Whiskey Beach

Chapter Twenty

TWICE DURING THE NIGHT ELI ROSE TO PROWL THE HOUSE, the dog padding faithfully by his side. He checked doors, windows, the alarm, even slipped out to the main terrace to scan the beach for movement.

Everyone he cared about was sleeping in Bluff House, so he’d take no chances.

What his grandmother remembered changed things. Not the intruder—he’d already believed there was one on the night she fell. But the location. She’d described seeing someone upstairs, then running down, or trying to. Not someone on the main floor, someone who had come up from the basement.

That left three options.

His grandmother’s mind was confused. Possible, of course, given the trauma she’d suffered. But he didn’t think so.

It was also possible they were dealing with two different intruders, either connected or completely separate. He couldn’t and wouldn’t discount that avenue.

Last, a single intruder, the same one who had broken in and assaulted Abra, the same person who had excavated the old basement. Which posed the question: What had he been looking for upstairs? What had been the purpose?

Once the family left for Boston, he’d go through the house again, room by room, space by space looking for answers from that angle.

Until then, he and Barbie were on guard duty.

He lay wakeful beside Abra, trying to piece it together. An unnamed intruder partnered with Duncan? Move to the “No honor among thieves” theory, and the unnamed kills Duncan, then removes all records associated with him from Duncan’s office.

Possible.

Duncan’s client, the intruder, hired him. Duncan learns the client’s breaking and entering, attacking women. Confronts the client, either threatening to report him to the police or attempting blackmail. And the client kills him and removes the records.

Equally possible.

The intruder or intruders weren’t related to Duncan in any way. In doing his job, he discovered them, and was killed.

Possible, too, but unlikely, at least it seemed so at four in the morning.

He tried to shift his mind to his work. At least there were channels and possibilities in his plot he could solve before dawn.

He’d boxed in his main character—with the antagonist, with a woman, with the authorities. With his life in turmoil, he faced conflict and consequences on every level. It all came down to choices. Would he turn left or right? Would he stand still and wait?

Eli considered all three as his mind finally started to fuzz with sleep.

And somewhere in the maze of his subconscious, fiction and reality merged. Eli opened the front door of the house in the Back Bay.

He knew every step, every sound, every thought, but still couldn’t make himself change any of it. Just turn around, walk back out into the rain. Just drive away. Instead, he repeated the loop he’d taken the night of Lindsay’s murder and revisited in dreams ever since.

He couldn’t change it, and yet it changed. He opened a door in the Back Bay and walked into the basement at Whiskey Beach.

He held a flashlight as he maneuvered in the dark. Some part of his mind thought, Power’s off. The power’s off again. He needed to kick-start the generator.

He walked by a wall of shelves filled with gleaming jars, all carefully labeled. Strawberry preserves, grape jam, peaches, green beans, stewed tomatoes.

Someone’s been busy, he thought, circling around a mound of potatoes. A lot of mouths to feed in Bluff House. His family slept in their beds; Abra slept in his. A lot of mouths to feed, a lot of people to protect.

He’d made a promise to tend the house. Landons kept their promises.

He needed to get the power on again, restore the light, the warmth, the safety, and protect what was his, what was loved, what was vulnerable.

As he approached the generator, he heard the sound of the sea like a hum, a note that rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell.

And against the hum he heard the bright beat of metal against stone. A metronome keeping time.

Someone’s in the house, striking at the house. Threatening what was his to protect. He felt the butt of a gun in his hand, looked down to see the glint of one of the dueling pistols in a light that had gone blue and eerie as the sea.

He moved through it while the hum built to a roar.

But when he stepped into the old section, he saw nothing but the trench scarring the floor.

He stepped to it, looked into it, and saw her.

Not Lindsay, not here. Abra lay in that deep scar, blood murderously red soaking her shirt, matting those wonderfully wild curls.

Wolfe stepped out of the shadows to stand in the blue light.

Help me. Help her. On the plea, Eli dropped to his knees to reach for her. Cold. Too cold. He remembered Lindsay as Abra’s blood covered his hands.

Too late. No, he couldn’t be too late. Not again. Not with Abra.

