Ghost Ship

by P. J. Alderman

  “She must have loved him very much,” Hattie mused, “even though she professed to have disowned him.”

  “So perhaps you were the unconscious man the crew first carried to the beach,” Jordan told Seavey.

  He shrugged. “Obviously, I have no recollection of the event.”

  Jordan turned back to Charlotte. “Think, Charlotte. Can you tell me exactly who you saw on the beach that night?”

  “There were so many people rushing around, what with the reporters trying to get us to tell our stories, the local farmers trying to help the injured, and others arriving in boats to transport us back to Port Chatham. Captain Williams wanted to go back on board, to see if he could find more survivors, but the rescuers felt the ship was too unstable. All I remember is being horribly cold, and feeling a terrible sadness. I didn’t want to believe that Jesse might truly be gone.”

  “You cared a great deal for him.” Hattie said it very softly.

  “Yes. Though Jesse struggled with his own demons, he was a true friend to me during that time. I’ll always remember him with great fondness.”

  Hattie hugged her, saying, “I’m just glad you survived.”

  “So pardon me for being the one to point out the obvious,” Jordan said, “but we still don’t know who murdered Michael, and I still don’t have the information I need about Sam Garrett.”

  Frank roused himself from where he had been standing throughout Charlotte’s story. “Indeed, I doubt anyone truly cared whether Seavey lived or died, or even the manner in which he died.”

  “Frank!” Hattie exclaimed, scandalized. “Michael is right here, you know.”

  “His insults fail to disturb me,” Seavey replied mildly. “And as I’ve indicated, I’ve no wish to know the exact circumstances surrounding my death.”

  “Well, I do,” Charlotte insisted. “And so does Hattie. You were kind to me, Michael, when I needed the help.”

  “That’s a wonderful sentiment,” Jordan remarked, “but unless someone can give me a clue how to go about this, we may be at a dead end.”

  “Good God, woman,” Frank protested. “Your humor leaves much to be desired!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Even I wouldn’t make fun of a man’s death by indicating that he had arrived at a dead end!”

  Jordan closed her eyes and prayed for patience. “What I meant,” she explained, very carefully, “is that I may have run out of leads to investigate, to determine how Michael really died.”

  Charlotte jumped up, hissing, and began to fly around the room.

  “Oh, for …” Jordan began, exasperated.

  “He’s back!” she screamed.

  “What?”

  “Danger! Danger!”

  She meant the burglar, Jordan suddenly realized.

  Giving the others a hand signal to stay put and remain quiet, she rose from her chair and crept over to the door that opened onto the hall and listened.

  “Another human has broken into your house?” Seavey inquired from right beside her, causing her to jump out of her skin, swallowing the scream that bubbled up.

  “Don’t scare me like that!” she whispered.

  From down the hall, she heard a distinctive thump and a muttered oath.

  Unbelievable. She pulled her cellphone from her pocket and hit speed dial. “The son of a bitch is back,” she said to Darcy, sotto voce.

  “What?” Darcy sounded alert, even given the lateness of the hour. It must be a talent developed by all law enforcement, Jordan reflected. “Who? Your intruder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you?” she asked, all business.

  “Kitchen.”

  “Shit. Go out the back door, now. I’m on my way. And hang up and dial Jase. He should be home by now. For once, do not argue with me. Just do it.”

  “I’m already halfway out the door,” Jordan assured, tiptoeing over to hold the door open while the ghosts floated through. She softly whistled for Malachi, who woke up instantly and trotted outside. Belatedly, he caught the sounds of more movement in the library and turned to let out a growl. Jordan shushed him and dragged him outside by the collar, which earned her a look of total canine outrage.

  Ignoring him, she called Jase and quickly explained the situation. He hung up without bothering to reply, but not before she heard him running. Turning to peer through the darkness at Amanda’s tent, she saw nothing stirring inside. No help from that front.

  “You should confront this person,” Seavey said beside her. “Never back down when facing your enemy. It merely encourages them to act more boldly the next time.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” She was sick and tired of people breaking into her home and threatening her. Threatening her family.

