Whiskey Beach

Chapter Nine

WHEN KIRBY DUNCAN CLOSED THE DOOR AFTER THE county deputy left, he walked straight to the bottle of Stoli on the windowsill, poured two fingers.

Son of a bitch, he thought as he downed it.

It was a damn good thing he’d had receipts—one for a fancy coffee a few blocks from the Landon house, and another for gas and a ham and cheese at a pit stop a few miles south of Whiskey Beach.

Once he’d determined Landon had been driving home, he pulled off to fuel up the car and himself. Damn good thing. The receipts proved he hadn’t been anywhere near Bluff House at the time of the break-in. Otherwise, he was damn near sure he’d have been explaining himself to the local cops, in-house.

Son of a bitch.

Could be coincidence, he thought. Somebody just happens to pick the exact night he reports to his client Landon is in Boston for the evening for a break-in?

And pigs fly south for the winter.

He didn’t like being played. He’d stand behind or in front of a client, as need be, but not when the client screwed with him.

Not when a client used him—without his knowledge or consent—to break into a house. And sure as hell not when the client roughs up a woman.

He’d have taken a tour inside Bluff House himself if the client had directed him, and he’d have taken his lumps if he’d been caught at it.

But he wouldn’t have laid hands on a woman.

Time to put cards on the table, he decided, or for the client to find a new dog, because this dog didn’t hunt for clients who knocked women around.

Duncan snatched his cell phone off the charger, made the call. He was just pissed enough not to give a good damn about the hour.

“Yeah, it’s Duncan, and yeah, I got something. What I’ve got is a county deputy questioning me over a break-in and an attack on a woman at Bluff House tonight.”

He poured himself another shot of vodka, listened a moment. “You don’t want to bullshit me. I don’t work for people who bullshit me. I’ve got no problem doing a dance for the locals, but not when I don’t know the tune. Yeah, they asked who I was working for, and no, I didn’t tell them. This time. But when I’ve got a client who uses me to clear a path to break into the house of the guy I’m paid to investigate, and that client goes after a woman in the house, I’ve got my own questions. What I do from here on depends on the answers. I’m not risking my license. Right now I’ve got information about a crime that includes assaulting a woman, and that makes me an accessory. So you better have some damn good answers or we’re done, and if the cops come back on me, I give them your name. That’s right. Fine.”

Duncan checked the time. What the hell, he thought, he was too pissed to sleep anyway. “I’ll be there.”

He sat at his computer first, typed up detailed notes. He intended to cover every square inch of his ass. And if necessary, he’d take those detailed notes straight to the county sheriff.

The break-in was one thing, and bad enough. But the assault on the woman? That tipped the scales.

But he’d give the client a chance to explain. Sometimes the dumb shits just watched too much TV, got in over their heads, and God knew he’d had dumb shits for clients before this.

So they’d clear the air, and he’d make his position just as clear. No more bullshit. Leave the investigating to the professionals.

Calmer now, Duncan dressed. He gargled away the vodka. Never a good idea to meet a client with alcohol on the breath. He strapped on his 9mm out of habit, then dragged on a warm sweater, topped it with a windbreaker.

He pocketed his keys, his recorder, his wallet, then slipped out of his room by his private entrance.

That little perk had cost him an extra fifteen a day, but it kept his cheerful hostess from knowing his comings and goings.

He considered his car, then opted to walk. The drive to and from Boston, the hours outside the Landon house, he could use the walk.

While he considered himself an avowed urbanite, he liked the quiet of the village, the middle-of-the-night Brigadoon feel to it with everything shut down, closed up, and the sound of waves rumbling nearby.

A few fingers of ground fog crawled in, adding to the otherworldly atmosphere. The storm had passed, but it left the air thick with wet, and the sky too heavy to show the moon.

The flick and flash of the lighthouse on the point added to the out-of-time feel. He headed toward it, using the time to decide just how to handle the situation.

All in all, now that he’d calmed down, it was probably best to call it a day. If you couldn’t trust the client, the work suffered. Added to it, Landon didn’t do a goddamn thing. After several days of surveillance, of interviewing the locals, the most damaging information was wholesale gossip from a chatty gift shop clerk.

Maybe Landon killed his wife—doubtful, but maybe. But Duncan didn’t foresee any major revelations bursting out of the beach town or the house on the bluff.

Maybe he’d be persuaded to stay on the job—if it meant going back to Boston, doing some digging there, taking a look at the reports, the evidence from another angle. Talking the case over with Wolfe.

