Whiskey Beach, Page 24

  “It must be easier for him now, having you.”

  “I hope so.” Abra breathed again. “I hope so. I have feelings for him.”

  “Are you in love with him?” Abruptly concerned, Maureen licked chocolate from her thumb. “It’s only been a few weeks, Abra.”

  “I’m not saying I’m in love with him. I’m not saying I’m not. I’m saying I have feelings for him. I had them the first time I met him, though I think that was mostly sympathy. He looked so wrecked, so tired, so sad—and with this awful anger under it that must be terrible to hold in, day after day. And as I’ve gotten to know him, there’s still sympathy, but there’s respect, too. It takes a lot of courage, a lot of spine to get through what he’s been through. There’s attraction, obviously, and affection.”

  “I felt like he relaxed and enjoyed himself the night we hung out at the pub.”

  “He needs people, and I think even with his family, he’s felt alone for a long time.” Being alone was, in Abra’s opinion, sporadically necessary for recharging self. Being lonely was a state she pitied, and wanted to fix. “I’ve watched him relaxing and enjoying a little bit more all the time. He’s got humor and a really good heart. I’m worried about him now.”

  “Why do you think all those cops are at Bluff House?”

  “If Heather wasn’t exaggerating, I think they must’ve gotten a search warrant. I told you before that Detective Wolfe is convinced Eli killed Lindsay. He’s obsessed with proving it. And now with proving he killed again.”

  “They have to disprove you to do that.” Maureen reached over for Abra’s hand. “They’re going to question you again, aren’t they?”

  “I’m pretty sure of it. Maybe you and Mike, too.”

  “We’ll handle it. And we’ll all handle gossips like Heather, too. I wonder if she’ll come to your next class here, at the cottage.”

  “If she does, no bitch-slapping.”

  “Spoilsport. Just for that, I’m taking a brownie for the road. If you need me, you call me. I’ll be home for the rest of the day. I’ve got to get some paperwork done before the kids get home.”

  “Thanks.” Abra moved in for a hug as they rose. “For being just the right antidote to the idiot.”

  When Maureen left, she went to her bedroom to change. Two brownies before noon made her feel just a little bit sick, but she’d get over it. And once she finished work for the day, she was going to Eli. For better or worse.

  It took hours. When they’d cleared his office, Eli retreated to it while cops swarmed the house. Once he’d put his things back in order, he’d busied himself with calls, e-mails, neglected paperwork.

  He’d hated calling his father, but trouble had a way of leaking. Better the family hear directly than through other means. He didn’t bother playing it down, his father was too smart for that. But at least he could reassure him and, through him, the rest of the family.

  The cops would find nothing because there was nothing to find.

  He couldn’t bring himself to write, not with the police, metaphorically at least, breathing down his neck. He shifted into research instead, eating away at the day by shifting from book research to research on Esmeralda’s Dowry.

  He turned at the rap on the doorjamb. He acknowledged Corbett by swiveling the chair around, but didn’t get up, didn’t speak.

  “We’re wrapping it up.”

  “All right.”

  “About that digging in the basement.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s a hell of a trench down there.” Corbett waited a beat, but Eli didn’t respond. “No clue who’s responsible?”

  “If I had a clue I’d have told Deputy Hanson.”

  “It’s his theory and, I’m told, yours, that whoever broke in the night Duncan was killed dug it. And since he sure as hell didn’t do all that in one night, it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten in.”

  “It’s a theory.”

  Irritation flicked over Corbett’s face before he stepped in, closed the door at his back. “Look, Wolfe’s on his way back to Boston. If he comes back, unless he comes back with conclusive evidence against you, he’s on his own. There’s nothing tying you to Duncan’s murder at this time. The only connection is, person or persons unknown hired him to report on your movements. I don’t see you for it, for all the reasons discussed in our last meeting. Added to it, I’ve got no reason to doubt Abra Walsh’s word, even though my investigative powers tell me she’s spent a few nights here since, and not on the sofa downstairs.”

  “Last I checked sex between consenting adults was still legal in Massachusetts.”

  “And thank God for that. What I’m telling you is you’re not on my radar for this. The problem is nobody’s on my radar for this. Yet. What I’ve got is a break-in, an assault and a murder, in the same night. That makes me wonder. So if you do get a clue who’s been digging down there, it’d be in your best interest to let me know.”

