Whiskey Beach by Nora Roberts
Maybe another lover isn’t happy about her and Suskind, or maybe another wife confronts her. I haven’t found anybody yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. Mind?” Sherrilyn asked, and gestured to the coffeemaker.
“No, sure.”
“I’d make it myself, but that machine looks like I’d need a training manual.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks. So you’ll see—and I believe your previous investigator reported—she didn’t always use a credit card for rooms. Sometimes she used cash, and that’s hard to track.
“At this point we have witnesses who’ve identified Justin Suskind as her companion in several locations. Now we look for some that identify someone else.”
He brought the fresh coffee back, sat again to skim through the files while Sherrilyn talked.
“She let her killer into the house. Turned her back on him. She knew who killed her, so we look at who she knew. BPD was thorough, but they liked you for it, and the lead investigator was dug in hard on that.”
“Wolfe.”
“He’s a bulldog. You fit the bill for him. I can see where he’s coming from. And you’re a criminal defense attorney. That’s the enemy. He busts his ass to take bad guys off the street, you line your pockets getting them back out.”
“Black and white.”
“I was a cop for five years before I went private.” Cupping the coffee in both hands, she leaned back to enjoy it. “I see plenty of gray, but it’s a pisser when some hotshot suit gets an asshole a pass on some technicality or because he’s got good style with some fancy tap dance. Wolfe looks at you, he sees rich, privileged, spoiled, conniving and guilty. He built a damn good circumstantial case, but he couldn’t shoot it home. Now here you are in Whiskey Beach, and before you know it, there’s another murder on your doorstep.”
“Now you’re not sounding like my lawyer. You sound like a cop.”
“I have many voices,” she said easily.
She took out another file, set it on the counter. “Kirby Duncan. He was basically a one-man operation, kept it low-key, and low-tech. He wasn’t bargain basement, but you’d find him on the sale rack. Cops liked him. He’d been one of them and he played things pretty straight. Wolfe knew him, was friendly with him, and he’s pissed off he can’t pin this on you, then boomerang off it to circle your wife’s death back on you.”
“I got that, loud and clear,” Eli agreed.
“But in this case, none of it fits. Duncan wasn’t an idiot, and he wouldn’t have met the guy he was shadowing alone, in a deserted area. Unless he got a wild hair to go to the lighthouse at night in the middle of a storm, he went to meet someone and most likely someone he knew. And someone killed him. You’re alibied, and there’s absolutely nothing to indicate you and Duncan ever met or spoke. Nothing to indicate you hauled your butt from Boston, where it’s confirmed you were when Abra Walsh was assaulted here in this house, then arranged to meet Duncan, killed him, then hauled back to Boston to toss his office, his apartment, then hauled back here again. Nobody’s buying that.”
“Wolfe—”
Sherrilyn shook her head. “I’m not sure even Wolfe can swallow it, as hard as he might try. Now if he can tie Walsh to it somehow so you had help, or find you contacted an accessory in Boston to do that end, that would go down.”
“Someone planted the murder weapon in Abra’s house.”
“What?” She straightened up, her eyes as sharp and annoyed as her tone. “Why the hell didn’t I know about this?”
“I’m sorry. I just found out myself Monday.”
Mouth grim, she took a notebook and pen out of her briefcase. “Give me the rundown.”
He told her what he knew, watched her write her notes in what he thought of as cop shorthand.
“Sloppy frame-up,” she concluded. “Whoever did it is impulsive, disorganized and maybe a little stupid.”
“He murdered a seasoned investigator, and so far he’s gotten away with it.”
“Even stupid can be lucky. I’d like to see this cottage before I go back to Boston.”
“I’ll ask Abra.”
“And this trench in your basement. I’ll take a shot at the local boys, see how much they’ll share with me.” She tapped her pen on the page as she studied Eli. “In our e-mail and phone conversations you’ve indicated you think this may all be connected.”
“It’s a lot of damn coincidence otherwise.”
“Maybe. There’s another one I dug up I find interesting.”
She took out yet another file. “About five months ago, Justin Suskind purchased a property known as Sandcastle, on the north point of Whiskey Beach.”
“He . . . he bought property here?”
“That’s right. It’s deeded in the name of Legacy Corp., a shell company he set up. His wife isn’t listed on the deed or the mortgage. If and when they proceed with a divorce, it should come out. It’s very possible, at this point, she’s not aware of it.”
“Why the hell would he buy a house here?”
“Well, it’s a nice beach, and it’s still a buyer’s market real-estate-wise.” Her smirk reappeared. “But the cynic in me says he has other motives. We could speculate he hopes to catch you in a mistake, and avenge his dead lover, but you weren’t living here five months ago, and had no plans to.”
