From a psychological standpoint, figuring out what made a person reach the point of committing murder was fascinating, in a somewhat morbid way. She knew people killed for all kinds of reasons. Her own stalker, for instance, had killed on the spur of the moment, out of an irrational need to eliminate his perceived competition. What had Holt done to cause his assailant to reach such a breaking point? Or had the person simply been mentally unbalanced, and Holt had done nothing to incite the violence?
She hadn’t known Holt all that well, except by reputation as a womanizer. Her only real contact with him had been to ask him for access to his family papers, which had included the personal diaries of Michael Seavey, the 1890s shanghaier, who had been at the top of her list of suspects when she’d investigated Hattie’s murder.
Though Holt had professed indifference to what she’d discovered about his ancestor, she’d always thought he’d secretly cared a great deal. She suspected a good portion of his “bad boy” reputation had been based on an attempt to live down to the low expectations of the locals, who considered Stilwells to be at best societal misfits, at worst hardened criminals.
Jordan had heard that in recent weeks, Holt had been working on a job at the historic Cosmopolitan Hotel in downtown Port Chatham, which had at one time been owned by Michael Seavey. Rumor had it that the basement of the hotel still had a door leading to the underground tunnels used by the shanghaiers back in the day to hold recalcitrant sailors. Had Holt bid on the job partially because of some sense of connection to his past?
He hadn’t been around the pub much lately, which she’d simply chalked up to long work hours. However, she now had to wonder whether he’d been taking trips out here for dives. And if so, why? She found it difficult to believe that he was diving for historic artifacts on sunken wrecks. Even less credible was the idea that he was diving because he enjoyed watching the fish. As far as she knew, the only hobby Holt enjoyed was bedding women—a different one every night.
Jordan squinted at the distant horizon, holding a hand up to shade her eyes. A black speck had appeared, slowly growing in size. Some kind of commercial fishing trawler, by the looks of it. But as she watched, the speck gradually became separate sticks—masts, she realized. A beautiful old sailing ship rose up, coming toward her, almost as if it had emerged from the sea. Logically, she knew it only looked that way because of the curvature of the earth, but still, it was a wonderfully romantic sight.
The ship had three masts, each supporting rows of squared-off sails that appeared to be completely unfurled. It was running before the wind, moving silently through the water, small white waves curling back from its cutwater. The closer the ship came to shore, the more stunning it appeared to be, its bowsprit rising and falling with the swells. Jordan could just make out the carving of a woman whose dress flowed back in soft folds, molding to her feminine figure.
“Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“Hmm?” Jordan turned her head toward the voice.
The gardener stood beside the picnic table. She lifted a hand to point at the ship.
“Oh! Yes.” Jordan smiled. “I hear there’s quite an active wooden boat society in this area, dedicated to refurbishing old ships.”
The woman hesitated. “I suppose that’s true, yes.” When Jordan gave her a questioning glance, she shrugged. “I don’t get to town much.”
“That’s understandable. If I lived out here, I wouldn’t want to leave, either. It’s an arduous hike.”
“Oh, I’d take a boat,” the gardener replied matter-of-factly. “Nevertheless, I find it difficult to leave.”
Jordan turned back in the direction of the ship, which was very close now. The wisps of fog in its path near the water’s surface dispersed, making the air around the ship seem brighter. “It must be quite expensive to maintain a ship of that size. Are you familiar with this one?”
The woman pursed her lips. “I believe she was originally built in the mid-1800s and used as a passenger ship between China and the West Coast. For a short time until the steamers came along, clipper ships were the fastest vessels on the ocean. They had wonderfully plush accommodations for their passengers.”
“You seem to know a lot about them,” Jordan noted, curious.
“Yes, it’s an interest of mine. The ship ran aground not far from here in 1893,” the woman continued. “Most of the crew and passengers died in the wreck.”
“How tragic.” Jordan winced at the vision of such a beautiful ship breaking up in the surf, then paused, confused. “But she couldn’t have been completely destroyed if someone restored her, right?”
