by Nora Roberts
She’d walked the crime scene, though it had long since been cleared and cleaned, and was even now staged for sale. She’d done her own reenactment of Lindsay’s murder.
Thorough, he thought.
He read her summaries, which included impressions.
The Suskinds had recently separated. Not surprising, he mused, considering the strain a cheating spouse put on a marriage. Add murder and a barrage of media that had made their marriage fodder for the masses.
More surprising, he supposed, they’d stuck for nearly a year.
Two kids, though, he recalled. Too bad.
She’d spoken with desk clerks, bellmen, housekeeping at hotels and resorts that coincided with Lindsay’s travel. And confirmed what he’d already known. Much of that travel had been in the company of Justin Suskind during the last ten or eleven months of her life.
How did he feel about that? he asked himself. Not much, not anymore. The anger was done, finished. Even the sense of betrayal had dulled, like stone washed by water, those sharp edges had smoothed away.
He felt . . . sorry. Given the time, the process, he imagined the anger, the bitterness both he and Lindsay had felt would have burned itself out. They’d have gone their separate ways, they’d have moved on.
But neither of them had the chance. Whoever killed her had seen to that.
He owed it to them both to read the reports, meet the investigator, to do everything he could to find out why, who. Then put it away.
He read the report twice, thought it over as he sampled the smoothie he’d found in the fridge with its Drink me Post-it.
He decided to shift gears, got his notebook from the desk and yet another book on Esmeralda’s Dowry from the shelves.
He spent the next hour winding along the author’s speculative path. This one leaned heavily on the theory that the surviving seaman and the privileged daughter of the house, Violeta, had fallen in love. Her brother, Edwin, upon discovering them, had killed the lover. Violeta, reckless, wild, ran off to Boston, never to return. And Esmeralda’s Dowry remained lost to the ages.
What Eli knew of family history confirmed Violeta had run off, been disowned and all but erased from any documents through the wealth, influence and fury of her family for the disgrace.
The matter-of-fact tone used to depict the events might not have been as entertaining as others he’d read in the last weeks, but seemed more based in sense.
Maybe it was time to hire a skilled genealogist to do whatever could be done to track down the reckless Violeta Landon.
Considering it, Eli pulled out his phone again when it signaled.
He saw his agent’s name on the display, took one long, deep inhale.
Here we go, he thought, and answered.
He sat there with his notebook, his tablet, and his phone when Abra walked in.
“I’m done upstairs,” she began. “You’re clear if you want to go back to work. I’ve got one more load of laundry in the dryer. I thought I’d get back into the passageway. It’s taking some time as I have to haul buckets in and out to get the steps really clean. And I thought if I did it naked it would be more fun.”
“What?”
“Ah, as I thought, the naked got through the wall. Are you working here? Researching?” she asked, tipping her head to read the title of the book he’d set down: Whiskey Beach: A Legacy of Mystery and Madness. “Really?”
“It’s mostly crap, but it has a few pertinent details. It’s got a section on the area, and the Landons during Prohibition, that’s pretty interesting. My great-great-grandmother helped run the product to local establishments, hiding the bottles under her skirt to elude authorities, who wouldn’t ask her to lift them.”
“Clever.”
“I’ve heard that one before so it may be true. The theory on the dowry is the rescued seaman managed to hide it. Then he stole the fair and headstrong Violeta’s heart and several pieces of her jewelry. That concluded in a wild chase on a stormy night where he went off the lighthouse cliff, courtesy of Edwin Landon, her dark-hearted brother. The dowry likely went with him, back into the unforgiving sea.”
“Where it’s secured in Davy Jones’s locker?”
“According to this guy, the brigand and the treasure chest were dashed on the rocks, scattering the jewels like sparkling starfish. Or maybe it was jellyfish. Anyway.”
“If that were true, I’d still think bits and pieces, at least, would’ve been recovered. You’d hear about that over the years.”
“Not if people who snagged a shiny necklace or whatever kept their mouths shut, which he speculates, and seems very likely. Anyway,” he said again.
Abra gave him a curious smile. “Anyway?”
“She liked it.”
“Who? The headstrong Violeta?”
“Who? No. My agent. My book. The chapters I sent her. She liked it. Or she’s lying to spare my feelings.”
