Whiskey Beach (34 page)

She straightened up from her focus. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m an idiot. You need to talk to Mike. He brokered the property.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking. He was the agent on that property. He might know something about something.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“For now, you can look.” She tapped the scope. “Sandcastle.”

Eli bent over, looked through the eyepiece. It stood near the north point, two-story clapboard, with a wide deck facing the beach. Windows and sliders shuttered with blinds, he noted. A short driveway and no car.

“Looks like nobody’s home.”

“So, it would be a perfect time to go down, take a closer look.”

“No,” he said, still studying the house.

“You know you want to.”

Damn right he did, but he didn’t want her with him.

“The only thing to see is a house, with the blinds closed.”

“I bet we could pick the lock.”

Now he did straighten. “Are you serious?”

She shrugged, had the grace to look sheepish. “I guess I sort of am. We might find some evidence that—”

“Would be completely inadmissible.”

“Lawyer.”

“Sane,” he insisted. “We’re not breaking into his—or anyone’s—house. We’re especially not breaking into the house of a man who may very well be a murderer.”

“You’d do it if I weren’t here.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” At least he hoped to Christ he wouldn’t.

She narrowed her eyes at his face, then sighed. “You wouldn’t. At least tell me you’d
like
to.”

“What I’d like is for him to be in there. I’d like to go down, kick in the door then beat the living crap out of him.”

The cold rage in his voice got through, had her eyes widening. “Oh. Have you ever beaten the living crap out of anyone before?”

“No. He’d be my first. I’d enjoy it. Fuck speculative.” He rammed his hands into his pockets as he paced the terrace. “Just fuck it. I don’t know if he killed Lindsay, but odds are. And I know, I
know
he’s responsible for what happened to Gran. I know he put his hands on you. He put a bullet in Duncan. He’ll do it all again and more to get what he’s after. And I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.”

“Yet.”

He stopped, tried to shrug off some of the frustration. “Yet.”

“What can you do at this point?”

“I can talk to Mike. I can think about talking to Eden Suskind, and the best way to approach her if I do. We can give the cops your ID of Justin Suskind, which gives them a reason to have a conversation with him—in a few days, to give Sherrilyn some time first. Not much is likely to come from that, but it should worry him when it happens. I can keep researching the dowry, and try to figure out why he thinks he’ll find it here.”

As he thought it through, he calmed. “I can trust the investigator to do her job. And as insurance? I can put together a plan to lure Suskind into the house so I can catch his sorry ass.”

“We,” she corrected.

“We can see his place, therefore he can sure as hell see Bluff House. So he’s watching it, at least off and on. We’d have to make sure he was in there. Then we could make a show of leaving the house. Maybe we even take a couple of overnight bags.”

“Like we were taking a quick trip.”

“It would give him the perfect opening. We just park out of sight, circle back on foot and go in the south side. And into the passageway with a video camera. I’ve been looking at some online, and nanny cams.”

“Excellent, proactive. And it could work. What about Barbie?”

“Crap. Yeah, he might not come in with her barking. We take her with us, leave her with Mike. Would they keep her for a few hours?”

“Absolutely.”

“We’d need to refine it.” And he’d want to walk it off, judge the timing. “It’s a good backup. Hopefully, between Sherrilyn and the cops, they’ll put together enough to pull him in and pressure him.”

“I like the idea of huddling in a secret passage, with my lover.” She wrapped her arms around him. “Preparing to ambush a cold-blooded killer. It’s like a scene from a romantic thriller.”

“Just don’t sneeze.”

“As if. And speaking of scenes from a book . . .”

“Yeah, a deal’s a deal. I’ll pick one. Let me think about it.”

“Fair enough. Now about that tie.”

“You’re serious about that?”

“Deadly. You can go pick one while I run those wet clothes I completely forgot about through the wash. Then I can look at those files while you do the dishes. Barbie will need her bedtime walk by then.”

“You’ve got it all figured out.”

“I do try.” She kissed him, one cheek, then the other. “One tie,” she repeated, and tugged him back inside.

More reluctant than he’d expected, he went upstairs, pulled his tie rack out of the closet.

He liked his ties. It wasn’t as if he had an emotional attachment, but he liked having a variety. Choices.

Which still didn’t explain why he’d brought them all to the beach, especially when he’d worn a tie a spare handful of times in the last six months.