  A baseball bat landed at her feet, with Charlotte zooming up to hover above it. “Use this, Jordan.”

  Hefting it in her left hand, Jordan stalked around the side of the house toward the scaffolding. She heard swearing coming from just above her. Looking up, she saw feet dangling from the hole above the French doors. The bastard was trying to crawl through.

  Scrambling onto the first level of the scaffolding, she leaned over the metal pipe railing and swung the bat with both hands so hard her feet momentarily left the platform. It connected with a loud crack.

  The intruder screamed, teetering for an instant on the header over the French doors. Then he fell backward. Grabbing for the metal crossbars holding up the scaffolding, he missed and fell to the ground below Jordan, arms and legs flailing. He hit the pile of siding, glancing off and toppling with it. Landing with a thud on the rock pavers, shingles falling around him, he let out a howl of pain, holding his ankle.

  Malachi planted both paws on his chest, growling. The man went silent midshriek just as Jase skidded to a halt next to him.

  Peering over the railing with bat still in hand, Jordan got her first good look at her burglar.

  “Good Christ!” Michael Seavey said from the patio’s edge. “It’s that obnoxious little man who makes such a nuisance of himself in my hotel.”

  Chapter 18

  YOU broke my ankle, you bitch!” Clive Walters screeched.

  “Shut up.” Jase pulled a still-snarling Malachi to the side and flipped Walters over on his stomach. Unconcerned with his injured foot, Jase rammed a knee into the middle of his back.

  “Ow, ow, ow!”

  Darcy, who was now walking across the yard toward them, tossed Jase her handcuffs.

  “Bravo!” Seavey applauded, hovering at the height of the scaffolding and bowing to Jordan.

  “Yes!” Hattie smiled up at her from below. “Well done, Jordan.”

  Charlotte made enthusiastic clapping motions, glaring at Frank until he followed suit.

  “I assume you’re okay?” Jase asked Jordan, craning his neck to glance up at the bat she still gripped.

  “I’m fine. Really, really pissed, but fine.” She climbed down to the ground and walked over to Walters, who was whimpering in pain. “What gives you the right to break into my home and terrorize me, you asshole?”

  “And terrorize us,” Charlotte reminded Jordan stoutly.

  “Arrest her!” Walters screamed at Darcy. “She assaulted me. And get me an ambulance right now! I need to go to the hospital.”

  “He certainly is a distressingly unappealing man, is he not?” Hattie asked.

  “Yes, my dear, he is,” Seavey replied gently. “He gives respectable criminals everywhere a bad name.”

  Jase got to his feet and yanked Walters upright by his arms, which set him to wailing again when he landed on his ankle.

  “Get her away from me!” he yelled, eyeing Jordan wildly while he held his injured foot in the air. “She’s going to kill me!”

  Jordan looked at the baseball bat, seriously contemplating his suggestion. Then, with a sigh, she dropped it on the ground.

  “Shut the hell up,” Jase told Walters, “or I’ll kill you.”

  “Did you hear that?” Walters a
sked Darcy. “He threatened me! I don’t have to take that!”

  Darcy rolled her eyes.

  “How many times do I have to tell you,” Jordan snapped, “I didn’t steal your goddamn papers!”

  “You did, too! You and Stilwell both thought you could make money off items that belong to me.”

  Jordan gaped. “Why in the world would you think that? I didn’t even know what was happening until I found Holt’s body.”

  “You and Holt were in on it together from the very beginning!”

  “What ‘it’?” she asked. “You’re making no sense at all.”

  “You planned to steal the papers, then find and sell off the items listed in them.”

  “Do you even know what is in the papers?”

  “Things that belong to me, that’s what!” Walters snarled.

  “I beg to differ—items from the Cosmopolitan Hotel belong to me,” Seavey interjected. “This ill-mannered squatter has absolutely no claim to them.”

  “Let’s not go there,” Jordan told Seavey.

  “Go where?” He looked confused.

