Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery

by P. J. Alderman

  Jordan huffed out an exasperated breath.

  “What?” Jase asked as he turned the corner onto the main thoroughfare running through the upper part of town.

  “It would be a lot easier if vintage clothing wasn’t all the rage right now.”

  He gave her a perplexed look, then clued in. “I can see where that might make things a bit difficult,” he allowed, tongue in cheek.

  “Oh, shut up,” she grumbled. “I mean, unless someone is sporting a pierced earring or dreadlocks, how am I supposed to know?”

  “Actually, dreadlocks have been worn since ancient times, so they aren’t a good indicator.”

  Jordan just shook her head.

  “I’m not running anyone down, am I?” he asked, looking worried about what he couldn’t see.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  He slowed as they neared her street. “Pub or home?”

  She considered. If she went home, she’d avoid having to talk about Holt. But she hadn’t gotten around to grocery shopping this week, and Jase had a killer wine selection. “Pub,” she decided.

  “You need to stop by the house for dry shoes?”

  “Not unless you mind me wandering around in socks. Thanks for coming out to fetch me, by the way.”

  He shot her a look that clearly said it hadn’t been a hardship. “I enjoy being out on the water now and again.” He pulled the truck into the parking lot behind All That Jazz, his pub that was located in the small, gentrified business district at the crest of the hill. “Want to help mix drinks this evening?”

  “You do realize the last person for whom I mixed a dry martini never stepped foot back in my house, right?”

  “You sure the martini was the reason?”

  “Humor. Ha.”

  He reached over to tug on a lock of her hair, his blue eyes twinkling. “Relax. The job mostly entails pulling pints of beer, pouring the occasional shot of hard liquor, and washing glasses. I can help you with anything exotic.”

  “Okay by me,” she said, opening her door. “But if you lose customers, it’s your fault.”

  She roused Malachi, who had settled in for a snooze on the backseat of the king cab. Once he realized where they were, he scrambled to his feet and pushed his way out the passenger door. Organic hamburger patties, cooked medium-rare by Kathleen, the pub’s cranky chef, had become the nightly treat.

  Jase offered to carry Jordan inside, but she refused—there was no way she trusted her hormones to behave while being held in his arms. Instead, she picked her way gingerly across the gravel parking lot.

  He held open the rear door to the pub, his amusement plain. She hadn’t fooled him in the least.

  They walked down the back hall past the kitchen. The pub was housed in a building that was a historic landmark in its own right. Jase had done a marvelous job of restoring the distressed brick walls and huge timber beams that crisscrossed the arched brick ceiling. A local stone artisan had used rugged slabs of granite to build a freestanding fireplace, which Jase kept lit with a cheerful fire most evenings. Oak tables with captain’s chairs created casual groupings throughout the spacious room, while more private leather booths lined one wall. An old-fashioned bar, built of ornately carved mahogany, stretched the length of the opposite wall.

  For Jordan, the pub had already become a home away from home, where she could count on finding friendly conversation, live jazz most evenings, and excellent food. The fact that dogs were welcome was also a plus.

  The room was already crowded, and since the majority of the patrons appeared to be drinking, Jordan decided that they were most likely still on this side of the veil. Jase took her jacket and hung it along with his own on the coat tree in the entrance.

  Jase’s full-time bartender, Bill, a slender man with a long silver ponytail who was rumored to have once been a Wall Street broker, moved from table to table, taking drink orders. Though Bill remained somewhat distant with Jordan, she’d felt nothing but affection for him since he’d shown up at her house with his chain saw to help remove the wisteria vine from her attic. As far as she was concerned, Bill walked on water.

  As Jase sorted through a stack of drink orders, Jordan surreptitiously studied the people sitting on barstools.

  “How many people do you see sitting at the bar?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Eleven. How many do you see?”

  She released a breath. “The same.”

  Jase raised his voice. “Yo, Bob?” A big-boned, sandy-haired man sitting at one of the tables near the fireplace cocked his head in their direction. “Jordan has some questions for you.”

