“As ghosts, we aren’t all-powerful,” Frank retorted. “Mostly, we have the same powers of deduction and senses that a human has, plus a few extras.”
“Oh, well, that explains it.”
“At least you’re sarcastic with everyone,” Darcy said. “I’d hate to think you reserve it just for us.”
Jordan ignored that. “So what did you see?” she asked the ghosts.
“He had some small kind of light he was holding, like a directed candle, but the flame didn’t flicker,” Frank said.
“A flashlight,” Jordan explained. “Probably a small penlight.” At Frank’s perplexed look, she added, “Too complicated.”
He shrugged, accepting her answer. “I caught a glimpse of a mask, as well. Not just over the eyes and nose—bigger, as if he’d pulled it over his head.”
“Like a ski mask,” Jordan concluded.
“I have no idea what that is,” Frank replied.
“His clothing was dark, and he wore a hood over his head,” Charlotte contributed.
“Sounds like the same person who attacked me at Holt’s house,” Jordan deduced as she propped a fallen portrait against a bookcase, then set a toppled plant upright. Again.
“Wait, don’t tell me: dark hoodie and jeans, right?” Darcy asked.
“Close enough,” Jordan replied, inspecting the plant more closely. The poor thing—it had almost no soil left in the pot.
“You were also attacked at Holt’s house?” Jase asked grimly.
“I’ll explain—”
“—later,” Jase finished for her. “Got it.” He shook his head and started picking up books, replacing them on their shelves.
“Aren’t you going to dust for prints or something?” she asked Darcy.
“I’ll send someone around to dust the door and the desk in the morning,” Darcy replied. “But it’s not like you want fingerprint powder all over those rare books. And it would take forever to try to locate a fingerprint on them.”
“So that’s it?” Jordan asked.
“Yeah.” Darcy yawned. “I’m going back to bed. Your intruder is gone, whoever he was. I doubt he’ll be back tonight, but you seem to have a good warning system in place. If anything happens, call me.”
Jordan followed her outside. “Well, thanks for coming over.”
“That’s the job.” She nodded her head toward the house. “Get some sleep, and we’ll talk again in the morning. If I were you, I’d make it a top priority to see if that cash is still around, and if it is, get it into a safe-deposit box at the bank. We can let the story float around town that you’ve found it and removed it from the house. That should discourage any more nighttime visitors.”
“If that’s what he was after,” Jordan said.
“It’s a safe bet. Those papers Clive Walters claims were stolen are worth only a fraction of the forty thousand Hattie says is in that wall safe.”
“Yeah, but Charlotte and Frank described the intruder as looking like the person I saw at Holt’s this afternoon.”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Darcy corrected mildly. “It’s way past midnight.” She stretched, then stood for a moment, checking out the neighborhood. “Seems quiet enough. I’m out of here.”
Jordan watched her drive away, then came back inside. Jase, who had followed them out and listened quietly to their exchange, stayed where he was. “I’ll bunk down here tonight. Just in case.”
“Bunk down on what?” she asked, grabbing the first excuse that came to mind. She wasn’t sure she was ready to deal with a sleepover. “My furniture is piled in the second-floor parlor. There’s only the wing-back chair in the library, or the desk chair, and you can’t sleep sitting up all night. Besides, the ghosts will alert me if anyone tries to break in again.”
“Yes, you can count on us to remain vigilant,” Hattie assured her.
“Hattie!” Charlotte hissed. “If he stays here, they might end up making passionate love! We should leave, so that he feels compelled to protect her!”
“Whoa,” Jordan protested. “I don’t need ghosts playing ma—” She glanced at Jase, who had his arms folded across his chest and one eyebrow raised, listening with amusement to her side of the conversation. Swallowing the word “matchmaker,” she sent Charlotte a scorching glance.
“I’ll be fine,” she told Jase.
He studied her for a moment in silence, then gripped her shoulders with warm hands and leaned in to place a light kiss on her forehead. She felt tingles all the way down to her toes. In the background, Frank snorted.
“I’ll get out of your hair, then,” Jase told her. “Pleasant dreams.” Jogging down the front steps, he disappeared into the night.
“Huh.” Jordan stared after him. “He didn’t even put up a fight.”
“You know nothing about attracting men.” Charlotte hovered in the entry. “If you had acted as if you were indisposed with a fit of the vapors, he would have remained by your side throughout the night.”