“Would she? Lie?”
“No. She liked it.”
Abra sat on the coffee table to face him. “Did you think she wouldn’t?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Now you are.”
“She thinks she can sell it on the five chapters.”
“Eli, that’s great.”
“But she thinks she can make a bigger splash with the whole book.”
“How close are you?”
“Nearly finished the first draft. Another couple of weeks there, maybe.” Less, he thought, if it kept rolling as it had been. “Then I need to tighten it up. I don’t know exactly.”
“It’s an important and very personal decision, but . . . Oh, Eli! You should go for the splash.”
He had to grin at the way she bounced on the table. “Yeah, that’s what she thinks.”
“What about you?”
“The splash. I’d feel easier about having it done before she sends it out. She could be wrong and I’ll rack up the new world record for rejections, but I’d have finished it.”
She bumped her knee to his. “She could be right and you’ll have sold your first novel. Don’t make me get a smudge stick to banish negative thoughts and energy.”
“Can we just have sex instead?” He grinned at her. “I’m always pretty positive about sex.”
“I’ll consider it. When are you going to let me read it?”
When he shrugged, she rolled her eyes. “Okay, let’s go back to the previous request of some time ago. One scene. Just one scene.”
“Yeah, maybe. One scene.”
“Yay. You know, we should celebrate.”
“Didn’t I just suggest sex?”
Laughing, she slapped his leg. “There are other ways to celebrate.”
“In that case, we can celebrate when I’ve finished it.”
“Fair enough. I’m heading back to the dungeons.”
“I can give you a hand.”
“You could, or you could go back to work.” She lifted her joined palms, arrowed them down like a diver toward the water. “Poised for the splash.”
He smiled at her. “I should probably try for another couple hours. I’m going to lose time tomorrow. The investigator I hired is coming up to meet with me.”
“News?” she asked, sitting again.
“I don’t know. I read her report. Not much new, but she covered a lot of ground. The Suskinds separated.”
“It’s difficult to overcome infidelity, especially when it’s so public. They have kids, don’t they?”
“Yeah. Two.”
“Even more difficult.” She hesitated, shook her head. “And so I don’t repeat a mistake, I need to tell you Vinnie got in touch a couple hours ago. The bullets they recovered from Duncan’s body were fired by the gun I found in my cottage.”
He put a hand over hers. “I would’ve been surprised if they didn’t match.”
“I know. The fact that I called Vinnie when I found it weighs on my side. And the anonymous tip to Wolfe from a disposable cell phone—that seems sticky. But he wanted me to know
that Wolfe’s digging into my background, my movements, trying to put you and me together before Lindsay’s murder.”
“We weren’t, so he can’t.”
“No, he can’t.”
“Relay all this to your lawyer.”
“I did. He’s on it. There’s nothing, Eli, and I think Wolfe only cares about me as a conduit to you. If he somehow links us to Duncan’s death, it’s more feasible you were involved in Lindsay’s.”
“It goes both ways,” he reminded her. “Since we’re clear on Duncan, it adds weight to me being clear on Lindsay’s.”
“Then you agree with him on the basics. The two murders are connected somehow.”
“I can’t believe I’m this close to two murders, a near fatal accident, a series of break-ins and an assault without there being connections.”
“I’m with you on that, but then everything’s connected under it all.” She rose again. “I’m going back to it so maybe we can figure out a way to be the hero and heroine of our own novel and help catch a bad guy.”
“We should go out to dinner tonight.”
Her eyebrows quirked. “We should?”
“Yeah. Barbie can guard the house. We should go out, have a nice dinner somewhere. You can wear something sexy.”
“Are we having a date, Eli?”
“I’ve let that slide. Pick a place,” he told her. “We’ll go on a date.”
“All right, I will.” She came back to lean down, kiss him. “You’ll have to wear one of your many ties.”
“I can do that.”
Good news, uneasy news, he thought when she left him. Questions to be asked and answered. But tonight, he was going out with a fascinating woman who made him think, who made him feel.
“I’m going back to work for a bit,” he told Barbie. “Then you can help me pick out a tie.”