  He turned for the door, paused, turned back to face Eli. “I’d be pissed off if I had a bunch of cops going through my house all day. I’m going to tell you I handpicked them. If we didn’t find anything, there’s nothing to find. And I should further add that even though they were careful, this is a damn big house with a hell of a lot of stuff. Some of it may not be back in place.”

  Eli hesitated as Corbett opened the door, then took the leap. “I think whoever dug that trench either pushed my grandmother on the stairs or caused her to fall. Then left her there.”

  Corbett stepped back, shut the door again. “I’ve given that some thought myself.” Without waiting for the invitation, he crossed over, sat down. “She doesn’t remember anything?”

  “No. She can’t even remember getting up, coming downstairs. The head trauma . . . the doctors say it’s not unusual. Maybe she’ll remember, maybe not. Maybe parts, maybe all, maybe none. She could’ve died, and probably would have if Abra hadn’t found her. Shooting a PI’s not a far reach from pushing an old lady down the stairs and leaving her to die. This is her place, her heart’s here, and she may never be able to live here, at least not on her own, again. I want to know who’s responsible for that.”

  “Tell me where you were that night, the night she fell.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Let’s be thorough, Mr. Landon. Do you remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember, because I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face the next morning when she came in to tell me, after Abra called the house. I wasn’t sleeping well. I hadn’t slept well since . . . in a long time. I moved in with my parents a few weeks after Lindsay’s murder, so I was there the night of my grandmother’s accident. My father and I ended up playing gin and drinking beer until about two. I guess I could’ve hauled my ass up here, tossed my grandmother down the steps, then hauled my ass back to Boston and settled in before my mother came in to tell me Gran was hurt and at the hospital.”

  Ignoring the comment, Corbett took out his book, made some notes. “There are a lot of valuables in this house.”

  “I know it, and I can’t understand it. There’s plenty you could basically stuff in your pockets and make a nice profit. But he spends hours, days, hacking at the basement floor.”

  “Esmeralda’s Dowry.”

  “It’s all I can come up with.”

  “Well, it’s interesting. Any objection, if her doctors clear it, if I talk to your grandmother?”

  “I don’t want her upset, that’s all. I don’t want my family dragged through another mess. They’ve dealt with enough.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I shipped a dead man back to Boston, and as far as I can tell, he was just doing his job. Because somebody broke into this house and might’ve done more than assault a woman if she hadn’t defended herself and gotten away. Because you didn’t kill your wife.”

  Eli started to speak, then whatever had been in his mind just slid away. “What did you say?”


  “Do you think I didn’t read and review every word of your file? You never changed your story. The wording, the delivery, but never the content. You weren’t lying, and if it had been a crime of passion, as speculated, a good criminal defense lawyer—and you had a record of being one—would’ve covered his tracks a hell of a lot better.”

  “Wolfe thinks I did.”

  “Wolfe’s gut tells him you did it, and I think he’s got a good gut. This time it’s wrong. It happens.”

  “Maybe your gut’s wrong.”

  Corbett smiled thinly. “Whose side are you on here?”

  “You’re the first cop who’s looked me in the face and said I didn’t kill Lindsay. It takes some getting used to.”

  “The prosecutor didn’t think you did it either. But you were all they had, and Wolfe was dead sure, so they pushed until they ran out of room.”

  Corbett rose. “You got a raw deal. You won’t get one from me this time around. You’ve got my number if you think of anything relevant.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

  “We’ll get out of your hair.”

  Alone, Eli sat back and tried to sort out his mixed feelings.

  One cop saw him as innocent, one cop saw him as guilty. It felt good to be believed, to have the words still hanging in the air.

  But any way he cut it, he was still stuck in the middle.

  Fifteen

  SHE WORRIED HOW SHE’D FIND HIM. DEPRESSED AND brooding? Angry and dismissive?

  Whatever his reaction, she couldn’t blame him for it. His life had been disrupted, again, his morality questioned, again. And his privacy shattered—not only by the police, but by people like Heather. Again.

  She prepared herself to be understanding, which might mean firm and matter-of-fact or supportive and sympathetic.

  She didn’t expect to find him in the kitchen working at a cluttered island with a look of exasperation on his face and a bulb of garlic in his hand.

  “Well. What’s going on here?”

  “Chaos. Which is apparently what happens when I try to cook.”

  She set aside the plate of brownies. “You’re cooking?”

  “‘Try’ is the operative word.”

