Whiskey Beach Read online

  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