Whiskey Beach (8 page)

“So noted, and accepted.”

“One more stipulation.” She held the plate just out of reach.

“If it’s legal, I can almost guarantee agreement in exchange for meat loaf.”

“We can talk about books, movies, art, fashion, hobbies and anything in that general area. Nothing personal, not tonight.”

“That works.”

“Then let’s eat.”

I
N THE CHURCH BASEMENT,
A
BRA BROUGHT HER CLASS OUT
of final relaxation slowly. She’d had a class of twelve that morning, a solid number for the time of year, the time of day.

The number kept her personal satisfaction high, and her budget steady.

Conversation broke out as her ladies—and two men—got to their feet, began rolling up their mats, or the extras she always carted in for those who didn’t bring their own.

“You had a really good practice today, Henry.”

The sixty-six-year-old retired vet gave her his cocky grin. “One of these days I’m going to hold that Half Moon longer than three seconds.”

“Just keep breathing.” Abra remembered when his wife had first dragged him—mentally kicking and screaming—to her class, Henry hadn’t been able to touch his toes.

“Remember,” she called out, “East Meets West on Thursday.”

Maureen walked over as Abra rolled up her own mat. “I’m going to need it, and some serious cardio. I made cupcakes for Liam’s class party today. And ate two of them.”

“What kind of cupcakes?”

“Double chocolate, buttercream frosting. With sprinkles and gumdrops.”

“Where’s mine?”

Maureen laughed, patted her stomach. “I ate it. I have to go home, grab a shower, put on Mom clothes and take the cupcakes in. Otherwise, I’d beg and bribe you to take a run with me so I could burn that double chocolate off. The kids have an after-school playdate, I’m caught up on paperwork, and filing, so I have no excuse.”

“Try me later, after three. I’ve got to work until then.”

“Eli?”

“No, he’s on tomorrow’s schedule.”

“Still going good there?”

“It’s only been a couple weeks, but yeah, I’d say it is. He doesn’t look at me like ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ every time he sees me. It’s more like every other time now. When I’m there during the day, he’s usually closed up in his office writing—and he avoids me by slipping outside for a walk when I head up to do the upstairs. But he’s eating what I leave for him, and doesn’t look as hollow.”

Abra zipped her personal mat into its bag. “Still, every time I give him a massage—I’ve managed four now—it’s like starting from scratch. He carries so much tension, plus he’s at that keyboard for hours a day.”

“You’ll crack him, Abracadabra. I have every faith.”

“That’s my current mission.” Abra pulled on her hoodie, zipped it. “But right now I’ve got some new jewelry to take into Buried Treasures—so fingers crossed there—then I’m running some errands for Marcia Frost. Her boy’s still got that virus and she can’t get out. I’ve got a massage booked at two, but I’m up for a run after that.”

“If I can juggle it in, I’ll text you.”

“See you later.”

While her class headed out, Abra secured her mats, tucked her iPod into her bag. As she pulled a jacket over her hoodie, a man came down the stairs.

She didn’t recognize him, but he had a pleasant enough face. Baggy eyes that made him look tired, a thick crop of brown hair, a slight paunch, which would have improved if he didn’t slouch.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so. Are you Abra Walsh?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Kirby Duncan.” He held out his hand to shake, then offered her a business card.

“Private investigator.” Instinctively, her barriers went up.

“I’m doing some work for a client, out of Boston. I’m hoping I can ask you a few questions. I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee if you can spare me a few minutes.”

“I’ve already had my quota for the day.”

“I wish I could stick with a quota. God knows I drink too much coffee. I’m sure that coffee shop just down the street serves tea, or whatever you like.”

“I have an appointment, Mr. Duncan,” Abra said as she pulled on boots. “What’s this about?”

“Our information indicates you’re working for Eli Landon.”

“Your information?”

His face remained pleasant, even affable. “It’s no secret, is it?”

“No, it’s not, and it’s also none of your business.”

“Gathering information is my business. You must be aware Eli Landon is a suspect in the murder of his wife.”