She’s dead, like the other one. Wolfe raised his service weapon. You’re responsible. Their blood’s on your hands. This time you won’t walk away.

The blast and echo of gunfire jolted Eli out of the dream, and into fresh panic. Gasping for breath, he pressed at the phantom pain in his chest, stared down, certain he’d see his own blood leaking through his fingers. Beneath his palm, his heart pounded, wild drumming against atavistic fear.

He groped for Abra, found the bed beside him cool and empty.

It was morning, he reassured himself. Only a dream, and now the sun streamed through the terrace doors and sprinkled white stars on the water. Everyone in Bluff House remained safe, secure. Abra had already gotten up, started the day.

Everything was fine.

He pushed up, saw the dog curled in her bed, one paw possessively over a toy bone. For some reason the sleeping dog settled him down another notch, reminded him reality could be just as simple as a good dog and a sunny Sunday morning.

He’d take the simple, as long as it lasted, over the complexities and miseries of dreams.

The minute Eli’s feet hit the floor, Barbie’s head came up and her tail swished.

“Everything’s fine,” he said out loud.

He pulled on jeans and sweatshirt, then went to look for Abra in her usual morning spot.

It didn’t surprise him to find her in the gym, but it did to see his grandmother there with her. And it struck him as undeniably weird to see indomitable Hester Landon sitting cross-legged on a red mat wearing stretchy black pants that stopped just above the knee and a lavender top that left her arms and, with two deep scoops, much of her shoulders bare.

He saw the scar from her surgery running up her left arm at the elbow—deep trenches, he thought, as in the basement. Scars on what was his, what he loved, what he needed to protect.

“On an inhale, lean left. Don’t overstretch, Hester.”

“You’ve got me doing old-lady yoga.”

The annoyance in Hester’s voice made the whole scene marginally less weird.

“We’re taking it slow. Breathe here. Inhale, both arms up, palms touch. Exhale. Inhale and lean right. Both arms up. Repeat that twice.” As she spoke, Abra rose to kneel behind Hester and rub her shoulders.

“You’ve got a touch, girl.”

“And you’ve got a lot of tension here. Relax. Shoulders down and back. We’re just loosening up, that’s all.”

“God knows I need it. I wake up stiff, and stay that way. I’m losing my flexibility. I don’t know if I can even touch my toes.”

“You’ll get it back. What did the doctors say? You weren’t hurt worse—”

“Wasn’t dead,” Hester corrected, and with his view of her profile, Eli saw Abra squeeze her eyes shut.

“Because you have strong bones, a strong heart.”

“A hard head.”

“No argument. You’ve taken care of yourself and stayed active all your life. You’re healing now, and need to be patient. You’ll be doing Half Moons and Standing Straddles by summer.”

“I often think it’s a shame I didn’t know those positions when my Eli was alive.”

It took a moment for Eli to comprehend, then to be shocked and mortified. It took less for Abra’s quick and wicked laugh.

“In loving memory of your Eli, exhale, navel to spine, and lean forward. Gently. Gently.”

“I hope young Eli appreciates how limber you are.”

“I can attest.”

And the young Eli decided to beat a discreet retreat.

He’d make coffee, take a mug of it with him and walk the dogs. By the time he’d finished that his grandmother should be dressed like his grandmother. And maybe her allusion to sex with his grandfather would have faded from his mind.

He caught the scent of coffee as he walked toward the kitchen, and found his sister, in pink pajamas, inhaling a cup.

Sadie stirred herself to stand from her sprawl on the kitchen floor so she and Barbie could sniff at each other.

“Where’s the baby?”

“Right here.” Tricia patted her anthill-size bump. “Big sister’s upstairs having a Sunday snuggle with Daddy. I’m getting a window of quiet and the single stingy cup of coffee I’m allowed a day. You can have one, too, then help me hide eggs.”

“I can do that, after I take the dogs for a walk.”

“Deal.” Tricia stooped to give Barbie a rub. “She’s such a sweetheart, and nice company for Sadie. If she had a brother or sister, I’d snatch one up. She was wonderful with Sellie. So patient and gentle.”

“Yeah.” Some guard dog, Eli thought as he poured his coffee.

