Whiskey Beach

Chapter Twenty-eight

WITH HER HAIR BUNDLED UP, HER SLEEVES HIKED TO HER elbows, Abra looked up from layering slices of potato in a casserole dish when Eli came into the kitchen.

“How’d that go?”

“Awkward.”

“I’m sorry, Eli.”

He only shrugged. “More awkward for him than for me, I think. Actually, I knew his wife better. She’s a paralegal at my old firm. He teaches history at Harvard and sidelines in genealogy. We played basketball a couple times a month, downed a few beers here and there. That’s all.”

That was enough, to Abra’s mind, to deserve a little loyalty and compassion.

“Anyway, after the initial stumbling around and that strained and overenthusiastic ‘Good to hear from you, Eli,’ he agreed to do it. In fact, I think he feels guilty enough to make it a priority.”

“Good. It helps balance the scales.”

“Then why do I want to punch something?”

She considered the potato she’d just sliced in several vicious whacks. She knew exactly how he felt.

“Why don’t you go pump some iron instead? Work up an appetite for stuffed pork chops, scalloped potatoes and green beans amandine. A manly celebration meal.”

“Maybe I will. I should feed the dog.”

“Already done. She’s now stretched out on the terrace watching people play in what she considers her yard.”

“I should give you a hand.”

“Do I look like I need one?”

He had to smile. “No, you don’t.”

“Go, pump it up. I like my men ripped.”

“In that case, I might be a while.”

He sweated out the frustration and the depression that wanted to walk hand in hand. And once he’d showered off the dregs, he found he could let it go.

He had what he needed, an expert to solve a problem. If guilt helped solve the problem, it didn’t and shouldn’t matter.

On impulse, he took Barbie for a walk into the village. It struck him that people spoke to him, called him by name, asked how he was doing without any of the wariness, the awkwardness he’d become so accustomed to.

He bought a bouquet of tulips the color of eggplant. On the way back, he waved to Stoney Tribbet as the old man strolled toward the Village Pub.

“Buy you a beer, boy?”

“Not tonight,” Eli called back. “I’ve got dinner waiting, but keep a stool open for me Friday night.”

“You got it.”

And that, Eli realized, made Whiskey Beach home. A stool at the bar on Friday night, a casual wave, dinner on the stove and knowing the woman you cared for would smile when you gave her purple tulips.

And she did.

The tulips stood along with candles on the terrace table with the surf crashing, the stars winking on. Champagne bubbled, and right there, right then, Eli felt all was right with his world.

He’d come back, he thought. Shed the too-tight skin, turned the corner, rounded the circle—whatever analogy worked. He was where he wanted to be, with the woman he wanted to be with and doing what made him feel whole, and real.

He had colored lights and wind chimes on the terrace, pots of flowers and a dog napping at the top of the beach steps.

“This is . . .”

Abra lifted her eyebrows. “What?”

“Just right. Just exactly right.”

And when she smiled at him again, it was. Just exactly right.

Later, when the house lay quiet and his body still thrummed from hers, he couldn’t say why sleep eluded him. He listened to the rhythm of Abra’s breathing, and the muffled yips from Barbie as she dreamed, he imagined, of chasing a bright red ball into the water.

He listened to Bluff House settle, and imagined his grandmother wakened late at night by noises that didn’t fit the pattern.

Restless, he rose, thought to go down for a book. Instead he climbed up to the third floor to the stack of ledgers. He sat at the card table with his legal pad, his laptop.

For the next two hours he read, calculated, checked dates, cross-referenced from household accounting to business accounting.

When his head throbbed, he rubbed his eyes and kept going. He’d studied law, he reminded himself. Criminal law, not business law, not accounting or management.

He should pass this to his father, to his sister. But he couldn’t let go of it.

At three in the morning he pushed away. His eyes felt as though he’d scrubbed his corneas with sandpaper, and a toothy vise clamped over his temples and the back of his neck.

But he thought he knew. He thought he understood.

Wanting time to process, he went downstairs, dug aspirin out of the kitchen cabinet. He downed them with water he drank like a man dying of thirst before walking out onto the terrace.

The air glided over him like a balm and smelled of sea and flowers. Starlight showered and the moon, waxing toward full, pulsed against the night sky.

And on the cliff, above the rocks where men had died, Whiskey Beach Light circled its hopeful beam.

“Eli?” In a robe as white as the moon, Abra stepped out. “Can’t sleep?”

“No.”

The air rippled her robe, danced through her hair, and the moonlight glowed in her eyes.

When, he wondered, had she become so beautiful?