“No, I guess not,” the woman murmured, her gaze distant.
The ship really was coming quite close to shore, almost bearing down on them. “She’s not going to repeat history, is she?” Jordan asked worriedly.
The woman gave her an odd look. “She’ll turn at the last minute, running along the tip of the spit. I’ve seen her do this dozens of times. It’s beautiful to watch.”
The ship did indeed change course and sail past to the north. It was so close that Jordan could hear the clanking of its rigging and the swish of water as it cut through the waves. Someone out of sight, perhaps one of the crew, was singing a song. Jordan caught a phrase here and there in a deep, lilting baritone, but she didn’t recognize the tune. It must have been the misty air, or perhaps the angle, but she couldn’t quite make out the name painted on the stern. “Do you know what she’s called?”
“She was renamed the Henrietta Dale by her new owner in 1893.” The woman drew on her gardening gloves and began to turn away. “Supposedly, he had her completely rebuilt for the purpose of making trips between here and Canada. Not that he ever had the chance.”
“Why’s that?”
“She ran aground the night of her maiden voyage.” When she looked back over her shoulder, the woman’s expression had become grim. “Some say she was deliberately lured onto the rocks.”
Chapter 3
ANOTHER hour passed. Jordan soaked up the sun, hoping to offset the chill that had settled deep inside her after learning the story of the Henrietta Dale. She’d heard that drowning was a particularly horrible way to die.
There had to have been numerous local shipwrecks over the past 150 years. After all, the area had thriving ports that had harbored substantial criminal activity. And the local waters were known for their dangerous currents, dense fog, and unpredictable weather. But how many of the ships that had gone down had been deliberately sunk? It was a terrible thought.
She watched Coast Guard lifeboats arrive and anchor offshore from Darcy’s crime scene. A helicopter hovered for a time. Jordan could just make out the tiny shapes of a number of law-enforcement types working the area, probably gathering evidence and preparing Holt’s body for transport to the morgue. At least, that’s what she assumed from her limited knowledge of crime-scene processing. Even from where she sat, she could see that the waves were breaking farther up the beach—the techs had to be racing against time.
“Hey.”
Jordan looked back over her shoulder. Jase strolled toward her, Malachi at his side. Spying her, the huge dog broke into a lumbering gallop, leaving Jase to follow at a more leisurely pace.
She braced for Malachi’s greeting, but he still managed to almost knock her off the picnic bench. A mix of several large breeds, Malachi embodied the classic adorable mutt, complete with shaggy fur and soulful brown eyes. Adorable, that is, until Jordan remembered the dent he put in her food budget by wolfing down several cans of organic dog food each day.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a hug, receiving a thorough slobbering in return. “You’re not supposed to be out here, fella. If they find you, they might haul you off to doggie jail.”
“He looked so lonely on your front porch that I didn’t have the heart to leave him behind,” Jase explained, coming to a stop in front of her. “Did you know he loves boat rides?”
“I haven’t had the opportunity to ta
ke him out yet.” After telling Malachi to stay inside the fence and away from the nesting grounds in the off-limits areas, she rose stiffly, wincing as a chorus of aches and pains made their presence known. Sitting that long without stretching had been a mistake.
Jase cocked his head, silently studying her, his blue eyes reflecting concern. As always when she was around him, Jordan experienced a confusing mix of strong attraction laced with caution. Attraction, because Jase was the sexiest man she’d come across in a very long time. Caution, because between adjustments to her divorce and Ryland’s murder, she knew she had no business contemplating a new relationship with anyone.
Ruggedly attractive with a lean build, Jase had a friendly, deceptively laid-back manner that hid a razor-sharp mind and gentle wit. He was also an accomplished jazz piano player—a strong point in his favor. But he came with the baggage of a high-profile celebrity past—a point not in his favor. Given her recent experience of being front-page fodder in connection to her deceased husband’s sexcapades with Hollywood starlets, Jordan was wary of anyone who had been touted as a celebrity by the press.
“You’ve had a stressful day,” Jase observed.