“I didn’t have much time to talk to you, not alone. I wanted to say you look good. You look like Eli.”

“Who’d I look like before?”

“Like Eli’s gaunt, pasty-faced, slightly dull-witted uncle.”

“Thanks.”

“You asked. You’re a little on the skinny side yet, but you look like Eli. For that I love Abra. A lot.”

At his sidelong look, she angled her head. “Are you going to tell me she has nothing to do with it?”

“No. I’m going to say I don’t know how I’ve lived with this family all my life without realizing the obsession with sex. I just overheard Gran make a sexual allusion to Abra about Granddad.”

“Really?”

“Really. And now I have to burn it out of my memory. Come on, Barbie. Let’s take Sadie for a walk.”

But Sadie sprawled out again, yawned hugely.

“I’d say Sadie’s taking a pass,” Tricia observed.

“Fine. Just you and me, Barbie. We’ll be back to play Easter Bunny in a few.”

“Good enough. I wasn’t just talking about sex,” she called out.

He glanced back from the laundry room as he grabbed the leash. “I know.”

He tried something different since he didn’t have to keep to Sadie’s dignified pace. And he had the beach to himself on an early Easter Sunday. Once he’d downed the coffee, he screwed the mug into the sand near the steps, then set off in a kind of half jog. When he asked his body how it felt about the idea, it wasn’t altogether sure.

But the dog loved it. Loved it enough to increase the pace until Eli found himself in full jog. No question he’d pay for this one later, he decided. Good thing he had a massage therapist on hand.

He had a flash of her as she’d been in the dream, pale and bloody on the cold, stony dirt of the basement. The image sent his heart knocking harder than the run.

Eventually he managed to slow the dog to a walk again, pull in some of the moist air to soothe his dry throat.

So he was more anxious about the break-ins than he’d been willing to admit. More concerned about his family, about Abra, than he’d wanted to admit in the cold light of day.

“We’re going to have to do more about it than bark,” he said to the dog, and turned her around to head home. “But we’ve got to get through today and tomorrow morning first.”

He looked toward Bluff House, shocked to see how far they’d run. “Well, Jesus.” Less than two months before he’d been prone, panting and covered in sweat at a half mile. Today, he’d breezed through twice that.

Maybe he really was himself again.

“Okay, Barbie, let’s try for the circuit.”

He ran back, the joyful dog beside him. When he looked up at Bluff House he saw Abra on the terrace, a hoodie over her yoga gear. She lifted her arm in a wave.

That was the picture he’d keep in his head, he promised himself. Abra with Bluff House at her back, and the breeze dancing through her hair.

He grabbed the mug. By the time he crested the beach steps, he was winded, but in a damn good way.

“A man and his dog,” she said, greeting them both.

“A man, his dog and the theme from Rocky. Adrian!” He scooped her off her feet. Her laugh rang out as he gave her a spin.

“What was in that coffee, and is there any left?”

“It’s going to be a good day.”

“Is it?”

“Sure. Any day that starts out with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans for breakfast is a good day. We’ve got to hide eggs.”

“Already done, Rocky. You missed out.”

“Even better, now I get to hunt them. Give me some hints,” he demanded. “You may not be aware, but Robert Edwin Landon, CEO of Landon Whiskey, chair or co-chair of countless worthy charitable boards and head of the renowned Landon family, would body-block his tiny little granddaughter to win the egg hunt.”

“He would not.”

“Okay, maybe he’d give the kid a break, but he’d sure as hell body-block his only son.”

“Maybe true, but no hints from me. Still, let’s go inside and get your Easter basket before her father comes down and grabs them all.”

It was a good day, though he ate enough candy that the idea of waffles for breakfast made him a little queasy. But he ate them anyway, and put everything aside to enjoy the moments.

His father in light-up bunny ears that made Selina belly-laugh. The pleasure on his grandmother’s face when he gave her a pretty bowl filled with mixed spring bulbs in fragrant bloom.

Waging war with water pistols against his brother-in-law and accidentally (mostly) shooting his sister dead in the heart when she opened the terrace door.

Surprising Abra with a vivid green orchid because it reminded him of her.

