Perhaps, given the lengthy passage of time, there was a way to gently question Charlotte about what she knew. Whistling for Malachi, Jordan decided that she should proceed cautiously. Regardless of the teenage ghost’s antics, she’d become fond of Charlotte and didn’t want to be the cause of her becoming even more fragile.
Jordan helped Malachi into the Prius’s cramped hatchback area, then drove downtown. The night before, she’d promised Bob MacDonough she would stop by the Wooden Boat Society’s headquarters at Point Hudson to provide more details about her sighting of the ghost ship. And after what she’d learned in the last two hours, she had a few questions of her own.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that it had been a long time since breakfast, so she stopped at a natural food cooperative to grab an energy bar and some dog biscuits for Malachi. As she drove down the main drag, she munched on the bar, getting crumbs all over her sweater. Glancing down from the steering wheel to brush off the crumbs, she came within inches of running through a black carriage carrying a beautifully dressed woman holding a black Battenburg lace parasol. The horse shied, almost flipping the carriage. Jordan jerked the wheel to the right, craning her neck to assure herself the lady and the horse were okay.
And then had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of her.
Malachi plowed into the back of her seat, slamming her into the steering wheel. She held her breath, but the airbag didn’t deploy.
“Raaaoomph!” Malachi scrambled to right himself, giving her a baleful look that said he thought the entire affair was her fault. She supposed it was. Easing her foot off the brake pedal, she edged the car forward once again, catching one last glimpse of the black lace parasol in her rearview mirror.
Once in the downtown area, traffic became congested, slowing her down. Tourists—both spectral and human—were out in force. Service trucks and horse-drawn flatbed wagons clogged the street. She crawled past block after block of majestic, Victorian-style buildings that housed apartments, offices, and boutiques. Impatiently drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she noticed faded white block lettering on the balcony railing of a two-story clapboard building facing the waterfront: Cosmopolitan H--el. On impulse, she pulled out of her lane and whipped down the side street, parking across from the hotel’s entrance.
Telling an impatient Malachi to stay, she jogged across the street. Inside the hotel, she discovered a small, tastefully appointed lobby with high, stenciled ceilings and massive wood columns. Plush carpet muffled her footsteps. Groupings of overstuffed, comfortable-looking furniture were cleverly placed about the room for optimum privacy. Under a leaded-glass window, a sturdy Arts and Crafts library table offered an assortment of baskets containing mouthwatering pastries and thermoses filled with gourmet coffee blends.
Across the room stood an ornate oak conference table that held a telephone, a leather-bound guest register, and stacks of papers. A short, trim man with a receding hairline, dressed in dark wool slacks and a crisp white Oxford shirt, sat at the table. He glanced up from the pages he was reading, gazing at her through expensive, rimless eyeglasses, his expression briefly impatient.
“May I help you?” he asked in a clipped East Coast accent. He pasted a smile on his face.
Jordan walked over and offered her hand, introducing herself. “Are you the owner?”
“Yes,” he replied, not volunteering his name. “I really don’t have time right now for solicitations. I’m terribly slammed, so …”
She was momentarily speechless—she wasn’t often mistaken for a salesperson. “Um, sorry, didn’t mean to give the wrong impression. I live up the hill in Longren House, and I’m researching a historic event that may have a connection to your hotel.”
“Boutique hotel,” he corrected her. “Please refer to my establishment that way in any future conversations. It’s important to distinguish oneself from the chains these days, so that people understand we provide a much higher quality of service and more pleasant experience for the traveler.”
Right. “I understand a shanghaier from the nineteenth century, Michael Seavey, used to own this building?”
He relaxed slightly. “Yes, indeed. His ghost haunts the penthouse suite even to this day. It’s quite the draw for tourists visiting our region.”
“Really?” She wondered if he’d made that up as a promotional gimmick, or if he could actually sense Seavey’s presence. “Would you mind if I viewed that suite of rooms?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible—they’re currently under renovation. In fact, that’s why I’m so far behind in my work. The individual handling the renovation is suddenly indisposed, and I must find someone to replace him.” The owner scowled, straightening the sheaf of papers he held and setting them down so that they were perfectly aligned on the desk. “Although I certainly sympathize with the man’s plight, it has simply ruined my schedule. I may have to turn away customers because of this disaster!”
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that Holt probably viewed his murder as representing more than a scheduling inconvenience, but she managed to say instead, “I don’t mind a little plaster dust. I was actually hoping to speak with any workers who might still be up there. If you’re too busy to accompany me to the penthouse, I’d be glad to go up on my own.”
“Out of the question!” Though the owner was still seated, he somehow managed to look down his nose. “I can’t have you interrupting what little work is still being accomplished.”
“I promise I won’t take up too much of their time,” she assured him. “One question, and then I’m gone.”
“What is it, exactly, that you wish to know?”
“I’m hoping that the workers might tell me whether Holt Stilwell found any old papers during the renovation. Perhaps something left behind by Michael Seavey—”
“Absolutely not!” The owner jumped to his feet, his face flushing an unbecoming shade of puce. “If any historic documents had been found, those documents would be the property of the hotel. You have no right to them whatsoever!”