She gave him a weak smile. “An understatement.” She took a couple of steps then stopped, grimacing.
He reached out to grip her elbow. “You okay?”
“Just blisters.”
“Ah.”
“I’m worried about Darcy. She wasn’t looking all that great when I left. I don’t think she should be taking on this much, this soon.”
“Darcy’s tough—she’ll be okay.” He stared down the beach at the distant crime scene, his expression pensive. “Holt’s death is already all over town. This kind of thing doesn’t happen very often around here, even if it is an accidental death.”
Jordan realized she hadn’t been clear when she spoke with Jase earlier on the phone. “Holt’s death wasn’t accidental—he was murdered.”
Jase’s head whipped around. “You sure?”
She nodded. “I saw the bullet hole …” She paused to swallow. “I don’t know how Darcy deals with this type of thing.”
“When you’ve seen as many crime scenes as she has, you grow a pretty thick hide.”
“I suppose.” Jordan didn’t think her hide would ever be that thick. “Were you frequently exposed to crime scenes? You know—before?”
Jase had been a sought-after criminal-defense attorney. To be fair, his skills had come in handy when she’d had the LAPD breathing down her neck—only his legal maneuvering had kept her out of jail.
“Yeah, I’ve seen my share of corpses,” he replied, “and I don’t care to repeat the experience. You found Holt?”
“Floating in the water just off the beach,” she confirmed. “Someone … shot him in the forehead.”
“Execution style, then.” Jase was silent for a moment. “It’s not like we have any professional hit men hanging around town. And it’s odd that Holt was all the way out here—I’ve never known him to take an interest in hiking.”
“He wasn’t hiking—he had on a dive suit.”
Jase frowned. “That really doesn’t make sense—Holt was deathly afraid of the water.”
“Maybe he was trying to manage his phobia and took diving lessons as a way of conquering his fears.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t sound like Holt, though.” Jase watched Malachi chase a seagull. “Someone could have dumped his body out here after murdering him at a location closer to town, to confuse the authorities.”
“That’s what I suggested to Darcy, but that still doesn’t explain why he was diving.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
The gull was having no trouble eluding capture, but that didn’t deter the dog. Jordan kept an eye out for anyone who looked as if he was upset by the dog’s presence near the off-limits area.
“Well, Darcy will sort through it all, I’m sure,” Jase finally said.
“She thinks whoever killed Holt probably lives in Port Chatham. That maybe it’s one of the women he dated.”
Jase appeared to consider the idea, then shook his head slowly. “Shooting someone isn’t a typical MO for a woman—it isn’t personal enough. Now, bashing in his skull or poisoning him? That I could buy.”
“But you think it’s possible his murderer lives in our town.”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Jordan shuddered.
Jase noticed and held out his hand. “C’mon, let’s get you back to the pub.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “After hiking with Darcy, it’s always best to imbibe.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Jordan grumbled as they turned toward the inner harbor. “Oh, wait—I get it. The pool. You placed a bet, didn’t you?”
The quirk became a grin. “You know about that?”
“Darcy came clean somewhere around mile four.”
They walked across the grass toward the boat landing on the far side of the lighthouse. Most tourists had already departed, and the gardener she’d talked to earlier was nowhere to be seen. A sleek blue-and-white cabin cruiser rocked gently in the water. Jordan whistled for Malachi.
“I had an interesting chat earlier with the gardener about the ship that ran aground not far from here in the 1890s,” she told Jase as they waited for the dog.
“Yeah?” Jase’s tone was suspiciously casual. “About what time was that?”
“Around three. Why?”
“We bet on the time of the sighting as well as the possibility of the sighting.”
Her gaze narrowed. “The only person I talked to was the gardener, and everyone else I saw was a tourist. The subject of the shipwreck came up because the Henrietta Dale sailed by. The gardener seemed to believe that the ship had been deliberately lured onto the rocks back in 1893.”