Okay, maybe a slight emotional attachment. He’d won court cases in these ties, and lost a few. He’d selected one every day of his working life. Had loosened them during late nights at the office. Knotted and unknotted them countless times.

In another life, he admitted.

He reached for one—blue and gray stripes—changed his mind, lifted a maroon with a muted paisley pattern. Changed it yet again.

“Oh hell.”

He shut his eyes, reached down and grabbed one blind.

It just had to be a freaking Hermès.

“Done.”

It actually hurt to carry it away from the others. To offset the downer, he swung into his office.

She’d tell him it was good, he thought as he tried to decide what scene to give her. She’d lie.

He didn’t want her to lie. He wanted it to be good.

Oddly, he realized that he knew just the scene for her to read—one where he could use her feedback.

He scrolled through his manuscript, found the pages. Before he could change his mind, he printed them out.

“Don’t be a pussy,” he ordered himself, and took them and the tie downstairs.

She sat at the counter, one bare foot rubbing the flank of the dog that sprawled on the floor. And wore glasses with bold orange frames.

“You wear glasses.”

She pulled them off like a dirty little secret. “Sometimes, for reading. Especially when the print’s small. Some of this is really small.”

“Put them back on.”

“I’m vain. I can’t help it.”

He set the pages aside, took the glasses, slid them back on her nose. “You look cute.”

“I thought going for punchy frames would make a difference, but I’m still vain, and still hate wearing them. Just for reading sometimes, and sometimes when I’m making jewelry.”

“The things you learn. Really cute.”

She rolled her eyes behind the lenses, then took the glasses off again when she spotted the tie. “Nice,” she said, taking it from him. Then wiggled her eyebrows when she saw the label. “Hermès.
Very
nice. The ladies at the consignment shop are going to be very pleased.”

“Consignment shop?”

“I can’t just toss it. Somebody can use it.”

He looked at it as she hopped up to tuck it into her bag. “Can I buy it back?”

With a laugh, she shook her head. “You won’t miss it. Is that for me?” She gestured toward the printout.

“Yeah. One scene, it’s just a couple of pages. I figured I’d get it all over with at once. Like ripping off a bandage.”

“It’s not going to hurt.”

“It already does. I don’t want you to lie to me.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

He snatched up the pages as she reached for them. “You’re a born nurturer, and you’re sleeping with me. It goes against the grain for you to hurt anyone’s feelings. You won’t hurt my feelings. And that’s a lie. But I need to know if it works, or if it doesn’t, even if it hurts.”

“I won’t lie to you.” She wiggled her fingers for the pages. “Take your mind off what I’m doing and load the dishwasher.”

She propped her feet on the second stool and, since they were right there, put on her glasses. After peering at him over the pages, giving him a shooing gesture, she picked up the half glass of wine she’d been nursing. And read.

She read it twice, saying nothing as dishes rattled and water ran in the sink.

Then she set the pages aside, took off her glasses so he could see her eyes clearly.

She smiled.

“I would’ve lied a little. The kind of thing I consider a soft lie, because it’s like a cushion, it gives a soft landing to both parties.”

“A soft lie.”

“Yeah. I can usually manage those guilt-free. But I’m really glad I don’t have to lie, even with a soft one. You gave me a love scene.”

“Well, yeah. There was a reason. I haven’t written many of them. Could be a weak spot.”

“It’s not. It’s sexy and it’s romantic, and more, you showed me what they’re feeling.” She laid a hand on her heart. “I know he’s bruised, here again,” she said, tapping her hand. “She wants to reach him, and she so much wants him to reach her. I don’t know all the reasons, but I know this moment mattered to both of them. It’s not a weak spot.”

“He didn’t expect to find her. I didn’t expect him to find her. She makes a difference, in him, in the book.”

“Will he make a difference in her?”

“I hope so.”

“He’s not you.”

“I don’t want him to be, but there are pieces. She’s not you, but . . . I’m pretty sure she’s going to wear orange-framed reading glasses.”

She laughed. “My gift to your literary oeuvre. I can’t wait to read it, Eli, from start to finish.”

“It’ll be a little while yet. I couldn’t have written that scene three months ago. I wouldn’t have believed it, and I couldn’t have felt it.” He walked to her. “You’ve given me more than reading glasses.”

She slid her arm around him, rested her cheek on his chest. Hardly a wonder, she thought, once she’d taken that first risky step, the fall had followed so fast.

