Whiskey Beach(52)
Maureen gave his hand a reassuring pat. “I didn’t have much time to talk to Abra today, but she said somebody’d been digging down in the basement.”
“Yeah, what’s that about?” Mike leaned forward. “Unless you want it to all go away for a couple hours.”
“No, it’s okay.” In any case Bluff House was a key part of the community. Everyone would want to know. He gave them the basic rundown, then shrugged. “My best guess is treasure hunter.”
“Told you!” Maureen slapped her husband on the arm. “That’s what I said, and Mike’s all poo-poo. He has no fantasy gene.”
“I do when you put on that little red number with the cutouts on your—”
“Michael!” His name came out on a choked laugh.
“You walked into it, honey. Ah.” Mike rubbed his hands together. “Nachos. You’re in for a treat,” he told Eli.
“Nachos, loaded, three plates, extra napkins.” Abra set them down smoothly. “And a Beached Whale. Enjoy. First one’s on me, remember,” she said when Eli reached for his wallet.
“When’s your break?” Maureen asked her.
“Not yet.” So saying, she answered a signal from another table.
“How many jobs does she have?” Eli wondered.
“I can’t keep up. She likes variety.” Maureen scooped nachos onto her plate. “Acupuncture’s next.”
“She’s going to stick needles in people?”
“She’s studying how to. She likes taking care of people. Even the jewelry she makes is to help you feel better, happier.”
He had questions. A lot of them. And considered how to ask without moving it toward cross-examination mode. “She’s managed that variety in a short amount of time. She hasn’t lived here that long.”
“Going on three years, from Springfield. You should ask her about that sometime.”
“About what?”
“About Springfield.” Eyebrow cocked, Maureen nipped into a nacho. “And what you’d like to know.”
“So, what do you think about the Red Sox’s chances this year?”
Maureen gave her husband a gimlet eye as she picked up her glass of red. “More subtle than just telling me to shut up.”
“I thought so. Nobody I like talking baseball with better than your grandmother.”
“She’s a fan,” Eli said.
“She can reel off stats like nobody else. You know I get into Boston every couple weeks. Do you think she’d be up for a visit?”
“I think she’d like it.”
“Mike coaches Little League,” Maureen explained. “Hester’s a non-official assistant coach.”
“She loves watching the kids play.” As the band took a break, Mike caught Abra’s attention, circled his finger in the air for another round. “I hope she gets back for at least part of the season.”
“We weren’t sure she was going to make it.”
“Oh, Eli.” Maureen closed her hand over his.
He’d never said that out loud, he realized. Not to anyone. He wasn’t sure why it had come out now, except he had all these new images of his grandmother in his mind, images he’d missed. Yoga and Little League and pencil sketches in a bar.
“The first few days . . . She’s had two surgeries on her arm. Her elbow just . . . shattered. Then her hip, and the ribs and head trauma. Every day, touch and go. Then when I saw her yesterday—” Had it only been yesterday? “She’s up and using a cane because walkers are for old ladies.”
“That sounds like her,” Maureen concurred.
“She lost so much weight in the hospital, and now she’s filling out again. She looks stronger. She’d like to see you,” he said to Mike. “She’d like you to see her when she’s doing so much better.”
“I’ll make a point of it. Are you telling her about the break-in?”
“Not yet anyway. There’s not a lot to tell. And I’m wondering how many times whoever was in there last night has been in there before. If he was there the night she fell.”
As Eli lifted his beer to drain it, he caught the look Mike and Maureen exchanged.
“What?”
“That’s exactly what I said when we heard about the digging.” Maureen gave Mike an elbow poke. “Didn’t I?”
“She did.”
“And he said I read too many mystery novels, which is impossible. You can never read too many books, any kind.”
“I’ll really drink to that.” Still Eli just turned his glass in circles as he studied Maureen. “But why did you think it?”