“I have some tea that might help.” She came to him, automatically reached up to rub at his shoulders, seek out tension. When her eyes met his, her look of concern turned to one of curiosity. “What is it?”

“A lot of things. A lot of big, unexpected things in one even more unexpected bunch.”

“Why don’t you sit down? I’ll work on these shoulders and you can tell me.”

“No.” He took her hands, held them between his. “I’ll just tell you. I love you, too.”

“Oh, Eli.” She gripped his fingers with hers. “I know.”

Not the reaction he’d expected. In fact, he thought, it was a little irritating. “Really?”

“Yes. But God.” Her breath caught as she wrapped her arms around him, held tight with her face pressed to his shoulder. “God, it’s so wonderful to hear you say it. I told myself it would be okay if you didn’t say it. But I didn’t know it would feel like this to hear it. How could I know? If I had, I’d have hounded you like a wolf to drag those words out of you.”

“If I didn’t say it, how do you know?”

“When you touch me, when you look at me, when you hold me, I feel it.” She looked up at him, eyes drenched. “And I couldn’t love you this much without you loving me back. I couldn’t know how right it is to be with you if I didn’t know you loved me.”

He brushed at her hair, all those tumbled curls, and wondered how he’d ever gotten through a single day without her. “So, you were just waiting for me to catch up?”

“I was just waiting for you, Eli. I think I’ve been waiting for you ever since I came to Whiskey Beach because you’re all that was missing.”

“You’re what’s right.” He laid his lips on hers. “What’s just right. It scared the hell out of me at first.”

“I know, me too. But now?” Tears spilled out of mermaid eyes and sparkled in the moonlight. “I feel absolutely courageous. What about you?”

“I feel happy.” Struck with tenderness, he kissed the tears away. “I want to make you as happy as I am.”

“You do. It’s a good night. Or day, I guess. Another really good day.” She pressed her lips to his again. “Let’s give each other lots more good days.”

“That’s a promise.”

And Landons keep their promises, she thought. Overwhelmed, she wrapped around him again. “We found each other, Eli. Just when, just where we were supposed to.”

“Is that a karma thing?”

She drew back to laugh up at him. “You’re damn right it is. Is this why you couldn’t sleep? Because you suddenly accepted your karmic path and wanted to tell me?”

“No. Actually, I didn’t know I was going to say it until you walked out here. One look at you, and it blew through me, all of it.”

“We should go back to bed.” Her smile was full of promise. “I bet I can help you sleep.”

“There’s another reason I love you. You always have really good ideas.” But as he took her hand, he remembered. “Jesus, I got caught up.”

“A habit of yours.”

“No, I mean I forgot why I came out here in the first place, why I couldn’t sleep. I went up and started working on the books—the ledgers, the accounts.”

“All those numbers and columns?” Instinctively she reached up to rub at temples she imagined ached. “You should have nodded off inside five minutes.”

“I found it, Abra. I found Esmeralda’s Dowry.”

“What? How? My God, Eli! You’re a genius.” She grabbed him, circled and swayed. “Where?”

“It’s here.”

“But here where? And do I need a shovel? Oh, oh! We have to take it to Hester, to your family. It needs to be protected, and . . . There must be a way to trace Esmeralda’s descendants, make them a part of the discovery. Hester’s museum. Can you imagine what this means to Whiskey Beach?”

“Talk about running with it,” he commented.

“Well, Eli, think of it. Treasure unearthed after more than two centuries. You could write another book about it. And just think of all the people who’ll be able to see it now. Your family could lend pieces to the Smithsonian, the Met, the Louvre.”

“That’s what you’d do? Donate, lend, display?”

“Well, yes. It belongs to the ages, doesn’t it?”

“One way or the other.” Fascinated by her, he studied her glowing face. “Don’t you want it? Even a piece of it?”

“Oh, well . . . Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t say no to one tasteful piece.” She laughed, spun in a circle. “Oh, just think of the history, the mystery solved, the magic uncorked.”

She stopped, laughed again. “Where the hell is it? And how fast can we get it and secure it?”

He turned her, gestured. “We’ve already got it. It’s already secured. Abra, it’s Bluff House.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“My ancestors weren’t as altruistic or philanthropic as you. They not only kept it, they spent it.” He gestured toward the house. “Built not just on whiskey, but pirate booty. The expansion of the distillery—the timing of it—the expansion of the house, those first innovations, the lumber, the stone, the labor.”

“You’re saying they sold the dowry to expand the business, to build the house?”