  Bob pushed away from the table and walked up to the bar. He was well over six feet tall, yet his hands and feet still looked too large for the rest of his body. And with his shambling gait, it was a miracle he didn’t trip and fall on his face. He gave Jordan a friendly grin as he slid onto the stool across from her.

  “Jordan Marsh, the lady who sees and talks to ghosts.” He stuck out a huge paw to engulf her hand, then shook it so vigorously Jordan feared for the health of her shoulder socket. “Real pleased to meet you. You should come down to the wharf sometime—I’ll take you on a personal tour of our haunted ships.”

  “You have haunted ships?” She took the drink list Jase held out, idly wondering what ships’ captains looked like in ghostly form.

  “Hell yes we do. It only stands to reason that a lot of the older boats in the harbor would have a past skipper or two hanging around, right?”

  “Right.” She shook her head as she drew the first pint. “Something to look forward to.”

  Foam overflowed, spilling down the side of the glass and over her hand. She poured it down the sink drain.

  “Tip the glass like this.” Jase moved in close, showing her how to run the beer gently down the side, minimizing head. He handed the full pint to her, then told Bob, “She saw the gardener around three this afternoon.”

  “Damn.” At Bob’s response, a collective groan rose from around the room and money started changing hands.

  “She was just a gardener,” Jordan said firmly. “The lighthouse association has volunteer keepers out there every week.”

  “Nice try, but the original lightkeeper’s wife was a gardener.” Tom Greeley wandered over, beer in hand, and snagged a stool two down from Bob. “That means Jase wins, lucky dog.”

  “Juvenile, very juvenile.” Jordan gave them a chiding look. “Even if she was who you say, what if I hadn’t seen her?”

  “Then Kathleen would have won.” Tom grinned, slouching comfortably with his elbows on the bar. “She’s a nonbeliever, so she bet against the rest of us.”

  “Smart woman,” Jordan muttered.

  “We’ve all been talking about Holt,” Tom said, sobering. “You found him?”

  “Yeah.” Jordan gathered clean glasses.

  “You seem to be a magnet for dead bodies,” Bob noted. At her cool stare, he held up both hands. “Hey—just saying.”

  She related what she knew so far. While Holt’s death was widely known, everyone was shocked by the news that he’d been murdered. “Is it true what Jase told me, that Holt didn’t like the water?” she asked Tom, who had probably known him the best since they’d been competitors in the same business, custom house painting.

  “Yeah,” Tom replied, clearly shaken. “Holt had a bad experience as a kid, almost drowning. Ever since, he hasn’t been interested in getting anywhere near a body of water larger than a bathtub.”

  “Well, he must have gotten over his fears, because we found him in a dive suit.”

  “What about dive gear?” Jase asked.

  Jordan shook her head. “I pointed out to Darcy that even if he’d been diving in shallow water, he should’ve at least had some gear on him.”

  “Not if someone killed him on a boat, then dumped him in the water,” Bob said.

  “Good point. Maybe Darcy can tell us more when she gets here.” Jordan suddenly realized how hungry she was. “Food.”<
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  “I’ll put an order in with Kathleen.” Jase headed toward the kitchen, maneuvering past Malachi, who was stretched out and snoring, taking up all the floor space where they needed to work.

  “So.” Bob placed his forearms on the bar. “Jase said you had some questions for me?”

  “Yeah, about the wreck of the Henrietta Dale. I understand she ran aground on Dungeness Spit in 1893, and that it’s rumored she was purposely lured onto the rocks.”

  “Yup.” He handed her his empty pint and pointed to the tap he preferred. “According to my great-great-grandfather’s papers—he was the master ship’s carpenter who handled all the renovations—Michael Seavey purchased the Henrietta Dale from a San Francisco shipping company in 1893 and had her refurbished. He hired a crew and set sail out of Victoria. She never made it to Port Chatham—she ran off course and grounded on the west side of the spit, killing most on board.”

  “Seavey was the owner?” Jordan digested that bit of news while she drew his beer. “Interesting coincidence, given that he was Holt’s ancestor.”

