"Not much. Tonic and lime. I asked if he was meeting anyone because chairs get to be a premium on the weekends. He just repeated the order. Not the friendly sort."

"We'll arrange the artist when it's a good time for you. We'll be in touch." Since Barbie was sniffing at his shoes, Corbett leaned down to rub her head. "Oh, and the dog's a good idea. A big dog barking inside a house makes a lot of B-and-E men think twice."

When Eli let them out, Abra stood there, the basket of laundry on her hip. "I'm sorry, Eli."

"For what?"

"If I'd remembered that guy last night, we might already have a sketch. And I'm already sorry because I don't know how well I can describe him. I really didn't pay close attention to his face after it was clear he wanted to be left alone."

"We don't even know if he has any part in this. And if he does, however vaguely you remember, it's more than we had."

"I'm going to meditate later, see if I can clear things out, pull it back. And don't dis meditation."

"I didn't say a word."

"You thought several. I'm going to put this laundry in." She checked the time. "I'm definitely behind schedule. I'll just take some time tomorrow to do the bedrooms I didn't get to today. I'll finish your grandmother's, and get what I can get done by five. I have things to do at home before cla.s.s."

"Will you come back after cla.s.s?"

"I really have things I've neglected, and I'm going to want my own empty house-without your doubting vibes-to meditate. Plus, you and Barbie need to finish bonding. I'll be back tomorrow. Gotta get this load in," she repeated, and hurried off.

"Just you and me, Barbie," Eli told her. Probably for the best. He was getting just a little too used to having Abra there. Probably better for both of them to have some time, some s.p.a.ce.

But it didn't really feel better.

CHAPTER Eighteen

BLOCKED, ABRA DECIDED. SHE WAS BLOCKED, THAT HAD to be the answer. She'd meditated, worked with the police artist, tried active dreaming-which she wasn't very good at-and still the time, effort and skill of the artist produced a sketch that could be nearly any man between thirty and forty.

Any man, she thought, studying her copy of the sketch yet again, with a thin face, long, somewhat s.h.a.ggy medium brown hair and thin lips.

She couldn't swear to the lips, if it came to that. Had they really been thin or had she projected thin lips because he'd struck her as such a tight-a.s.s?

So much for her powers of observation, she decided in disgust, which she'd considered above average before this.

Of course, there wasn't any proof her tight-a.s.sed, tonic-and-lime-drinking customer had anything to do with anything. But still.

Nothing to be done about it, at least until after the holiday weekend. She added the last little silver ball to finish the pair of citrine and silver dangle earrings. As she filled out the description card, she imagined Eli's family already on their way.

That was one good thing. Another? The house hit "family holiday" perfectly on her scale. At least fussing with that had taken her mind off her pitiful failure with the artist.

She wanted progress, as she took off the gla.s.ses she wore for close-up work and reading. She admitted she'd hoped to play a part in identifying the intruder and potential murderer, in helping Eli resolve his problems, with the little rush of solving a mystery. She wanted to make it all neat and tidy when she knew, absolutely, life was anything but.

Now she couldn't shake off the nagging sense of annoyance, and the underlying sense of unease.

At least her new jewelry stock turned out well, if she did say so herself. But her hope that the creative energy would unblock the block fell short.

She straightened up her worktable in her tiny second bedroom, put her tools and supplies away in their labeled bins. She'd take the new stock into the gift shop, and maybe buy herself a little something with the profits.

She opted to walk, to give herself a chance to admire the play of daffodils and hyacinths cheerfully showing off their blooms, the colorful Easter eggs dangling from tree branches, the bright pop of forsythia.

She always loved the birth of a new season, whether it was the first spear of green in spring or the first drift of snow in winter. But today anxiety plagued her so she wished she'd stopped at Maureen's, talked her friend into going into the village with her.

It was stupid to feel she was being watched. Just a residual reaction to what had happened at Bluff House. And the lighthouse, she thought as she turned to study its st.u.r.dy white lance. No one was following her, though she couldn't resist a look over her shoulder, or the rising chill up her spine.

She knew these houses, knew most of the people in them, or who owned them. She pa.s.sed Surfside Bed & Breakfast, fought off a dragging dread and a sudden urge to turn around, run back home.

She wouldn't be chased away by her own silly thoughts. Wouldn't deny herself the pleasure of her walks in the place she'd made her home.

And she wouldn't think of being grabbed from behind in a dark, empty house.

The sun shone, birds called, holiday traffic chugged by.

But she let out a relieved breath when she entered the main village with its shops and restaurants, and people.

It pleased her to see customers milling around the window of the gift shop. Tourists taking their holiday at the beach, families like Eli's spending the weekend. She started to go inside, then saw Heather behind the counter.

She stepped back, started to walk on. "c.r.a.p," she muttered. "Just c.r.a.p."

She hadn't seen the shop clerk since Heather had run out of yoga cla.s.s in tears. Heather hadn't made the in-home practice, nor the next on her schedule. And inside, Abra harbored enough anger and resentment to prevent her from calling to check.

Negative energy, she told herself, and stopped. Time to expel it, rebalance her chi. And maybe she'd break that block after all.

In any case, Heather was who she was. There was no point in h.o.a.rding bad feelings, on either side.

She made herself walk back, step inside. Good smells, pretty light, the strong sense of local arts and crafts. Take that mood, she ordered herself, and go with it.

She waved casually to the other clerk, noted the woman's slight wince as she continued to wait on a customer. No doubt Heather had unloaded her perceived slights on her coworkers.

Who could blame her, really?

Deliberately, Abra made her way back to Heather, waited patiently as she was studiously ignored. When Heather finished ringing up a sale, Abra stepped forward.

"Hi. Busy today. I just need five minutes. I can wait until you have it."

"I really can't say when that might be. We have customers." Stiff, jaw tight, Heather skirted around the counter and clipped her way to a trio of women.

Temper rose up high enough to actually tickle the base of Abra's throat. She breathed it down again, then impulsively picked up a set of handblown winegla.s.ses she'd admired for weeks but couldn't really afford.

"Excuse me." With a smile plastered on her face, Abra took the gla.s.ses over to Heather. "Could you ring me up? I just love these. Aren't they great?" she said to the other women, and got admiring a.s.sents even as one of them shifted to pick up a set of champagne flutes by the same artist.

"These would make a wonderful wedding gift."