But question-and-answer time first.

He wanted to know why his client broke into the house. And he wanted to know if it was the first time.

Not that Duncan objected to a little professional B&E. But it was just stupid to think there was something inside that house to tie Landon to the murder of his wife, back in Boston, a year earlier.

And now the local cops would keep closer tabs on the house, on Landon and on the PI hired to snoop.

Amateurs, Duncan thought, puffing a little as he climbed the steep path to the rocky point where the Whiskey Beach lighthouse speared up into the gloom.

Fog swirled, clawing up a little higher here, muffling his footsteps, turning the lashing of water against rock into an echoing drumbeat.

Spoiled the view, too, he realized when he’d reached the lighthouse. Maybe he’d make a hike back if the next day came clear, on his way back to Boston.

Decision made, he realized. A job could bore you. A client could piss you off. An investigation could hit a dead end. But when you combined all three in one? It was time to cut your losses.

He shouldn’t have popped off at the client the way he did, he admitted. But Jesus, what a bone-headed move.

He turned at the sound of footsteps, saw the client step through the fog.

“You put me in a hell of a spot,” Duncan began. “We need to get this sorted out.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Well, we can call bygones on that if you—”

He didn’t see the gun. As with the footsteps, the fog muffled the shots so they sounded low, thick, odd. They puzzled him in that instant of shocking pain.

He never reached for his own gun; it never occurred to him.

He fell, eyes wide, mouth working. But the words were only gurgles. He heard, as if from a great distance, his killer’s voice.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

He didn’t feel hands searching, taking his phone, his recorder, his keys, his weapon.

But he felt cold—biting, numbing cold. And unspeakable pain through it as his body was dragged to the edge over rocky ground.

For an instant he thought he was flying, wind rushing cool over his face. Then the thundering water swallowed him as he hit the rocks below.

Not supposed to be like this. Too late, much too late to turn back. Moving forward was the only choice. No more mistakes. No more hiring detectives—anyone—who couldn’t be trusted, who couldn’t be loyal.

Do what needed to be done until it was done.

Maybe they’d suspect Landon had killed the detective, as they had with Lindsay.

But Landon had killed Lindsay.

Who else could have? Would have?

Maybe Landon would pay for Lindsay through Duncan. Sometimes justice was serpentine.

For now, the most important thing was to clear out the detective’s room, take everything that could possibly connect them. And the same needed to be done in Duncan’s office, at his home.

A lot of work.

Best get started.

When Eli came downstairs in the morning he checked the living room. The throw he’d tucked around Abra when she conked out on the sofa lay artfully spread over the back. And, he noted, her boots weren’t by the front door.

Better, he thought. Much less awkward after that unexpected and uncomfortable moment between them the night before. Better that he had the house to himself again.

More or less, he thought when he smelled coffee—saw the fresh pot—and the Post-it.

Did the woman have stock in the company? A never-ending supply?

Omelet in warming drawer. Don’t forget to turn it off. Fresh fruit in fridge.

Thanks for letting me stay on the couch.

I’ll check in later. CALL Vinnie!

“All right, all right. Jesus, do you mind if I have coffee first, see if I have a few brain cells to fire up?”

He poured coffee, added his dollop of cream and rubbed the insistent knots at the back of his neck. He’d call Vinnie; he didn’t need to be reminded. He just wanted a minute before dealing with cops and questions. Again.

And maybe he didn’t want a damn omelet. Who asked her to make a damn omelet? he thought as he yanked the warming drawer open.

Maybe he just wanted . . . Damn, it looked really good.

He scowled at it, then took it out, grabbed a fork. And ate it while wandering to the window. Somehow, however stupid, it felt less like caving if he ate standing up.

Balancing the plate, he went outside, onto the terrace.

Brisk but not brutal today, he noted. And that brisk breeze blew the world clear again. Sun, surf, sand, sparkle—it eased some of the knots.

He watched a couple walking on the beach, hand in hand. Some people, he thought, were made for companionship, for coupling. He could envy them. He’d made such a mess of his only serious attempt he’d only escaped divorce through murder.

What did that say about him?

He took another bite of omelet as the strolling couple stopped to embrace.

Yes, he could envy them.

He thought of Abra. He wasn’t attracted to her.

And how incredibly stupid was it to lie to himself? Of course he was attracted. She had that face, that body, that way.

He’d rather not be attracted to her, that was accurate. He didn’t want to think about sex. He didn’t want to think about sex with her.