  “No kidding. History repeating itself and all that.” Bob took a long draw from his new pint. “The lightkeeper and his wife tried to help the few survivors.”

  “Was the weather bad the night of the wreck?”

  “Not that I know of. And that spit is way off the route they should have taken. Seavey didn’t hire fools; his captain had a good reputation. Which is why folks thought he had to have been lured onto the rocks.”

  Jordan ran hot water into the sink, added detergent, then dumped in a tray of empties to soak. “How does one go about luring a ship off course?”

  “Back then, a ship captain would’ve used the lights of Point Wilson—that’s the lighthouse right here in town—and New Dungeness to triangulate his ship’s position. Once he had a position and his speed, he could then use maps to set a heading. If someone purposely changed the location of the light on Dungeness Spit—say, by disabling the lightstation and then putting a bright lantern somewhere farther down the beach—the captain would have triangulated their position incorrectly, adjusted the ship’s course, and then run aground.”

  “She’s a clipper ship, right?” Jordan asked as she handed Bill a tray of drinks to deliver.

  “And a real beauty, according to the articles in the newspapers back then,” Bob confirmed. “Clipper ships had a huge sail area, which made them very fast for the day. If the captain calculated their position incorrectly, by the time he’d realized his mistake, there would’ve been no stopping her—the crew couldn’t have gotten the sails down in time.”

  “So who would have done that?” Jordan asked, intrigued.

  Bob shrugged. “My guess? Maybe a business competitor. A lot of folks wouldn’t have minded if Seavey disappeared off the waterfront.”

  Jase returned with plates for her and Malachi, who miraculously woke up from his coma the moment Jase placed the food under his nose.

  Jordan set her own plate of grilled sturgeon and sautéed greens where she could take bites while mixing the next round of drinks. She picked up a drink slip. “What in the world is a Mexican Martini?”

  “Tequila, Cointreau, lime juice, and sweet and sour …” Her eyes must have glazed over, because Jase took the slip away from her.

  “Seavey’s partner was also a real piece of work,” Tom was saying. “He had a history of violence. I wouldn’t put it past him to have tried to cut Seavey out of their business.”

  Bob looked as if he wanted to disagree, but the front door opened, snagging their attention, and Darcy entered. Acknowledging Jordan’s wave, she came over and took the stool between Bob and Tom.

  She gave Jordan a wary look. “You’re bartending?”

  “I was properly warned,” Jase said.

  “And still you proceeded.” Darcy shook her head. Her clothes were streaked with sand and mud. She leaned both elbows on the counter.

  “You look like hell,” Jordan said, worried.

  “Nice to know I look exactly like I feel,” she retorted wryly.

  “How’d you get here so fast?”

  “The Coast Guard guys gave me a lift back to my SUV in the helicopter. We lost the light, and no one thought to bring battery-operated floods. It was pointless to continue, so the plan is to go back out tomorrow morning.”

  “Were you able to wrangle jurisdiction?” Jordan placed a pint of microbrew in front of her.

  “Yeah.” Darcy took a large gulp and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Anything you can tell us?” Tom asked.

  “Not much. Holt was probably murdered late last night—the ME said he’d been in the water less than twenty-four hours. It’ll be a couple of days before I get the autopsy report.” She reached for a napkin as Jase set down her dinner. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see Holt in here last night. Did you?” she asked Jase.

  “Not that I remember. But Holt always paid with a credit card, so if he was here, I’d have the slip for his meal and drinks.” Jase wiped down the bar with a cloth. “You saw what a zoo it was in here last night—he could’ve escaped my notice easily.”

  Darcy swallowed a bite of sturgeon, then turned to the others. “Did you guys see him?”

  “I wasn’t here last night,” Bob replied, and Tom shook his head.

  “I’ll ask around and check the receipts,” Jase assured Darcy. “Do you have detectives tracing his last movements?”

  “Yep. Hopefully, they’ll find something useful.”

  Tom leaned toward Darcy. “What’s this about you finding him in a dive suit and without gear? You know he hated the ocean, right?”

