“That’s a little too easy, isn’t it?” They’d come for him again, he thought. The police, with questions. No getting around it.
“No one’s going to think you had anything to do with it.”
He shook his head, unsurprised she’d read his thoughts. He stepped forward, took the glass, took a long drink of his own. “Sure they will. But this time, I’ll be prepared for it. You came to tell me so I would be.”
“No one who knows you will think you had anything to do with it.”
“Maybe not.” He handed her back the glass. “But it’s going to fuel the beast. Accused murderer connected to victim of another death. Plenty of dirt to throw, and some of it’s going to hit you if you don’t keep your distance.”
“The hell with that.” Her eyes fired at him. The color distress had washed out of her face surged back. “And don’t insult me that way again.”
“It’s not an insult, it’s a warning.”
“The hell with that, too. I want to know what you’re going to do if you believe some people will think you had anything to do with this, if you believe dirt’s going to be tossed at you.”
“I don’t know yet.” But he would. This time he would. “Nobody’s going to chase me out of Bluff House or away from Whiskey Beach. I stay until I’m ready to go.”
“That’s good enough. Why don’t I fix us some food?”
“No, thanks. I ate the cookies.”
She glanced at the plate on the island, and her jaw dropped as she counted a lonely six cookies. “Good God, Eli, there were two dozen. You should be sick.”
“Maybe a little. Go on home, Abra. You shouldn’t be here when the cops come. No telling when, but soon enough.”
“We can talk to them together.”
“Better not. I’m going to call my lawyer, just to let him know. Lock your doors.”
“All right, fine. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’d like you to call me if anything happens.”
“I can handle it.”
“I think you can.” She angled her head. “What happened, Eli?”
“I had a good day, mostly. There’s been more of them lately. I can deal with this.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” She set the glass aside, laid her hands on his face. “Eventually you’re going to ask me to stay. I like wondering what I’m going to do about that.” She brushed his lips with hers, then pulled up her hoodie against the rain and left.
He liked wondering, too, he realized. And sooner or later, the timing just had to get better.
Eleven
HE ROSE AT DAWN, AFTER PULLING OUT OF A NASTY DREAM where he looked down at a broken, bloody, staring Lindsay on the rocks below Whiskey Beach Light.
He didn’t need a shrink to buy him a clue into his subconscious on that one.
He didn’t need a personal trainer to tell him every bone, every muscle, every freaking cell in his body hurt because he’d overdone the pumping iron the day before.
Since there was no one around to hear, he whimpered a little as he dragged himself to the shower, hoping the hot water would pound out some of the aches.
He sweetened the pot with three Motrin.
He went down to make coffee, drank it while dealing with e-mail. Time, he figured, for another update to his family. He wished he could realistically edit out any reference to break-ins and dead bodies, but at this point, better they hear it from him than elsewhere.
Word always traveled. Ugly words traveled fast.
He took care with the delivery, assured them all the house was secure. If he glossed over the death of a Boston PI, he thought he was entitled. For Christ’s sake, he’d never even laid eyes on the man. Deliberately he left the impression of an accident. It could have been an accident.
He didn’t believe that for one quick minute, but why worry the family?
He segued into progress on his book, the weather, made some jokes about the book he’d read on the Calypso and the dowry.
He read it over twice, decided weaving the bad news through the center, bookending it with light and positive, equaled the best framework. Hit send.
Remembering his sister, and their bargain, he wrote another e-mail just to Tricia.
Look, I’m not editing . . . very much. The house is secure, and the local cops are on it. At this point it looks like some asshole’s been digging for mythical treasure. I don’t know what happened to the guy from Boston, whether