He couldn’t watch the house every hour of every day. But he continued to spot-check. He knew he could get back inside again, even if Landon had changed the code again. He’d prefer to continue his search with the house empty, but the way Landon stuck to the place, he might have to risk going in when Landon was sleeping.
He’d begun to believe he’d gone in the wrong direction with the basement, at least that section of the mammoth space. But he had to finish to be sure. He’d spent so much time, so much sweat, so much money that he had to see it through.
He needed to get up to the third floor again. Somewhere in one of the trunks, under some cushion, behind some picture, he’d find a clue. A diary, a map, coordinates.
He’d been through the library in Bluff House while the old lady slept, but he’d found nothing of importance. He’d found nothing to match his own knowledge, his own meticulous and detailed research into Esmeralda’s Dowry.
He knew the truth. Beyond the legend, beyond the adventure stories written about that storm-tossed night on Whiskey Beach, he knew.
The wind, the rocks, the raging sea, and only one man survived. One man, he thought, and a treasure beyond price.
Pirate booty, taken by might, by courage, by blood. And his by right, his by blood. The blood he shared with Nathanial Broome.
He was descended from Broome, who’d claimed the treasure, and from Violeta Landon, who’d given the pirate her heart, her body and a son.
He had proof, written in Violeta’s hand. He often thought her message from the grave had been written directly to him, to give him the bits and pieces from letters, from a single diary, all discovered after the death of his great-uncle.
A stupid, careless man.
He was the heir now to that treasure. Who had more right to the spoils than he?
Not Eli Landon.
He would have what was his. He’d kill if need be.
He had killed. And now that he had, he knew he could do so again. He knew, as the days passed and his way to Bluff House was barred, he knew he’d kill Eli Landon before it was over, before it truly could be over.
After he’d reclaimed what was his, he’d kill Landon as Landon had killed Lindsay.
That was justice, he told himself. Rough justice, and the kind the Landons deserved. The kind Nathanial Broome would have approved of.
His heart jumped when he saw them come out of the house. Landon in a suit, the woman in a short red dress. Holding hands, laughing into each other’s faces.
Not a care in the world.
Had he been fucking her while he’d been with Lindsay? Self-righteous prick. He deserved to die. He wished he could do it, do both of them, right now.
But he had to be patient. He needed to regain his legacy, then he’d mete out justice.
He watched them get in the car, could see the woman lean over for a kiss before Landon drove out, away.
Two hours, he estimated. If he could have afforded to have them followed as before, he’d know more precisely. But he could risk two hours inside.
He’d paid a great deal for the alarm breaker, and money would become a serious issue soon. An investment, he reminded himself as he parked his car, lifted his bag out of the trunk.
He knew the police patrolled. He’d watched them cruise by Bluff House, believed he had the basic timing. He thought he would’ve made a good pirate himself, and considered his aptitude further proof of his blood, his rights.
He knew how to evade, how to plan, how to take what he wanted.
The gloomy rain made good cover. He hurried through it, aiming for the side door—the easiest entry point, the most sheltered. He’d take time to make a wax impression of the woman’s key. She wouldn’t have taken that heavy ring she carried, not dressed for the evening. He’d find it, copy it.
And next time, he’d simply use a key to get in.
But now he took his jimmy out of his bag and hooked the alarm reader around his neck by the strap for easy access.
Even as he stepped to the door, the wild, warning barks erupted from inside.
He stumbled back, heart racing into his throat.
He’d seen Landon with a dog on the beach, but it had seemed friendly, playful. Harmless, the sort of dog you trusted with your kids.
He’d put a couple of dog biscuits in his bag, as a bribe.
The violence of the barking didn’t speak of the easily bribed. It spoke of vicious teeth, snapping jaws.
Cursing, near to tears, he backed away. Next time, the next time he’d bring meat. Poisoned.
Nothing would keep him out of Bluff House and away from what was rightfully his.
He needed to calm down, and he needed to think. It infuriated him most of all that he needed to go back to work, at least for a few days. But that would give him time to think, and to plan. Maybe come up with a new idea to implicate Landon or the woman. To get one or both of them out of the house, into police custody for a time. Enough time.
Or maybe one of the Boston Landons would have an accident. That would draw the bastard out of the house. Clear the road.
Something to think about.