Whiskey Beach

Chapter Eighteen


BLOCKED, ABRA DECIDED. SHE WAS BLOCKED, THAT HAD to be the answer. She’d meditated, worked with the police artist, tried active dreaming—which she wasn’t very good at—and still the time, effort and skill of the artist produced a sketch that could be nearly any man between thirty and forty.

Any man, she thought, studying her copy of the sketch yet again, with a thin face, long, somewhat shaggy medium brown hair and thin lips.

She couldn’t swear to the lips, if it came to that. Had they really been thin or had she projected thin lips because he’d struck her as such a tight-ass?

So much for her powers of observation, she decided in disgust, which she’d considered above average before this.

Of course, there wasn’t any proof her tight-assed, tonic-and-lime-drinking customer had anything to do with anything. But still.

Nothing to be done about it, at least until after the holiday weekend. She added the last little silver ball to finish the pair of citrine and silver dangle earrings. As she filled out the description card, she imagined Eli’s family already on their way.

That was one good thing. Another? The house hit “family holiday” perfectly on her scale. At least fussing with that had taken her mind off her pitiful failure with the artist.

She wanted progress, as she took off the glasses she wore for close-up work and reading. She admitted she’d hoped to play a part in identifying the intruder and potential murderer, in helping Eli resolve his problems, with the little rush of solving a mystery. She wanted to make it all neat and tidy when she knew, absolutely, life was anything but.

Now she couldn’t shake off the nagging sense of annoyance, and the underlying sense of unease.

At least her new jewelry stock turned out well, if she did say so herself. But her hope that the creative energy would unblock the block fell short.

She straightened up her worktable in her tiny second bedroom, put her tools and supplies away in their labeled bins. She’d take the new stock into the gift shop, and maybe buy herself a little something with the profits.

She opted to walk, to give herself a chance to admire the play of daffodils and hyacinths cheerfully showing off their blooms, the colorful Easter eggs dangling from tree branches, the bright pop of forsythia.

She always loved the birth of a new season, whether it was the first spear of green in spring or the first drift of snow in winter. But today anxiety plagued her so she wished she’d stopped at Maureen’s, talked her friend into going into the village with her.

It was stupid to feel she was being watched. Just a residual reaction to what had happened at Bluff House. And the lighthouse, she thought as she turned to study its sturdy white lance. No one was following her, though she couldn’t resist a look over her shoulder, or the rising chill up her spine.

She knew these houses, knew most of the people in them, or who owned them. She passed Surfside Bed & Breakfast, fought off a dragging dread and a sudden urge to turn around, run back home.

She wouldn’t be chased away by her own silly thoughts. Wouldn’t deny herself the pleasure of her walks in the place she’d made her home.

And she wouldn’t think of being grabbed from behind in a dark, empty house.

The sun shone, birds called, holiday traffic chugged by.

But she let out a relieved breath when she entered the main village with its shops and restaurants, and people.

It pleased her to see customers milling around the window of the gift shop. Tourists taking their holiday at the beach, families like Eli’s spending the weekend. She started to go inside, then saw Heather behind the counter.

She stepped back, started to walk on. “Crap,” she muttered. “Just crap.”

She hadn’t seen the shop clerk since Heather had run out of yoga class in tears. Heather hadn’t made the in-home practice, nor the next on her schedule. And inside, Abra harbored enough anger and resentment to prevent her from calling to check.

Negative energy, she told herself, and stopped. Time to expel it, rebalance her chi. And maybe she’d break that block after all.

In any case, Heather was who she was. There was no point in hoarding bad feelings, on either side.

She made herself walk back, step inside. Good smells, pretty light, the strong sense of local arts and crafts. Take that mood, she ordered herself, and go with it.

She waved casually to the other clerk, noted the woman’s slight wince as she continued to wait on a customer. No doubt Heather had unloaded her perceived slights on her coworkers.

Who could blame her, really?

Deliberately, Abra made her way back to Heather, waited patiently as she was studiously ignored. When Heather finished ringing up a sale, Abra stepped forward.

“Hi. Busy today. I just need five minutes. I can wait until you have it.”

“I really can’t say when that might be. We have customers.” Stiff, jaw tight, Heather skirted around the counter and clipped her way to a trio of women.