“Is that accurate?” Abra wondered as she pulled on her cap. “I think it’s more accurate to say after a year of investigating, the police haven’t been able to gather the evidence to show Eli Landon had anything to do with his wife’s death.”

“The fact is, a lot of prosecutors won’t take on a case that’s not a slam dunk. That doesn’t mean there isn’t evidence, there isn’t a case. It’s my job to gather more information—let me get that for you.”

“No, thanks, I’m used to carrying my own. Who do you work for?” Abra asked him.

“Like I said, I have a client.”

“Who must have a name.”

“I can’t divulge that information.”

“Understood.” She smiled pleasantly, walked to the stairs. “I don’t have any information to divulge either.”

“If Landon is innocent, he has nothing to hide.”

She paused, looked Duncan in the eye. “Seriously? I doubt you’re that naive, Mr. Duncan. I know I’m not.”

“I’m authorized to compensate for information,” he began as they went up the steps into the little church proper.

“You’re authorized to pay for gossip? No, thanks. When I gossip, I do it for free.” She walked out and turned toward the parking lot and her car.

“Are you personally involved with Landon?” Duncan called out.

She felt her jaw tighten, cursed the fact he’d ruined her post-yoga mood. She tossed her mats, her bag in the car, opened the door. And in a wordless reply to his question, shot up her middle finger before she got in, turned the key and drove off.

The encounter kept her in a state of irritation as she segued from job to job, task to task. She considered canceling her massage booking but couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t penalize a client because some nosy detective from Boston was poking around in her life. Because he’d dug under her skin so quickly she’d been rude.

Not her life, she reminded herself, not really. Eli’s.

Regardless, it struck her as monumentally unfair and intrusive.

She knew all about unfair and intrusive.

When Maureen texted her about taking a run, she nearly made an excuse. Instead, she decided the exercise and company might be just what she needed.

She changed, zipped on her hoodie, pulled on her cap, tugged on fingerless gloves and met her friend at the beach steps.

“I need this.” Maureen jogged in place. “Eighteen kindergartners on a sugar high. Every teacher in America should have their salaries doubled and get a bouquet of roses every freaking week. And a bottle of Landon Whiskey’s gold label.”

“I take it the cupcakes were a success.”

“They were like locusts,” Maureen said as they started down to the beach. “I’m not sure there was a stray sprinkle left. Everything okay?”

“Why?”

“You’ve got that little deal here.” Maureen tapped herself between her eyebrows.

“Damn.” Instinctively, Abra rubbed at the spot. “I’m going to get lines there. I’m going to get culverts there.”

“No, you won’t. You only get that crease when you’re really upset or pissed off. Which is it?”

“Maybe both.”

They started off at a light jog, the ocean frothing on one side, the sand with its clumps and pockets of snow on the other.

Knowing her friend, Maureen said nothing.

“Did you see that guy when you were leaving class this morning? About average height, brown hair, nice face, little paunch?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe, yeah. He held the door for me. Why? What happened?”

“He came downstairs.”

“What happened?” Maureen stopped dead, then had to kick up her pace as Abra kept going. “Honey, did he try something? Did he—?”

“No. No, nothing like that. This is Whiskey Beach, Maureen, not Southie.”

“Still. Damn it. I shouldn’t have left you alone down there. I was thinking cupcakes, for God’s sake.”

“It wasn’t anything like that. And who taught that course on self-defense for women?”

“You did, but that doesn’t mean your best friend just strolls off and leaves you alone that way.”

“He’s a private detective from Boston. Come on,” Abra said when Maureen stopped again. “Keep up. I have to run this mood off.”

“What did he want? That bastard’s still in prison, isn’t he?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t about me. It was about Eli.”

“Eli? You said private detective, not the police. What did he want?”

