Whiskey Beach

Chapter Twenty-six

KIRBY DUNCAN’S OFFICE TOOK UP A SQUARE OF MISERLY space in a scarred brick building that had bypassed any attempt at urban revitalization. It bumped against the cracked sidewalk with its first-floor display windows touting psychic readings on one side, an adult toy shop on the other.

“Almost one-stop shopping,” Abra considered. “You can go to Madam Carlotta and find out if you’re going to get lucky enough to consider dropping a few bucks in The Red Room.”

“If you have to ask a psychic, you’re probably not going to get lucky.”

“I read tarot,” she reminded him. “It’s an ancient and interesting form of seeking knowledge and self-awareness.”

“It’s cards.” He opened the center door and stepped into a skinny lobby and steps leading up.

“I’m definitely doing a reading for you. Your mind’s too closed off to possibilities, especially for a writer.”

“As a lawyer, I defended an alleged psychic a few years back for bilking clients out of a considerable amount of money.”

“People who bilk other people don’t have a real gift or calling. Did you win?”

“Yeah, only because her clients were wide open to possibilities, and deeply stupid.”

She gave him a light elbow jab, but she laughed.

On the second level, frosted glass doors advertised BAXTER TREMAINE, ATTORNEY AT LAW, something called QUIKEE LOANS, another outfit called ALLIED ANSWERING SERVICE, and KIRBY DUNCAN, PRIVATE INVESTIGATION.

Police tape crossed over Duncan’s frosted glass.

“I’d hoped we could go in, look around.”

“Open murder case.” Eli shrugged. “They want to keep the scene of the break-in secure. Wolfe would be part of this. He doesn’t let go easily.”

“We can go down and talk to the psychic, see if Madam Carlotta has any insight.”

He spared her a glance then walked to the lawyer’s door.

In the broom-closet space of reception a woman on the slippery end of forty pecked industriously at a keyboard.

She paused, pulled the gold cheaters from her face so they dangled by the braided chain around her neck.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for information on Kirby Duncan.”

Though her law office smile stayed in place, she eyed both of them through cynical eyes. “You’re not cops.”

“No, ma’am. We’d hoped to consult with Mr. Duncan on a . . . personal matter while we’re in Boston. We just came by hoping he could squeeze us in, then saw the police tape over his door. Was there a break-in?”

Her eyes remained cynical, but she swiveled her chair around to face them more directly. “Yes. The police haven’t cleared the scene yet.”

“That’s too bad.”

“And another reason not to live in the city,” Abra put in with the faintest of southern drawls. Eli merely patted her arm.

“Is Mr. Duncan working out of another office? I should’ve called him, but I couldn’t find his card. I remembered where the office was. Maybe you could direct us to where he’s working now, or maybe you have his number so we can call him?”

“It won’t do you any good. Mr. Duncan was shot and killed a few weeks ago.”

“Oh my God!” Abra gripped Eli’s arm. “I want to go. I really just want to go home.”

“Not here,” the receptionist qualified, and added with a thin smile, “And not in the city. He was working up north, a place called Whiskey Beach.”

“This is terrible. Just terrible. Mr. Duncan helped me with a . . .”

“Personal problem,” the receptionist supplied.

“Yes, a couple of years ago. He was a nice guy. I’m really sorry. I guess you knew him.”

“Sure. Kirby did some work for my boss from time to time, and for the loan company across the hall.”

“I’m really sorry,” Eli repeated. “Thanks for your help.” He took a step back, stopped. “But . . . you said he was up north, but there was a break-in here. I don’t understand.”

“The cops are working on that. It looks like whoever killed him came looking for something here. All I know is he told the boss he’d be in the field for a few days. The next thing I know there’s police tape on the door, and the cops are asking if I saw anything or anyone suspicious. I didn’t, though you can get some of that here with people looking for help with personal problems.”

“I guess.”

“The way I hear it, it happened the same night he was killed, or most likely. So there wouldn’t have been anyone around to see anything. So . . . I can give you a referral to another investigator.”

“I just want to go.” Abra tugged at Eli’s hand. “Can we just go home, deal with this there?”

“Yeah. All right. Thanks anyway. It’s a real shame.”

