Whiskey Beach, Page 43

  slid into the car, waited for him to get in beside her. “Plus I haven’t been in the city for over three months. And never with you.”

  He shot one last glance back at the window, and the dog framed in it.

  “We’re going to try to shoehorn our way into a conversation with the wife of the man we think committed murder in addition to breaking and entering. Oh, and adultery. Let’s not leave that one out. It’s not exactly a pleasure trip.”

  “That doesn’t mean it can’t be pleasant. You’ve thought for days about how you’re going to approach Eden Suskind. You’ve worked out approaches depending on if she’s at work or at home. You’re not the enemy, Eli. She can’t possibly see you as the enemy.”

  He drove along the coast road, wound through the village. “People treat you differently, even people you know, after you’ve been accused of a crime. Of killing. They’re nervous around you. They avoid you, and if they can’t avoid you, you can see on their faces they wish they had.”

  “That’s done.”

  “It’s not. It’s not done until the person who killed Lindsay is caught, arrested and tried.”

  “Then this is a step toward that. He’s going to come back to Whiskey Beach. When he does, Corbett’s going to talk to him. I wish we didn’t have to wait for that.”

  “It’s tricky for Corbett to go into Boston on this. And he doesn’t want to pass it to Wolfe. I’m grateful for that.”

  “We’ve got Suskind’s address now, his office and his apartment. We could cruise by, watch him for a change.”

  “For what?”

  “Curiosity. We’ll just put that on the back burner.” Switch gears, Abra decided. She could all but see the tension twisting up the muscles in the back of his neck. “You were up late with all your books last night. Anything interesting?”

  “Yeah, actually. I found a couple that go pretty deep into the history of the house, the family, the village, the business. How they’re all connected. Symbiotic.”

  “Such a nice word.”

  “I like it. Landon Whiskey got a boost during the Revolutionary War. With the blockades, the colonists couldn’t get sugar, molasses, so no rum. Whiskey became the choice for the colonial army, and the Landons had their distillery.”

  “So George Washington drank your whiskey.”

  “Bet your ass. And after the war, they expanded both the business and the house. A big deal on the house, too, because Roger Landon, headstrong Violeta’s and possibly murderous Edwin’s father, who was in charge then, had a rep for being a cheapskate.”

  “A good, frugal Yankee.”

  “A notorious skinflint, but he put what was pretty serious money into the house, furnishings, and into the business. When he died, his son took over, and since good old Rog didn’t give it up until he was near eighty, Edwin Landon had waited a good long time to take the reins. He expanded again, everything. He and his wife, the French émigré—”

  “Ooh-la-la.”

  “You bet. They were the first to start holding big, elaborate parties. And one of their sons, Eli—”

  “I like him.”

  “You should. He built—had built—the first village school. His youngest brother fell for the schoolteacher, and they ran off together.”

  “Romance.”

  “Not so much. They were killed heading west to make their own fortune.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  “In any case Eli continued the tradition of expanding the house, the business, and the parties continued—with some scandals and tragedies thrown in—up to Prohibition. If things got lean, you wouldn’t know it by the way they lived. The twenties roared into the thirties, and the government realized they had screwed up and banning whiskey was costing them one hell of a lot. People bellied back up to the bar, in the open, and we opened another distillery.”

  “The whiskey empire.”

  “Through it, we’ve had art connoisseurs—and those reputed to have had affairs with artists—suicides, two who spied for the Allies, and plenty who died in various wars, a dancer who soared to fame in Paris, and another who ran away with the circus.”

  “I like that one especially.”

  “A duchess through marriage, a cardsharp, a cavalry officer who died with Custer, heroes, villains, a nun, two senators, doctors, lawyers. You name it, they’re probably in there.”

  “It’s a long line. Most people don’t—or can’t—trace their family back that far, or have a place that’s been in that family for so many generations.”

  “True enough. But do you know what’s missing?”

  “A suffragette, a Playboy bunny, a rock star?”

  He laughed. “We had some of the first. I didn’t come across any of the other two. What’s missing is Esmeralda’s Dowry. It’s mentioned along with the Calypso, the wreck, some speculation on Broome—did he survive or was the survivor a simple seaman? Speculation again on the dowry: Did it survive? But in these two most in-depth and sensible histories I’ve come across, the weight’s on no.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re right. I prefer believing it survived, just like in my version, the young brother and schoolteacher made their way west and plowed fields and made babies.”