Temper rose up high enough to actually tickle the base of Abra’s throat. She breathed it down again, then impulsively picked up a set of handblown wineglasses she’d admired for weeks but couldn’t really afford.

“Excuse me.” With a smile plastered on her face, Abra took the glasses over to Heather. “Could you ring me up? I just love these. Aren’t they great?” she said to the other women, and got admiring assents even as one of them shifted to pick up a set of champagne flutes by the same artist.

“These would make a wonderful wedding gift.”

“Wouldn’t they?” All smiles, Abra turned one of her glasses in the light. “I just love the braided stems. You can’t go wrong with anything in Buried Treasures,” Abra added, beaming toward Heather as she held out the glasses.

“Of course. If you have any questions, just ask,” Heather said to the shoppers, then walked back to the counter.

“Now I’m a customer,” Abra announced. “First, we’ve missed you at class.”

Jaw still tight, Heather got bubble wrap from under the counter, began to roll it around a glass. “I’ve been busy.”

“We’ve missed you,” Abra repeated, and laid a hand over Heather’s. “I’m sorry we argued, and I said things that upset you and hurt your feelings.”

“You made it seem like I was just a busybody, and I— The police were there.”

“I know, and now they’re not because he didn’t do anything. Someone broke into Bluff House twice, that we’re sure of. The first time, whoever it was grabbed me.”

“I know. It’s just another reason I’m concerned.”

“I appreciate your concern, but Eli’s not the one who tried to hurt me. He was in Boston. And he’s not the one who . . .” She took a quick glance around in case any of the customers were standing close enough to hear. “Who hurt the detective from Boston, because I was with Eli when that happened. Those are facts, Heather, verified by the police.”

“They searched Bluff House.”

“To be thorough. They may search my cottage.”

“Yours?” Shock and genuine concern popped through. “Why? That’s ridiculous. That’s not right.”

Barrier cracked, Abra thought when Heather’s voice rang with insult. “Because there’s one—just one—cop in Boston who won’t accept the facts and the evidence, and he’s hounded Eli for a year. Now he’s done some hounding in my direction.”

“I think that’s terrible.”

“So do I, but since we’ve got nothing to hide, let him hound. Our local police are investigating now. I have a lot more faith in them finding out what’s happening and who’s responsible.”

“We take care of our own,” Heather said with a nod of civic pride. “Just be careful.”

“I will be.”

Abra tried not to flinch when Heather rang up the glasses. Bye-bye, cute new yoga outfit. But she dug in her bag for her credit card, and remembered the jewelry.

“I nearly forgot. I made about a dozen pieces.” She took them out, set them on the counter, all sealed in their clear bags. “You can take a look at them when you have time, let me know.”

“I will. Oh, I love these!” She held up the citrine and silver, the last pieces Abra made. “Little silver moons and stars, then the citrine’s like sunlight.”

“Those are really nice.” The woman with the champagne flutes walked over to the counter.

“Abra’s one of our artists. She just brought in some new pieces.”

“Aren’t we lucky? Oh! Joanna, come look at this necklace. It’s so you.”

Abra exchanged a smug look with Heather as she handed over her credit card. The way the three women huddled around the new pieces, she might justify a cute new yoga outfit after all.

Thirty minutes later, Abra treated herself to an ice cream cone and walked home in a much more positive state of mind. She’d sold half her new pieces on the spot, and two more from what the store already had in stock. Definitely new outfit time, and she had just the one bookmarked on her favorite site.

Plus, she’d earned the gorgeous wineglasses.

First chance, she’d have Eli to the cottage for a little wine and candlelight dinner and use them.

But now, she’d try meditation again. Maybe with some incense this time. Usually she preferred the fresh sea air, but that hadn’t been working. Change it up, she decided.

She let herself into the house, entertained herself by unwrapping and washing her new glasses before setting them out on display on her kitchen shelves. Admiring them gave her positive outlook another boost.

In anticipation she got a pencil, a pad, the copy of the sketch, set it all by her meditation cushion in her bedroom. Though an average artist at best in her own estimation, she thought she might be able to make any changes or additions that came into her mind right then and there. Already starting her breathing, she went to the closet for the box that held her incense—cones and sticks—and the various holders she’d collected over time.

