Whiskey Beach Part 17

"d.a.m.n." 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 p.i.s.sed 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 cla.s.s 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. d.a.m.n it. I shouldn't have left you alone down there. I was thinking cupcakes, for G.o.d'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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d'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 dish and dirt, and he offered to pay me. Looking for an inside man," she spewed. "Somebody who'd spy on Eli and pa.s.s on what he's doing, what he's saying. I don't even know because Eli's not doing or saying anything. And when I told him, basically, to get lost, he asked if Eli and I were involved. Which sounded a h.e.l.l of a lot like asking if Eli and I were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g like bunnies. I didn't like it. I didn't like him. And now I'm going to get culverts on my face."

Temper and exercise pinkened Maureen's face. Her voice, breathless with both, lifted over the surge and crash of waves. "It's none of his d.a.m.n business if you are s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g like bunnies. Eli's wife's been dead a year, and they were already in the middle of a divorce. And they don't have anything but the most circ.u.mstantial of evidence against him. The cops can't prove anything, so now they're reaching, digging in the dirt."

"I don't think cops hire PI's."

"I guess not. Who does?"

"I don't know." As her muscles warmed, as the chilly air washed over her face, Abra found her mood leveling. "Insurance company? Maybe his wife had insurance, and they don't want to pay. Except he said he was hired by a client. And he wouldn't tell me who. Maybe insurance company lawyers, or, I don't know, the dead wife's family, who's always tras.h.i.+ng him in the press. I don't know."

"I don't know either. Let me ask Mike."

"Mike? Why?"

"He deals with lawyers and clients all the time."

"Real estate lawyers and clients," Abra pointed out.

"A lawyer's a lawyer, a client's a client. He might have an idea. He'll keep it confidential."

"I'm not sure that part matters. If this guy hunted me down, who knows who else he's talking to? It's all getting stirred up again."

"Poor Eli."

"You've never believed he did it either."

"No."

"Why do you believe him, Maureen?"

"Well, as you know, I got my detective's license from TV. That said, why would a man who never exhibited violent behavior suddenly bash his wife in the head with a fireplace poker? She cheated on him, and that p.i.s.sed him off. It also made her look bad as they moved forward with the divorce. Sometimes I want to bash Mike's head in with a poker."

"You do not."

"Not literally, but my point is I really love Mike. I think you have to really love or really hate somebody to want to bash their brains in. Unless it's about something else. Money, fear, revenge. I don't know."

"So who did it?"

"If I knew that and could prove it, I'd be promoted from detective to lieutenant. Or captain. I'd like to be captain."

"You already are. Captain of the good s.h.i.+p O'Malley."

"That's true. You can be captain of the made-for-TV police department in charge of clearing Eli Landon once and for all."

At her friend's silence, Maureen slapped out a hand to hit Abra's arm. "That was a joke. Don't even think about getting involved in any of it. It'll blow over, Abra. Eli will get through it."

"What could I do?" And the question, Abra decided, didn't promise not to do something.

When they turned at the halfway point to jog back, she realized she was glad she'd come out. A good way to think, to shove away a bad mood, to get some perspective. She'd missed running during the cold grip of winter, missed the sound of her own feet slapping against the sand while she gulped in the sea air.

She wasn't one to wish time away, not even a minute, but she could, deeply, long for spring and the summer that followed.

Would Eli still be at Bluff House, she wondered, when the air began to warm and the trees to green? Would spring's balmy breezes blow away the shadows that dogged him?

Maybe those shadows needed a little help on their way out the door. She'd think about it.

Then she saw him, standing at the water's edge, hands in his pockets, gaze on the far horizon.

"There's Eli now."

"What? Where? Oh, s.h.i.+t!"

"What's the problem?"

"I didn't imagine running into him the first time when I'm sweaty and red-faced and huffing. A woman likes to hold a certain standard for chance meetings with her first serious make-out partner. Why did I wear my oldest jogging pants? These make my legs look like tree stumps."