“No, no,” she backpedaled. “I wouldn’t try to claim them or anything. I just want to take a look at them. You see, I’m researching the circumstances surrounding Michael Seavey’s death in 1893—”
“No!” He rushed around the desk, pointing a trembling finger at the front door. “I want you to leave, immediately!”
She gaped at him and backed up a few steps. “Have I offended you in some way, Mr.…?”
“You have no right to be here! If you don’t leave, right this minute, I’ll call the authorities!”
“Whoa. Okay.” She danced back a few more steps, hands raised. “No problem. I’m leaving.”
“Get out!” he shouted, advancing on her.
She turned and ran out the front door, noting the curious stares from the few guests who were seated in the lobby.
“And don’t come back!” he screeched from inside the lobby.
Outside, she walked a few yards toward the bay, then stopped, thoroughly shaken by the encounter.
“Your apparent lack of social skills continues to be a detriment, I see.”
The deep baritone came from behind her. Michael Seavey appeared from the shadows, looking amused. He must have witnessed her argument with the owner.
“That man needs his meds adjusted,” she grumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
“He’s an obnoxious little creature, is he not? I quite enjoy making his life difficult at every opportunity.”
Jordan glanced around to make certain no one was observing their conversation. She was still unused to appearing to others as if she were talking to herself. “What’s that guy’s problem? Do you know?”
Seavey shrugged, his shoulders moving under the expensive slate-gray fabric of his coat. “I confess I have no idea,” he replied.
Today he wore a beautifully tailored suit over a pale gray silk shirt, a snowy white handkerchief tucked into h
is breast pocket, a black top hat, and black leather walking boots. In deference to her, he’d removed his top hat and held it in one hand. She had to admit, he was certainly the most stylishly dressed ghost she’d come across.
“I don’t spend my time worrying about the man,” Seavey continued. “If he becomes too intrusive, I’ll find a way to be rid of him.”
His mildly disapproving gaze traveled over the jeans and cotton sweater she’d thrown on earlier in her haste to leave the house. “I had thought perhaps the outfit you wore last evening was an aberration, but you seem to delight in wearing mannish clothing. My deceased wife wore such garments on occasion, but for good reason: It’s quite difficult to wield a bullwhip wearing silk skirts. You, however, have no such excuse.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “This is perfectly acceptable attire for a woman of this century—just look around you. I’m sure you’ve seen worse on the guests staying in your suite of rooms.”
He waved a hand. “Cretins, the lot of them.” He frowned, considering. “Admittedly, modern clothing leaves little to the imagination, but truthfully, I haven’t yet decided whether I believe it to be an improvement. After all, to view a woman’s lush form through the thin fabrics of my day—say, perhaps, a woman gracing my private rooms wearing a chemise of the finest muslin—”
“Too much information,” Jordan interrupted. “Let’s not go there.”
He dipped his head. “As you wish. I merely meant to acquaint you with a stairway at the back of the building. I suspect you can slip past the manager unnoticed. But if you prefer not to …”
Jordan realized he’d taken her literally. “That’s not what I meant, but …” She contemplated his suggestion, sorely tempted to slip up that stairway. The prospect of being discovered and dealing with the police, however, was unappealing. “Is anyone up there right now?”
“Two workers are repairing the plaster walls and painting the ceiling. Though I suppose it is only to be expected that the rooms would need refurbishment at some point, I don’t approve of the decoration scheme that absurd man has chosen. I can only hope they don’t do anything to ruin the ambience of the Turkish motif.”
“Remember your great-great-nephew? The one I told you was murdered a couple of nights ago? He was in charge of the renovation of your suite. He was, according to those in the business, extremely good at historically accurate renovations. I don’t think you have to worry—”
“That loudmouthed, uncouth, sorry excuse for a gentleman was related to me?” Seavey interrupted, rising to his full height and glaring down at her. “I think not, madam!”
“Yes, he was.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “How can you act so offended? Weren’t you a hardened criminal in your time?”
He sniffed. “I may have—allegedly—engaged in certain illegal acts, but I assure you, I was never crass in my dealings with the fairer sex.”
Well, he had her there—she couldn’t exactly defend Holt’s treatment of women. Better to change the subject. “I found some old newspaper articles this afternoon about the wreck of the Henrietta Dale. You were listed among the survivors.”
He looked unimpressed. “I believe I indicated I thought such articles were fabricated.”
“I find it hard to agree with you that the articles about the shipwreck would be fabricated. What’s the last thing you remember from that night?”
“The ship hit the spit and knocked me off my feet. Then the rigging fell on me.” He paused, then shook his head. “After that—nothing.”
“Is it possible that you were knocked out, but then were rescued and taken unconscious to Port Chatham?”
“Anything is possible, madam. But the fact that I don’t remember waking up and finding myself in a different location lends far more credibility to my contention that such articles are erroneous.”
“Not necessarily. You could’ve been murdered while you were still unconscious,” she argued.
He shrugged. “Perhaps. I confess, I don’t see that it matters.”
“Did Eleanor Canby blame you for the death of her son?” At Seavey’s look of confusion, she explained. “Jesse died that night.”