  “Why not go there?” Walters retorted. “There’s no honor among thieves. You stole the papers from Stilwell, then killed him.”

  “Okay, that’s it, you are officially insane. I had absolutely no reason …” Her voice trailed off as the clothing Walters was wearing—a dark hoodie and jeans—finally registered. “You broke into Holt’s house looking for the papers, didn’t you? And when I arrived, you shoved me down the steps, because you didn’t want me to know you were looking for them.”

  Jase yanked Walters’s arms higher into the small of his back, causing him to yelp. “You shoved Jordan down concrete steps?” he asked in a deceptively soft tone.

  “Jase,” Darcy warned quietly. “Give him to me.”

  “Give me five minutes alone with him,” Jase growled.

  “No.”

  Jase held on to Walters a moment longer, then with a sound of disgust shoved him at Darcy.

  “I did nothing wrong,” Walters sniveled. “I’m entitled to take back and protect what’s mine.”

  “That refrain is getting old,” Hattie observed. “Can’t you encourage your friends to escort him off our property?”

  “I’m working on it,” Jordan replied grimly.

  “Working on getting away with murder, and blaming me for it!” Walters whined.

  Before Jordan could point out the sheer idiocy of that statement, another patrol car and an ambulance pulled up, lights flashing. They were attracting a crowd—several neighbors had emerged from their houses, looking bewildered.

  “I glimpsed a gun lying on the floor of the conservatory,” Frank told Jordan. “He must have dropped it when you hit him with the bat. I suspect it may be .22 caliber.”

  “I’ll go get it!” Charlotte volunteered, sounding excited.

  “No!” Jordan said hastily, envisioning a gun going off randomly. “Leave it alone; I’ll get it.”

  “Get what?” Darcy asked, confused.

  “He left a gun in the conservatory,” Jordan explained.

  “I did not!” Walters yelled. “It’s hers, I’m telling you! How would she know it was there unless it was hers?”

  Darcy sighed. “Leave the gun where it is. I’ll have one of my deputies bag it for evidence. We can test it to see if his fingerprints are on it.”

  “I don’t own a gun, and I didn’t bring one with me!”

  “We’ll see if it matches the bullet we pulled from Holt,” Darcy informed him.

  “You know, I just don’t get it,” Jordan said. “Why are you so hell-bent to find those papers?”

  “Oh, come on,” Walters sneered. “Everyone knows you and Stilwell were looking into the murder of his ancestor. And that you’ll do just about anything to solve murders for the ghosts in this town. But it’s bad for business, don’t you see? I need Seavey’s ghost to hang around—he brings in more than half my bookings! I couldn’t have either of you figuring out what happened, so that Seavey would have crossed over permanently, now could I?”

  Jordan gaped at him. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Good Christ!” Seavey remarked. “Does he really think I would cross over and leave my hotel in his hands, to be run into the ground? The man is truly delusional.”

  Darcy rolled her eyes. “Well, congratulations, Clive. You just got yourself arrested for attempted armed robbery. And provided an excellent motive for why you killed Holt. You’re going away for a very long time, which means you won’t be around to worry about the bookings in your hotel after all.”

  “Thank goodness,” Hattie said. “I certainly wouldn’t wish his continued presence on Michael.”

  “It’s not robbery if I’m retrieving what she stole in the first place.” Walters’s tone was sullen.

  “That’s not how it works, pal. I have two witnesses who can testify that you attempted to break into Jordan’s house, armed with a handgun.”

  “She has six witnesses!” Charlotte corrected.

  “You can’t testify in a court of law,” Jordan pointed out.

  “Sure I can—why couldn’t I?” Jase asked, then clued in. “Oh, got it.”

  “Got what?” Walters asked suspiciously. “You can’t talk like that in front of me. That’s entrapment!”

  Darcy closed her eyes, obviously reaching for patience. “Why don’t you save us all a lot of time, Clive, and just admit that you killed Holt?”

  “She killed Holt, I’m telling you!” he raged, spittle flying.