And she wouldn’t regret it.

“Let’s walk Barbie,” she said.

At the words “walk” and “Barbie,” the dog scrambled up and went into full-body wag.

“And I can tell you a couple of ideas I had for your new third-floor office.”

“For my office.”

Her lips curved as she drew back. “Just ideas. Including,” she continued as she rose for the leash and one of his jackets, as hers was currently in spin dry, “a really wonderful painting at a shop in the village. One of Hester’s, actually.”

“Don’t we have enough paintings in the house?”

“Not in your new office.” She rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, zipped it. “Plus, your art in there should be inspiring, stimulating and personal.”

“I know just what would inspire and stimulate and qualify as personal.” He reached for another jacket. “A full-length photo of you, wearing just those glasses.”

“Really?”

“Life size,” he said as he hooked Barbie’s leash.

“That’s a definite possibility.”

“What?” His head came up fast, but she was already walking out the door. “Wait. Seriously?”

Her laugh trailed back as he and the dog chased after her.

E
LI EXCHANGED
E-MAILS WITH HIS INVESTIGATOR, DEVOTED
an hour a day to researching Esmeralda’s Dowry and dived into his book. He put Abra off on the trip to Boston as the book was running hot for him. He craved those hours inside it, and the possibility, tantalizingly close now, of truly redefining his life.

He also wanted time to prepare. If he seriously meant to meet Eden Suskind, to try to talk to her about very sensitive areas of their personal lives, he needed to do it right.

Not so different, to his mind, from questioning a witness at trial.

And he wouldn’t mind another day or two testing out the video camera and nanny cam he’d bought.

In any case, he found himself reluctant to leave Whiskey Beach, even for a day. Periodically he wandered out to the terrace, took a look through the telescope.

Sherrilyn’s brief daily reports told him Justin Suskind remained in Boston, going about his business, living in an apartment near his offices. He’d visited his home once, but only long enough to pick up his two children to take them to dinner.

Still, he could return anytime. Eli didn’t want to miss him.

He tended to walk the dog north on the beach in the afternoon, and twice did his run with Barbie past Sandcastle, climbing up the north beach steps to return by the road route.

It gave him a closer look, a casual study of the doors, the windows.

The blinds on Sandcastle remained firmly shut.

He told himself he’d take a few more days, let everything settle, let it all simmer in his head.

And, if part of the simmering, the settling led to the remote possibility he’d run into Suskind on one of his walks, have the satisfaction of confronting him face-to-face.

Eli felt he’d earned it.

When he knocked off for the day, he let himself think of Abra. He went downstairs, put Barbie out on the terrace as they’d both learned she’d stay and enjoy a little sunshine before their walk.

Then he checked Abra’s daily schedule. Five-o’clock class, he noted. Maybe he’d cook something.

On second thought, a much safer, more palatable thought, he’d get pizza delivered. They could eat outside in the dusky spring evening with the pansies and daffodils. He’d stick a couple of candles out there. She liked candles. He’d turn on the strings of glass balls he’d found in his search-and-rummage through storage and managed to repair and hung on the eaves over the main terrace.

Maybe he’d steal some of the flowers around the house and put them on the table. She’d appreciate that.

He’d have time to walk the dog, put in an hour or so in the library, even set a nice outdoor table before she got home.

Got home, he thought. Technically, Laughing Gull was her home, but for all intents and purposes she lived in Bluff House, with him.

And how did he feel about that?

Comfortable, he realized. He felt comfortable about that. If anyone had asked him a few months before how he’d feel about being in any sort of relationship, he wouldn’t have had an answer.

The question wouldn’t have processed. There just hadn’t been enough of
him
to form any part of any relationship.

He opened the refrigerator, thinking Mountain Dew or possibly Gatorade, and saw the bottle of water with its sticky note, one he’d ignored that morning.

Be good to yourself.

Drink me first.

“Okay, okay.” He took out the water, peeled off the sticky note. It made him smile.

Did he say comfortable? True enough, he decided, but more than comfortable, for the first time in a very long time, he was happy.

No, there hadn’t been much of him at the start of things, but there’d been plenty of her. She filled the spaces. Now she made him want to do the same, even if it was only fumbling through a repair of a string of lights and hanging them because they’d made him think of her.

“Coming along,” he murmured.

