Whiskey Beach Read online

  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 s
ad 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.

  Six

  WHEN ABRA CAME INTO BLUFF HOUSE TO CLEAN, THE scent of coffee greeted her. She scanned the kitchen—he kept it clean and tidy—then, since he hadn’t done so, began to make a shopping list.

  When he came in, she stood on a step stool polishing the kitchen cabinets.

  “Morning.” She sent him a casual smile over her shoulder. “Been up awhile?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to get some work in.” Particularly since the damn dream had wakened him just before dawn. “I need to go into Boston today.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m meeting with my lawyer.”

  “Good. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Unoffended, she kept polishing. “Will you have time to see your family?”

  “That’s the plan. Look, I don’t know when I’ll be back. I may end up staying overnight. I’ll probably stay over.”

  “No problem here. We can reschedule your massage.”

  “I’ll leave your money. The same as the last time?”

  “Yes. If there’s a difference either way, we’ll adjust it next week. Since you won’t be working, I’ll give your office a quick pass, and I promise not to touch anything on your desk.”

  “Okay.” He stood where he was, watching her. She wore a plain black T-shirt today—conservative for her—with snug black pants and red high-top Chucks.

  Chains of little red balls swung at her ears, and he noted a little bowl with several silver rings on the kitchen island. He supposed she’d taken them off to avoid getting polish on them.

  “You were right the other day,” he said at length.

  “I love when that happens.” She stepped down from the stool, turned. “What was I right about this time?”

  “About fighting back. I let that slide. I had reasons, but they’re not working. At least I need to be armed, so to speak.”

  “That’s good. No one should have to tolerate being harassed and hounded, and that’s what Lindsay’s family is doing. They’re not going to go through with this suit.”

  “They’re not?”

  “There’s nothing there, legally, for them to go through with. Not that I can see, and I’ve watched a lot of lawyer shows.”

  He let out a half laugh. “That would qualify you.”

  Pleased with his reaction, she nodded. “I could make a living. They’re just habeasing their corpus and whereforing the heretofore to screw with you.”

  “That’s . . . a unique argument.”

  “And rational. They probably think if they can string this out, keep chipping away at you, maybe they’ll uncover new evidence against you. Or at the very least, they’ll beat you up, bury you in documents and writs and whatever so you’ll offer a financial settlement. Which would prove, to their mind, your guilt. They’re grieving, so they lash out.”

  “Maybe you could make a living.”

  “I like The Good Wife.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s a lawyer show. Well, it’s really a character study, and sexy. Anyway, what I’m saying is, it’s good you’re going to meet with your lawyer, that you’re taking steps. You look better today.”

  “Than what?”

  “Than you did.” Resting her polishing hand on her hip, she angled her head. “You should wear a tie.”

  “A tie?”

  “Normally I don’t see the point in a man putting a noose around his neck, which ties are, essentially. But you should wear a tie. It’ll make you feel stronger, more in control. More yourself. Plus you have a whole collection upstairs.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Don’t get a haircut.”

  Once more, she simply baffled him. “No haircut because?”

  “I like your hair. It’s not lawyerly, but it’s writerly. A little shaping if you absolutely feel it’s necessary, and which I could actually do for you myself but—”

  “No, you absolutely couldn’t.”

  “I could on the element of skill. Just don’t whack it into the suit-and-tie lawyer look.”

  “Wear a tie, but keep the hair.”

  “Exactly. And pick up some flowers for Hester. You should be able to find tulips by now, and they’d make her think of spring.”

  “Should I start writing this down?”

  She smiled as she came around the island. “Not only looking better, but feeling better. You’re getting some sass back that’s not just knee-jerk temper-based.” She brushed at the lapels of his sport coat. “Go pick out a tie. And drive safe.” She boosted up, kissed his cheek.

  “Who are you? Really?”

  “We’ll get to that. Say hi to your family for me.”

  “All right. I’ll see you . . . when I do.”

  “I’ll reschedule the massage, note it on your calendar.”

  She walked around the island, climbed back on the stool and went back to her polishing.

  He picked out a tie. He couldn’t say putting it on made him feel stronger or more in control, but it did—oddly enough—make him feel more complete. With that in mind, he got out his briefcase, put in files, a fresh legal pad, sharpened pencils, a spare pen and, after a moment’s thought, his mini recorder.

  He put on a good topcoat, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

  “Who are you?” he wondered.

  He didn’t look the way he used to, but neither did he look quite the way he’d grown accustomed to. No longer a lawyer, he thought, but not yet proven as a writer. Not guilty, but not yet proven innocent.

  Still in limbo, but maybe, maybe finally ready to begin climbing out.

  He left Abra’s money on his desk on his way downstairs, then headed straight out with her cleaning music—vintage Springsteen today—rolling after him.

  He got into the car, realizing it was the first time he’d been behind the wheel since he’d parked it on arrival three weeks before.

  It did feel good, he decided. Taking control, taking steps. He turned on his own radio, let out a surprised laugh when The Boss jammed out at him.

  And thinking it was almost like having Abra for company, he drove away from Whiskey Beach.