Maybe the lotus scent, she considered, to open the mind’s eye. Really, she should’ve tried this before.

She got the box off the high shelf, opened it.

And with a strangled gasp, dropped it as if it held a hissing snake.

Her incense rained down, the holders clattered. And the gun thudded on the floor. Instinctively she backed away from it. Her first gut reaction was to run, then logic clicked in.

Whoever had put the gun there wouldn’t be waiting in the house for her to find it. They’d put it there, she thought as she let herself breathe, so the police would find it.

That meant, had to mean, whoever had held that gun last had committed murder.

She went straight to the phone.

“Vinnie, I’ve got a really big problem. Can you come?”

In under ten minutes, she met him at the door. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did just right. Where is it?”

“In the bedroom. I didn’t touch it.” She led the way, then stood back while he crouched to examine the gun. “It’s a .32.”

“Is that the same kind that . . .”

“Yeah.” He straightened, took his phone out of his pocket, took several pictures.

“You’re not in uniform,” she realized. “You weren’t even on duty. You were home with your family. I shouldn’t—”

“Abs.” He turned, took her in for a hug, patting her back like a daddy. “Relax. Corbett’s going to want to know about this.”

“I swear it’s not my gun.”

“I know it’s not your gun. Nobody’s going to think otherwise. Relax,” he repeated. “We’ll sort this out. Have you got anything cold?”

“Cold?”

“Yeah, a Coke, iced tea, whatever?”

“Oh, sure.”

“I could use something cold. Maybe you could go take care of that, and I’ll be right out.”

He’d given her a chore to calm her down, she knew. So she’d calm down.

She got out a pan, added water, sugar, then set it on heat to dissolve while she juiced lemons.

By the time Vinnie came in, she was pouring her mix into a tall glass pitcher.

“You didn’t have to do all that.”

“It kept my hands busy.”

“Fresh lemonade, from scratch.”

“You deserve it. Tell Carla I’m sorry I interrupted your weekend.”

“She’s married to a cop, Abra. She gets it. Corbett’s on his way. He wants to see it in place.”

She wanted it, and the death surrounding it, out of her house. “Then you’ll take it away.”

“Then we’ll take it away,” he promised. “So go through it with me.”

“I went out, walked to the village, spent a little time in the gift shop. I bought an ice cream cone, came home.”

As she spoke she poured the lemonade over ice, added a plate of crispy cookies to the table. “I couldn’t have been gone more than an hour, an hour and fifteen.”

“Did you lock the doors?”

“Yes. I’ve been careful, or mostly careful, about that since the break-ins at Bluff House.”

“When’s the last time you looked in that box?”

“I don’t use incense often, and I haven’t bought any in a while. I end up buying it, not using it, giving it away. And I’m rambling.” She took a drink. “I don’t know exactly, but I’d say at least a couple weeks. Probably three.”

“You spend a lot of time out of the house, a lot of that time at Bluff House.”

“Yes. Classes, my cleaning jobs, shopping—for myself and for clients. Errands. And I’ve been spending most nights with Eli. Whoever killed Kirby Duncan planted it, Vinnie, to try to implicate me.”

“That’s a pretty sure bet. I’m going to take a look at the doors and windows, okay? Good lemonade,” he added. “Good cookies, too.”

She stayed where she was rather than dogging him. Going through her cottage couldn’t take long. Small-scale, it boasted three bedrooms though the second of the three hardly qualified as a storage closet and served as her craft room. Kitchen, living room, with its sunroom that had been one of its main selling points. Two small baths.

No, it wouldn’t take long. She rose, walked to look out on her back deck. Another selling point, that generous outdoor living space. She used it as much as the interior in good weather. Then that view, the jagged curve of the little cape with the lighthouse, the spread of sea and sky.

So much what she wanted, and such a constant comfort and pleasure to her.

Now someone had violated that, and her. Someone had been in her home, walked through her rooms, and left death behind.

She turned when Vinnie came back in, waited while he looked at the deck door, the back windows.

“You’ve got windows unlocked back here, and a couple in the front, too.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not.”