“In pieces, I think, if I’m reading all the accounting right. Over a generation or two, starting with the coldhearted Roger and Edwin.”

“Oh. I have to adjust.” She pushed at her hair and, he imagined, pushed back her excited thoughts of museums, and sharing. “Bluff House is Esmeralda’s Dowry.”

“Essentially. It doesn’t add up otherwise, not if you really dig into the expenditures, the revenue. Family lore says gambling—they liked to gamble and they were lucky. And they were smart businessmen. Then the war, the buildup of the country. All of that, yeah, but gamblers need a stake.”

“You’re sure it was the dowry.”

“It’s logical. I want Tricia to take a look, to analyze, and I want to hear back on James Fitzgerald. It adds up, Abra. It’s in the walls, the stone, the glass, the gables. They accounted for it, in their own way, Roger and Edwin, because they considered it theirs.”

“Yes.” She nodded at that. “Men who could cut a daughter, a sister, so completely out of their lives would consider it theirs. I see that.”

“Broome came with it to Whiskey Beach, and Whiskey Beach was theirs. They gave him shelter, and he disgraced their daughter, their sister. So they took what he stole and built what they wanted.”

“Ruthless,” she murmured. “Ruthless and wrong, but . . . it’s poetic, too, isn’t it?” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “And, in a way, a happy ending. How do you feel about it?”

“Maybe a lot of it was built on blood and betrayal. You can’t change history, so you live with it. The house weathered it. So did the family.”

“It’s a good house. It’s a good family. I think both more than weathered history.”

“Ruthless and wrong,” he repeated, “and I can be sorry for that. Lindsay’s murder was ruthless and wrong. All I can do about any of it is try to find out the truth. Maybe that’s justice.”

“That’s why I love you,” she said quietly. “Just that. It’s too early to call Tricia, and I don’t think either of us is going to get any more sleep. I’m going to make us some eggs.”

“That’s why I love you.” On a laugh, he turned to her, pulled her in. And as his gaze drifted over her head, he went still.

He saw, down at the point, a shimmer of light. “Wait.”

He moved quickly to the telescope, peered through. Straightening, he looked at Abra.

“He’s back.”

With a hand gripped on his arm, she looked for herself. “I kept wishing for this, so it could be done and over, but now that it is . . .” She took a moment to evaluate. “I feel the same way. Now, we do something.” She sent him a cool, fierce smile. “Let’s break some eggs.”

While she did so literally, and Eli made coffee, it struck him it might have been any morning, even if it started at barely five a.m. Two people in love—and that was new and fresh and energizing—fixing breakfast.

All you had to do was leave out the murderer.

“We could call Corbett,” Abra said, rinsing berries in the sink. “He could have that conversation.”

“Yeah, we could.”

“And that wouldn’t accomplish much. A conversation over a man I saw in a bar.”

“A man Lindsay cheated with, who bought property in Whiskey Beach.”

“Which Lawyer Landon tells me won’t hold up in court.”

Eli studied her, set her coffee on the counter. “It’s a step.”

“A small one on a very slow walk, and one that lets Suskind know you know. Doesn’t that forearm him?”

“A step that may spook him, even might influence him to leave Whiskey Beach. The threat here’s eliminated while the investigation into Duncan’s death continues, and we take the next steps to verifying the facts regarding the dowry, Edwin Landon, James Fitzgerald and so on.”

“‘Verifying the facts regarding’ is edging toward more lawyer talk.”

“Even when I practiced law, lawyer snark didn’t bother me.”

She sliced some butter into a heated skillet, smiled at him while it sizzled. “Such a fine line between truth and snark. In any case, action’s more satisfying than snark. We’ve got a shot, Eli, at proving he’s the one breaking into Bluff House. Prove that and it not only leads to hanging him for Hester’s fall, and that’s huge, I think, for both of us, but it adds weight to his association with Duncan. Link them together, and it’s a short slide to incriminating him for murder.”

“A lot of soft spots on that path.”

She poured beaten eggs into the skillet. “They hounded you for a year over Lindsay’s death, with less cause, with no evidence. I say we give karma a hand and let the man who, at the least, played a part in that experience the same.”

“Is ‘karma’ another word for ‘payback’ in this case?”

“You say potato.”

She plated eggs, fruit, slices of whole wheat bread she’d toasted. “Why don’t we eat in the morning room? We can watch the sun come up.”

“Before that, is it sexist for me to say I love watching you cook breakfast, especially in that robe?”

“It would be sexist if you expected or demanded it.” Slowly, she trailed her fingers down the side of the robe. “Enjoying it just shows you have good taste.”