  “They drowned when their wagon tipped over crossing a river.”

  “They planted corn and had eight children. I’m firm on that.”

  “Okay.” Either way, he thought, they’d been dead a very long time. “On the dowry, it makes me wonder, again, what information Suskind has that I don’t. What makes him so sure that he’d risk so much, that he’d kill? Or is it all just bullshit?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if it has nothing to do with the long-lost treasure? I just jumped there, automatically. Somebody digging in the basement. What else?”

  “Exactly, Eli.” Puzzled, she turned to study his profile. “What else?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing I’ve found takes me anywhere else. But nothing I’ve found, realistically, takes me there either.” He glanced at her. “I think he’s just fucking batshit.”

  “That worries you.”

  “Damn right it does. You can’t reason with crazy. You can’t predict it. You can’t really plan for it.”

  “I’m going to disagree.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “I’m not saying he isn’t twisted. I think anyone who takes a life, unless it’s in defense of self or another, is twisted. But you know, it’s verified that he and Lindsay were involved.”

  “Yeah. Yeah,” he repeated. “And she wouldn’t go for crazy. Not overtly crazy. But people can hide their nature.”

  “Do you think so? I just don’t, at least not for long. I think what we are shows. Not just in our actions, but in our face, our eyes. He’s worked on this for more than a year and a half—closer to two years now—as far as we know. Getting close to Lindsay, talking her into driving to Whiskey Beach when she didn’t like it. So there’s probably some charm in there. He’s also juggling a wife, children, a job. Twisted, I think, yes, but not batshit. Batshit’s out of control. He’s still maintaining.”

  “Twisted’s bad enough.”

  When they fought their way into Boston traffic, he turned to her again. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I’m not sitting in the car, Eli. Forget that. I think we should drive by her house first. If there’s no car, we can check her work. She’s part-time, so it’s a toss-up. So much energy in the city! I love it for a day or two, then, boy, I want out.”

  “I used to think I needed it. Not anymore.”

  “Whiskey Beach is good for a writer.”

  “It’s good for me.” He laid a hand over hers. “So are you.”

  She brought his hand to her cheek. “The perfect thing to say.”

  He followed the GPS, though he thought he could have found the house. He knew the area, actually had friends—or former friends—who lived there.

  He found the pretty Victorian, painted pale yellow, with a bay wind
ow on the side where stairs led down from a deck.

  A BMW sedan sat in the drive, and a woman in a wide-brimmed hat was watering pots of flowers on the side deck.

  “Looks like she’s home.”

  “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

  The woman set down her watering can as they pulled in behind the BMW, and came to the edge of the deck.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Suskind?”

  “That’s right.”

  Eli walked to the base of the steps. “I wonder if you have a few minutes to talk to me. I’m Eli Landon.”

  Her lips parted, but she didn’t step back. “I thought I recognized you.” Her gaze, calm and brown, slid to Abra.

  “This is Abra Walsh. I realize this is an intrusion, Mrs. Suskind.”

  She let out a long sigh, and sadness moved in and out of her eyes. “Your wife, my husband. That should put us on a first-name basis. It’s Eden. Come on up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There was an investigator here last week. And now you.” She pulled off her hat, ran her hand over a sunny swing of hair. “Don’t you want to put it behind you?”

  “Yes. Very much. I can’t. I didn’t kill Lindsay.”

  “I don’t care. That sounds horrible. It is horrible, but I can’t care. You should sit down. I’ve got some iced tea.”

  “Can I help you with it?” Abra asked her.

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “Then would you mind if I used your bathroom? We drove down from Whiskey Beach.”

  “Oh, you have a home there, don’t you?” she said to Eli, then gestured to Abra. “I’ll show you.”

  It gave Eli a chance to gauge the ground. An attractive woman, he thought, an attractive house in an upscale neighborhood with well-tended gardens, a thick green lawn.

  About fifteen years of marriage, he recalled, and two attractive kids.

  But Suskind had tossed it all aside. For Lindsay? he wondered. Or for an obsessive treasure hunt?

  A few moments later, both Eden and Abra came out again with a tray holding a pitcher and a trio of tall, square glasses.

  “Thanks,” Eli began. “I know this has been hard for you.”

  “You would know. It’s terrible to realize the person you trust, the person you’ve built a life with, a home with, a family with, has betrayed you, has lied. That the person you love betrayed that love and made a fool of you.”

