by Nora Roberts
“You do. It’s a good night. Or day, I guess. Another really good day.” She pressed her lips to his again. “Let’s give each other lots more good days.”
“That’s a promise.”
And Landons keep their promises, she thought. Overwhelmed, she wrapped around him again. “We found each other, Eli. Just when, just where we were supposed to.”
“Is that a karma thing?”
She drew back to laugh up at him. “You’re damn right it is. Is this why you couldn’t sleep? Because you suddenly accepted your karmic path and wanted to tell me?”
“No. Actually, I didn’t know I was going to say it until you walked out here. One look at you, and it blew through me, all of it.”
“We should go back to bed.” Her smile was full of promise. “I bet I can help you sleep.”
“There’s another reason I love you. You always have really good ideas.” But as he took her hand, he remembered. “Jesus, I got caught up.”
“A habit of yours.”
“No, I mean I forgot why I came out here in the first place, why I couldn’t sleep. I went up and started working on the books—the ledgers, the accounts.”
“All those numbers and columns?” Instinctively she reached up to rub at temples she imagined ached. “You should have nodded off inside five minutes.”
“I found it, Abra. I found Esmeralda’s Dowry.”
“What? How? My God, Eli! You’re a genius.” She grabbed him, circled and swayed. “Where?”
“It’s here.”
“But here where? And do I need a shovel? Oh, oh! We have to take it to Hester, to your family. It needs to be protected, and . . . There must be a way to trace Esmeralda’s descendants, make them a part of the discovery. Hester’s museum. Can you imagine what this means to Whiskey Beach?”
“Talk about running with it,” he commented.
“Well, Eli, think of it. Treasure unearthed after more than two centuries. You could write another book about it. And just think of all the people who’ll be able to see it now. Your family could lend pieces to the Smithsonian, the Met, the Louvre.”
“That’s what you’d do? Donate, lend, display?”
“Well, yes. It belongs to the ages, doesn’t it?”
“One way or the other.” Fascinated by her, he studied her glowing face. “Don’t you want it? Even a piece of it?”
“Oh, well . . . Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t say no to one tasteful piece.” She laughed, spun in a circle. “Oh, just think of the history, the mystery solved, the magic uncorked.”
She stopped, laughed again. “Where the hell is it? And how fast can we get it and secure it?”
He turned her, gestured. “We’ve already got it. It’s already secured. Abra, it’s Bluff House.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“My ancestors weren’t as altruistic or philanthropic as you. They not only kept it, they spent it.” He gestured toward the house. “Built not just on whiskey, but pirate booty. The expansion of the distillery—the timing of it—the expansion of the house, those first innovations, the lumber, the stone, the labor.”
“You’re saying they sold the dowry to expand the business, to build the house?”
“In pieces, I think, if I’m reading all the accounting right. Over a generation or two, starting with the coldhearted Roger and Edwin.”
“Oh. I have to adjust.” She pushed at her hair and, he imagined, pushed back her excited thoughts of museums, and sharing. “Bluff House is Esmeralda’s Dowry.”
“Essentially. It doesn’t add up otherwise, not if you really dig into the expenditures, the revenue. Family lore says gambling—they liked to gamble and they were lucky. And they were smart businessmen. Then the war, the buildup of the country. All of that, yeah, but gamblers need a stake.”
“You’re sure it was the dowry.”
“It’s logical. I want Tricia to take a look, to analyze, and I want to hear back on James Fitzgerald. It adds up, Abra. It’s in the walls, the stone, the glass, the gables. They accounted for it, in their own way, Roger and Edwin, because they considered it theirs.”
“Yes.” She nodded at that. “Men who could cut a daughter, a sister, so completely out of their lives would consider it theirs. I see that.”
“Broome came with it to Whiskey Beach, and Whiskey Beach was theirs. They gave him shelter, and he disgraced their daughter, their sister. So they took what he stole and built what they wanted.”
“Ruthless,” she murmured. “Ruthless and wrong, but . . . it’s poetic, too, isn’t it?” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “And, in a way, a happy ending. How do you feel about it?”
“Maybe a lot of it was built on blood and betrayal. You can’t change history, so you live with it. The house weathered it. So did the family.”
“It’s a good house. It’s a good family. I think both more than weathered history.”
“Ruthless and wrong,” he repeated, “and I can be sorry for that. Lindsay’s murder was ruthless and wrong. All I can do about any of it is try to find out the truth. Maybe that’s justice.”