They feasted on ham and roasted potatoes, tender asparagus and Abra’s herbed bread, on eggs deviled out of their colorful shells—and more—in the formal dining room. Candles flickering, crystal winking, the sea singing its siren song against the rocky shore made the perfect backdrop for the very good day he’d predicted.

He couldn’t remember the Easter before, with Lindsay’s murder so fresh, with the hours he’d spent in interrogation, the living fear that the police would, again, knock on the door. And this time take him away in handcuffs. All that blurred now—the pale, strained faces of his family, the gradual and steady retreat of those he’d considered friends, the loss of his job, the accusations flung out at him if he ventured into public.

He’d gotten through it. Whatever hounded him now, he’d get through that.

He’d never give this up again, this feeling of home and of hope.

To Whiskey Beach, he thought, lifting his glass and catching Abra’s eye, Abra’s smile. He drank to it, and everything in it.

When he stood on Monday morning after helping load cars, the feeling of hope remained with him. He gave his grandmother a last good-bye hug.

“I’ll remember,” she whispered in his ear. “Stay safe until I do.”

“I will.”

“And tell Abra she won’t be teaching her morning yoga class without me much longer.”

“I’ll do that, too.”

“Come on, Mom, let’s get you in the car.” Rob gave his son a one-armed man hug, a slap on the back. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Summer’s coming,” Eli said, helping his grandmother. “Make time, okay?”

“We will.” His father walked around to the driver’s seat. “It was good to have all the Landons in Bluff House again. Stay ready for us. We’ll be back.”

Eli waved them off, watched them until the road curved away. Beside him Barbie let out a quiet whine.

“You heard him. They’ll be back.” Turning, Eli studied Bluff House. “We have work to do before that. We’re going to find out what that a*shole was looking for. We’re going to give Bluff House a clean sweep. Right?”

Barbie wagged her tail.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s get started.”

He started at the top. The third floor, the servants’ domain back in the day, now served as storage for odd pieces of furniture, trunks that held vintage clothes or memorabilia previous Landons had been too sentimental to discard, and too practical to display.

After the search, the cops hadn’t bothered to replace the dust sheets, so they lay in white piles like snowdrifts over the floor.

“If I were an obsessed treasure hunter, what would I be looking for up here?”

Not the treasure itself, Eli decided. “The Purloined Letter” aside, hiding in plain sight had its limits. No one could believe any of the previous occupants would have tucked a chest full of jewels away within the saggy divan or behind the spotty mirror.

He wandered around, poking into boxes and trunks, tossing dust covers back over chairs. The light streamed in so motes danced in beams, and the silence of the house accented the toss and suck of the surf.

He couldn’t imagine living with the army of servants who’d once slept in the warren of rooms, or gathered in the larger space for meals or gossip. There’d never be true solitude, true silence, and forget genuine privacy.

A trade-off, he supposed. To maintain a house like this, and live and entertain as his ancestors did, required the army. His grandparents had preferred a less elaborate lifestyle.

In any case, the days of Gatsby were done, at least in Bluff House.

Still, it seemed a shame and a waste to have an entire floor occupied by shrouded furniture, boxes of books, trunks filled with dresses layered with tissue and sachets of lavender.

“It’d make a great artist’s studio, wouldn’t it?” he asked Barbie. “If I could paint. Gran can, but this is too much of a haul, and she likes using her sitting room for that, or painting on the terrace.”

Taking a break, doing the shoulder rolls Abra had recommended, he prowled around the former servants’ parlor.

“Still, the light’s great. Little kitchen area over there. Update the sink, put in a microwave, update this bathroom,” he added after taking a look at the old pull-chain toilet. “Or better, have these old fixtures rehabbed. Make use of some of the furniture that’s just sitting here.”

Frowning, he walked to the windows overlooking the beach. Generous windows, great view, a likely architectural decision rather than one done for the staff’s benefit.

He moved off, into the gable, thinking of his first wandering through the day he’d arrived.

Yeah, he could work up here, he thought again. It wouldn’t take much to fix it up a little. He didn’t need much. Move a desk up, some files, shelves—and yeah, update this bathroom, too.

“What writer doesn’t want a garret? Yeah, maybe. Maybe I’ll do that once Gran’s back home. I’ll think about that.”