When they stepped out Eli considered trying one of the other two offices, but he didn’t see the point. Abra stayed quiet until they headed down the stairs.

“You’re really good at that.”

“At what?”

“Lying.”

“Prevaricating.”

“Is that what lawyers call it?”

“No, we call it lying.”

She laughed, bumped shoulders with him. “I don’t know what I expected to find out coming here. The break-in happened either really late at night or early in the morning. No one would’ve seen anything.”

“I got something out of it.”

“Share,” she insisted as they got back in the car.

“If we go with the theory Suskind hired Duncan, you’ve got an upper-middle-class type. A suit type, family-in-a-big-house-in-the-pretty-burbs type. Status is important to him. But when he hires an investigator he goes down-market.”

“Maybe someone recommended him.”

“I doubt it. I think he didn’t want high-end with high rates for two reasons. One, he didn’t want anyone who might have done work for anyone in his own circle. Two, and I think more telling, he’d be hit with a lot of expenses.”

“He bought a beach house,” Abra began.

“An investment toward the jackpot. And he attempts, at least, to hide his ownership.”

“Because he knows he’s headed for a divorce. The man’s a worm,” Abra stated. “On the karma wheel, he’ll come back as a slug next.”

“I’m open to that possibility,” Eli decided. “In his current slot on the karma wheel, he’s going to have legal fees—and he’ll go high-end there—child support, marital settlement. I’m thinking he paid Duncan in cash, to keep it off the books. No record of the outlay when he has to show his finances to the lawyers.”

“He still had to break in, search, because an investigator’s going to keep records of clients, even cash transactions.”

“Files, electronic or paper, copies of cash receipts, a logbook, client list,” Eli agreed. “He wouldn’t want to be connected as a client of an investigator hired to shadow me, who’d ended up dead. Very sticky.”

“Very.” She considered. “He probably never came here, did he, to the office?”

“Probably not. He’d want to meet somewhere like a coffee shop or bar. Not in his area or Duncan’s.” Eli pulled up at another building—steel and block.

“This is where he lived?”

“Second floor. Dicey area.”

“What does that tell you?”

“That Duncan felt he could handle himself, wasn’t worried about his car getting stripped, his neighbors screwing with him. Tough guy maybe, or just one who figured he knew the score and how to play the game. Someone like that wouldn’t think twice about meeting a client alone.”

“Do you want to go in, talk to some of the neighbors?”

“No point. The cops would have already. Suskind wouldn’t have come here other than to go through the apartment. Not only because he wouldn’t have a reason to meet Duncan here, but because this area would scare him. South Boston’s not his turf.”

“It’s not yours either, whiskey baron.”

“That’s my father, or my sister the baroness. Anyway, I’ve done some pro bono work out of Southie. Not my turf, no, but not uncharted territory. Well, I guess we hit the highlights, or more like the lowlights.”

“He was just doing his job,” Abra said. “I didn’t like him, or didn’t like the way he was doing his job the time he talked to me, but he didn’t deserve to die for doing his job.”

“No, he didn’t. But you could consider he’s getting another spin on the karma wheel.”

“I know pandering when I hear it, but well done. And I’ll do just that.”

“There you go. Let’s go see how Gran’s doing before we head back.”

“Would you drive me by the house where you lived with Lindsay?”

“Why?”

“So I can get a sense of who you were.”

He hesitated, then thought, Why not? Why not do the full circle? “Okay.”

It felt odd to travel those roads, to head in that direction. He hadn’t been by the house in the Back Bay since he’d been allowed to clear out what he wanted. Once he had, he’d hired a company to sell the rest, then he’d put the house on the market.

He’d thought cutting those ties would help, but he couldn’t say it had. He passed shops and restaurants that had once been part of his routine. The bar where he’d often had drinks with friends, the day spa Lindsay had favored, the Chinese place with its incredible kung pao chicken and grinning delivery boy. The pretty trees and trim yards of what had once been his neighborhood.

When he pulled up in front of the house, he said nothing.

The new owners had added an ornamental tree to the front, something with weeping branches just starting to bloom in delicate pink. He saw a tricycle on the front walk, bright red and cheerful.