He just wanted to write, to escape into a world he created and to find his way back into the world he lived in.

He wanted to find out who killed Lindsay and why, because until he did, no amount of ocean breezes would blow that world clear again.

But wants didn’t deal with what was. And what was? A hole in the basement floor dug by a person or persons unknown.

Time to call the cops.

He went inside, set the plate in the sink and saw Abra had set Vinnie’s card against the kitchen phone.

He wanted to roll his eyes, but it saved him a trip upstairs to dig through his pants pocket where he’d stuck the card Vinnie’d given him.

He dialed the number.

“Deputy Hanson.”

“Hey, Vinnie, it’s Eli Landon.”

“Eli.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he began.

Within the hour, Eli stood with the county deputy studying the trench in the old basement.

“Well.” Vinnie scratched the back of his head. “That’s an interesting problem. So . . . you haven’t been digging holes down here?”

“No.”

“Are you sure Miss Hester didn’t hire somebody to . . . I don’t know. New plumbing lines or something?”

“I can be pretty sure of that. I can be pretty sure if she did, Abra would know about it. And since it’s obviously in progress, I can be pretty sure if it’s legitimate work, the person responsible would have contacted me.”

“Yeah. That’s not a hundred percent, but it’s close. And one more added on. If this was hired work, I’d’ve probably heard about it by now. Still, do you mind asking your grandmother?”

“I don’t want to do that.” Eli had juggled the pros and cons of that half the night. “I don’t want to upset her. I can look through her files, her bills. If she hired somebody, she had to pay. I’m no expert, Vinnie, but I’d say this is too deep for water pipes or what have you. Plus, what the hell would she be doing having something like that installed back here?”

“Just trying to eliminate the simple. Something like this? It’s going to take some time with these hand tools. Time and determination. And it meant getting in and out of the house.”

“Abra told me my grandmother had her change the alarm code and get the doors rekeyed. After she fell.”

“Huh.” Vinnie’s gaze shifted from the trench to Eli’s. “Is that right?”

“Gran didn’t have a reason, not one she could articulate, but she was adamant about it. She doesn’t clearly remember the fall, but I wonder if there’s an instinct, some buried memory, something that had her insisting on changing the security.”

“You find a hole in the basement and now you think Miss Hester’s fall wasn’t an accident.”

“Yeah, nutshell. Abra was assaulted last night. He had to cut the power to get in. He wasn’t expecting her. He knew I wasn’t here. Maybe he’s working with Duncan. Duncan knew I was in Boston. You said he showed you receipts, gave you timelines. He could’ve given the person who broke in the all-clear. I’m in Boston, get in, get digging.”

“For what?”

“Vinnie, you and I might shake our heads at the whole Esmeralda’s Dowry nonsense, but plenty don’t.”

“So somebody gets Ms. Landon’s key and passcode, copies them. I can go with that. It’s not that hard. He uses them to gain access to the basement, starts digging his ass off. One night he attacks her, knocks her down the stairs.”

“She can’t remember. Yet.”

As the image came, as it always did, of her lying broken, bleeding, Eli paced off the fury. “Maybe she heard something and came down. Maybe she just came down then heard something. She tried to get back up. Her bedroom door’s thick as a plank, and locks from the inside. Get in, call the cops. Or maybe he just scared her and she tripped. Either way, he left her there. Unconscious, bleeding, broken. He left her.”

“If it happened that way.” Vinnie put a hand on Eli’s shoulder. “If.”

“If. A lot of activity here for a couple weeks after she fell. The police, Abra in and out getting things for Gran. But then it settles down a little, and he can come back, keep digging. Until word gets out I’m coming to stay. Until Abra changes the security. Vinnie, he had to know the house would be empty for several hours yesterday. It had to come from Duncan.”

“We’ll talk to Duncan again. Meanwhile, I’m going to get somebody in here to take pictures, measurements. We’ll take the tools in. We’ll get them processed, but that’s going to take a little time. We’re small fries around here, Eli.”

“Understood.”

“Get that security fixed. We’ll add a couple more drive-bys. You ought to think about getting a dog.”

“A dog? Seriously?”

“They bark. They have teeth.” Vinnie’s shoulders lifted in a rolling shrug. “We’re not exactly a hotbed of crime over at South Point, but I like knowing there’s a dog in my house when I’m not. Anyway, I’ll get some people out here. Why dig way back here?” Vinnie wondered as they started back.

“It’s the oldest part of the house. This section was here when the Calypso went down off the coast.”