“That’s what I thought.”

They carried the plates, the coffee into the morning room, sat in front of the wide bow of glass. Abra scooped up a bite of eggs.

“To continue that thought,” she added, “it would be sexist for you to think you need to get me safely out of the way before you follow through on the plan to lure Suskind into the house.”

“I didn’t say anything about that.”

“A woman in love is a mind reader.”

God, he hoped not, though she’d already showed that aptitude too often for comfort. “If we tried the lure, and if it worked, there’s no need for both of us to be here.”

“Fine. Where will you be while I video him from the passage?” Expression placid, she popped a berry into her mouth. “I’d need to be able to contact you as soon as it’s done.”

“Being a smart-ass before dawn’s annoying.”

“So is any attempt to protect the little woman. I’m not little, and I think I’ve already demonstrated I can handle myself.”

“I didn’t know I loved you when I first started talking about doing this. I hadn’t—wasn’t able—to open up to everything I feel for you. And it changes everything.” He laid a hand over hers. “Everything. I want the answers. I want the truth about what happened to Lindsay, to Gran, about everything that’s happened since I came back to Whiskey Beach. I want them on what happened two hundred years ago. But I could let it go, every bit of it, if I thought finding those answers could hurt you.”

“I know you mean that, and it just . . .” She turned her hand under his so their fingers linked. “It just fills me. But I need the answers, too, Eli. For us. So let’s trust each other to take care of each other, and find them together.”

“If you stayed at Maureen’s, I could signal you when and if he comes in. Then you could call the cops. They’d move in while he was here. Caught in the act.”

“And if I’m with you, I can contact the police from right here, while you run your famous video camera.”

“You just want to play in the secret passage.”

“Well, who wouldn’t? He hurt you, Eli. He hurt my friend. He would have hurt me. I’m not going to sit at Maureen’s. Together, or not at all.”

“That sounds like an ultimatum.”

“Because it is.” She lifted her shoulders, let them fall in the most casual gesture. “We can fight about it. You can get mad, I can be insulted. I just don’t see the point, especially on such a gorgeous morning when we’re in love. The point I see, Eli, is I’ve got your back. And I know you’ve got mine.”

What the hell was he supposed to do with that? “It might not work.”

“Negative thinking’s unproductive. Plus, past history and pattern say it will work. This could be over, Eli, or at the very least he could be in police custody, charged with breaking and entering, maybe destruction of property, by tonight. And he’d be questioned on all the rest.”

She leaned forward. “When that happens, Wolfe’s going to have his first taste of crow.”

“You had that ace up your sleeve,” Eli replied.

“It’s karma time, Eli.”

“All right. But we’re going to work this out, account for every contingency.”

She poured them both a second cup of coffee. “Let’s strategize.”

While they talked, the sun broke over the horizon, splashing gold over the night-dark sea.

Just another day, Eli thought when Abra dashed out for her morning class. Or it would seem so to anyone watching the movements, the comings, the goings, of Bluff House.

He walked the dog, crossing the beach at a light jog and in full view of Sandcastle. To please Barbie as much as to form a picture, he spent a little time throwing the ball for her, letting her splash into the water, swim out again.

Back home, she sprawled on the sunny terrace, and Eli went in to call his sister.

“Boydon Madhouse, and how are you, Eli?”

“Pretty good.” He held the phone an inch from his ear as shrill shrieks threatened to break his eardrum. “What the hell is that?”

“Selina strongly objects to being in time-out.” Tricia raised her own voice, and Eli made it two inches. “And the longer Sellie screams and misbehaves, the longer she’ll be in time-out.”

“What did she do?”

“Decided she didn’t want her strawberries at breakfast.”

“Oh, well, that doesn’t seem—”

“So she threw them at me, which is why she’s in time-out. I have to change my shirt, which further means she’ll be late for day care and I’ll be late for the office.”

“Okay. This is a bad time. I’ll call you later.”

“We’re going to be late anyway, and I have to cool off so I don’t give my beloved child a strawberry facial. What’s up?”

“I dug up some old household and business ledgers. Really old, going back to the late 1700s, into the early 1800s. I’ve been going through them, pretty carefully, and I’ve come to some interesting conclusions.”

“Such as?”

“I’m hoping you have time to look them over yourself, and we’ll see if your conclusions jibe with mine.”

“You don’t want to give me a clue?”

Boy, he really wanted to. But . . . “I don’t want to influence you. Maybe I went off some shaky ledge.”

“You’ve got my attention. I’d love to play with them.”

