Whiskey Beach

Chapter Fifteen

SHE WORRIED HOW SHE’D FIND HIM. DEPRESSED 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 f*cking 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.”

“That’s logical. I’m looking at the big picture, and he hasn’t used a lot of logic so far. I don’t want you hurt. And I don’t want you dealing with anything like you dealt with this morning again because you’re involved with me.”

Eyeing him coolly, she took a slow sip of wine. “Are you cooking me a farewell dinner, Eli?”

“I think it’s better all around if we take a break.”

“‘It’s not you, it’s me’—is that the next line?”

“Look. It’s because I . . . because you matter to me. You’ve got some of your things in the house, and cops pawed through them today. Corbett may believe me, but Wolfe doesn’t—and he won’t stop. He’ll do everything he can to discredit you, because it’s your statement that takes me out of the equation in Duncan’s murder.”

“He’ll do that whether or not I’m with you.”

For a moment she considered how she felt about being protected—from harm, from ugly talk. She decided she felt fine about it, even if she didn’t intend to allow it.

“I appreciate your position. You think you need to protect me, to shield me from harm, from gossip, from police scrutiny, and I find I like being with a man who would try to do that. But the fact is, Eli, I’ve already been through all of it, and more, once in my life. I’m not going to give up what I want on the chance I may go through some of it again. You matter to me, too.”

She lifted her wine as she studied him. “I’d say we’re at an impasse on this, except for one thing.”

“What thing?”

“It’s going to depend on how you answer the question. Which is, do you believe women should get equal pay for equal work?”

“What? Yes. Why?”

“Good, because this discussion would veer off into another avenue if you’d said no. Do you also believe women have the right of choice?”

“Jesus.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes.” He saw exactly where she was taking him, and began to work on a rebuttal in his head.

“Excellent. That saves a long, heated debate. Rights come with responsibilities. It’s my choice how I live my life, who I’m with, who I care for. It’s my right to make those choices, and I take the responsibility.”

Her eyes narrowed on his face. “Oh, go right ahead.”

“And what?”

“Raised by a lawyer,” she reminded him. “I can see Mr. Harvard Law thinking through how to make a complicated argument to tangle up all my points. So go ahead. You can even throw out a couple of ‘wherefores.’ It won’t make any difference. My mind’s made up.”

He shifted gears. “Do you understand how much I’ll worry?”

Abra tipped her chin down, and those narrowed eyes went steely.

“That always works for my mother,” he pleaded.

“You’re not my mother,” she reminded him. “Plus you don’t have mother-power. You’re stuck with me, Eli. If you cut me loose, it has to be because you don’t want me, or you want someone else, or something else. If I walk away, it has to be for the same reasons.”

Feelings on the table, he thought. “Lindsay didn’t matter anymore, but every day I regret I couldn’t do anything to stop what happened to her.”

“She mattered once, and she didn’t deserve to die that way. You’d have protected her if you could.” She rose, went to him, slid her arms around his waist.

“I’m not Lindsay. You and I are going to look out for each other. We’re both smart. We’ll figure it out.”

He drew her in, stood with his cheek pressed to hers. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He didn’t know how he would keep that unspoken promise to her, to himself, but he’d do whatever he needed to do to keep it.

“Smart? I’m following a recipe for morons.”

“It’s your first day on the job.”

“I’m supposed to cube that chicken. What the hell does that mean?”

She drew back, then moved in again for a long, satisfying kiss. “Once again, I’ll demonstrate.”

She was in and out of the house. Early classes, cleaning jobs—his included—marketing, private lessons, tarot readings for a birthday party.

He barely knew she was there when he was working, yet when she wasn’t, he knew it acutely. The energy—he was starting to think like her—of the house seemed to wane without her in it.

They walked on the beach, and though he’d firmly decided cooking would never be a form of relaxation for him, he pitched in to help now and then.

He had a hard time imagining the house without her. Imagining his days, his nights without her.

Still, when she urged him to come the next night she worked at the bar, he made excuses.

He did want to continue researching the dowry, the ship, he reminded himself. He carried books out to the terrace to read there while he still had enough light, and settled down near the big terra-cotta pots Abra had planted with purple and yellow pansies.

As his grandmother did, he remembered, every spring.

They’d take the cool nights, even a frost if they got another. And that was likely, he thought, despite the blessed warm spell they’d enjoyed the last few days.

People had flocked to the beach to take advantage. He’d even spotted Vinnie through his telescope, riding waves with the same flash and verve he’d had as a teenager.

The warm, the flowers, the voices carried on the wind, and the cheerful blue of the sea nearly lulled him into thinking everything was normal and settled and right.

It made him wonder what life would be like if all that were true. If he made his home here, did his work here, reclaimed his roots here without the nagging weight still chained around his waist.

Abra flitting in and out of the house, filling it with flowers, candles, smiles. With heat and light and a promise he didn’t know he could ever make, ever keep.

Thoughts and feelings on the table, he remembered. But he didn’t know how to describe what he felt with her or for her. Wasn’t at all sure what to do with those feelings.