“So what’s his name, the survivor?”

“Giovanni Morenni, according to some. José Corez, according to others.”

“Yeah, them. And I’ve heard other stories that say it was Captain Broome himself. Arrgh!”

“And a hearty yo-ho,” Eli added.

“Either way, he drags the dowry box—which conveniently came ashore with him—up here, buries it? I always like the one where he stole a boat, went out and buried it on one of the offshore islands.”

“There’s the one where my ancestor came down, found him, brought him and the treasure to the house and nursed him back to health.”

“My wife likes that one. It’s romantic. Except for the part where your ancestor’s brother kills him and throws his body off the bluff.”

“And the dowry’s never seen again. The fact is, whatever the theory, the man who did this is a believer.”

“Looks that way. I’ll stop by the B-and-B, take another pass at Duncan.”

It wasn’t the way Eli would’ve chosen to spend the day, dealing with cops, the power company, insurance company, alarm security techs. The house felt too crowded, too busy, and brought home to him how much he’d grown accustomed to space, quiet, solitude. He’d discovered an aptitude for quiet and solitude at odds with the life he once led. Gone were the days filled with appointments, meetings, people, the evenings filled with parties and events.

He wasn’t sorry about it. If a day spent answering questions, making decisions, filling out forms struck as an anomaly, he decided he could live with it.

And when at last the house and grounds were empty again, he let out one sigh of relief.

Before he heard the mudroom door open.

“Jesus, what now?” He crossed over, opened the interior door.

Abra took one of the market bags weighing down her shoulders, set it on the washer. “You needed a few things.”

“I did?”

“You did.” She pulled out a bottle of laundry detergent, put it inside a white cabinet. “It looks like you’re hooked back up.”

“Yeah. We’ve got a new security code.” He dug in his pocket for the note, handed it to her. “You’ll need it, I guess.”

“Unless you want to run downstairs on my mornings.” She glanced at it, tucked it in her purse. “I ran into Vinnie,” she continued, moving past Eli and into the kitchen. “So I told him I’d pass along that Kirby Duncan appears to have checked out. He didn’t formally, as in telling Kathy at the B-and-B he’d be leaving early, but his things are gone. Vinnie said to call if you had any questions.”

“He just left?”

“So it seems,” she said as she emptied the bags. “Vinnie’s going to reach out, don’t you love that? Such a cop term. He’ll reach out to the Boston PD, as if they’ll follow up with Duncan due to the excavation in your basement. But since he’s gone he can’t snoop around and invade your privacy. That’s good news.”

“Did the client pull him back? I wonder. Fire him? Did Duncan just cut his losses?”

“Can’t say.” She tucked a box of wheat crackers into a cupboard. “But I do know he was paid up through Sunday, and had made some noises about possibly extending his stay. Then poof, packed up and gone. I’m not sorry. I didn’t like him.”

With the groceries put away, she folded her bags, slid them into her purse. “So, I think this calls for a celebration.”

“What does?”

“No snooping private investigations, the power’s back on and your security is once more secure. That’s a productive day after a really crappy night. You should come into the pub for a drink later. Good music tonight, and you can hang out with Maureen and Mike.”

“I lost most of the day on all this. I need to catch up.”

“Excuses.” She tapped a finger to his chest. “Everybody can use a little lift on a Friday night. A cold beer, some music and conversation. Plus your waitress, who would be me, wears a really short skirt. I’m going to grab a water for the ride,” she said, turning to open the fridge.

He slapped a hand on the door, making her eyebrows arch as she turned back. “No water for me?”

“Why do you keep pushing?”

“I don’t think of it that way.” He crowded her in, she realized. Interesting. And whether he realized it or not, sexy. “I’m sorry that you do. I’d like to see you there in a casual, social setting. Because it would be good for you, and because I’d like to see you. And maybe you need to see me in a short skirt so you can decide if you’re interested in me or not.”

He crowded her in a bit more, but instead of stirring caution or wariness—probably his intent—it stirred lust.

“You’re pushing buttons you shouldn’t.”

“Who can resist pushing a button when it’s right there?” she countered. “I don’t understand that kind of person or that kind of self-denial. Why shouldn’t I want to know if you’re attracted to me before I let myself be any more attracted to you? It seems fair.”

So much going on in there, she thought. Like a storm circling.

