Whiskey Beach

by Nora Roberts

  put in another hour on the notes he’d taken, both on the legend and on his twisty reality.

  Gathering everything, he stepped back into the house, then dumped everything to answer the phone. He saw his parents’ home number on the readout, and as it always did these days, his heart jumped at the fear his grandmother had fallen again. Or worse.

  Still, he put as much cheer into his voice as possible. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.” He relaxed again at the easy tone of his mother’s voice. “I know it’s a little late.”

  “It’s not even nine, Mom. And not a school night.”

  He heard the smile in her voice. “Don’t put off your homework till Sunday night. How are you, Eli?”

  “Good. I was just reading a book on Esmeralda’s Dowry.”

  “Yo ho!”

  “How’s Gran? And Dad? Tricia?”

  “Everyone’s fine. Your gran’s looking more like herself every day. She still tires quicker than I’d like, and I know she has some discomfort, especially after her therapy, but we should all be so tough at her age.”

  “Amen.”

  “She’s really looking forward to seeing you for Easter.”

  He winced. “Mom, I don’t think I can make it.”

  “Oh, Eli.”

  “I don’t like leaving the house empty for that long.”

  “You haven’t had any more trouble?”

  “No. But I’m right here. If the police have any leads on who broke in, they’re not saying. So it’s just not smart to leave it empty for a day or two.”

  “Maybe we should lock the place up, hire a guard until they catch whoever’s breaking in.”

  “Mom. There’s always a Landon at Bluff House.”

  “God, you sound just like your grandmother.”

  “I’m sorry. Really.” He knew just how much holiday traditions meant to his mother, and had let her down there too many times already. “I needed a place, and she gave it to me. I need to take care of it.”

  She let out a sigh. “All right. You can’t come to Boston. We’ll come to Whiskey Beach.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no reason we can’t come there. Hester would love it—and we’ll make sure her doctors clear it. Your sister and her family would love it, too. It’s past time we had the whole family together for a holiday at Bluff House.”

  His first reaction had been panic. Now it shifted. She was right, past time. “I hope like hell you don’t want me to bake a ham.”

  “I’ll take care of that, and whatever else. We’ll let Selina hunt eggs—oh, remember how you and Tricia used to love doing that? We’ll come up Saturday afternoon. This is better. Better than you coming here. I should’ve thought of it in the first place.”

  “I’m glad you thought of it. Ah, listen, I’d like Abra to come, too.”

  “That would be perfect. Hester especially would want to see her. You know she calls every couple of days to talk to your gran. We’d love to have her.”

  “Okay, good, because I’m actually seeing her.”

  There was a pause, long and buzzing. “Seeing seeing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, Eli, that’s wonderful! That’s so, so good to hear. We love Abra, and—”

  “Mom, it’s not like . . . It’s just seeing. Seeing.”

  “I’m allowed to be happy. You haven’t . . . It’s been a long time since you had someone in your life. And we’re especially fond of Abra. I love you, Eli.”

  Something in the tone had his stomach jittering. “I know. I love you, too.”

  “I want you to have your life back. I want you to be happy again. I miss my boy. I miss seeing you happy.”

  He heard the tears, closed his eyes. “I’m getting it back. I feel more myself here than I have in a long time. Hey, I’ve put on ten pounds.”

  When she burst into tears, the panic returned. “Mom, don’t cry. Please.”

  “It’s happy. It’s just happy. I can’t wait to see you for myself. I’m going to go tell your father, Hester, and call Tricia. We’ll bring a feast. Don’t worry about a thing. Just keep taking care of yourself.”

  When he hung up he just stood for a moment getting his bearings. Ready or not, his family was coming to Bluff House. And his mother’s “Don’t worry about a thing” wouldn’t cut it.

  He knew damn well his grandmother would expect Bluff House to shine, and he couldn’t dump all that on Abra.

  He’d figure it out. He had better than a week to figure it out. He’d make a list.

  Later, he decided. Now, he discovered, he really did want that beer. And he wanted it in a noisy bar. With Abra.

  So, he’d grab a shower, and maybe he’d walk to the village. That way she could drive them both back after her shift.

  He headed for the steps, realized he wore a grin. Yeah, he thought, he felt more like himself than he had in a very long time.

  Sixteen

  ABRA WOUND HER WAY THROUGH TABLES, BUSING EMPTIES, taking orders and checking IDs as the Boston-born band pulled in a hefty share of the college crowd. Following bar policy, she rewarded each party’s designated driver—when they had one—with free non-alcoholic drinks through the night.