  She found the trying both sweet and positive. “What are you trying?”

  “Some chicken-and-rice thing.” He shoved at his hair, scowled down at the mess he’d made. “I got it off the Internet under ‘Cooking for Morons.’”

  She came around the island, studied the printout of the recipe. “Looks good. Want some help?”

  He turned the scowl on her. “Since I qualify as a moron in this area, I should be able to handle it.”

  “Great. Mind if I get a glass of wine?”

  “Go ahead. You can pour me one, too. In a freaking tumbler.”

  Though she found cooking relaxing, she understood the frustrations of the novice or very sometimes cook. “What inspired this domestic bliss?” she asked as she got out glasses—wineglasses, despite his comment.

  His eyes narrowed as she slipped into the butler’s pantry for the wine. “Are you looking for a kick in the ass?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for a nice pinot grigio,” she called out. “Ah, here we go. I hope I’m invited to dinner,” she continued as she brought the bottle back to the kitchen. “It’s been a while since anyone’s cooked for me.”

  “That was the idea.” He watched her uncork the wine she’d very likely stocked herself in the wine cooler. “Is nine-one-one on speed dial?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a glass, and a friendly kiss on the cheek. “And thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me until we rule out kitchen fire and food poisoning.”

  Willing to risk both, she sat on a stool, enjoyed her first sip of wine. “When’s the last time you cooked anything that didn’t come out of a can or a box?”

  “Certain smug people smirk at food from cans and boxes.”

  “We do. Shame on us.”

  He turned his frown back on the garlic bulb. “I’m supposed to peel and slice this garlic.”

  “Okay.”

  When he just stared at her, she shifted, picked up the knife. “I’ll demonstrate the procedure.”

  She tugged off a clove, held it up, then, setting it on the cutting board, gave it a kind of smack with the flat of the knife. The peel slid off, easy as a stripper’s breakaway. Once she’d sliced it, she handed him back the rest of the bulb and the knife. “Got it?”

  “Yeah.” More or less. “We had a cook. When I was growing up, we always had a cook.”

  “Never too late to learn. You might even like it.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen. But I ought to be able to follow a recipe for morons.”

  “I have every faith.”

  He mimicked her slicing procedure, and felt marginally more hopeful when he didn’t cut off a finger. “I know superior amusement when I’m standing in it.”

  “But it’s superior and affectionate amusement. Affectionate enough I’ll teach you a trick.”

  “What trick?”

  “A quick and easy marinade for that chicken.”

  Fear and loathing of the very idea echoed in his voice. “It doesn’t say anything about marinade.”

  “It should. Hold on a minute.” Rising, she went to the walk-in pantry. It gave her a jolt, seeing everything mixed up, out of order, jumbled. Then she remembered the police.

  Saying nothing, she picked up a bottle of liquid margarita mix.

  “I thought we were drinking wine.”

  “And so we are. The chicken’s going to drink this.”

  “Where’s the tequila?”

  She laughed. “Not this time. Actually the chicken I use for tortilla soup drinks tequila, but this one just gets the mixer.”

  She got out a large bag, slid the chicken inside, dumped the liquid in with it. Sealed the bag, turned it a few times.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, that’s all.”

  “That part should’ve been for morons. I could’ve done that.”

  “Next time you will. It’s good on fish, too, just FYI.”

  When she sat again, he went back to focusing on slicing garlic, and not his fingers. “The police were here today, all day, executing a search warrant.” He glanced up. “And you already knew.”

  “That they were here, yes. I assumed the search.” Reaching across the island, she brushed her fingers over his wrist. “I’m sorry, Eli.”

  “After they left I went through a couple of the rooms, put things back together. It started pissing me off again, so I decided to do something else.”

  “Don’t worry about any of that. I’ll take care of it.”

  He only shook his head. He intended to do a couple rooms at a time until the house was back to normal. Bluff House and everything in it were his responsibility now.

  “It could’ve been worse. They could’ve trashed the place. They were thorough, but I’ve seen searches before, and they didn’t just dump things.”

  “Fine, points for them, but it’s still unfair. It’s still wrong.”

  “Unfair and wrong happen every hour, every day.”

  “That’s a sad and cynical viewpoint.”

  “Realistic,” he corrected.

  “The hell with that.” Her temper spiked, making her realize it had been in there bubbling all along. “That’s just an excuse to do nothing about it.”