He’d walk the dog, drink the water, then shift to research mode.

At the knock on the door, he detoured to the front of the house.

“Hey, Mike.” He stepped back—more progress, he thought. It pleased him to have a friend drop by.

“Eli. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. We’ve been slammed. Housing picking up, and rentals, too. The spring season’s rocking it.”

“That’s good news.” Still he frowned.

“What?”

“The tie.”

“Oh, yeah, pretty cool, huh? I got it at the consignment shop.
Hermès
,” he added with a tony accent. “Forty-five bucks, but it’s good for impressing clients.”

“Yeah.” Eli had thought the same once. “Yeah, I bet.”

“So I looked through my files on Sandcastle, refresh my memory, you know. I can give you what’s public record, and some impressions. Some stuff, you know, falls into confidential.”

“Got it. You want a drink?”

“Could use something cold. It’s been a long one.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Eli led the way back to the kitchen. “Did you get the impression Suskind wanted it for a residence or an investment property?”

“Investment. The purchase was through his company, and there was some talk about company use. There wasn’t a lot of talk,” Mike added as they reached the kitchen. “Most of the deal was long-distance. E-mail, phone.”

“Mmm-hmm. We’ve got beer, juice, Gatorade, water, Mountain Dew and Diet Pepsi.”

“Mountain Dew? I haven’t had that since I was in college.”

“Super juice. You want one?”

“Why not?”

“Let’s take this outside, keep Barbie company.”

Mike spent a moment giving the delighted dog a rub before sitting down, stretching his legs out. “Now this is what I’m talking about. The flowers look good, man.”

“Credit Abra. I’m on watering detail though, so that counts.”

He liked doing it, liked watching the colors and shapes she’d crowded into pots grow, the shrubs along the edges of the stone flower. Occasionally he considered working out here, but realized he’d never get anything done. He’d just sit as he was now, listening to the wind chimes play their tune along with the whoosh of the sea while he looked out at the water, with his dog sitting beside him.

“Have you seen any scantily clads yet through that thing?”

Eli glanced at the telescope. “Oh, one or two.”

“I should get me one.”

“Sad to say I’ve spent more time looking north. I’ve got a good view of Sandcastle from here.”

“I was down that way today. It looks closed up.”

“Yeah. He hasn’t been there for a while.”

“Damn shame to see it sit empty. I could rent it in a heartbeat—by the week, a long weekend.”

Interested, Eli shifted. “I bet you could. Maybe you should give him a call, see if he’s interested.”

After another swing of Dew, Mike nodded. “I can do that. Do you really think this guy’s been breaking in here, that he killed that PI?”

“I’ve been going at it from every angle, circling around. That’s where I keep coming back.”

“Then he’d be the one who hurt Mrs. Landon.”

“I can’t prove it, but yeah. If the rest fits, that fits.”

“Son of a fucker,” Mike muttered, and opened his briefcase. “I’ve got his cell number in the file. Let’s see what he has to say.”

After opening the file, Mike punched the number into his phone. “Hey, hi there, Justin. It’s Mike O’Malley, O’Malley and Dodd Properties up in Whiskey Beach. How are you doing today?”

Eli sat back, listened to Mike do his chatty salesman patter. And, he thought, the man he believed was responsible for death, for pain, for fear was speaking on the other end. The man who’d taken lives, and broken his own to bits.

And he couldn’t reach him, not yet. Couldn’t touch him, couldn’t stop him. But he would.

“You’ve got my number if you change your mind. And if there’s anything I can do for you down here, you just give me a call. We’re having some beautiful weather this spring, and it promises to be a terrific summer. You ought to come up, take advantage of us. . . . Oh, I know how that goes. All right, then. Bye.”

Mike clicked off the phone. “Just as stiff and unfriendly as I remember. They’re not interested in renting the property at this time. Some noise about possible company or family use coming up. He’s a busy man.”

“How’d he find the property?”

“The Internet, bless it. He hit our webpage. He had three places earmarked to start. One’s a block back so you lose the oceanfront, but it’s a nice quiet street, and an easy walk to the beach. The other’s just south, closer to our place, but the owners decided to pull it off the market, let it ride for another season. Good move, because we’ve booked it solid this summer.”

Mike took a long pull of Mountain Dew. “Man, this takes me back. Anyway, we made an appointment. He wanted either me or Tony—Tony Dodd, my associate—to show the properties. Insisted it had to be one of us. I got a note right here in the file because I got attitude right off the get-go from him. No problem, a sale’s a sale.”