“Bluff House was here. My grandmother . . .”
“None of this connects him in any way I can see with your wife’s death, and that’s why you hired me. But I love a puzzle or I wouldn’t be in this business. Add nosy. He buys property here, reasonably close to your landmark family home, a place my information indicates you rarely visited after your marriage.”
“Lindsay didn’t like it here. She and my grandmother didn’t get along.”
“I’d imagine she might bring up the house, and all that goes with it, in pillow talk. So a few months after she dies, her lover buys the property. And you have a trench in the basement, a grandmother in the hospital, a PI shadowing you, then killed. And now the murder weapon planted in the home of the woman you’re involved with. What’s at the core of that, Eli? Not you. You weren’t here when he took the first step. What’s at the core?”
“Esmeralda’s Dowry—something that probably doesn’t exist, and if it does sure as hell isn’t buried in the basement. He left my grandmother to die.”
“Maybe. Can’t prove it yet, but maybe. I wouldn’t have given you all this information if my gauge didn’t tell me you’re not the type to fly off and do the stupid. Don’t screw up my record on character judgment.”
He shoved up because he did feel like flying off and doing the stupid. “He could’ve killed her. She lay there, God knows how long. A defenseless old woman, and he left her to die. He could’ve killed Lindsay.”
He whirled back. “His wife could be lying, covering for him out of loyalty or fear. He’s capable of killing. The odds are Duncan’s on him, too. Who else? Who else would care what I was doing? I thought it was Lindsay’s family, but this makes more sense.”
“I did some digging there. Nosy,” she repeated. “The Piedmonts had an excellent firm and two of their top investigators on this, in Boston. They let them go about three weeks ago.”
“Let . . . They let it go?”
“My information is the investigators reported there was nothing left to find. I’m not saying they won’t hire another firm, but I can say they didn’t hire Kirby Duncan.”
“If Suskind did, he’d know when I left the house, where I was, how much time he’d have to dig. He was in the house the night I was in Boston because Duncan told him I was in Boston. Then Abra came in. If she hadn’t defended herself, he might’ve . . .”
Sherrilyn sat as he paced to the terrace doors and back. “You said Duncan was a straight shooter.”
“That’s his rep, yeah.”
“Vinnie—Deputy Hanson—went to see him the night of the break-in here, to question him. He told Duncan about the break-in, about Abra. A straight shooter wouldn??
“It could make a tidy box, when and if it can be proved. Right now?” She tapped the files again. “All we can prove is he bought property. And his wife didn’t strike me as loyal or afraid, not when I talked to her. Humiliated and bitter. I don’t know why she’d lie for him.”
“He’s still the father of her children.”
“True enough. I’ll keep on it. Meanwhile, I’m going to take a look around here, see if I can find out what Suskind’s been up to. Get a bead on him.”
“I want you to give the cops what you have on him.”
She winced. “That hurts. Listen, the cops will want to talk to him, ask questions, get their own gauge. It could scare him off, and we end up blowing our best angle. Give me a little time, say a week. Let me see what I can finesse.”
“A week,” Eli agreed.
“Why don’t you show me the famous hole in your basement.”
Downstairs she took a couple of shots with a little digital camera. “A lot of determination here,” she commented. “I read up a little on this dowry, the ship and so on, but just to get a general overview. I’d like to have one of my people do some more in-depth research on it, if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been doing some of my own. If there was anything, we’d have found it a long time ago. He’s wasting his time.”
“Probably. But it’s a big house. Lots of hidey-holes, I imagine.”
“Most of it was built years after the Calypso. Whiskey built it, generation by generation, along with the distilleries, the warehouses, the offices.”
“You didn’t go into the family business,” she said as they started out.
“It’s my sister’s thing. She’s good at it. I’ll be the Landon in Bluff House. There’s been one here,” he explained, “always, since it was no more than a stone cottage on this bluff.”
“Traditions.”
“Matter.”
“That’s why you went back to the house in the Back Bay for your grandmother’s ring.”
“It wasn’t marital property, even in the prenup that was clear. But at that point I didn’t trust Lindsay.”
“Why would you?” Sherrilyn commented.
“The ring belonged to the Landons. My grandmother gave it to me to give to my wife as a symbol, that she was part of the family. Lindsay didn’t honor that. And I was pissed,” he added, closing the basement door behind them. “I wanted to take back something that was mine. The ring, the silver set—that had been in the family for two hundred years. The painting . . . That was stupid,” he admitted. “I didn’t want her to have something I’d bought out of sentiment, out of trust, when she’d betrayed that. Stupid, because after everything . . . I can’t even look at it.”