  She sat at the round teak table under the shade of a deep blue umbrella. Gestured them to join her.

  “And Lindsay,” Eden continued. “I considered her a friend. I saw her almost every day, often worked with her, had drinks with her, talked about husbands with her. And all the time she was sleeping with mine. It was like being stabbed in the heart. For you, too, I guess.”

  “We weren’t together when I found out. It was more a kick in the gut.”

  “So much came out after . . . It had gone on nearly a year. Months of lying to me, of coming home from her to me. It makes you feel so stupid.”

  She addressed the last directly to Abra, and Eli saw Abra had been right. Another woman, a sympathetic one, made it all easier.

  “But you weren’t,” Abra said. “You trusted your husband, and your friend. That’s not stupid.”

  “I tell myself that, but it makes you question yourself, what do you lack, what don’t you have, didn’t you do? Why weren’t you good enough?”

  Abra put a hand over hers. “It shouldn’t, but I know.”

  “We have two kids. They’re great kids, and this was devastating for them. People talk, we couldn’t shield them from it. That was the worst.” She sipped at her tea, fought visibly to conquer tears. “We tried. Justin and I tried to hold it together, to make it work. We went to counseling, took a trip together.” She shook her head. “But we just couldn’t put it back together. I tried to forgive him, and maybe I would have, but I couldn’t trust him. Then it started again.”

  “I’m sorry.” Now Abra squeezed her hand.

  “Fool me once,” Eden continued, blinking her eyes clear. “Late nights at the office, business trips. Only this time, he wasn’t dealing with someone ready to be stupid or trusting. I’d check on him, and I knew he wasn’t where he said he’d be. I don’t know who she is, or if there’s more than one. I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. I have my life, my kids—and finally a little pride. And I’m not ashamed to say when I divorce him, I’m going to gut him like a fish.”

  She let out a breath, a half laugh. “I’m still pretty mad, obviously. I took him back, after what he’d done, and he threw it in my face. So.”

  “I didn’t have time to make that choice.” Eli waited until Eden looked back up and over at him. “I didn’t have much time to be mad. Someone killed Lindsay the same day I found out what she’d done, what she’d been doing even when I thought we were trying to make our marriage work.”

  Sympathy covered Eden’s face as she nodded. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. When I was at my lowest, when the news seemed to be round-the-clock about her death, the investigation, I tried to imagine what it would be like if Justin had been the one murdered.”

  She pressed her fingers to her lips. “That’s terrible.”

  “I don’t think so,” Abra said quietly.

  “But even at my lowest, I couldn’t imagine it. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel in your place, Eli.” She paused a moment, sipped her tea. “You want me to tell you I lied to protect him. That he wasn’t with me that night. I wish I could. God, I wish I could.” She closed her eyes. “I shouldn’t think that way about him. We made two beautiful children together. But right now I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. The truth is, Justin came home that night, about five-thirty, no more than a few minutes after that. It all seemed so normal. He even kept his phone out, as he’d started to do the last several months. He said he was expecting an important e-mail from work, and might have to grab his overnight bag and head out. But it wouldn’t be for a couple hours anyway, if that.”

  Eden shook her head. “I realized later, of course, he was waiting for a message from Lindsay, that they’d made plans to go away for a day or two. But that night, I thought it was just the usual. The kids were both at school—a rehearsal for a play they were both in, and pizza after. It was nice, just the two of us, and the rain. I made dinner—chicken fajitas, and he made margaritas. We just had an easy evening, nothing special. Just enjoying ourselves as a couple before the kids came home, and the noise came back.

  “We were doing just that when the phone rang. It was Carlie from the gallery. She’d seen a bulletin on TV. She told me Lindsay was dead, that they said it might be foul play.”

  A calico cat padded up the steps, leaped into her lap. Eden stroked it as she finished. “I should’ve known then, right then. He was so shaken. He went white. But I was so shocked, too. And I was thinking about Lindsay, so I never thought . . . I never would have believed they’d been involved. When the police came, when they told me, I didn’t believe it. Then . . . I couldn’t not believe it. I’m sorry, Eli, I’m so very sorry I can’t help you.”

  “I appreciate you talking to me. It can’t be easy.”

  “I’m putting it behind me. All of it, though it takes some doing. You should do the same.”

  When they were back in the car, Abra rubbed a hand over his. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Now we know.” And still something troubled him.

  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 no
t going to get lucky.”

  “I read tarot,” she reminded him. “It’s an ancient and