“That’s why I love you,” she said quietly. “Just that. It’s too early to call Tricia, and I don’t think either of us is going to get any more sleep. I’m going to make us some eggs.”
“That’s why I love you.” On a laugh, he turned to her, pulled her in. And as his gaze drifted over her head, he went still.
He saw, down at the point, a shimmer of light. “Wait.”
He moved quickly to the telescope, peered through. Straightening, he looked at Abra.
“He’s back.”
With a hand gripped on his arm, she looked for herself. “I kept wishing for this, so it could be done and over, but now that it is . . .” She took a moment to evaluate. “I feel the same way. Now, we do something.” She sent him a cool, fierce smile. “Let’s break some eggs.”
While she did so literally, and Eli made coffee, it struck him it might have been any morning, even if it started at barely five a.m. Two people in love—and that was new and fresh and energizing—fixing breakfast.
All you had to do was leave out the murderer.
“We could call Corbett,” Abra said, rinsing berries in the sink. “He could have that conversation.”
“Yeah, we could.”
“And that wouldn’t accomplish much. A conversation over a man I saw in a bar.”
“A man Lindsay cheated with, who bought property in Whiskey Beach.”
“Which Lawyer Landon tells me won’t hold up in court.”
Eli studied her, set her coffee on the counter. “It’s a step.”
“A small one on a very slow walk, and one that lets Suskind know you know. Doesn’t that forearm him?”
“A step that may spook him, even might influence him to leave Whiskey Beach. The threat here’s eliminated while the investigation into Duncan’s death continues, and we take the next steps to verifying the facts regarding the dowry, Edwin Landon, James Fitzgerald and so on.”
“‘Verifying the facts regarding’ is edging toward more lawyer talk.”
“Even when I practiced law, lawyer snark didn’t bother me.”
She sliced some butter into a heated skillet, smiled at him while it sizzled. “Such a fine line between truth and snark. In any case, action’s more satisfying than snark. We’ve got a shot, Eli, at proving he’s the one breaking into Bluff House. Prove that and it not only leads to hanging him for Hester’s fall, and that’s huge, I think, for both of us, but it adds weight to his association with Duncan. Link them together, and it’s a short slide to incriminating him for murder.”
“A lot of soft spots on that path.”
She poured beaten eggs into the skillet. “They hounded you for a year over Lindsay’s death, with less cause, with no evidence. I say we give karma a hand and let the man who, at the least, played a part in that experience the same.”
“Is ‘karma’ another word for ‘payback’ in this case?”
“You say potato.”
She plated eggs, fruit, slices of whole wheat bread she’d toasted. “Why don’t we eat in the morning room? We can watch the sun come up.”
“Before that, is it sexist for me to say I love watching you cook breakfast, especially in that robe?”
“It would be sexist if you expected or demanded it.” Slowly, she trailed her fingers down the side of the robe. “Enjoying it just shows you have good taste.”
“That’s what I thought.”
They carried the plates, the coffee into the morning room, sat in front of the wide bow of glass. Abra scooped up a bite of eggs.
“To continue that thought,” she added, “it would be sexist for you to think you need to get me safely out of the way before you follow through on the plan to lure Suskind into the house.”
“I didn’t say anything about that.”
“A woman in love is a mind reader.”
God, he hoped not, though she’d already showed that aptitude too often for comfort. “If we tried the lure, and if it worked, there’s no need for both of us to be here.”
“Fine. Where will you be while I video him from the passage?” Expression placid, she popped a berry into her mouth. “I’d need to be able to contact you as soon as it’s done.”
“Being a smart-ass before dawn’s annoying.”
“So is any attempt to protect the little woman. I’m not little, and I think I’ve already demonstrated I can handle myself.”
“I didn’t know I loved you when I first started talking about doing this. I hadn’t—wasn’t able—to open up to everything I feel for you. And it changes everything.” He laid a hand over hers. “Everything. I want the answers. I want the truth about what happened to Lindsay, to Gran, about everything that’s happened since I came back to Whiskey Beach. I want them on what happened two hundred years ago. But I could let it go, every bit of it, if I thought finding those answers could hurt you.”
“I know you mean that, and it just . . .” She turned her hand under his so their fingers linked. “It just fills me. But I need the answers, too, Eli. For us. So let’s trust each other to take care of each other, and find them together.”
“If you stayed at Maureen’s, I could signal you when and if he comes in. Then you could call the cops. They’d move in while he was here. Caught in the act.”
“And if I’m with you, I can contact the police from right here, while you run your famous video camera.”