“That added more weight on your side. You went up, took the ring, just the ring. All that jewelry you’d bought your wife. You left it alone. You didn’t take it, didn’t throw it around the room, out the window. You exhibited no sign of violent behavior or disposition. You’re not a violent man, Eli.”
He thought of Suskind. Of Lindsay, of his grandmother, of Abra. “I could be.”
She gave him a maternal pat on the arm. “Don’t go changing. I booked a night at the B-and-B. I can have a chat with the owner about Duncan, about anyone who she saw him with. Sometimes people remember things over a blueberry muffin they don’t when they’re talking to cops. I want to see Abra’s cottage, and sneak around Suskind’s place. Maybe chat up any neighbors, some of the shopkeepers. He had to buy food, maybe a six-pack now and then.”
“Yeah. Let me call Abra about the cottage.”
He glanced at the list on the kitchen board as he took out his phone.
“Is that her schedule?”
“Today’s.”
“Busy woman.”
Sherrilyn studied the schedule as Eli spoke with Abra. A woman with her hands in that many pies, she thought, knew a little about a lot of people. And that could be useful.
“She said you can get the key from her neighbor, the house to the right of the cottage. Maureen O’Malley.”
“Great. I’m leaving those files for you. I have copies.” She closed her briefcase, lifted it. “I’ll keep you up-to-date.”
“Thanks. You’ve given me a lot to process.” As he walked her to the door, it struck him. “Six-pack. Beer. Bar.”
“Make mine a draft.”
“Abra, the second break-in. We were at the bar where she works on Fridays. She saw this guy, unfamiliar, unfriendly. He ordered another drink, but he left before she served it and as soon as I walked in.”
“Can she describe him?”
“It’s dark in there. She worked with a police artist, but the sketch isn’t much. But . . .”
“If you showed her a picture of Suskind . . . Worth a shot, and there’s one in the file. It only proves he was in the bar, which, seeing as he has a house here, isn’t much. But it’s more.”
He wanted more still, Eli realized. It ground in his gut, the idea that the man his wife had betrayed him with might have killed her. Might have caused his grandmother’s fall, and left her for dead. Might have assaulted Abra.
He’d invaded Bluff House. Everyone in Whiskey Beach knew of the Landons, so buying a house here was a deliberate act. One taken for proximity to Bluff House, he was certain of it.
He carried the files into the library, sat at the old desk with them and his legal pad for his own notes.
And went to work.
When Abra came in shortly after five, he was still at it, and the dog who greeted her at the door stared at her with pleading eyes.
“Eli.”
“Huh?” Blinking, he looked around, frowned. “You’re back.”
“Yes, I’m back, and actually a little late.” She stepped up to the desk, scanned the piles of papers, the thick ream of notes, and picked up the two empty bottles. “A two–Mountain Dew session.”
“I’ll get those.”
“Got them. Did you have lunch?”
“Ah . . .”
“Did you take the dog out?”
“Oh.” He slid a glance down to the sad-eyed Barbie. “I got caught up.”
“Two things. One, I’m not going to let you neglect yourself again, skipping meals, subsisting on nuclear-yellow soft drinks and coffee. And two, you’re not allowed to neglect a dog who depends on you.”
“You’re right. I was busy. I’ll take her out in a minute.”
In answer, Abra simply turned and walked out, the dog at her heels.
“Shit.” He looked at his papers, his progress, raked his hands through his hair.
He hadn’t asked for the dog, had he? But he’d taken the dog, so that was that. Rising, he made his way to the kitchen, found it empty, with Abra’s enormous bag on the counter. A glance out the window showed him she’d taken the dog out herself, and they were halfway down the beach steps.
“No need to be pissy about it,” he muttered, and grabbed a jacket and Barbie’s favored ball on the way out.
By the time he reached them, woman and dog were walking briskly along the shoreline.
“I got caught up,” he repeated.
“Obviously.”
“Look, I got a lot of new information from the investigator. It’s important.”
“So is the health and well-being of your dog, not to mention your own.”
“I just forgot she was there. She’s so damn polite.” Because it sounded like an accusation, he sent the dog a silent apology. “I’ll make it up to her. She likes to chase the ball. See?” He unhooked the leash. “Go for it, Barbie!” And heaved the ball into the water.
The dog flew after it, on wings of joy.
“See? She forgives me.”
“She’s a dog. She’ll forgive almost anything.” Abra stepped nimbly out of range when the very wet Barbie returned to drop the ball on the sand.
Eli picked it u
“Would you have remembered to feed her? Her water dish was