Which wasn’t addressing the purpose, Eli admitted, and did a second walk-through. He imagined housemaids climbing out of iron beds at dawn, bare toes curling against the cold floor. A butler putting on his starched white shirt, the head housekeeper checking off her list of duties for the day.

A whole world had existed here. One the family had probably known little about. But what hadn’t existed, as far as he could see, was anything worth the breaking and entering, or breaking the bones of an old woman.

He circled back into the wide hall, studied the old armoire against the—to him—unfortunate floral wallpaper. On close examination he saw no signs it had been moved in the past decade or more.

Curious, he attempted to do so now, putting his back into it. And didn’t budge it more than an inch. He tried reaching into the narrow space behind it, then maneuvering his arm from underneath.

Not only would no mischievous little boy be able to shove it clear, but neither could a grown man. Not alone, Eli thought.

On impulse, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts Abra had keyed in. He hit Mike O’Malley’s number.

“Hi, Mike, it’s Eli Landon. . . . Yeah, good, thanks.” He leaned back on the armoire, thought it as solid and intimidating as a redwood.

“Look, have you got a few minutes anytime today? . . . Really? If you’ve got the day off, I don’t want to interrupt any plans. . . . In that case, I could use a hand with something. A little muscle?” He laughed at Mike’s question about which muscle. “All of them . . . Appreciate it.”

He hung up, looked at Barbie. “It’s probably stupid, huh? But who can resist a secret panel?”

He trooped downstairs, detoured into his office for a minute to imagine moving his work space to the third floor. Not a completely crazy idea, he decided. More . . . eccentric.

The wallpaper would have to go, and there would probably be some issues with heat and AC, plumbing. Eventually he’d have to figure out what, if anything, to do with the rest of the space up there.

But it was good to think about it.

Barbie’s head lifted. She let out a trio of barks seconds before the doorbell rang.

“Some ears you’ve got there,” Eli told her, and headed downstairs in her wake.

“Hey. You were quick.”

“You got me out of doing yard work—temporarily. Hey there.” Mike gave Barbie a rub as she sniffed his pants. “I heard you got a dog. What’s his name?”

“Her.” Eli struggled with a wince. “Barbie.”

“Dude.” Pain and sympathy covered Mike’s face. “Seriously?”

“She came with it.”

“You can use that unless you get her a buddy and call him Ken. I haven’t been in here for a while,” Mike added as he wandered the foyer. “Hell of a place. Maureen said your family came up for Easter. How’s Mrs. Landon doing?”

“Better. A lot better. I’m hoping she’ll be back in Bluff House by the end of summer.”

“It’ll be great having her back. Not that we want to kick you out of Whiskey Beach.”

“I’m staying.”

“No shit?” Mike’s grin stretched as he gave Eli a punch on the shoulder. “Man, glad to hear it. We could use some fresh meat in our monthly poker games. And we’d class it up holding it here when you’re up.”

“What’s the buy in?”

“Fifty. We’re small-time.”

“Let me know next time you’re setting up. The thing’s upstairs,” Eli said, gesturing and turning for the steps. “Third floor.”

“Cool. I’ve never been up there.”

“It hasn’t been used since I was a kid. We would play up there in bad weather, and once or twice we got to bunk up there, tell ghost stories. Just storage now, really.”

“So, we’re hauling something down?”

“No. Just moving a piece. Big-ass armoire. Double armoire,” he added as they topped the stairs. “In here.”

“Nice space, bad wallpaper.”

“Tell me.”

Mike scanned the room, landed on the armoire. “Big mother.” He crossed to it, ran his fingers over the carved front. “A beauty. Mahogany, right?”

“I think.”

“I’ve got a cousin who brokers antiques. He’d piss his pants at a chance on this. Where are we moving it?”

“Just out a few feet.” At Mike’s blank look, Eli shrugged. “So . . . there’s a panel behind it.”

“A panel?”

“A passageway.”

“F*cking A!” As he punched a fist in the air, Mike’s face lit up. “Like a secret passage? Where does it go?”

“All the way down to the basement, from what I’m told. Just told. I had no idea. They were servants’ passages,” Eli explained. “They made my grandmother nervous, so she closed them up, but she just blocked off this one, and the one in the basement.”

