Whiskey Beach

Chapter Five


IN THE CHURCH BASEMENT, ABRA BROUGHT HER CLASS OUT of final relaxation slowly. She’d had a class of twelve that morning, a solid number for the time of year, the time of day.

The number kept her personal satisfaction high, and her budget steady.

Conversation broke out as her ladies—and two men—got to their feet, began rolling up their mats, or the extras she always carted in for those who didn’t bring their own.

“You had a really good practice today, Henry.”

The sixty-six-year-old retired vet gave her his cocky grin. “One of these days I’m going to hold that Half Moon longer than three seconds.”

“Just keep breathing.” Abra remembered when his wife had first dragged him—mentally kicking and screaming—to her class, Henry hadn’t been able to touch his toes.

“Remember,” she called out, “East Meets West on Thursday.”

Maureen walked over as Abra rolled up her own mat. “I’m going to need it, and some serious cardio. I made cupcakes for Liam’s class party today. And ate two of them.”

“What kind of cupcakes?”

“Double chocolate, buttercream frosting. With sprinkles and gumdrops.”

“Where’s mine?”

Maureen laughed, patted her stomach. “I ate it. I have to go home, grab a shower, put on Mom clothes and take the cupcakes in. Otherwise, I’d beg and bribe you to take a run with me so I could burn that double chocolate off. The kids have an after-school playdate, I’m caught up on paperwork, and filing, so I have no excuse.”

“Try me later, after three. I’ve got to work until then.”

“Eli?”

“No, he’s on tomorrow’s schedule.”

“Still going good there?”

“It’s only been a couple weeks, but yeah, I’d say it is. He doesn’t look at me like ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ every time he sees me. It’s more like every other time now. When I’m there during the day, he’s usually closed up in his office writing—and he avoids me by slipping outside for a walk when I head up to do the upstairs. But he’s eating what I leave for him, and doesn’t look as hollow.”

Abra zipped her personal mat into its bag. “Still, every time I give him a massage—I’ve managed four now—it’s like starting from scratch. He carries so much tension, plus he’s at that keyboard for hours a day.”

“You’ll crack him, Abracadabra. I have every faith.”

“That’s my current mission.” Abra pulled on her hoodie, zipped it. “But right now I’ve got some new jewelry to take into Buried Treasures—so fingers crossed there—then I’m running some errands for Marcia Frost. Her boy’s still got that virus and she can’t get out. I’ve got a massage booked at two, but I’m up for a run after that.”

“If I can juggle it in, I’ll text you.”

“See you later.”

While her class headed out, Abra secured her mats, tucked her iPod into her bag. As she pulled a jacket over her hoodie, a man came down the stairs.

She didn’t recognize him, but he had a pleasant enough face. Baggy eyes that made him look tired, a thick crop of brown hair, a slight paunch, which would have improved if he didn’t slouch.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so. Are you Abra Walsh?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Kirby Duncan.” He held out his hand to shake, then offered her a business card.

“Private investigator.” Instinctively, her barriers went up.

“I’m doing some work for a client, out of Boston. I’m hoping I can ask you a few questions. I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee if you can spare me a few minutes.”

“I’ve already had my quota for the day.”

“I wish I could stick with a quota. God knows I drink too much coffee. I’m sure that coffee shop just down the street serves tea, or whatever you like.”

“I have an appointment, Mr. Duncan,” Abra said as she pulled on boots. “What’s this about?”

“Our information indicates you’re working for Eli Landon.”

“Your information?”

His face remained pleasant, even affable. “It’s no secret, is it?”

“No, it’s not, and it’s also none of your business.”

“Gathering information is my business. You must be aware Eli Landon is a suspect in the murder of his wife.”

“Is that accurate?” Abra wondered as she pulled on her cap. “I think it’s more accurate to say after a year of investigating, the police haven’t been able to gather the evidence to show Eli Landon had anything to do with his wife’s death.”

“The fact is, a lot of prosecutors won’t take on a case that’s not a slam dunk. That doesn’t mean there isn’t evidence, there isn’t a case. It’s my job to gather more information—let me get that for you.”

“No, thanks, I’m used to carrying my own. Who do you work for?” Abra asked him.

“Like I said, I have a client.”

“Who must have a name.”

“I can’t divulge that information.”