“Indeed,” Hattie agreed, “he seemed to be looking for any excuse to do so.”
“This is a conversation I wish to avoid,” Frank said.
Jordan shook her head. Then she shooed all of them back inside, closing the door. “Go back to your portals, or wherever you go at night to sleep.”
“Well!” Charlotte sniffed. “You are singularly ungrateful for our assistance this evening.”
“Thank you,” Jordan told them belatedly. “Really.” She made another shooing motion. “Now go away.”
She turned her back on them and stood in the doorway of the library, staring glumly at the mess. There was no way she was alphabetizing those books a third time. And since Tom would be tearing out the bookcase within a few hours, she could deal with the rest of the damage in the morning.
Before turning out the lights, however, she walked over to the desk and rummaged for a piece of paper and a felt pen. In large, thick block letters, she wrote: I DON’T HAVE THE PAPERS. She found some masking tape and attached the note to the front door. Then she took the small hall table and wedged it under the doorknob.
Satisfied, she and Malachi traipsed back upstairs to get whatever sleep they could before the sun rose.
Chapter 12
JORDAN woke up to a deafening, rumbling roar resembling a jet engine on bad fuel. Shooting straight up before she had fully comprehended the noise, she stared at her room from wide-open, unfocused eyes. The bed vibrated beneath her as the noise continued. Rising and lowering in volume and pitch, it was sometimes a whine, sometimes a deep, grinding sound.
Grabbing her sweats, she ran out into the hall and in the direction of the noise, which seemed to be coming from inside the second-floor parlor. That room was packed to the ceiling, but between boxes and pieces of stacked furniture, she thought she glimpsed sunlight. Where there was no window.
Hopping about on one foot, she tugged on her sweats, slapping a palm against the wall when her balance became precarious. She then headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Where the hell were the ghosts? How could they let something like this happen?
Yanking open the front door, she ran out, trying to pinpoint the location of the noise, tripped over something solid, and was airborne. Strong arms grabbed her before her face pancaked against the porch decking.
“Morning,” a deep voice rumbled from beneath her, barely discernible over the god-awful grinding roar.
Her eyes locked with Jase’s sleepy, amused gaze. He lay in a sleeping bag positioned crosswise in front of the door.
Scrambling off his lap, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”
He seemed to accept her retreat with equanimity, running a hand along his unshaven jaw. “Figured I’d camp out on your porch, just to make certain no one came back to bother you last night.” He pointed at the hand-lettered sign taped on the door above him. “I was probably more of a deterrent than that.”
She reached over him and ripped the paper off the beveled glass. “You slept outside?”
> He shrugged, yawning. “It’s summer—I was fine. Actually, this makes a nice sleeping porch during fair weather. The birds woke me up at dawn, serenading from your maple tree. It’s a nice change of pace.”
The grinding noise started up again, reminding her of why she’d tripped over him in the first place. “Shit! Don’t move,” she commanded. “This conversation isn’t finished.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She jogged down the steps and around the side of the house. Tom stood high on the scaffolding, wielding a huge tool that had a long blade made of sharp, menacing teeth. Below him, Amanda was organizing a pile of debris, moving it onto the patio. A second pile of what looked to be dusty, broken pieces of lumber lay nearby on the grass. The air smelled faintly of a peculiarly sharp, musty mold.
The tool was shaking the entire house as it cut. Through her wall.
Tom spied Jordan. “Good morning!” he shouted over the whine, his expression businesslike. People didn’t act calm and businesslike while they destroyed a historic house, right? “Thought I’d get an early start on this,” he added.
“What are you doing?” she shouted.
He turned off the machine halfway through her question, causing her words to echo throughout the neighborhood in the sudden silence. “You’ve got dry rot in through here.” Setting the monster down, he dropped to sit with his legs hanging over the scaffolding, his arms propped on the metal supports as he smiled at her. “We can’t let it go any further without replacing the framing, or it will continue to travel through the structure, eventually causing the wall to collapse. And of course if it should reach the floor joists, that could weaken the supports for the second floor—”
“Stop! No caffeine.”
His smile turned to a grin. “You offering some up?”
“Maybe. I thought I was going to bid out this work.”
“You can bid a large portion of it,” Tom replied, “but this couldn’t wait. It’s never a good idea to wait when it comes to dry rot.”
That sounded ominous, but she decided not to ask for clarification. “What is that thing?” She pointed at the tool.