  Otherwise, tonight’s crowd leaned heavy on beer and wine. She kept her tables happy—casually flirting with guys, complimenting girls on hair or shoes, laughing at jokes, quick conversations with familiar faces. She enjoyed the work, the noise and the hustle. She liked the people-watching, the speculating.

  The stone-cold-sober DD from her table of five channeled any desire he might have had for beer into hitting on a nearby table of girls, particularly the milk-skinned redhead. From her reaction, the way the two of them danced, the whispers when the girl group trooped off as a pack for the ladies’, Abra figured the DD might just get lucky later.

  She served a round to a pair of couples—she cleaned for one set—and was pleased to see earrings she’d made dangling from both women’s earlobes.

  Boosted, she made her way to the back table, and its single occupant. No familiar face here, and not by her gauge a particularly happy one. Anyone who sat alone at the back of a bar nursing tonic and lime didn’t project happiness.

  “How’s it going back here?”

  She got a long stare and a tap on the now empty glass in answer.

  “Tonic with lime. I’ll take care of that. Can I get you anything else? We’re famous for our nachos.”

  When all she got was a shake of the head, she took the empty, tried an easy smile. “I’ll get right back to you.”

  Thinking the likelihood strong that the tonic-and-lime would be a lousy tipper, she headed back to the bar.

  Risky, he thought. Risky coming in here, getting so close to her. But he’d been reasonably sure she hadn’t seen him that night in Bluff House. Now as she looked him right in the eye without a single flicker of recognition, he could be absolutely sure. And rewards, God knew, took risk.

  He’d wanted to watch her, to see how she behaved—and he’d hoped Landon would be there, opening up a fresh opportunity to get back into the house.

  But then he’d hoped the police would take Landon in for questioning. He’d needed only a small opening to get in, plant the gun, make an anonymous call.

  Now, they’d searched the place, so planting the gun in Bluff House wouldn’t work. But there was always another avenue. The woman might be the best route.

  She could be his way back into Bluff House. He needed to think about that. He had to get back in, finish his search. The dowry was there; he believed it with every fiber of his being. He’d already risked so much, lost so much.

  No going back, he reminded himself. He’d killed now, and found it a great deal easier than he’d expected. Just the press of a finger on the trigger, hardly any effort at all. Logically, it would be easier the next time, if a next time proved necessary.

  In fact, he might enjoy killing Landon. But it had to look like an accident, or suicide. Nothing that made the police, or
the media, or anyone, question Landon’s guilt.

  Because he knew, without doubt, Eli Landon had killed Lindsay.

  He could use that, and already imagined forcing Landon to write out a confession before he died. Spilling that blue Landon blood as the coward begged for his life. Yes, he found he wanted that more than he’d realized.

  An eye for an eye? And more.

  Landon deserved to pay; he deserved to die. Making that happen would be nearly as rich a reward as Esmeralda’s Dowry.

  When he saw Eli walk in, the rise of rage nearly choked him. The red-hot haze of it blurred his vision, urged him to reach for the gun holstered at his back, the same gun he’d used to kill Kirby Duncan. He could see, actually see the bullets punching into the Landon bastard’s body. The blood gushing as he fell.

  His hands trembled with the need to end the man he hated above all else.

  Accident or suicide. He repeated the words over and over in his head in a struggle to regain control, to calm his killing fury. The effort popped beads of sweat on his forehead as he fought to consider his options.

  At the bar Abra waited for her drink orders and chatted with her favorite village character. Short, stocky, with a monk’s ring of wispy white hair, Stoney Tribbet worked on his second beer and a bump of the night. Stoney rarely missed a Friday night at the pub. He claimed he liked the music, and the pretty girls.

  He’d be eighty-two that summer, and he’d spent every year of it—except for a stint in the army in Korea—in Whiskey Beach.

  “I’ll build you your own yoga studio when you marry me,” he told her.

  “With a juice bar?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “I’m going to have to think about that, Stoney, because it’s pretty tempting. Especially since it comes with you.”

  His weathered map of a face went pink under its permanent tan. “Now we’re talking.”

  Abra gave him a kiss on his grizzled cheek, then lit up when she saw Eli.

  “I didn’t expect you to come in.”

  Stoney turned on his stool, gave Eli the hard eye, then it softened. “Now that’s a Landon if I ever saw one. Are you Hester’s grandboy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stoney Tribbet, Eli Landon.”