“Understood.” She smiled pleasantly, walked to the stairs. “I don’t have any information to divulge either.”

“If Landon is innocent, he has nothing to hide.”

She paused, looked Duncan in the eye. “Seriously? I doubt you’re that naive, Mr. Duncan. I know I’m not.”

“I’m authorized to compensate for information,” he began as they went up the steps into the little church proper.

“You’re authorized to pay for gossip? No, thanks. When I gossip, I do it for free.” She walked out and turned toward the parking lot and her car.

“Are you personally involved with Landon?” Duncan called out.

She felt her jaw tighten, cursed the fact he’d ruined her post-yoga mood. She tossed her mats, her bag in the car, opened the door. And in a wordless reply to his question, shot up her middle finger before she got in, turned the key and drove off.

The encounter kept her in a state of irritation as she segued from job to job, task to task. She considered canceling her massage booking but couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t penalize a client because some nosy detective from Boston was poking around in her life. Because he’d dug under her skin so quickly she’d been rude.

Not her life, she reminded herself, not really. Eli’s.

Regardless, it struck her as monumentally unfair and intrusive.

She knew all about unfair and intrusive.

When Maureen texted her about taking a run, she nearly made an excuse. Instead, she decided the exercise and company might be just what she needed.

She changed, zipped on her hoodie, pulled on her cap, tugged on fingerless gloves and met her friend at the beach steps.

“I need this.” Maureen jogged in place. “Eighteen kindergartners on a sugar high. Every teacher in America should have their salaries doubled and get a bouquet of roses every freaking week. And a bottle of Landon Whiskey’s gold label.”

“I take it the cupcakes were a success.”

“They were like locusts,” Maureen said as they started down to the beach. “I’m not sure there was a stray sprinkle left. Everything okay?”

“Why?”

“You’ve got that little deal here.” Maureen tapped herself between her eyebrows.

“Damn.” Instinctively, Abra rubbed at the spot. “I’m going to get lines there. I’m going to get culverts there.”

“No, you won’t. You only get that crease when you’re really upset or pissed off. Which is it?”

“Maybe both.”

They started off at a light jog, the ocean frothing on one side, the sand with its clumps and pockets of snow on the other.

Knowing her friend, Maureen said nothing.

“Did you see that guy when you were leaving class this morning? About average height, brown hair, nice face, little paunch?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe, yeah. He held the door for me. Why? What happened?”

“He came downstairs.”

“What happened?” Maureen stopped dead, then had to kick up her pace as Abra kept going. “Honey, did he try something? Did he—?”

“No. No, nothing like that. This is Whiskey Beach, Maureen, not Southie.”

“Still. Damn it. I shouldn’t have left you alone down there. I was thinking cupcakes, for God’s sake.”

“It wasn’t anything like that. And who taught that course on self-defense for women?”

“You did, but that doesn’t mean your best friend just strolls off and leaves you alone that way.”

“He’s a private detective from Boston. Come on,” Abra said when Maureen stopped again. “Keep up. I have to run this mood off.”

“What did he want? That bastard’s still in prison, isn’t he?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t about me. It was about Eli.”

“Eli? You said private detective, not the police. What did he want?”

“He called it information. What he wanted was for me to gossip about Eli. He wanted dish and dirt, and he offered to pay me. Looking for an inside man,” she spewed. “Somebody who’d spy on Eli and pass on what he’s doing, what he’s saying. I don’t even know because Eli’s not doing or saying anything. And when I told him, basically, to get lost, he asked if Eli and I were involved. Which sounded a hell of a lot like asking if Eli and I were screwing like bunnies. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him. And now I’m going to get culverts on my face.”

Temper and exercise pinkened Maureen’s face. Her voice, breathless with both, lifted over the surge and crash of waves. “It’s none of his damn business if you are screwing like bunnies. Eli’s wife’s been dead a year, and they were already in the middle of a divorce. And they don’t have anything but the most circumstantial of evidence against him. The cops can’t prove anything, so now they’re reaching, digging in the dirt.”

“I don’t think cops hire PI’s.”

“I guess not. Who does?”

