A long drop, he thought, using the scope to judge the distance from the bluff to the rocks below. In all likelihood the fall would've been enough to kill Duncan. But shooting him first guaranteed it.

Why? What had he known, seen, done?

And how was it connected to Lindsay's death? Logically, there had to be some connection. He didn't believe Wolfe had that part wrong. Unless the whole thing was as illogical as digging in a bas.e.m.e.nt for pirate treasure, the murders were connected.

Which opened the possibility Duncan's murder was connected to the intruder.

Again, why? What had he known, seen, done?

A puzzle. In his other life, he'd enjoyed puzzles. Maybe it was time to find out if he still had an apt.i.tude for them.

He left the telescope on the terrace, went back upstairs for a legal pad, a pen. This time on his pa.s.s through the kitchen he did slap a sandwich together and, what the h.e.l.l, added a beer. He took it all to the library, lit the fire and sat down at his great-grandfather's magnificent old desk.

He thought to start with Lindsay's death, but realized that wasn't the beginning-not really. He'd considered their first year of marriage an adjustment period. Ups and down, lateral moves, but a great deal of focus, on both sides, on outfitting and decorating the new house.

Things had begun to change between them, if he were honest, within months of moving into the house.

She'd decided she wanted more time before starting a family, and fair enough. He'd put a great deal of time and energy into his work. She'd wanted him to make full partner, and he felt he was on track for that.

She'd enjoyed the entertaining, the being entertained, and she'd had her own career path and social network. Still, they'd argued, increasingly, over his workload, or conflicts between his priorities and hers. Naturally enough, if he continued to be honest. Sixty-hour workweeks were more common than not, and as a criminal attorney he'd put in plenty of all-nighters.

She'd enjoyed the benefits, but had begun to resent what earned them. He'd appreciated her success in her own career, but had begun to resent the conflicts of interest.

At the base? He admitted they hadn't loved each other enough, not for the long haul.

Add in her intolerance-and that was a fair word-for his grandmother, for his affection for Bluff House and Whiskey Beach, and the erosion just quickened. And he could see now that even in that first year of marriage, an emotional crack had formed between them, one that had steadily widened until neither of them had the means or desire to bridge the gap.

And hadn't he resented Lindsay for his own decision to limit, then to end, his visits to Bluff House? He wanted to save his marriage, but more out of principle than for love of his wife.

That was just sad, he thought.

Still, he hadn't cheated, so points for him.

He'd spent a lot of time trying to calculate when her infidelity had begun. Conclusion? Not quite two years into the marriage, when she'd claimed to be working late, when she'd started to take solo weekend trips to recharge, when their s.e.x life had gone to h.e.l.l.

He wrote down the approximate date, her name, her closest friends, family members, coworkers. Then drew a line from one, Eden Suskind. Both casual friend and coworker, and the wife of Justin Suskind, Lindsay's lover at the time of her death.

Eli circled Justin Suskind's name before continuing his notes.

Eden stood as her cheating husband's alibi for the night of Lindsay's murder. He'd hardly had a motive in any case. All evidence pointed to his plans to take her on a romantic getaway in Maine at what had proven to be a favorite hotel.

His wife certainly had no reason to lie for him, and had been humiliated and devastated when the affair came to light.

Eli's investigator had pursued the possibility of an ex-lover or a second one, one who'd confronted Lindsay and killed her in a fit of temper and pa.s.sion. But that seed hadn't borne fruit.

Yet, Eli reminded himself.

She'd let someone into the house that night. No forced entry, no signs of struggle. Her phone and e-mail records-home and work-had shown no communications with anyone who hadn't been cleared. Then again, Wolfe had been focused on him, and his investigator could have missed something. Someone.

Dutifully, Eli wrote down all the names he remembered, right down to her hairdresser.

At the end of two hours, he'd filled several pages of the tablet, had cross-references, unanswered questions, two a.s.saults, if he counted his grandmother's fall, and a second murder.

He'd take a walk, he decided, let it simmer.

He felt good, he realized. Despite-maybe even because of-the muscle aches, he felt d.a.m.n good. Because he knew as he walked out of the library he'd never let himself be railroaded a second time.

Kirby Duncan's killer had done him a horrible kind of favor.

CHAPTER Twelve

ABRA RANG THE BELL FIRST AS MUCH FOR MANNERS AS THE need for a little a.s.sistance. When no one answered, she dug out her house key, unlocked the door, then maneuvered her ma.s.sage table inside. An automatic glance at the alarm panel and its blinking light had her muttering the new code as she punched it in.

"Eli! Are you up there? I could use a little help here."

After silence, she huffed out a breath, used her table to prop the door open before heading back to her car for the market bags.

She carted them inside, dumped them, muscled her table and tote into the big parlor. Went back for more market bags, carried them into the kitchen.

After she'd put away the fresh groceries, pinned the market receipt to the little bulletin board, she unpacked the container of potato and ham soup she'd made that afternoon, the beer bread she'd baked and, since he apparently had a taste for them, the rest of her chocolate chip cookies.

Rather than hunt him down, she walked back, set up her table, arranged the candles she'd chosen, stirred up the fire, then added a log. Maybe he intended to make an excuse about not wanting or needing his scheduled ma.s.sage, but he'd have a hard time with that since she had everything in place.

Satisfied with that, she wandered upstairs on the off chance he was too engrossed in his work to hear her, taking a serious nap, in the shower, in the gym.

She didn't find him, but did find his method of making the bed was hauling up the duvet. She fluffed it, and the pillows-a tidy bed was a restful bed to her way of thinking-folded the sweater he'd dropped on a chair, tossed the socks on the floor beside it in the hamper.

Wandering out, she tried the gym, and took the yoga mat stretched out on the floor as a positive sign. Curious, she poked through his wing of the second floor, then went down again to look around the first. She spotted the legal pad, the empty plate and beer bottle (at least he'd used a coaster) on the fabulous old desk.

"What are you up to, Eli?" She picked up the dish, the bottle as she read the first page of his notes. "Now this is interesting."

She didn't know all the names, but followed the lines connecting them, the arrows, the scribbled notes. A few clever sketches scattered through the notes. He had his grandmother's hand, she realized, recognizing one of Detective Wolfe with devil horns and a sharp-toothed snarl.

As she paged through-he'd obviously spent some time on this, she mused-she found her own name, its connection to Hester, to him, to Vinnie and to Duncan Kirby.

And a sketch of her, too, delighting her. He'd drawn her lounging on the sand at water's edge, a mermaid's tail a serpentine curl from her waist.

She trailed her fingertip along the tail before reading on.

He'd done a timeline of the night of Duncan's death, one that seemed pretty accurate to her own memory of events. And he'd listed the death as between midnight and five a.m.

So the police had talked to him, as they had to her.

That couldn't have been pleasant. Since his car was out front, he'd be on foot. She'd made soup, baked bread, done a short yoga practice to calm herself down after the police visit. She suspected Eli had vented his tension into the notes. And was likely walking off the rest.