But he did know he was happier with her than he’d ever been without her. Happier than he’d ever believed he could be, despite everything.

He thought of her—high heels, short black skirt, snug white shirt, gliding around the noisy bar with her tray.

He wouldn’t mind a beer, some noise, or seeing her quick smile when he walked in.

Then he reminded himself he’d neglected the research over the last couple of days, and buckled down to it.

Not that he saw what possible use it could be, reading stories—for what else were they but stories?—of pirates and treasure, of ill-fated lovers and violent death.

But the hell of it was, it was the only clear channel he had to real death, and maybe, just maybe, some remote chance of clearing his name.

He read for an hour before the light started to go. He rose, wandered to the edge of the terrace to watch the sea and sky blur together, watched a young family—man, woman, two small boys—walk along the surf, with the boys, legs pumping in shorts, dashing into the shallows and out again, quick as crabs.

Maybe he’d have that beer after all, take a short break, then put in another hour on the notes he’d taken, both on the legend and on his twisty reality.

Gathering everything, he stepped back into the house, then dumped everything to answer the phone. He saw his parents’ home number on the readout, and as it always did these days, his heart jumped at the fear his grandmother had fallen again. Or worse.

Still, he put as much cheer into his voice as possible. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself.” He relaxed again at the easy tone of his mother’s voice. “I know it’s a little late.”

“It’s not even nine, Mom. And not a school night.”

He heard the smile in her voice. “Don’t put off your homework till Sunday night. How are you, Eli?”

“Good. I was just reading a book on Esmeralda’s Dowry.”

“Yo ho!”

“How’s Gran? And Dad? Tricia?”

“Everyone’s fine. Your gran’s looking more like herself every day. She still tires quicker than I’d like, and I know she has some discomfort, especially after her therapy, but we should all be so tough at her age.”

“Amen.”

“She’s really looking forward to seeing you for Easter.”

He winced. “Mom, I don’t think I can make it.”

“Oh, Eli.”

“I don’t like leaving the house empty for that long.”

“You haven’t had any more trouble?”

“No. But I’m right here. If the police have any leads on who broke in, they’re not saying. So it’s just not smart to leave it empty for a day or two.”

“Maybe we should lock the place up, hire a guard until they catch whoever’s breaking in.”

“Mom. There’s always a Landon at Bluff House.”

“God, you sound just like your grandmother.”

“I’m sorry. Really.” He knew just how much holiday traditions meant to his mother, and had let her down there too many times already. “I needed a place, and she gave it to me. I need to take care of it.”

She let out a sigh. “All right. You can’t come to Boston. We’ll come to Whiskey Beach.”

“What?”

“There’s no reason we can’t come there. Hester would love it—and we’ll make sure her doctors clear it. Your sister and her family would love it, too. It’s past time we had the whole family together for a holiday at Bluff House.”

His first reaction had been panic. Now it shifted. She was right, past time. “I hope like hell you don’t want me to bake a ham.”

“I’ll take care of that, and whatever else. We’ll let Selina hunt eggs—oh, remember how you and Tricia used to love doing that? We’ll come up Saturday afternoon. This is better. Better than you coming here. I should’ve thought of it in the first place.”

“I’m glad you thought of it. Ah, listen, I’d like Abra to come, too.”

“That would be perfect. Hester especially would want to see her. You know she calls every couple of days to talk to your gran. We’d love to have her.”

“Okay, good, because I’m actually seeing her.”

There was a pause, long and buzzing. “Seeing seeing?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Eli, that’s wonderful! That’s so, so good to hear. We love Abra, and—”

“Mom, it’s not like . . . It’s just seeing. Seeing.”

“I’m allowed to be happy. You haven’t . . . It’s been a long time since you had someone in your life. And we’re especially fond of Abra. I love you, Eli.”

Something in the tone had his stomach jittering. “I know. I love you, too.”

“I want you to have your life back. I want you to be happy again. I miss my boy. I miss seeing you happy.”

He heard the tears, closed his eyes. “I’m getting it back. I feel more myself here than I have in a long time. Hey, I’ve put on ten pounds.”

When she burst into tears, the panic returned. “Mom, don’t cry. Please.”

“It’s happy. It’s just happy. I can’t wait to see you for myself. I’m going to go tell your father, Hester, and call Tricia. We’ll bring a feast. Don’t worry about a thing. Just keep taking care of yourself.”

When he hung up he just stood for a moment getting his bearings. Ready or not, his family was coming to Bluff House. And his mother’s “Don’t worry about a thing” wouldn’t cut it.

He knew damn well his grandmother would expect Bluff House to shine, and he couldn’t dump all that on Abra.

He’d figure it out. He had better than a week to figure it out. He’d make a list.

Later, he decided. Now, he discovered, he really did want that beer. And he wanted it in a noisy bar. With Abra.

So, he’d grab a shower, and maybe he’d walk to the village. That way she could drive them both back after her shift.

He headed for the steps, realized he wore a grin. Yeah, he thought, he felt more like himself than he had in a very long time.