“I don’t know.” As her muscles warmed, as the chilly air washed over her face, Abra found her mood leveling. “Insurance company? Maybe his wife had insurance, and they don’t want to pay. Except he said he was hired by a client. And he wouldn’t tell me who. Maybe insurance company lawyers, or, I don’t know, the dead wife’s family, who’s always trashing him in the press. I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either. Let me ask Mike.”

“Mike? Why?”

“He deals with lawyers and clients all the time.”

“Real estate lawyers and clients,” Abra pointed out.

“A lawyer’s a lawyer, a client’s a client. He might have an idea. He’ll keep it confidential.”

“I’m not sure that part matters. If this guy hunted me down, who knows who else he’s talking to? It’s all getting stirred up again.”

“Poor Eli.”

“You’ve never believed he did it either.”

“No.”

“Why do you believe him, Maureen?”

“Well, as you know, I got my detective’s license from TV. That said, why would a man who never exhibited violent behavior suddenly bash his wife in the head with a fireplace poker? She cheated on him, and that pissed him off. It also made her look bad as they moved forward with the divorce. Sometimes I want to bash Mike’s head in with a poker.”

“You do not.”

“Not literally, but my point is I really love Mike. I think you have to really love or really hate somebody to want to bash their brains in. Unless it’s about something else. Money, fear, revenge. I don’t know.”

“So who did it?”

“If I knew that and could prove it, I’d be promoted from detective to lieutenant. Or captain. I’d like to be captain.”

“You already are. Captain of the good ship O’Malley.”

“That’s true. You can be captain of the made-for-TV police department in charge of clearing Eli Landon once and for all.”

At her friend’s silence, Maureen slapped out a hand to hit Abra’s arm. “That was a joke. Don’t even think about getting involved in any of it. It’ll blow over, Abra. Eli will get through it.”

“What could I do?” And the question, Abra decided, didn’t promise not to do something.

When they turned at the halfway point to jog back, she realized she was glad she’d come out. A good way to think, to shove away a bad mood, to get some perspective. She’d missed running during the cold grip of winter, missed the sound of her own feet slapping against the sand while she gulped in the sea air.

She wasn’t one to wish time away, not even a minute, but she could, deeply, long for spring and the summer that followed.

Would Eli still be at Bluff House, she wondered, when the air began to warm and the trees to green? Would spring’s balmy breezes blow away the shadows that dogged him?

Maybe those shadows needed a little help on their way out the door. She’d think about it.

Then she saw him, standing at the water’s edge, hands in his pockets, gaze on the far horizon.

“There’s Eli now.”

“What? Where? Oh, shit!”

“What’s the problem?”

“I didn’t imagine running into him the first time when I’m sweaty and red-faced and huffing. A woman likes to hold a certain standard for chance meetings with her first serious make-out partner. Why did I wear my oldest jogging pants? These make my legs look like tree stumps.”

“They do not. I’d never let you wear pants that made your legs look like tree stumps. You’re insulting my code of friendship.”

“You’re right. That was small and selfish of me. I apologize.”

“Accepted, but watch it. Eli!”

“Shit,” Maureen grumbled again when he turned. Why hadn’t she at least stuck some lip gloss in her pocket?

Abra lifted a hand. She couldn’t see his eyes, not when he wore sunglasses. But he didn’t just wave and walk away. He waited, and she took that as a positive sign.

“Hi.” She stopped, braced her hands on her thighs as she stepped one leg back to stretch. “If I’d seen you earlier, we’d have talked you into a run.”

“Walking’s more my speed these days.” His head turned a fraction before he took off his sunglasses.

For the first time Abra saw him smile, all the way through, when his gaze held, and warmed on Maureen’s face.

“Maureen Bannion. Look at you.”

“Yeah, look at me.” With a half laugh she lifted a hand to push at her hair, before remembering she wore a ski cap. “Hello, Eli.”

“Maureen Bannion,” he repeated. “No, sorry, it’s— What is it?”

“O’Malley.”

“Right. The last time I saw you, you were . . .”

“Hugely pregnant.”

“You look great.”

“I look sweaty and windblown, but thanks. It’s good to see you, Eli.”

When Maureen just moved in, wrapped her arms around Eli for a good, hard hug, Abra thought that, just that, was why she’d fallen in love with Maureen so fast, so completely. That simple, straightforward compassion, that naturally inclusive heart.