Hoping to calm it, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m not afraid of you, Eli.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Which would be part of my point. I’d like to know you before I get in any deeper. Anyway, I don’t have to know you, the way you mean, to have a sense of you or to be attracted. I don’t think you’re a nice harmless teddy bear any more than I think you’re a cold-blooded killer. There’s a lot of anger under the sad, and I don’t blame you for it. In fact, I understand it. Exactly.”

He shifted back, and his hands found his pockets. Self-denial, she thought, because she knew when a man wanted to touch her. And he did.

“I’m not looking to be attracted to you or involved with you. Or anyone.”

“Believe me, I get that. I felt exactly the same way before I met you. It’s why I’ve been on a sexual fast.”

His eyebrows drew in. “A what?”

“I’ve been fasting from sex. Which could be another reason I’m attracted. Fasts have to come to an end sometime, and here you are. New, good-looking, intriguing and clever when you forget to brood. And you need me.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Oh, bullshit. Just bullshit.” The quick flash of temper caught him off guard, as did the light shove. “There’s food in this house because I put it there, and you’re eating it because I fix it for you. You’ve already put on a few pounds, and you’re losing that gaunt look in your face. You have clean socks because I wash them, and you have someone who listens when you talk, which you occasionally do without me using verbal crowbars to open you up. You have someone who believes in you, and everyone needs that.”

She stalked over, grabbed her purse, then slammed it down again. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever gone through something horrible, something out of their control? The only one who’s been damaged and had to learn to heal, to rebuild a life? You can’t rebuild a life by building barriers. They don’t keep you safe, Eli. They just keep you alone.”

“Alone works for me,” he snapped back.

“Just more bullshit. Some alone, some space, sure. Most of us need it. But we need human contact, connections, relationships. We need all of it because we’re human. I saw the way you looked when you recognized Maureen on the beach that day. Happy. She’s a connection. So am I. You need that as much as you need to eat and drink and work and have sex and sleep. So I make sure you have food and I stock water and juice and Mountain Dew because you like it, and I make sure you have clean sheets to sleep on. Don’t tell me you don’t need me.”

“You left out the sex.”

“That’s negotiable.”

She believed in instinct, so went with it. She simply stepped forward, grabbed his face in both hands and planted her lips on his. Not sexual, she thought, as much as elemental. Just human contact.

Whatever it stirred in her, she was fine with it. She liked feeling.

She stepped back, leaving her hands where they were for another moment. “There, that didn’t kill you. You’re human, you’re reasonably healthy, you’re—”

It wasn’t instinct, but reaction. She’d flipped the switch so he grabbed on and plunged into the blast of light.

And her.

He yanked her around, trapping her between his body and the kitchen island. And gripping her hair—that mass of wild curls—wrapped it around his hand.

He felt her hands once again press to his face, felt her lips part under his, felt her heart slam against his.

He felt.

The pulsing in the blood, the ache of awakening need, the sheer grinding glory of having a woman caught against him.

Warm, soft, curves and angles.

The smell of her, the sound of surprised pleasure in her throat, the slide of lips and tongues slammed into him like a tsunami. And for now, for this one moment, he wanted to just be swept away.

She slid her hands into his hair, and her own need spiked when he lifted her off her feet. She found herself on the counter, legs spread as he pressed between them, and a white-hot, glorious lust bursting in her center.

She wanted to wrap her legs around his waist so they could both just ride, just ride—hot and hard. But once again instinct took over.

No, not without thought, she warned herself. Not without heart. They’d both be sorry for that in the end.

So she laid her hands on his face, yet again, stroked his cheeks as she drew back.

His eyes, fierce blue heat, stared into hers. In them she saw some of that anger she’d recognized under lust.

“Well. You’re alive, and more than reasonably healthy from where I’m sitting.”

“I’m not sorry for that.”

“Who asked for an apology? I pushed the buttons, didn’t I? I’m not sorry either. Except for the fact I have to go.”

“Go?”

“I have to change into that short skirt and get to work, and I’m already running a little behind. The good news is that gives us both time to consider if we want to take the next natural step. That’s also the bad news.”

She slid off the counter onto her feet, heaved out a breath. “You’re the first man who’s tempted me to break my fast in a long time. The first one I think would make the fast and the breaking of it worthwhile. I just need to know we wouldn’t be mad at each other if I did. Something to consider.”

She picked up her purse, started out. “Come out tonight, Eli. Come into the pub, listen to some music, see some people, have a couple beers. First round’s on me.”

She walked out, made it all the way to her car before she pressed a hand to her fluttering belly, let out a long, unsteady breath.

If he’d touched her again, if he’d asked her not to go . . . she’d have been very late for work.