The rest looked the same, didn’t it? The same peaks and angles, the same glinting windows and wide front door.

So why did it seem so foreign?

“It doesn’t look like you,” Abra said beside him.

“It doesn’t?”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s too ordinary. It’s big, and beautiful in its way. Beautiful like a stylish coat, but the coat doesn’t fit you, at least it doesn’t fit you now. Maybe it fit the you with the Hermès tie and Italian suit and lawyerly briefcase who stopped in the local coffee shop for an overpriced specialty coffee while he answered texts on his phone. But that’s not you.”

She turned to him. “Was it?”

“I guess it was. Or that was the road I was on, whether or not the coat fit.”

“How about now?”

“I don’t want the coat back.” He studied her. “When the house finally sold a few months ago, it was a relief. Like shedding a layer of skin that had gotten too tight. Is that why you wanted to come by here? So I’d admit that, or see that?”

“It’s a nice side benefit, but primarily, I was nosy. I had a coat not that different once. It felt good to give it to someone it suited more. Let’s go see Hester.”

Another familiar route, from one home to another. As the distance increased from the Back Bay, the tension in his shoulders eased. Automatically he stopped at the florist near his family home.

“I like to get her something.”

“The good grandson.” Pleased, she got out with him. “If I’d been thinking, we could’ve gotten something in Whiskey Beach. She’d have gotten a kick out of that.”

“Next time.”

Abra smiled as they went in. “Next time.”

Abra wandered, leaving the selection to him. She wanted to see what he’d choose, and how he’d go about it. She hoped he didn’t go for the roses, however beautiful. Too expected, too usual.

It pleased her when he went for the blue iris and mated them with some pink Asiatic lilies.

“That’s perfect. It says spring, and boldly. Very, very Hester.”

“I want her home before the end of summer.”

Abra leaned her head against his shoulder while the florist wrapped and rang. “So do I.”

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Landon.” The florist offered Eli a pen to sign the receipt. “Give our best to your family.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“Why do you look so surprised?” Abra asked as they started out.

“I got used to people I knew in my other life . . . we’ll say, either pretending not to know me or just walking away.”

She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Not everyone’s an a*shole,” she said.

And they walked out to where Wolfe stood by Eli’s car. For a moment, past and present overlapped.

“Nice flowers.”

“And legal,” Abra said cheerfully. “They have more nice ones inside if you’re in the mood.”

“You’ve got business in Boston?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Eli.

“As a matter of fact.” He started to step around Wolfe to open the car door for Abra.

“Why don’t you explain what business you had in Duncan’s office building, asking questions?”

“That’s legal, too.” Eli handed the flowers to Abra to free his hands.

“Some people can’t resist going back to the scene of the crime.”

“And some can’t resist beating a dead horse. Is there anything else, Detective?”

“Just that I’m going to keep on digging. The horse isn’t buried yet.”

“Oh, that’s just enough!” Incensed, Abra shoved the flowers back at Eli, then dug into her bag. “Here, take a look. This is the man who’s been breaking into Bluff House.”

“Abra—”

“No.” She rounded on Eli. “Enough. This is the man I saw in the bar that night, and the man who most likely grabbed me when I was in Bluff House. This is the man who almost certainly killed Duncan Kirby—someone you knew—and then planted the gun in my house before making that anonymous call to you. And if you’d stop being ridiculous you’d ask yourself why Justin Suskind bought a house in Whiskey Beach, why he hired Duncan, why he killed him. Maybe he didn’t kill Lindsay, but maybe he did. Maybe he knows something because he’s a criminal. So be a cop and do something about it.”

She grabbed the flowers back, wrenched open the door herself. “Enough,” she repeated, and slammed it shut.

“Your girlfriend’s got a temper.”

“You push buttons, Detective. I’m going to visit my grandmother, then I’m going back to Whiskey Beach. I’m going to live my life. You do whatever you have to do.”

He got in the car, yanked on his seat belt and drove away.

“I’m sorry.” Leaning her head back, Abra closed her eyes a moment, tried to find her center again. “I’m sorry, I probably made it worse.”

“No, you didn’t. You surprised him. And the sketch of Suskind surprised him. I don’t know what he’ll do about it, but you caught him off guard.”