She saw Eli close his eyes, and wondered if he thought of a night under the Whiskey Beach pier when everything had been simple, had been innocent.

“I’ve been giving you time to settle in,” Maureen said as she eased back. “Looks like time’s up. You need to come to dinner, meet Mike, the kids.”

“Oh, well . . .”

“We live in Sea Breeze, right next door to Abra. We’ll set it up, and we’ll catch up. How’s Hester?”

“Better. A lot better.”

“You tell her we miss her in yoga class. I’ve got to run—ha ha—and pick my kids up from a playdate. Welcome back, Eli. I’m glad to know you’re back at Bluff House.”

“Thanks.”

“Talk to you later, Abra. Hey, Mike and I plan on having a date night at the Village Pub on Friday. Talk Eli into coming.”

With a quick wave, she ran off.

“I didn’t realize the two of you knew each other,” Eli began.

“BFFs.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not just for teenagers. And BFFs of any age tell each other everything.”

He started to nod, then she saw it hit him. “Oh. Well.” He slid his sunglasses back into place. “Hmmm.”

With a laugh, she gave him a poke in the belly. “Sweet and sexy teenage secrets.”

“Maybe I should avoid her husband.”

“Mike? Absolutely not. Besides hitting very high on my personal scale of adorable, he’s a good man. A good daddy. You’ll like him. You should drop into the pub Friday night.”

“I don’t know it.”

“It used to be something else. Katydids.”

“Right. Sure.”

“It went downhill, I’m told. Before my time. New name, new owners the last three years. It’s nice. Fun. Good drinks, good crowd and live music Friday and Saturday nights.”

“I’m not really looking to socialize.”

“You should. It’ll help with that stress level. You smiled.”

“What?”

“When you recognized Maureen, you smiled. A real one. You were happy to see her, and it showed. Why don’t you walk with me?” She gestured up the beach in the direction of her cottage. Rather than give him a chance to decline, she just took his hand, began to walk.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Since the last massage.”

“Good. You were right, I usually feel it some the next day, but that eases off.”

“You’ll get more benefits when we finally break up those knots, get you used to being loose. I’m going to show you some yoga stretches.”

No, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she could see the wariness of his body language. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s not just for girls, you know.” She let out a long sigh.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m having a mental debate with myself. Whether or not I should tell you something. And I think you have a right to know, even though it’s probably going to upset you. I’m sorry to be the one to upset you.”

“What’s going to upset me?”

“A man came in to talk to me after my morning class. A private detective—investigator. His name’s Kirby Duncan, from Boston. He said he has a client there. He wanted to ask me questions about you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? It’s not okay. He was pushy, and he said he’d compensate me for information, which I find personally insulting, so that’s not okay. It’s harassment, which is also not okay. You’re being harassed. You should—”

“Tell the cops? I think that ship’s sailed. Hire a lawyer? I’ve got one.”

“It’s not right. The police hounded you for a year. Now they or somebody’s hiding behind lawyers and detectives to keep on hounding you? There should be a way to make them stop.”

“There’s no law against asking questions. And they’re not hiding. They want me to know who’s paying for the questions, the answers.”

“Who? And don’t say it’s none of my business,” she snapped out in case he tried to. “That jerk approached me. And he implied I refused to cooperate because we had a personal relationship, which easily translated to sleeping with you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” As he’d pulled his hand free, she just grabbed it again. “You won’t be sorry. And if we did have a personal relationship, the kind he meant? It’s none of his damn business. We’re adults, we’re single. And there’s nothing wrong, nothing immoral, nothing period about you moving on with your life. Your marriage was over before your wife died. Why shouldn’t you have a life that includes a relationship with me, or anyone?”

Her eyes, he noted, turned a particularly glowing green when she was angry. Really angry.

“It sounds like this upsets you more than me.”

“Why aren’t you angry?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you seriously pissed?”

“I spent plenty of time being pissed. It didn’t help a hell of a lot.”

“It’s intrusive, and it’s—it’s vindictive. What’s the point in being vindictive when . . .” It hit her, clear and strong. “It is her family, isn’t it? Lindsay’s family. They can’t let go.”

“Could you?”

“Oh, stop being so damn reasonable.” She stalked away, toward the verge of foaming water. “I think, if she’d been my sister, my mother, my daughter, I’d want the truth.” She turned around, faced him where he stood, just watching her.

