information indicates you’re working for Eli Landon.”
“Your information?”
His face remained pleasant, even affable. “It’s no secret, is it?”
“No, it’s not, and it’s also none of your business.”
“Gathering information is my business. You must be aware Eli Landon is a suspect in the murder of his wife.”
“Is that accurate?” Abra wondered as she pulled on her cap. “I think it’s more accurate to say after a year of investigating, the police haven’t been able to gather the evidence to show Eli Landon had anything to do with his wife’s death.”
“The fact is, a lot of prosecutors won’t take on a case that’s not a slam dunk. That doesn’t mean there isn’t evidence, there isn’t a case. It’s my job to gather more information—let me get that for you.”
“No, thanks, I’m used to carrying my own. Who do you work for?” Abra asked him.
“Like I said, I have a client.”
“Who must have a name.”
“I can’t divulge that information.”
“Understood.” She smiled pleasantly, walked to the stairs. “I don’t have any information to divulge either.”
“If Landon is innocent, he has nothing to hide.”
She paused, looked Duncan in the eye. “Seriously? I doubt you’re that naive, Mr. Duncan. I know I’m not.”
“I’m authorized to compensate for information,” he began as they went up the steps into the little church proper.
“You’re authorized to pay for gossip? No, thanks. When I gossip, I do it for free.” She walked out and turned toward the parking lot and her car.
“Are you personally involved with Landon?” Duncan called out.
She felt her jaw tighten, cursed the fact he’d ruined her post-yoga mood. She tossed her mats, her bag in the car, opened the door. And in a wordless reply to his question, shot up her middle finger before she got in, turned the key and drove off.
The encounter kept her in a state of irritation as she segued from job to job, task to task. She considered canceling her massage booking but couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t penalize a client because some nosy detective from Boston was poking around in her life. Because he’d dug under her skin so quickly she’d been rude.
Not her life, she reminded herself, not really. Eli’s.
Regardless, it struck her as monumentally unfair and intrusive.
She knew all about unfair and intrusive.
When Maureen texted her about taking a run, she nearly made an excuse. Instead, she decided the exercise and company might be just what she needed.
She changed, zipped on her hoodie, pulled on her cap, tugged on fingerless gloves and met her friend at the beach steps.
“I need this.” Maureen jogged in place. “Eighteen kindergartners on a sugar high. Every teacher in America should have their salaries doubled and get a bouquet of roses every freaking week. And a bottle of Landon Whiskey’s gold label.”
“I take it the cupcakes were a success.”
“They were like locusts,” Maureen said as they started down to the beach. “I’m not sure there was a stray sprinkle left. Everything okay?”
“Why?”
“You’ve got that little deal here.” Maureen tapped herself between her eyebrows.
“Damn.” Instinctively, Abra rubbed at the spot. “I’m going to get lines there. I’m going to get culverts there.”
“No, you won’t. You only get that crease when you’re really upset or pissed off. Which is it?”
“Maybe both.”
They started off at a light jog, the ocean frothing on one side, the sand with its clumps and pockets of snow on the other.
Knowing her friend, Maureen said nothing.
“Did you see that guy when you were leaving class this morning? About average height, brown hair, nice face, little paunch?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe, yeah. He held the door for me. Why? What happened?”
“He came downstairs.”
“What happened?” Maureen stopped dead, then had to kick up her pace as Abra kept going. “Honey, did he try something? Did he—?”
“No. No, nothing like that. This is Whiskey Beach, Maureen, not Southie.”
“Still. Damn it. I shouldn’t have left you alone down there. I was thinking cupcakes, for God’s sake.”
“It wasn’t anything like that. And who taught that course on self-defense for women?”
“You did, but that doesn’t mean your best friend just strolls off and leaves you alone that way.”
“He’s a private detective from Boston. Come on,” Abra said when Maureen stopped again. “Keep up. I have to run this mood off.”
“What did he want? That bastard’s still in prison, isn’t he?”
“Yes, and it wasn’t about me. It was about Eli.”
“Eli? You said private detective, not the police. What did he want?”
“He called it information. What he wanted was for me to gossip about Eli. He wanted