“This is very cool.” Mike rubbed his hands together. “Let’s move this sucker.”

Easier said, they discovered. Since they couldn’t lift it, and trying to shove it from either side proved impossible, they realigned, both on one end, then both on the other, walking it out a couple inches at a time.

“Next time we get a crane.” Straightening, Mike rolled his aching shoulders.

“How the hell did they get it up here?”

“Ten men, and one woman telling them it might look better on the other wall. And if you tell Maureen I said that, I’ll swear you’re a dirty liar.”

“You just helped me move a ten-ton armoire. My loyalty is yours. See here? You can just see the edge of the panel. The ugly wallpaper mostly camouflages it, but when you know it’s there . . .”

He felt around the chair rail, sliding his fingers over, under until they hit the release. When he heard the faint click, he looked at Mike.

“You game?”

“Are you kidding? Game is my middle name. Open her up.”

Eli pressed on the panel, felt it give slightly, then open an inch in his direction. “Swings out,” he murmured, and pulled it fully open.

He saw a narrow landing, then the drop of steep steps into the dark. Automatically, he felt the inside wall for a switch, and was surprised to find one.

But when he flipped it, nothing happened.

“Either there’s no electricity in there, or no light. I’ll get a couple of flashlights.”

“And maybe a loaf of bread. For the crumbs,” Mike explained. “And a big stick, in case of rats. Just the flashlights then,” he said to Eli’s stony stare.

“Be right back.”

He grabbed a couple of beers while he was at it. The least he could do.

“Better than a loaf of bread.” Mike took the beer and a flashlight, shone the light upward in the passage. “No lightbulb.”

“I’ll get some next time.” Armed with the flashlight, Eli stepped into the passage. “Pretty narrow, but wider than I figured. I guess they’d need the space for carrying trays and whatever. The steps feel sound, but watch it.”

“Snakes, very dangerous. You go first.”

Snorting out a laugh, Eli started down. “I doubt we’ll find a detested butler’s skeletal remains or the dying words of a feckless housemaid carved into the wall.”

“Maybe a ghost. It’s spooky enough.”

And dusty and dank. The steps creaked underfoot, but at least no rats gleamed out with red eyes.

Eli paused when his light played over another panel. “Let me think.” And orient himself. “This should come out on the second-floor landing. See how it forks here? That one should come out in my grandmother’s bedroom. That’s always been the master, as far as I know. God, we’d have killed to have these open when we were kids. I could’ve snuck around, jumped out and scared the shit out of my sister.”

“Which is exactly why your grandmother sealed up the doors.”

“Yeah.”

“Thinking of opening them again?”

“Yeah. No reason to, but yeah.”

“Cool is its own reason.”

They followed the passage, going down or taking a turn. From the blueprint in his head, Eli judged the panels had once opened in strategic places throughout the house, into parlors, the kitchen, a sitting room, a hallway and down to the depths of the basement.

“Hell. Should’ve moved the shelves barricading the other side first.” But he found the lever, drew the door to him so he and Mike peered through old pots and rusted tools and into the basement.

“You’ve got to unseal this, man. Think of the Halloween parties.”

But he was thinking of something else. “I could set him up,” he murmured.

“Huh?”

“The a*shole breaking in here, digging down here. I’ve got to think about this.”

“Stake yourself out in here, lure him in. Classic ambush,” Mike agreed. “Then what?”

“I’m thinking about it.” He closed the door, vowing to move the shelves, formulate a plan.

“Let me know. I wouldn’t mind being in on catching that guy. Maureen’s still pretty freaked,” Mike said as they started back up. “I don’t know if she’ll really relax until they catch the guy, especially when most of us figure he’s the same one who plugged the PI. Stands to reason.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“And when she found out he planted that gun in Abra’s place, she super freaked.”

“Can’t blame her for— What? What gun? What are you talking about?”

“The gun Abra found in her . . . Oh.” After a pained wince, Mike stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Well, shit, she didn’t tell you.”

“No, she damn well didn’t tell me. But you’re going to.”

“Get me another beer and my guts are spilled.”