“How is hiring someone to come here, ask questions here, a way to find the truth?”

“So, it’s not especially logical.” He shrugged at that. “And it’s not going to be productive, but they believe I killed her. To them there’s no one else who could have or would have.”

“That’s close-minded and shortsighted. You weren’t the only person in her life, and not, even at the time she died, the most important. She had a lover, she had a part-time job, she had friends, worked on committees, she had family.”

She stopped, noting the way he frowned at her. “I told you I followed the case, and I listened to Hester. She felt able to talk to me when it was harder to talk to you or your family. I was someone who cared about her but was not really connected. So she could unload on me.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, then nodded. “It must’ve helped her to have you to unload on.”

“It did. And I know Hester didn’t like her, not one bit. She would’ve tried to, and would have made her welcome.”

“I know that.”

“What I’m saying is Hester didn’t like her, and it’s very unlikely Hester was the only person in the world who didn’t. So like most people, Lindsay had enemies, or at least people who didn’t like her, had grudges or hard feelings.”

“None of them were married to her, had a public fight with her the day she died or discovered her body.”

“With that line of thinking I hope to hell you didn’t ever consider representing yourself.”

He smiled a little. “That would give me a fool for a client, so no, but those are all valid points. Add all that to her family’s list of grievances. I put my needs and ambitions above hers and didn’t make her happy, so she sought happiness elsewhere. She told them I neglected her then complained about the time she spent on her own interests, that she thought I was having affairs, that I was cold and verbally abusive.”

“Even though there was never one shred of evidence—even after a thorough police investigation—that you were having affairs—and she was? Or that you were in any way abusive?”

“I was pretty verbal the last time I spoke to her, publicly.”

“You both were, from what I read. And all right, I understand the need for family to support, to rationalize, to do whatever comforts. But siccing a private detective on you, here? There’s nothing here. You haven’t been here in years, so what could he find?”

Yeah, he could see having her to unload on had helped his grandmother. Despite his own reluctance to cover old ground, he knew it helped him. “It’s not that so much as letting me know they’re not going to let me walk away quietly. Her parents are dangling the threat of a wrongful death suit.”

“Oh, Eli.”

“I’d say this is just a way to let me know they’re using all their options.”

“Why don’t their options include hounding her lover, or someone else she might’ve been involved with?”

“He had a solid alibi. I didn’t.”

“What’s so solid about it?”

“He was home with his wife.”

“Well, I read all that, heard all that, but his wife could be lying.”

“Sure, but why? His wife, mortified and angry when she learned from the police he’d had this affair, with someone they both knew, reluctantly swore he’d been home since before six that evening. Their stories about the timeline, what they did, during the key time, meshed. Justin Suskind didn’t kill Lindsay.”

“Neither did you.”

“Neither did I, but when you factor opportunity, I had it, he didn’t.”

“Whose side are you on?”

He smiled a little. “Oh, I’m on my side. I know I didn’t kill her, just like I know, with what they have, I look guilty.”

“Then they need more. How do you get more?”

“We’ve pretty much tapped that out.”

“They’ve hired a PI. You hire a PI.”

“Did that, got nothing that helped.”

“So just give up? Stop that.” She gave him a light shove. “Hire another one and try again.”

“Now you sound like my lawyer.”

“Good. Listen to your lawyer. You don’t just lie back and take it. That’s from experience,” she added. “It’s that long story I’ll tell you one day. For now, I’m saying taking it makes you feel sad and weak and cowardly. It makes you feel like a victim. You’re not a victim if you don’t allow it.”

“Did someone hurt you?”

“Yes. And for too long I did what you’re doing. I just accepted it. Fight back, Eli.” She laid her hands on his shoulders. “Whether or not they ever believe you’re innocent, they’ll know you’re not their whipping boy. And you’ll know it, too.”

On impulse she rose to her toes, brushed her lips lightly over his. “Go call your lawyer,” she ordered, then walked away toward the beach steps.

From above, on the long headland, Kirby Duncan snapped photos through his long lens.

He’d figured something was going on between Landon and the long-stemmed brunette. Didn’t mean squat, of course, but his job was to document, to ask questions, to keep Landon off balance.

People made more mistakes when they were off balance.