“He called it information. What he wanted was for me to gossip about Eli. He wanted dish and dirt, and he offered to
pay
me. Looking for an inside man,” she spewed. “Somebody who’d spy on Eli and pass on what he’s doing, what he’s saying. I don’t even know because Eli’s not doing or saying
anything
. And when I told him, basically, to get lost, he asked if Eli and I were involved. Which sounded a hell of a lot like asking if Eli and I were screwing like bunnies. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him. And now I’m going to get culverts on my face.”

Temper and exercise pinkened Maureen’s face. Her voice, breathless with both, lifted over the surge and crash of waves. “It’s none of his damn business if you
are
screwing like bunnies. Eli’s wife’s been dead a year, and they were already in the middle of a divorce. And they don’t have anything but the most circumstantial of evidence against him. The cops can’t prove anything, so now they’re reaching, digging in the dirt.”

“I don’t think cops hire PI’s.”

“I guess not. Who does?”

“I don’t know.” As her muscles warmed, as the chilly air washed over her face, Abra found her mood leveling. “Insurance company? Maybe his wife had insurance, and they don’t want to pay. Except he said he was hired by a client. And he wouldn’t tell me who. Maybe insurance company lawyers, or, I don’t know, the dead wife’s family, who’s always trashing him in the press. I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either. Let me ask Mike.”

“Mike? Why?”

“He deals with lawyers and clients all the time.”

“Real estate lawyers and clients,” Abra pointed out.

“A lawyer’s a lawyer, a client’s a client. He might have an idea. He’ll keep it confidential.”

“I’m not sure that part matters. If this guy hunted me down, who knows who else he’s talking to? It’s all getting stirred up again.”

“Poor Eli.”

“You’ve never believed he did it either.”

“No.”

“Why do you believe him, Maureen?”

“Well, as you know, I got my detective’s license from TV. That said, why would a man who never exhibited violent behavior suddenly bash his wife in the head with a fireplace poker? She cheated on him, and that pissed him off. It also made her look bad as they moved forward with the divorce. Sometimes I want to bash Mike’s head in with a poker.”

“You do not.”

“Not literally, but my point is I really love Mike. I think you have to really love or really hate somebody to want to bash their brains in. Unless it’s about something else. Money, fear, revenge. I don’t know.”

“So who did it?”

“If I knew that and could prove it, I’d be promoted from detective to lieutenant. Or captain. I’d like to be captain.”

“You already are. Captain of the good ship O’Malley.”

“That’s true. You can be captain of the made-for-TV police department in charge of clearing Eli Landon once and for all.”

At her friend’s silence, Maureen slapped out a hand to hit Abra’s arm. “That was a joke. Don’t even think about getting involved in any of it. It’ll blow over, Abra. Eli will get through it.”

“What could I do?” And the question, Abra decided, didn’t promise
not
to do something.

When they turned at the halfway point to jog back, she realized she was glad she’d come out. A good way to think, to shove away a bad mood, to get some perspective. She’d missed running during the cold grip of winter, missed the sound of her own feet slapping against the sand while she gulped in the sea air.

She wasn’t one to wish time away, not even a minute, but she could, deeply, long for spring and the summer that followed.

Would Eli still be at Bluff House, she wondered, when the air began to warm and the trees to green? Would spring’s balmy breezes blow away the shadows that dogged him?

Maybe those shadows needed a little help on their way out the door. She’d think about it.

Then she saw him, standing at the water’s edge, hands in his pockets, gaze on the far horizon.

“There’s Eli now.”

“What? Where? Oh, shit!”

“What’s the problem?”

“I didn’t imagine running into him the first time when I’m sweaty and red-faced and huffing. A woman likes to hold a certain standard for chance meetings with her first serious make-out partner. Why did I wear my oldest jogging pants? These make my legs look like tree stumps.”

“They do not. I’d never let you wear pants that made your legs look like tree stumps. You’re insulting my code of friendship.”

“You’re right. That was small and selfish of me. I apologize.”

“Accepted, but watch it. Eli!”

“Shit,” Maureen grumbled again when he turned. Why hadn’t she at least stuck some lip gloss in her pocket?