“Small consolation. I don’t like him, and nothing he does or doesn’t do is going to change that. Now . . .” She let out a couple of long, deep breaths. “Clear the air, settle the mind. I don’t want Hester to see I’m upset.”

“I thought it was mad.”

“Not that different.”

“It is when you do it.”

She thought that over as he turned the last corner to the Beacon Hill house.

And this, she decided, was more Eli. Maybe because the house exuded, to her, the sense of history and generational family. She liked the feel of it, the lines, the landscape so long established, colored now with early spring bloomers.

She put the flowers back in his hand as they walked to the door. “The good grandson.”

And they went in to see Hester.

They found her in her sitting room with a sketchbook, a glass of cold tea and a small plate of cookies. Setting the sketchbook and her pencil aside, she held out both hands.

“Just what I needed to cheer up my day.”

“You look tired,” Eli said immediately.

“I have good reason. I just finished my daily physical therapy. You just missed meeting the Marquis de Sade.”

“If it’s too hard on you, we should—”

“Oh, stop.” She waved that away with one impatient flick of the wrist. “Jim’s wonderful, and has a nice sharp humor that keeps me on my toes. He knows what I can handle, and how hard to push. But after a session, I’m tired out. Now I’m reviving seeing both of you, and those gorgeous flowers.”

“I thought I might have to step in, point Eli in the right direction, but it turns out he has excellent taste. Why don’t I take them down to Carmel, so we can put them in a vase for you?”

“Thank you. Have you had lunch? We can all go down. Eli, give me a hand.”

“Why don’t you just sit for a while first.” To close that deal, he sat himself. “We’ll go down after you recover from de Sade.” He gave Abra a nod, then turned to Hester when she took the flowers out. “You don’t have to push so hard.”

“You forget who you’re talking to. Pushing hard is what gets things done. I’m glad you came, glad you brought Abra.”

“It’s not as hard to come into Boston now.”

“We’re working on healing, both of us.”

“I didn’t push very hard in the early days of it.”

“Neither did I. We had to get some traction first.”

He smiled. “I love you, Gran.”

“You’d better. Your mother should be home in about two hours, though your father won’t until after six. Are you going to stay to see your mother at least?”

“That’s the plan, then we’ll head back. I have a house and a dog to look after.”

“Looking after things is good for you. We’ve come a long way, both of us, in the last few months.”

“I thought I’d lost you. We all did. I guess I thought I’d lost myself.”

“Yet here we are. Tell me how the book’s coming.”

“I think it’s coming okay. Some days are better than others, and sometimes I think it’s just crap. But either way being able to write makes me wonder why I haven’t done it all along.”

“You had a talent for the law, Eli. It’s a pity you couldn’t make that your hobby, or we could say a sideline, and writing your vocation. You could do that now.”

“Maybe I could. I think we all know I’d have been lousy in the family business. Tricia was always the one to follow in those footsteps.”

“And damn good at it.”

“She is, but even though it wasn’t for me, I’ve been learning more about it, or its history. Paying more attention to all its roots and beginnings.”

Her eyes lit with approval. “You’ve been spending time in the library at Bluff House.”

“Yeah, I have. Your grandmother-in-law ran whiskey.”

“She did. I wish I’d known her better. What I do remember is a feisty, hardheaded Irishwoman. She intimidated me some.”

“She must have been formidable to do that.”

“She was. Your grandfather adored her.”

“I’ve seen photos—quite the looker—and found more poking around Bluff House. But the roots of Landon Whiskey go back a lot further, to the Revolution.”

“Innovation, the heart of gamblers, the head of businessmen, risk and reward. And the understanding people enjoy a good stiff drink. Of course, the war helped, as cold-blooded as that is. Fighting men needed whiskey, wounded men needed it. In a very true way, Landon Whiskey was forged in a fight against tyranny and a quest for liberty.”

“Spoken like a true Yankee.”

Abra came back with a vase of artfully arranged flowers. “They’re absolutely beautiful.”

“They really are. Should I put them in here, or in your bedroom?”

“In here. I’m spending more time sitting than lying down these days, thank God. Now that Abra’s back, why don’t we talk about what you really want to know.”