“Ah. I hadn’t realized.”
Of course—he wouldn’t have known. “Why didn’t you ask about survivors after you came back as a ghost?”
His impatience was beginning to show. “The matter simply wasn’t of interest to me. And I didn’t ‘come back,’ as you put it, for a number of years. It’s not a simple process.”
“So you must have had other reasons for telling me last night that Eleanor despised you,” Jordan persisted.
Another shrug, this one accompanied by a sideways glance. “Eleanor disapproved of me on general principle—I didn’t measure up to her high moral standards. She was an uptight, rigid individual, who in my opinion caused more harm than good through her endless proselytizing.”
After having read Eleanor’s editorials, Jordan wasn’t certain she disagreed. She glanced up at the second floor of the old hotel, her thoughts returning to the present. “By any chance, did you keep business papers in a safe or some other secret compartment in your hotel suite when you were alive? Anything that Holt might have found while renovating your rooms?”
Seavey’s eyes shifted. “I don’t pretend to follow every activity of the humans who come and go from my establishment.”
“But you don’t deny that you had such papers,” she pressed.
He studied her for a long moment, gently tapping the brim of his top hat against one leg. “Even if something of the nature you describe were to exist,” he said finally, “I wouldn’t admit to it. Surely you can see that I wouldn’t want information regarding my past activities to undermine my courtship of Hattie. She wouldn’t—in many cases—necessarily approve.”
“I think you’ll find that Hattie is more flexible in her outlook these days than she might have been in the past.”
He shook his head. “Indeed, I doubt that.” A calculating gleam flickered his pale gray eyes. “It’s possible we might come to a mutually advantageous arrangement, one that would allow me to exchange information in return for, shall we say, certain favors.”
“What do you have in mind?” Jordan asked warily.
“Merely that I might indeed have knowledge of documents that I kept in my private rooms. If I were to reveal the location of those documents—should they exist—in return I would have your promise that you won’t show them to Hattie or talk to her about them.” When Jordan started to object, he held up a hand. “Further, that you would refrain from voicing any negative opinions you might hold as to my worthiness as a suitor.”
“You’re asking me to advocate that Hattie marry you?”
“Certainly not,” he snapped. “I don’t need a woman to present my case; I’m perfectly capable of convincing Hattie myself. The task should be simple—the union would obviously be mutually beneficial. I would merely ask that you don’t actively dissuade her. After all, you might even discover certain facts indicating my character isn’t as impoverished as you might currently believe.”
“I doubt it,” Jordan retorted wryly. “And as a counselor, I’m not in the habit of withholding advice that might result in a person making a decision that could cause her to align herself with someone of dubious ethics.”
He snorted. “You exaggerate, madam. I’m merely a businessman who employed tactics—and sometimes, I admit, the judicious use of violence—that might be less than palatable to the fairer sex, though quite necessary in the day.”
Jordan eyed him curiously. “Why do you want to marry Hattie?”
An emotion flashed through his eyes, gone so swiftly she couldn’t get a handle on it. “I don’t see that my reasons are any of your concern.”
“You’re in love with her,” she realized suddenly. Why hadn’t she seen it before now? He had, after all, avenged Hattie’s death. Now she knew why. One mystery solved.
His expression, however, turned to one of contempt. �
��Love is an utterly childish notion. Hattie and I are simply well suited to each other.”
“Uh-huh.” Jordan wasn’t buying it. Seavey had all the hallmarks of a person deep in denial concerning his true feelings toward Hattie. Then again, most criminals weren’t real big on analyzing their feelings or motivations.
She folded her arms. “So let me get this straight: You’re asking me to stay out of your way while you court Hattie, in return for information concerning the whereabouts of business papers that Holt might have discovered in your suite of rooms during the course of a remodel. Correct?”
He looked relieved. “Precisely.”
“No.”
He started. “I beg your pardon?”
“No,” she repeated flatly. “If I conclude that you aren’t a worthy suitor, I will say so.” She paused, realizing how crazy it was to comment in this day and age on someone’s worthiness as a suitor. “Hattie wants me to solve your murder, out of some misguided sense of guilt over the way she’s maligned your character for the last century. Go figure. But if I can help her feel less guilty by discovering how you died, then I will. In addition, I will also let her know that you were helpful during my investigation into your death.”
He stared at her broodingly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Very well, I agree to your stipulations.” His nod was abrupt. “I admit that I have found this Holt you refer to, to be brutish in the extreme. Because of that, I’ve ensured I was away at various social commitments much of the time he labored in my suite. Therefore, it’s possible the man could’ve found a ledger and other files.”
“So you’re admitting to their existence?”
“Hypothetically, papers of that nature existed, ones that might have documented certain shipments and payments of … shall we say … contraband. At the time, it would have made sense to keep them concealed in a false compartment in my sitting room wall. Therefore, also hypothetically, the documents could have been discovered as part of the recent repairs to the plaster in that room.”
Jordan felt a surge of excitement. So Holt would have had access to information about the Henrietta Dale. And he might have been curious enough to check it out. “And did your documents mention what the Henrietta Dale would have been carrying as ‘cargo’ the night she ran aground?”
Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery Page 12