  Darcy motioned to a deputy, handing Walters over to him. “Go with him to the hospital,” she told the deputy crisply. “After they set his ankle, move him downtown to a holding cell. I’ll be in tomorrow morning to take down his confession. Oh, and don’t forget to read him his rights. The good news, Clive, is that you’ll have plenty of time in jail to read law books and figure out how clueless you are about the justice system.”

  “I’m not confessing to anything!” he snapped. “I want a lawyer.”

  “In that regard, it appears that he is most knowledgeable,” Frank observed.

  Chapter 19

  AFTER her first good night’s sleep in two days, Jordan woke early and decided to take Malachi out to breakfast. Darcy had promised to call her as soon as she heard whether the ballistics for Clive Walters’s gun matched the bullet pulled from Holt’s corpse. If so, she hoped Walters would simply confess. Jordan didn’t have anything pressing until she was due at the marina at nine for the telephone interview with Bob’s historian friend regarding her sighting of the ghost ship. That left her with a couple of hours of rare peace and quiet in which to gather her thoughts and gain some perspective.

  She shook her head while she hunted for Malachi’s leash. What a crackpot Walters had turned out to be. Who in his right mind murdered to keep a ghost on the premises to haunt a business, because it was good for the bottom line? Then again, maybe Walters’s reasoning wasn’t all that different from others who had killed for money.

  For some reason, though, she felt bugged by the whole situation. All of the recent events—Holt’s discovering historic documents in the wall of the hotel suite, diving to retrieve sunken treasure off the Henrietta Dale, his murder, Walters’s subsequent frantic hunt for those documents—hinged on the events in 1893 leading up to Michael Seavey’s murder. And she still didn’t have a handle on everything that had happened back then. In fact, given how thin the historical sources were for that particular time frame, she might never know.

  What had happened to the survivors of the shipwreck? Had Seavey been transported alive back to Port Chatham? If so, and if he had been murdered afterward, why didn’t he remember the time between his rescue and when he was killed? And why did Sam Garrett feel the need to protect the identity of the man he saw shoot Holt?

  She yanked open drawers and stopped to peer into cupboards, trying to remember where she’d last stashed the leash. “Where’s your leash?” she asked Malachi.

&nbs
p; He gave her The Look. “Roooo.”

  “Helpful,” she said, then resumed her hunt.

  If Walters was the killer, it seemed to her that her first order of business was to confirm some kind of connection between him and Garrett. She’d found no evidence that Walters could actually see ghosts. As far as she knew, Garrett had nothing to do with the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Which meant Jase might be correct that the connection could be familial. As he’d pointed out, even murderers had families.

  She shoved the last drawer shut and straightened to stare at the kitchen while she mulled over that possibility. Both men undoubtedly suffered from mental instability, though in actuality, their formal diagnoses would be quite different: Garrett was clearly a sociopath, while Walters exhibited symptoms of extreme paranoia. Still, a history of inherited mental instability could be indicative of a family connection.

  She also needed to see if she could find any further mention of Seavey’s murder. All of which meant she should keep reading through the historical documents she’d filched from the Historical Society.

  Finally spying Malachi’s leash on top of the stove—how the hell had it gotten there?—she tucked Eleanor’s memoir and the pages from Captain Williams’s diary under one arm, whistled for Malachi, then headed out the back door.

  Though high clouds provided a pale gray cover, the temperature was mild, making for a pleasant walk to their favorite French restaurant. The prospect of a sinfully rich and filling breakfast, caffé breve, and a relaxed perusal of The New York Times struck her as the definition of pure bliss. She owed it to herself, she rationalized, to spend at least some time on those pleasurable pursuits before she cracked open Eleanor’s memoir, which she felt certain would make her want to pull her hair out.

  They walked to the corner of her block, passing Jase’s house, which immediately had her feeling guilty that she hadn’t yet thanked him for the roses. He was taking the day off to work with Bill and Tom on the library wall, and therefore certain to be in and out of Longren House. This gave her even more reason to vacate the premises, since she still hadn’t a clue what she wanted to do about him. The man definitely rang all her bells.