“You think you’re smart,” Eli said.

“I know I am.”

He grinned, nodded. “We’re winding around what I really want to know. My way of thinking is the history of the house, of the business, might have some part in the whole. I just haven’t figured it all out. But we can jump forward a couple of centuries.”

“I can’t see his face.” Hester fisted a hand in her lap. The emerald she often wore on her right hand fired at the gesture. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, even meditation—which, you know, Abra, I don’t do particularly well. All I see, or remember, is shadows, movement, the impression of a man—that shape. I remember waking up, thinking I heard noises, then convincing myself I hadn’t. I know I was wrong about that now. I remember getting up, going to the stairs, then the movement, the shape, the impression, and the instinct to get downstairs and away. That’s all. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Eli told her. “It was dark. You may not remember a face because you didn’t see it, or not distinctly enough. Tell me about the sounds you heard.”

“I remember them better, or think I do. I thought I’d been dreaming, and may very well have been. I thought, Squirrels in the chimney. We had them once, long ago, but we put in guards, of course, since then. Then there was creaking, and half asleep I thought, Who’s upstairs? Then I woke up fully, decided I’d imagined it and, restless, finally decided to go downstairs for some tea.”

“What about scents?” Abra asked.

“Dust. Sweat. Yes.” Eyes closed, Hester focused. “Odd, I didn’t realize that until now, until you asked.”

“If he came down from the third floor, is there anything up there, anything you can think of he would’ve been after?”

She shook her head at Eli. “Most of what’s up there is sentiment and history, and what no longer fits in the practical living space. There are some wonderful things—clothes, keepsakes, journals, old household ledgers, photos.”

“I’ve been through a lot of it.”

“It’s on my long-range plan to have a couple of experts in, catalog for, eventually, a Whiskey Beach museum.”

“What a wonderful idea.” It made Abra beam. “You never told me.”

“It’s still in the planning-to-plan stages.”

“Household ledgers,” Eli thought aloud.

“Yes, and account books, guest lists, copies of invitations. I haven’t been through everything for a long time, and honestly really never through it all. Things change, times change. Your grandfather and I didn’t need a big staff after the children left, so we started using the third floor for storage. I tried painting up there for a year or two. There was only Bertie and Edna by the time Eli died. You must remember them, young Eli.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“When they retired, I didn’t have the heart to have any live-ins. I only had the house and myself to look after. I can only think this person was up there out of curiosity or hoped to find something.”

“Is there anything up there that goes back to the Landons from the time of the Calypso wreck?”

“There must be. The Landons have always been ones for preserving. The more valuable items from that time, and others, are displayed throughout the house, but there would be some flotsam and jetsam on the third floor.”

Her eyebrows drew together as she tried to think. “I neglected that area, I suppose. Just stopped seeing it, and told myself I’d get around to hiring those experts one day. He might have thought there’d be maps, which is foolish. If we’d known X marked the spot, we’d have dug up the dowry ourselves long before this. Or he assumed there’d be a journal, one of Violeta Landon’s perhaps. But the story goes that after her brother killed her lover, she destroyed her journals, their love letters and all of it. If indeed they existed. If they did and survived, I should have heard of them, or come across them at some point.”

“Okay. Do you remember getting any calls, inquiries, having anyone come by asking about brokering some of the mementos, the antiques, anyone asking for access because they were writing a story, a book?”

“Lord, Eli, I can’t count the times. The only thing that’s tempted me to hire anyone but Abra was the idea of having someone deal with the inquiries.”

“Nothing that really stands out?”

“No, nothing that comes to mind.”

“Let me know if you think of anything.” And she’d had enough, Eli judged, and looked a little pale again. “What’s for lunch?”

“We should go down and find out.”

He helped her up, but when he started to lift her, she brushed him back. “I don’t need to be carried. I manage well enough with the cane.”

“Maybe, but I like playing Rhett Butler.”

“He wasn’t carrying his grandmother downstairs to lunch,” she said when Eli scooped her into his arms.

“But he would have.”

Abra retrieved the cane, and as she watched Eli carry Hester downstairs, understood completely why she’d fallen in love.