after his own sample. “It’s great. You should write this down.”

“And spoil the spontaneity? She’ll talk to Vinnie, right? And Detective Corbett.”

“That’s the plan, and she’ll have a couple of fresh items to pass along.”

“Such as?”

“Let’s try this first.” He turned over the doctored copy, set it on the counter between them. “Does this guy look familiar?”

“I . . . He looks like the man in the bar that night. A lot like the man in the bar.” She lifted the photo, studied it carefully. “It looks more like him than I was able to translate to the police artist. Where did you get this?”

In answer, Eli turned over the original photo.

“Who is this?” she asked. “Shorter hair, and a cleaner, smoother look about him. How did she find the man I saw in the bar?”

“She didn’t know she found him. This is Justin Suskind.”

“Suskind, the man Lindsay was involved with? Of course.” Annoyance flickered over her face as she tapped her fingers at her temple. “Damn it! I saw his picture in the paper last year, but I didn’t remember or put it together. Didn’t pay that much attention, I guess. What was he doing at the pub?”

“Staking things out. A few months ago he bought Sandcastle, a cottage on the north point.”

“He bought a house in Whiskey Beach? I know that house.” She jabbed a finger at Eli. “I know it. I do seasonal cleaning for one across from it. Eli, there’s only one reason he would buy a house here.”

“To gain access to this one.”

“But it’s crazy, it’s crazy when you think about it. He was having an affair with your wife, and now he’s . . . Did he have the affair so he could get information about the house, maybe hope to get more on the treasure? Or did he learn about all that during the affair?”

“Lindsay never had much interest in Bluff House.”

“But she was a
connection
,” Abra insisted. “She knew about the
Calypso
, the dowry, didn’t she?”

“Sure. I told her about it the first time I brought her here. I showed her the cove where pirates used to moor. And about running whiskey during Prohibition. You know, impress the girl with local color and Landon lore.”

“And was she? Impressed?”

“It’s a good story. I remember her asking me to tell it at a couple of dinner parties back then, but that was more for laughs. She didn’t think much of, or about, Whiskey Beach.”

“Suskind obviously did, and does. Eli, this is huge. He could be responsible for all of it. The break-ins, Hester’s fall, Duncan’s murder. Lindsay’s—”

“He has an alibi for Lindsay.”

“But wasn’t that his wife? If she lied . . .”

“They’re separated, and she’s sticking by her original statement. A little reluctantly, Sherrilyn thinks, as she’s not feeling very friendly toward Suskind these days.”

“She could still be lying.” Abra stabbed some pasta. “He’s guilty of other crimes.”

“Innocent until,” Eli reminded her.

“Oh, don’t go lawyer on me. Give me one good reason, other than bad behavior, he’d buy that house.”

“I can give you a few. He likes the beach, he wanted an investment, his marriage is/was going south and he wanted a place to go, somewhere quiet so he could think it all through. He and Lindsay drove up here on a whim so she could show him Bluff House, so he bought the cottage here to remind him of that perfect day.”

“Oh, that’s all bullshit.”

He shrugged a shoulder at the spike of annoyance. “Reasonable doubt. If I were representing him, I’d make a big deal over my client being questioned for simply buying a beach house.”

“And if I were a prosecutor,
I’d
make a big deal over the series of coincidences and connections. A house on this particular beach, where your family owns a landmark home and which has since his purchase experienced a series of break-ins?”

She snorted, then fixed her face into serious lines. “Your Honor, I submit the defendant purchased said property and took residence in same for the sole purpose of illegally entering Bluff House to search for pirate treasure.”

He smiled at her, leaned over to kiss her. “Objection. Speculative.”

“I don’t think I’d have liked Lawyer Landon.”

“Maybe not, but with what’s here, I’d’ve gotten Suskind off in a walk.”

“Then flip it. How would Lawyer Landon build the case against?”

“By finding out he has knowledge of or interest in Esmeralda’s Dowry, for one. Linking those fibers found at your place to him, that would be key. Tracing the gun to him. Tracing any of the tools in the basement to him, for that matter. If my grandmother could identify him as the intruder. And all the way back to breaking his wife’s statement. Better yet, find a way to put him in the house when Lindsay was killed, and that’s not going to happen. Dig up a witness or witnesses who would testify to some trouble between him and Lindsay. That would be a start.”

Abra sipped her wine and considered. “I bet we’d find books and notes and all sorts of information on Bluff House and the dowry in his possession.”

“Not without a search warrant, and you don’t get those without probable cause.”

“Don’t interrupt with legalities.” Abra dismissed them with a wave of her hand. “And they could do a CSI on the fibers and his clothes. The DNA from my pajamas.”

“All requiring a warrant, which requires probable cause.”

“And the gun—”

“Unregistered. That tells me he probably bought it on the street, for cash. Or from a shaky dealer, for cash. Not that hard to do in Boston.”

“How do you trace something like that?”

“Show his picture around to known dealers in that kind of trade. Find the dealer, then get him to ID Suskind, then get him to agree to testify.” Eli wove through the process and possibilities. “All of that takes the same kind of luck it does to win the Mega Millions lottery.”

“Somebody has to win, eventually. Your investigator should do that, all of that. I think we need to let Hester remember on her own, if and when. And, honestly, the fact that it was dark? I don’t think she really saw him. Just more a shadow, a shape.”

“I’m with you there.”

“The tools wouldn’t be easy. He probably bought them months ago. Who remembers some guy buying a pickax or sledgehammer? But . . . I think you should go to Boston and talk to his wife.”

“What? Eden Suskind? Why would she talk to me?”

“Well, hell, Eli, that shows what you know about women. Especially angry, betrayed or sad women. You were both cheated on—her husband, your wife. That’s a kind of bond. You shared a difficult experience.”

“It’s a pretty shaky bond if she thinks I killed Lindsay.”

“There’s only one way to find out. And while we’re there, we could check out Kirby Duncan’s office.”

“We?”

“Of course, I’m going with you. A sympathetic female.” Laying her hand on her heart, Abra shifted her expression into quiet sympathy.

“That’s good. You’re good at that.”

“Well, I
do
feel sympathetic. She might feel safer if there’s another woman. One who feels and can show that sympathy and understanding. And we definitely need to show Suskind’s picture around Duncan’s offices.”

“That’s what investigators are for.”

“Sure, yeah, but aren’t you curious? I can’t do it this week, I’m already booked. Plus we should plan it a little more. I can probably juggle time next week. In the meantime, maybe your investigator will win the lottery, and we can keep an eye out for Suskind. And an eye on Sandcastle.”

“We can’t go lurking down there. If he spots us, we could scare him off. And you’re not going near his place. Nonnegotiable,” he said before she could respond. “That’s a line, not in sand, in solid rock. We can’t be sure he doesn’t have another gun, but we can be reasonably sure if he does he’d use it. Duncan had one registered, and it wasn’t found on his body, or—as far as I can find out—anywhere else.”

“Speculative—but I mostly agree. We don’t have to lurk. Come with me, I’ll show you.”

She led the way to the terrace, and the telescope. “According to Mike, the previous owners bought it as an investment property about five years ago right before the bubble burst. The economy bottomed out, people weren’t spending as much on vacations, and so on,” she continued as she turned the telescope south. “It was on the market for over a year, and they had to keep cutting the price. Then—”