“I like to open the house, air it out. I’m a fiend about it.” Gripping her own hair, she tugged because it was easier than kicking herself. “I’m surprised I thought to lock any of the windows.”

“Couple of threads caught here.” He took a picture with his phone. “You got tweezers?”

“Yes. I’ll get them.”

“Didn’t think to bring a kit,” he said when she stepped out. “I brought an evidence bag for the gun, but not much else. That should be Corbett,” he continued at the knock on the door. “Do you want me to get it?”

“No, I’ve got it.”

Tweezers in hand, she opened the front door. “Detective Corbett, thanks for coming. Vinnie— Deputy Hanson’s back in the kitchen. The gun . . . I’ll show you.”

She led the way to the bedroom. “I dropped the box—everything—when I saw it inside. I was getting some incense, and it was in there.”

“When’s the last time you opened the box?”

“I told Vinnie, probably three weeks ago. Um, he took pictures,” she said when Corbett took out his camera.

“Now I have my own.” He crouched, pulled out a pencil, hooked the trigger guard. “Do you own a gun, Ms. Walsh?”

“I don’t. I’ve never owned a gun. I’ve never even held a gun. Not even a toy one, really. My mother was firmly anti–war toys, and I liked puzzles and crafts, and . . . I’m rambling. I’m nervous. I don’t like having a gun in my house.”

“We’ll take it with us.” Corbett pulled on protective gloves as Vinnie came in.

“Detective, there’s some unlocked windows. Abra told me she doesn’t always think to lock them. I’ve got some fibers stuck in one of the rear ones.”

“We’ll take a look at that. Who’s been in the house in the last couple weeks?”

“Oh, I have in-home yoga classes once a week in the evening, so my students. And my neighbors’ kids have been over. Oh my God, the kids. Is that loaded? Is that thing loaded?”

“Yeah, it’s loaded.”

“What if one of them had come in here and . . . I’m being irrational. They wouldn’t come in here and get that box off the top shelf of my closet. But if they had . . .” She closed her eyes.

“Any repairman in for any reason?” Corbett asked as he pulled an evidence bag from his pocket.

“No.”

“Landlord, cable company, anything like that?”

“No. My class, the kids.”

“Eli Landon?”

Her eyes flashed. Corbett simply studied her. “You told him you know he’s innocent.”

“I still have to ask the question.”

“He hasn’t been in the cottage in the last few weeks. He’s stuck close to Bluff House since the first break-in. I had to wheedle to get him to leave the house long enough to shop for his family’s visit this weekend.”

“Okay.”

He straightened. “Let’s take a look at the fibers.”

She waited while they studied them, murmured over them, tweezed them out and bagged them.

“Would you like some lemonade, Detective? I just made it.”

“That’d be nice. Then why don’t you sit down?”

Something about the way he said it made her palms clammy. She poured the drink, sat down at the table.

“Have you seen anyone hanging around?”

“No. And I haven’t seen the man from the bar again. At least I don’t think I have. I should recognize him, even though I haven’t been much help with the description. It’s why I went for the incense. I thought I’d light some, try more meditation. I’ve been edgy the last few days, and I thought I’d broken through.”

“Edgy?”

“With all that’s gone on, it’s understandable. And . . .” Hell with it. “Someone’s watching me.”

“You’ve seen someone?”

“No, but I feel it. It’s not my imagination, or I’m nearly positive it’s not. I know what it’s like to be watched now. You know what happened to me a few years ago.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And I feel it, and have for several days now.”

She glanced toward the window she’d left unlocked, toward her glass deck door and the pots of mixed flowers she’d set up in the sun.

“I’m out of the house a lot, and I’ve been spending most nights down with Eli. And since I was careless enough not to lock the windows, it would be pitifully easy to get in here, to leave that gun here. But why? I don’t understand why here? Why me? Or I do, but it’s convoluted. If someone wanted to discredit me, implicate me to cast doubt on Eli’s alibi, why not just plant the gun in Bluff House during the break-in?”

“We searched before he could plant it, or he didn’t plan on giving it up,” Vinnie said. “Sorry, Detective. Out of turn.”

