Whiskey Beach(140)

Within twenty years, Landon Whiskey, and Bluff House, expanded again. Landon Whiskey built a school, and one of his ancestors caused a scandal by running off with the schoolmistress.

Before the days of the Civil War, the house stood three elegant stories tall, tended by a small army of servants.

They’d continued their firsts. The first house with indoor plumbing, the first with gaslight, then with electricity.

They’d weathered Prohibition, cagily running whiskey, supplying speakeasies and private customers.

The Robert Landon his father had been named for bought and sold a hotel—and then a second in England—and married a daughter to an earl.

But no one spoke, unless in joking terms, from what he’d found, of pirate treasure.



“Finally!” Abra swung her purse over her arm as they walked out of the house. She’d dressed conservatively—to her mind—for their trip into Boston in black pants, strappy wedges, a poppy-colored floral blouse with some flounce. Long, multi-stone earrings danced as she tugged at Eli’s hand.

To Eli she looked like an updated and sexy flower child, which, he supposed, wasn’t far off the mark.

When they reached the car, he glanced back and saw Barbie staring at him from the front window.

“I just hate leaving her.”

“Barbie’s fine, Eli.”

Then why was she giving him the sad-dog look?

“She’s used to having somebody around.”

“Maureen promised to come down and walk her this afternoon, and the boys will come down, take her to the beach and play with her.”

“Yeah.” He jiggled his keys in his hand.

“You have separation anxiety.”

“I do . . . maybe.”

“And it’s incredibly sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “But this is a good thing to do. It’s a step, and steps have to be taken.” She slid into the car, waited for him to get in beside her. “Plus I haven’t been in the city for over three months. And never with you.”

He shot one last glance back at the window, and the dog framed in it.

“We’re going to try to shoehorn our way into a conversation with the wife of the man we think committed murder in addition to breaking and entering. Oh, and adultery. Let’s not leave that one out. It’s not exactly a pleasure trip.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be pleasant. You’ve thought for days about how you’re going to approach Eden Suskind. You’ve worked out approaches depending on if she’s at work or at home. You’re not the enemy, Eli. She can’t possibly see you as the enemy.”

He drove along the coast road, wound through the village. “People treat you differently, even people you know, after you’ve been accused of a crime. Of killing. They’re nervous around you. They avoid you, and if they can’t avoid you, you can see on their faces they wish they had.”

“That’s done.”

“It’s not. It’s not done until the person who killed Lindsay is caught, arrested and tried.”

“Then this is a step toward that. He’s going to come back to Whiskey Beach. When he does, Corbett’s going to talk to him. I wish we didn’t have to wait for that.”

“It’s tricky for Corbett to go into Boston on this. And he doesn’t want to pass it to Wolfe. I’m grateful for that.”

“We’ve got Suskind’s address now, his office and his apartment. We could cruise by, watch him for a change.”

“For what?”

“Curiosity. We’ll just put that on the back burner.” Switch gears, Abra decided. She could all but see the tension twisting up the muscles in the back of his neck. “You were up late with all your books last night. Anything interesting?”

“Yeah, actually. I found a couple that go pretty deep into the history of the house, the family, the village, the business. How they’re all connected. Symbiotic.”

“Such a nice word.”

“I like it. Landon Whiskey got a boost during the Revolutionary War. With the blockades, the colonists couldn’t get sugar, molasses, so no rum. Whiskey became the choice for the colonial army, and the Landons had their distillery.”

“So George Washington drank your whiskey.”

“Bet your ass. And after the war, they expanded both the business and the house. A big deal on the house, too, because Roger Landon, headstrong Violeta’s and possibly murderous Edwin’s father, who was in charge then, had a rep for being a cheapskate.”

“A good, frugal Yankee.”

“A notorious skinflint, but he put what was pretty serious money into the house, furnishings, and into the business. When he died, his son took over, and since good old Rog didn’t give it up until he was near eighty, Edwin Landon had waited a good long time to take the reins. He expanded again, everything. He and his wife, the French émigré—”