Whiskey Beach by Nora Roberts Page A

for him, and doesn’t look as hollow.”
    Abra zipped her personal mat into its bag. “Still, every time I give him a massage—I’ve managed four now—it’s like starting from scratch. He carries so much tension, plus he’s at that keyboard for hours a day.”
    “You’ll crack him, Abracadabra. I have every faith.”
    “That’s my current mission.” Abra pulled on her hoodie, zipped it. “But right now I’ve got some new jewelry to take into Buried Treasures—so fingers crossed there—then I’m running some errands for Marcia Frost. Her boy’s still got that virus and she can’t get out. I’ve got a massage booked at two, but I’m up for a run after that.”
    “If I can juggle it in, I’ll text you.”
    “See you later.”
    While her class headed out, Abra secured her mats, tucked her iPod into her bag. As she pulled a jacket over her hoodie, a man came down the stairs.
    She didn’t recognize him, but he had a pleasant enough face. Baggy eyes that made him look tired, a thick crop of brown hair, a slight paunch, which would have improved if he didn’t slouch.
    “Can I help you?”
    “I hope so. Are you Abra Walsh?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I’m Kirby Duncan.” He held out his hand to shake, then offered her a business card.
    “Private investigator.” Instinctively, her barriers went up.
    “I’m doing some work for a client, out of Boston. I’m hoping I can ask you a few questions. I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee if you can spare me a few minutes.”
    “I’ve already had my quota for the day.”
    “I wish I could stick with a quota. God knows I drink too much coffee. I’m sure that coffee shop just down the street serves tea, or whatever you like.”
    “I have an appointment, Mr. Duncan,” Abra said as she pulled on boots. “What’s this about?”
    “Our information indicates you’re working for Eli Landon.”
    “Your information?”
    His face remained pleasant, even affable. “It’s no secret, is it?”
    “No, it’s not, and it’s also none of your business.”
    “Gathering information is my business. You must be aware Eli Landon is a suspect in the murder of his wife.”
    “Is that accurate?” Abra wondered as she pulled on her cap. “I think it’s more accurate to say after a year of investigating, the police haven’t been able to gather the evidence to show Eli Landon had anything to do with his wife’s death.”
    “The fact is, a lot of prosecutors won’t take on a case that’s not a slam dunk. That doesn’t mean there isn’t evidence, there isn’t a case. It’s my job to gather more information—let me get that for you.”
    “No, thanks, I’m used to carrying my own. Who do you work for?” Abra asked him.
    “Like I said, I have a client.”
    “Who must have a name.”
    “I can’t divulge that information.”
    “Understood.” She smiled pleasantly, walked to the stairs. “I don’t have any information to divulge either.”
    “If Landon is innocent, he has nothing to hide.”
    She paused, looked Duncan in the eye. “Seriously? I doubt you’re that naive, Mr. Duncan. I know I’m not.”
    “I’m authorized to compensate for information,” he began as they went up the steps into the little church proper.
    “You’re authorized to pay for gossip? No, thanks. When I gossip, I do it for free.” She walked out and turned toward the parking lot and her car.
    “Are you personally involved with Landon?” Duncan called out.
    She felt her jaw tighten, cursed the fact he’d ruined her post-yoga mood. She tossed her mats, her bag in the car, opened the door. And in a wordless reply to his question, shot up her middle finger before she got in, turned the key and drove off.

    The encounter kept her in a state of irritation as she segued from job to job, task to task. She considered canceling her massage booking but couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t penalize a client because some nosy detective from Boston was poking around in her life.