“You just want to play in the secret passage.”
“Well, who wouldn’t? He hurt you, Eli. He hurt my friend. He would have hurt me. I’m not going to sit at Maureen’s. Together, or not at all.”
“That sounds like an ultimatum.”
“Because it is.” She lifted her shoulders, let them fall in the most casual gesture. “We can fight about it. You can get mad, I can be insulted. I just don’t see the point, especially on such a gorgeous morning when we’re in love. The point I see, Eli, is I’ve got your back. And I know you’ve got mine.”
What the hell was he supposed to do with that? “It might not work.”
“Negative thinking’s unproductive. Plus, past history and pattern say it will work. This could be over, Eli, or at the very least he could be in police custody, charged with breaking and entering, maybe destruction of property, by tonight. And he’d be questioned on all the rest.”
She leaned forward. “When that happens, Wolfe’s going to have his first taste of crow.”
“You had that ace up your sleeve,” Eli replied.
“It’s karma time, Eli.”
“All right. But we’re going to work this out, account for every contingency.”
She poured them both a second cup of coffee. “Let’s strategize.”
While they talked, the sun broke over the horizon, splashing gold over the night-dark sea.
Just another day, Eli thought when Abra dashed out for her morning class. Or it would seem so to anyone watching the movements, the comings, the goings, of Bluff House.
He walked the dog, crossing the beach at a light jog and in full view of Sandcastle. To please Barbie as much as to form a picture, he spent a little time throwing the ball for her, letting her splash into the water, swim out again.
Back home, she sprawled on the sunny terrace, and Eli went in to call his sister.
“Boydon Madhouse, and how are you, Eli?”
“Pretty good.” He held the phone an inch from his ear as shrill shrieks threatened to break his eardrum. “What the hell is that?”
“Selina strongly objects to being in time-out.” Tricia raised her own voice, and Eli made it two inches. “And the longer Sellie screams and misbehaves, the longer she’ll be in time-out.”
“What did she do?”
“Decided she didn’t want her strawberries at breakfast.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t seem—”
“So she threw them at me, which is why she’s in time-out. I have to change my shirt, which further means she’ll be late for day care and I’ll be late for the office.”
“Okay. This is a bad time. I’ll call you later.”
“We’re going to be late anyway, and I have to cool off so I don’t give my beloved child a strawberry facial. What’s up?”
“I dug up some old household and business ledgers. Really old, going back to the late 1700s, into the early 1800s. I’ve been going through them, pretty carefully, and I’ve come to some interesting conclusions.”
“Such as?”
“I’m hoping you have time to look them over yourself, and we’ll see if your conclusions jibe with mine.”
“You don’t want to give me a clue?”
Boy, he really wanted to. But . . . “I don’t want to influence you. Maybe I went off some shaky ledge.”
“You’ve got my attention. I’d love to play with them.”
“How about I scan you a few pages, just to give you a start? I should be able to come in, maybe the end of the week, bring the ledgers to you.”
“You could. Or Max, the currently time-outed Sellie and I could come up Friday evening, have a weekend at the beach and I can play with them.”
“Even better. But there’ll be no strawberries if they cause this reaction.”
“Usually she loves them, but girls do have their moods. I’ve got to go unshackle her, get us out of here. Send me what you can, and I’ll take a look.”
“Thanks. And . . . good luck.”
Following his morning agenda, he went up for his laptop. He sat out on the terrace, in view of Sandcastle, his trusty Mountain Dew on the table, as he scanned through his e-mails.
He opened one from Sherrilyn Burke first, began to read her updated report on Justin Suskind.
The man hadn’t spent much time at work since the last report, Eli noted. A day here and there, a handful of out-of-office meetings. The most interesting, Eli found, had been to a law firm where he met with an estate specialist. And stormed out, obviously angry.
“Didn’t get the answers you wanted,” Eli sympathized. “I know just how you feel.”
Through the report, he followed Suskind as he picked up his kids from school, took them to the park, to dinner, then home. His brief visit with his wife hadn’t gone any better than his meeting with the lawyer, as he’d left in visible temper to speed away.
At ten-fifteen the night before, he’d left his apartment with a suitcase, a briefcase and a storage box. He’d driven north out of Boston, stopping at an all-night supermarket for a pound of ground beef.
He’d made a second stop an hour later, veering off the highway to a twenty-four-hour box store where he’d purchased a box of rat poison.
Ground beef. Poison.
Without reading further, Eli surged to his feet.