“No, it’s fine. The last couple days, Wolfe’s pushed for a search warrant, for this cottage. His superiors aren’t backing him on it, and neither are mine. But he’s pushing. He claims he got an anonymous call telling him the caller saw a woman, a woman with long curly hair, walking away from the lighthouse on the night Duncan was murdered.”

“I see.” A canyon opened up in her belly. “You’d find the gun here. So either I killed Duncan or was an accomplice. Do I need a lawyer?”

“It couldn’t hurt, but right now this looks like what it is: a setup. That doesn’t mean we don’t go through the process.”

“All right.”

He sampled the lemonade. “Look, Ms. Walsh—Abra. I’m going to tell you how this reads, and how my boss is going to read it. If you had anything to do with Duncan, why the hell didn’t you throw that gun off the cliff, especially after we executed the search on Bluff House? Putting it in your bedroom closet with a bunch of incense? That makes you dumb as a bag of hair, and there’s nothing that indicates you’re dumb as a bag of hair.”

Not trusting her voice yet, she nodded.

“You find it, call it in. Coincidentally, the lead detective on Landon’s wife’s homicide gets a call from an anonymous source—on a prepaid cell that pinged from a local tower—claiming, three weeks after the incident, he saw a woman with your hair and body type walking away from the crime scene on the night in question.”

“And Detective Wolfe believes him.”

“Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but he’d like to hook a search warrant with it. It screams setup, and a clumsy one at that, so I think Wolfe’s not buying it, but like I said, he wouldn’t mind giving your place a look.”

“There’s nothing here. Nothing . . . but that gun.”

“We’ll go through the process. I can get a warrant for a search, but it’d be easier all around if you just gave your permission.”

She didn’t want it; it made her a little sick inside. But more, she wanted it over. “All right, search, look, do whatever you have to do.”

“Good. When we finish, I want you to make sure this place is locked—including windows.”

“Yes, I will. And I think I’ll spend the nights either at Bluff House or with my next-door neighbors until . . . for a while.”

“Better yet.”

“Do you have to tell Eli now?” She dropped her hand when she realized she’d been twisting the smoky quartz pendant she wore—one made in her craft room—around and around on its chain. “It’s just his family’s coming. They’re probably here now for Easter. Something like this is going to upset everyone.”

“Until I need to talk to him again, I don’t have to tell him anything.”

“Good.”

“I’ve called for somebody to come in, check for prints, but—”

“There won’t be any. But it’s the process.”

“That’s right.”

She got through it. Little house, she thought, didn’t take long. She stayed out of the way, stayed outside when she could. This was how Eli had felt, she realized, how he must’ve felt when the police came, to check, to search, to look for evidence. He must’ve felt, for that bubble of time, the house wasn’t his. His things weren’t his things.

Vinnie stepped out. “They’re finishing up. Nothing,” he told her. “No prints on the window, on the box, on the contents.” He gave her back a quick rub. “The search is a formality, Abs. You okaying it without a warrant only adds weight to this being a setup.”

“I know.”

“Want me to hang out with you awhile?”

“No, you should go home to your family.” To dye Easter eggs, she thought, with his little boy. “You didn’t have to stay this long.”

“I want you to call me, anytime, for anything.”

“I will. Count on it. I’m going to put myself together a little and go down to Bluff House. I want to see Hester.”

“You give her my best. I can wait until you’re ready to go.”

“No, I’m fine. Better. It’s broad daylight. There are people on the beach. He’s got no reason to bother me anyway at this point.”

“Keep the doors and windows locked anyway.”

“I will.”

She walked him out. Her across-the-street neighbor sent her a wave, then went back to digging in his front garden. A couple of boys raced by on bikes.

Too much activity, she assured herself, for anyone to try to get inside. And no reason now to do so.

She got a trash bag, went into the bedroom. Kneeling, she threw everything on the floor away, box and all. She couldn’t know what he’d touched. If she could, she’d have thrown everything in the closet away.

Instead, she freshened up her makeup, packed a small bag, included the sketch. After she tidied up the kitchen, she retrieved the strawberry-rhubarb pies she’d made, boxed them up.

She carried them out to her car, went back for her bag, her purse. And when she locked her front door, her heart broke a little.

She loved her little cottage, and didn’t know when she’d feel safe in it again.