“How about I scan you a few pages, just to give you a start? I should be able to come in, maybe the end of the week, bring the ledgers to you.”

“You could. Or Max, the currently time-outed Sellie and I could come up Friday evening, have a weekend at the beach and I can play with them.”

“Even better. But there’ll be no strawberries if they cause this reaction.”

“Usually she loves them, but girls do have their moods. I’ve got to go unshackle her, get us out of here. Send me what you can, and I’ll take a look.”

“Thanks. And . . . good luck.”

Following his morning agenda, he went up for his laptop. He sat out on the terrace, in view of Sandcastle, his trusty Mountain Dew on the table, as he scanned through his e-mails.

He opened one from Sherrilyn Burke first, began to read her updated report on Justin Suskind.

The man hadn’t spent much time at work since the last report, Eli noted. A day here and there, a handful of out-of-office meetings. The most interesting, Eli found, had been to a law firm where he met with an estate specialist. And stormed out, obviously angry.

“Didn’t get the answers you wanted,” Eli sympathized. “I know just how you feel.”

Through the report, he followed Suskind as he picked up his kids from school, took them to the park, to dinner, then home. His brief visit with his wife hadn’t gone any better than his meeting with the lawyer, as he’d left in visible temper to speed away.

At ten-fifteen the night before, he’d left his apartment with a suitcase, a briefcase and a storage box. He’d driven north out of Boston, stopping at an all-night supermarket for a pound of ground beef.

He’d made a second stop an hour later, veering off the highway to a twenty-four-hour box store where he’d purchased a box of rat poison.

Ground beef. Poison.

Without reading further, Eli surged to his feet.

“Barbie!”

He had a moment of sheer panic when he didn’t see her on the terrace. Even as he raced forward, she scrambled to her feet from where she sat at the top of the beach steps. Tail happily wagging, she trotted to him.

Eli simply went down to his knees, wrapped his arms around her. Love, he realized, could sometimes come fast, but it didn’t make it any less real.

“F*cker. The f*cker.” Leaning back, Eli accepted the adoring licks. “He’s not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let him hurt you. You stick with me, girl.”

He led her back to the table. “You stay right here with me.”

In response she laid her head in his lap, sighed in contentment.

He read the rest of the report, then e-mailed back his own, which started with:

The bastard plans to poison my dog. If you’re in Whiskey Beach, don’t come here. I don’t want him wondering who you are. I’m done waiting around for him to make the next move.

He gave her an overview of what his research had unearthed, and the basics of what he’d done, and planned to do.

Planned to do rather than what he wanted to do right that minute—go straight to Suskind and kick the living shit out of him.

Temper still raw and ripe, Eli took his work and his dog back inside.

“No more going out by yourself until this bastard’s behind bars.”

He pulled out his phone when it rang, unsurprised to see Sherrilyn’s name on the display.

“This is Eli.”

“Eli, Sherrilyn. Let’s talk about this idea of yours.”

He heard the unsaid “stupid,” shrugged. “Sure. Let’s talk.”

He wandered the house as they spoke because it served to remind him what he was fighting for. And it had come down to a fight for him, even if he was denied the satisfaction of physical blows.

He walked to the third floor, and the curved glass of the gable where he imagined writing one day, once the fight was done and won, once he’d secured safety for all he loved, and his own self-respect.

“You’ve got some valid points,” he said at length.

“And you’re not going to listen to them.”

“I did listen to them, and you’re not wrong. The thing is, if I step back from this, let the police handle it all, or even let you, I’m back where I was a year ago. Just letting it all happen, letting the situation carry me instead of me carrying it. I can’t go back to that. I need to do this for myself, for my family. And in the end, I want him to know that. I need that when I think of Lindsay, my grandmother, this house.”

“You didn’t believe his wife.”

“No.”

“What did I miss?”

He lowered his hand to Barbie’s head when she leaned against him. “You said you had kids. You’re married.”

“That’s right.”

“How many times?”

She let out a laugh. “Just the one. It’s worked out pretty well.”

“That might be it. You haven’t gone through the dark side. Maybe I’m wrong and that’s what’s coloring it. But I don’t think so. The only way to be sure is to box him in. That’s what I’m going to do, here, on my turf. In my place.”

She let out a sigh. “I can help.”

“Yeah, I think you can.”

When he’d finished talking to her, he felt lighter somehow. “You know what?” he said to the dog. “I’m going to work for a couple hours, remind myself what my life’s supposed to be about. You can hang with me.”

He left the past, and what would come behind it, and went down to surround himself with the now.