  Stoney shot out a hand. “I knew your grandpa—you got his eyes. We had some adventures together back a ways. Some long ways.”

  “Eli, why don’t you keep Stoney company while I get these drinks served?”

  “Sure.” Due to the current lack of a stool, Eli leaned on the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Looks like I’ve got one here. Belly up, boy, and I’ll buy you one. You know your grandpa and I both had our eye on the same girl once upon a time.”

  He tried to picture his tall, lanky grandfather and this fireplug of a man on adventures, and competing for the same woman.

  A tough picture to mind-sketch.

  “Is that so?”

  “Rock-solid truth. Then he went off to Boston to school, and I scooped her up. He got Harvard and Hester, and I got Mary. We agreed we both couldn’t have done better. What’re you drinking?”

  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  Pleased two of her favorite people were sharing drinks and conversation, Abra snaked her way through to deliver orders. As she moved toward the back, she saw the empty table, and the bills tossed on it.

  Odd, she thought, putting the money on her tray. It looked like her solo had changed his mind about another tonic and lime.

  At the bar Eli settled in, snagging a stool when an ass lifted off one, listening to stories—some he assumed were exaggerated for effect—about his grandfather as a boy and young man.

  “He rode that motorcycle hell for leather. Gave the locals a fit.”

  “My grandfather. On a motorcycle.”

  “Most usually with a pretty girl in the sidecar.” Eyes twinkling, Stoney slurped through the head of his beer. “I thought he’d win Mary because of that motorcycle. She loved riding. The best I could offer back then were the handlebars of my bike. We’d’ve been about sixteen then. Used to have the best damn bonfires down on the beach. With whiskey Eli nipped from his father’s cabinet.”

  Now Eli tried to picture the man he’d been named for driving a motorcycle with a sidecar, and pilfering his own father’s liquor supply.

  Either the image came more naturally, or the beer helped it along.

  “They threw some big parties at Bluff House,” Stoney told him. “Fancy people would come up from Boston, New York, Phillydelphia and where-not. They’d have the house lit up like a Roman candle, with people gliding along the terraces in their white tuxes and evening gowns.

  “Made a hell of a picture,” Stoney said, and downed his bump.

  “Yeah. I bet it did.”

  Chinese lanterns, silver candelabras, big urns of tropical flowers—and the people in their Gatsby elegance.

  “Eli, he’d slip out, get one of the servants to bring down food and French champagne. I’m pretty sure his parents knew about it. We’d have our own party on the beach, and Eli, he’d go back and forth between. He was good at that, if you take my meaning. Good at being between. Rich and fancy, and everyday. First time I saw Hester, he brought her down from a party. She was in a long white dress. Had a laugh in her, always did. One look at her, and I knew Mary was mine. Eli couldn’t take his eyes off Hester Hawkin.”

  “Even as a kid I knew they were happy together.”

  “So they were.” Nodding sagely, Stoney banged a hand on the bar, his signal for another round.

  “You know, Eli and I married our girls within a couple months of each other. Stayed friendly, too. He lent me the money to start my carpentry business. Wouldn’t take no when he heard I was going to go to the bank for a loan to get it going.”

  “You’ve lived here all your life.”

  “Ayah. I was born here, figuring on dying here in another twenty, thirty years.” He grinned over the dregs of his beer. “I did a lot of work in Bluff House over the years. Been retired awhile, but when Hester got it in her head to refit that room up on the second floor for a gym, she brought the plans to me to look over. I’m glad she’s doing better. Whiskey Beach isn’t the same without her in Bluff House.”

  “It’s not. You know the house pretty well.”

  “I’d say as well as those who’ve lived there. Did some plumbing for them on the side. No plumbing license, but I’ve got handy hands. Always did.”

  “What do you think about Esmeralda’s Dowry?”

  He snorted. “I think if there ever was such a thing, it’s long gone. Don’t tell me you’re looking for it. If you are, you’ve got your grandfather’s eyes but not his good sense.”

  “I’m not. But somebody is.”

  “Do tell.”

  Sometimes, Eli thought, the way to get information was to give it. He did tell.

  Stoney pulled on his bottom lip and considered. “What the hell could you bury in that basement? The floor’s as much stone as dirt. There are better places to hide a treasure, if you’re hiding it. Not too bright to think it’s in the house in the first place. Generations of people living there—servants, workmen like me and my crew. Plenty of us have been over every inch of that place at one time or another, including the servants’ passages.”

  “Servants’ passages?”

  “Long before your time. Used to be staircases behind the walls,