“He doesn’t have time to waste on underlings. He’s too important. I get him.”

“Yeah, he made that clear,” Mike agreed. “So, he comes in later that week. Expensive suit, two-hundred-dollar haircut. He’s got that entitled, prep-school superiority all over him. No offense, you probably went to one.”

“I did, and none taken. I know the type.”

“Okay. He doesn’t want coffee or small talk. He’s on a schedule. But when I’m driving him down to look at the two properties, he asks about Bluff House. Everybody does, so I didn’t think anything of it. I remember we had one of those smoky skies that day, cold, gloomy, and the house looked like something right out of a movie. Some old gothic film, you know, the way it sits up here. I give him the spiel, the history, the pirate deal because it always grabs a client’s interest. And Christ, Eli, I hope to God I didn’t say anything to bring this on.”

“He already knew. He was here because he knew.”

“I didn’t like him, but I didn’t jump to homicidal maniac or anything. Just tight-assed rich prick. I showed him the place a block back first. Sandcastle’s newer, bigger and a bigger commission. Plus I tagged him as going for the bigger. But I took him through the other. He asked what most people ask, did the wandering through, and out on the top deck. You can see the ocean from the deck.”

“And Bluff House.”

“Yeah. He wasn’t too happy about the proximity of the other houses, wanted to know which ones had permanent residents, which were rentals. But that’s not an unusual question. I took him down to Sandcastle. It’s got some nice features, and the other houses aren’t as close in. He spent a lot of time outside again, and yeah, you can see Bluff House from there.

“He met the asking price on the spot, which isn’t usual. In fact, actually pretty damn stupid in this market, since the sellers were prepared to go lower. But I just figured he thought dickering was beneath him. I said how I’d take him to lunch, and we could deal with the paperwork, and I could contact the owners. Not interested.”

With a sour look, Mike tapped the face of his own watch. “Tick, tick, tock, you know? I had to put the contract together quick and fast. He wrote a check for the earnest money, gave me his contact information. And took off. It’s tough to complain about an easy sale, but he irritated me.”

“And the rest? Did it go as fast and smooth?”

“Settled in thirty days. He came in, signed the papers, took the keys. He barely said anything more than yes or no. We do a nice welcome basket for new owners—a bottle of wine, some fancy cheese and bread, a potted plant, some coupons for local shops and restaurants. He left it sitting on the table. Couldn’t be bothered to take it.”

“He had what he wanted.”

“I haven’t seen him since. I wish I knew more, but if you figure out how to catch the bastard, you let me know. I’m all about being in that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’m going to get going. Look, why don’t I throw some burgers on the grill tomorrow night. You and Abra come on over.”

“It sounds good to me.”

“I’ll see you then. Thanks for the Dew.”

After Mike left, Eli laid a hand on Barbie’s head, scratched gently behind her ears. He thought about the man Mike had just described.

“What did she see in him?” he wondered. Then he sighed. “I guess you never know who’s going to pull at you, or why.” He shoved to his feet. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He gave it a few more days, just a few more days. The routine lulled him. Morning runs on the beach with the dog, or yoga if Abra charmed him into it. Solid blocks of writing time, with the windows open, the balm of sea air now that May blew sweetly through.

Reading out on the terrace with a dog sprawled at his feet, he learned more about the history of the house and the village whiskey built than he’d ever expected to.

He’d known the original distillery had expanded in the late 1700s after the war. He hadn’t realized, or retained, in any case, that the extensive expansions on the once modest house had begun shortly after. They’d added a bathhouse at considerable expense, according to his source, the first in Whiskey Beach.

Within twenty years, Landon Whiskey, and Bluff House, expanded again. Landon Whiskey built a school, and one of his ancestors caused a scandal by running off with the schoolmistress.

Before the days of the Civil War, the house stood three elegant stories tall, tended by a small army of servants.

They’d continued their firsts. The first house with indoor plumbing, the first with gaslight, then with electricity.

They’d weathered Prohibition, cagily running whiskey, supplying speakeasies and private customers.

The Robert Landon his father had been named for bought and sold a hotel—and then a second in England—and married a daughter to an earl.

But no one spoke, unless in joking terms, from what he’d found, of pirate treasure.