Whiskey Beach

Chapter Fourteen

HE COULDN’T CALL TIME WITH ABRA 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.”

“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 disprove 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.