  “That was my understanding. The only explanation that makes sense is that he was dumped off a boat, but I have no idea why he was diving in the first place. Or where, for that matter. He could’ve been killed anywhere out on the water, then brought to that location.” She grimaced. “Which means, of course, that we’re probably processing only the dump site, not the primary crime scene. We’ll have to keep looking, based on what we find Holt was up to.”

  Jordan told Darcy about the nineteenth-century shipwreck and Seavey’s ownership of the Henrietta Dale. “Don’t you think that’s an odd coincidence, given that Seavey and Holt were related?”

  Darcy’s shrug was indifferent. “Maybe. Then again, it could just be that—a coincidence.”

  “Do you think Holt might have been diving for artifacts off the old shipwreck?”

  “Seems unlikely that there would be any other reason Holt was diving in that location,” Tom pointed out.

  “Then again,” Jordan thought it through out loud, “when I was looking at Seavey in relation to Hattie’s murder, Holt professed to be uninterested in any of his ancestors.”

  “Maybe he hoped he’d find something of value,” Tom said. “Holt was always looking for ways to make an extra buck or three. And there’s been a rumor floating around lately that he underbid the hotel job and was losing money.”

  Darcy pushed away her half-eaten dinner, then leaned forward so that she could address a woman with dishwater-blond hair, dressed in work clothes and boots, sitting three stools down. Jordan remembered serving her a whiskey, neat. “Hey, Sally? Do you happen to know who Holt was dating in recent weeks?”

  The woman scowled. “It’s just like you cops to think that some woman did it, right? Blame the victim, that’s what you always do.”

  “Sally …” Darcy warned.

  Sally abruptly stood, digging a hand into her pocket. “Holt hated women. Not the other way around.”

  “Why do you say that?” Jordan asked, curious because she had suspected the same.

  Sally dismissed her question with a cool look. “I’m not interested in psychoanalyzing the son of a bitch.” She glanced at the tab Jase had handed her, then tossed a couple of twenties onto the bar. “All I know is, whoever did Holt in, I hope they get away with it. In fact, I’ll hold a damn block party in their honor.”

  Jordan watched her stalk ou
t, stunned. She opened her mouth to ask Darcy more about her, but stopped when she got a good look at her friend’s face. She was alarmingly pale, her eyes dull with pain. Her movements, when she picked up her beer mug to take a sip, were sluggish.

  “I’m dead on my feet,” Jordan told Jase, cocking her head slightly in Darcy’s direction, silently telegraphing her concern. “You okay with me heading out?”

  “Go ahead,” he told her. “Bill and I can manage.”

  “Can you give me a lift?” she asked Darcy.

  “Sure. I need to be up early, anyway.”

  “All right if I come by in the morning to chat about the work on the house?” Tom asked Jordan.

  Damn. She sighed, then nodded.

  “I’d like to drop by your offices at the wharf tomorrow, if that’s okay with you,” she told Bob. “Ask more questions about the Henrietta Dale.”

  She could have sworn he hesitated before shooting her a grin. “Caught your fancy, has she?”

  “She’s a beautiful ship,” Jordan admitted.

  Bob’s smile slid a little. “Pardon?”

  “I said, she’s a gorgeous ship. Whoever refurbished her did a wonderful job. I’d love to take a tour of her.”

  Bob exchanged a look with Tom.

  “What?” Jordan demanded.

  “The Henrietta Dale broke up in the surf that night in 1893,” Bob carefully explained, “which is why so many people died. There’s no way anyone could have refurbished her.”

  “That can’t be right.” Jordan frowned. “Unless the gardener was mistaken, she identified the ship by that name.”

  “You saw the gardener?” Darcy asked, perking up.

  “You owe me twenty bucks,” Jase informed her. “Three o’clock, on the nose.”

  “Crap.” Darcy pulled out the bill and slapped it onto the bar. “Jordan, the gardener was living out there at the time of the wreck. So I’d believe her if she said it was the Henrietta Dale.”