Jase nodded equably. “I’ve heard the story. If you’re interested, you should ask Bob MacDonough to tell you what he knows. He’s the current president of the Port Chatham Wooden Boat Society, and he’s very knowledgeable about all the old wrecks in the area. He drops by the pub most nights, though he’s pretty busy right now. The historic tall ships are starting to show up in port for the upcoming Wooden Boat Festival.”
“Whoever refurbished the Henrietta Dale has done a beautiful job.”
“You’ll have to ask Bob about that—he knows pretty much everyone who owns and works on the sailing ships.” Jase paused while Jordan whistled a second time for the dog. “I believe the Henrietta Dale’s logbook is on display in the lightstation—did the gardener mention it?”
“No, she didn’t. I’d love to see it, actually.” Jordan debated going into the lighthouse, then quickly abandoned the idea. No way was she climbing all those steps, not given the current damage to her feet. “Do you suppose they have a copy of the logbook in town at the Wooden Boat Society?”
“If not, I’ll bring you back out.” Jase gave her a curious look. “Why are you so interested?”
Jordan shrugged. “Old shipwrecks are always fascinating, aren’t they? And this ship is particularly beautiful.”
Malachi finally came galloping toward them, giving them a happy canine grin. “It’s about time,” Jordan told him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you expend that much energy.”
That earned her The Look, Malachi’s patented expression combining equal parts personal affront and derision. She and Jase lifted him on board, then climbed in after him.
Malachi flopped down at her feet. Jase went below. He returned with a first-aid kit and a pair of thick wool socks. “While I get us under way, why don’t you use the shower in the head to rinse the saltwater off your blisters?”
Minutes later, she climbed back up the stairs, her feet warmer, cleaner, and stinging less. Standing behind Jase in the wheelhouse, she gazed back at the lighthouse grounds as the cruiser picked up speed, water rushing under its hull. Jase steered toward the distant headlands, and a chill breeze grew in strength, buffeting her hard enough that she had to widen her stance. Sh
e pulled her denim jacket closed, hugging herself.
The Olympic Mountains had taken on a pink glow against the setting sun. The beach blurred, then disappeared altogether in the gathering mist. Darcy was still out there documenting the crime scene, which would probably take several more hours. Though Jordan knew she was used to murder investigations, she didn’t envy her the task.
Jordan also didn’t envy her the task of discovering who in their small, friendly town hated Holt Stilwell enough to point a gun at his head and, without remorse, pull the trigger.
* * *
THE sun had dropped below the horizon by the time they returned the cabin cruiser to its berth in Port Chatham Harbor. Lights had blinked on in the downtown historic buildings, and the bluff running between the waterfront business district and the residential areas on the hills above was bathed in dark shadows.
They climbed the steep grade in Jase’s truck, driving through block after block of quaint, painstakingly refurbished Victorians surrounded by lovingly tended gardens. Views of the fading sunset over Discovery Bay, and of distant islands across midnight-blue water, greeted them as they drove up the street.
When Jordan had moved to town a few weeks ago, she’d been stunned by the contrast between the sleepy tourist town of present day and the stories of its rough-and-tumble past. At one time, Port Chatham had been the second-largest seaport on the West Coast, its waterfront rife with crime. But over the years, the town had evolved into a charming seaside village best known for its historic buildings and its jazz and wooden boat festivals. Modern-day murder simply didn’t fit with Jordan’s mental picture of her adopted town—at least, not in contemporary times. It was unsettling to think that someone, possibly living in a Victorian not far from her own, might be a murderer.
As they turned down a side street one block over from her house, Jordan noticed a number of residents out enjoying the fair weather, sitting in their porch swings, sipping wine, or strolling through the neighborhood. A woman in her thirties whom Jordan had yet to meet was washing her car in her driveway. Halfway down the block, a man wearing elegant black evening clothes and a top hat pulled his horse-drawn phaeton over to the curb as they passed, touching a finger to the brim of his hat and nodding to her. Just a few yards beyond, a teenage boy on a skateboard almost ran through a couple strolling down the sidewalk in ankle-length capes and walking boots. The man hastily tugged his wife aside, giving the youngster an irritated glance.
Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery Page 3