“It’s a sawsall.” Amanda swung around, her ponytail hitting her cheek, her expression surprised. “Haven’t you ever seen one?”
“Oddly enough, outside of my life experience up to now.”
“Really.” Amanda pursed her lips.
“Its real name is ‘reciprocating saw,’ ” Tom elaborated. “Kind of a cross between a Skilsaw and a chainsaw. Very handy for sawing in places other tools can’t get to. And it cuts right through nails, roofing, lumber, and the like.”
“Should I use it to remove the bookcase?”
His easygoing expression turned to alarm. “No! I mean, sawsalls can do a lot of damage if used by someone who doesn’t have much experience.” At her frown, he added hastily, “They really shouldn’t be used for delicate work like dismantling a bookcase made of quality finish wood.”
Jordan stepped back and craned her neck, looking at the large hole above the French doors that gaped almost to the roof. “So how big will that be once you’re finished?”
“Not sure yet,” he answered cheerfully.” Dry rot always travels farther than you would expect, so I’m finding more rotten supports than I originally thought I would. It’s probably moved down through the first floor on this side of the house.”
Of course it had. Honestly, she was quite proud of her composure.
“The boards look just fine to me,” she said, studying the wall structure he’d uncovered where he’d removed the siding. “Are you sure?”
“Believe me, once you’ve smelled dry rot, there’s no mistaking the odor,” he assured her. “If I took a screwdriver and tried to ram it through any of these two-by-sixes, it’d push straight through with almost no effort.”
“I’m kinda surprised, given that this wall had the weight of the wisteria on it, that it’s still upright,” Amanda added.
Jordan instantly envisioned a house of extremely old, dusty toothpicks. And she’d been sleeping on the second floor.
Her thoughts must have been reflected on her face. “Whoa,” Tom said hastily. “The rot is just right in through here, nowhere else that I’ve been able to find. The house is basically solid; don’t worry.”
“Right,” Jordan said faintly. “I’ll just go away now and leave you to it. If anyone asks me, I’ll deny that I saw anything.”
He chuckled. “I’ll be down in a bit to see about that bookcase, but I wanted to get this handled first.”
“You do that,” she said, backing away.
* * *
JASE was still inside his sleeping bag on the front porch, sitting upright, his back propped against the wooden panel at the base of the front door. Malachi lay beside him on his back, all four paws in the air, and Jase was rubbing his stomach.
The sleeping bag had pooled at Jase’s waist, revealing a nicely muscled chest with just the right amount of dark, soft-looking chest hair that arrowed down … She jerked her gaze up to his face and scowled. “I thought I told you last night I didn’t need you to stay.”
He shrugged. “A little extra insurance never hurts, particularly after the day you had yesterday. I don’t like the coincidence of you being attacked twice in one day, then a burglar last night.” One side of his mouth quirked. “I didn’t mind playing knight in shining armor for one night.”
She felt a pang of guilt at her ingratitude. And then a pang of irritation: She didn’t need a knight in shining armor.
“All right, thanks,” she said. “Actually, I don’t think I thanked you for coming over last night …”
“I saw your lights go on from down the block, then Darcy pull up,” he replied. “I was worried. And I’m willing to admit that I don’t like the thought of you being in danger. I wish you’d drop this one. Just let Darcy do her job.”
“I’ve backed off,” she assured him. “Believe me, I don’t like being attacked. I’ve got bruises that are going to keep me sore and aching for days.” She felt the back of her head. The bump was smaller this morning, but still there.
His gaze sharpened. “You hit your head?”
“I fell down the steps at Holt’s yesterday. Or, rather, I was shoved, and I hit my head on the cement stoop. I’m fine, though.” She quickly explained why she’d been out at Holt’s, ignoring that he didn’t seem any more convinced than Darcy had by the soundness of her reasoning.
Jordan’s gaze dropped south again, to that nice-looking chest. She gave brief thought to the FPP, then consigned it to the dust bin. “How far does that”—she waggled her index finger up and down at the portion of his anatomy she was trying so hard not to look at—“state of undress go?”
His frown turned into a sexy smile. “Want to find out?” he asked, his voice deeper than normal.
Far too tempted, she folded her arms and cocked her head. “You’ve decided to get sneaky, haven’t you?”
“Gotta make use of all that legal background.”
She closed her eyes momentarily. “How about I fix us a couple of espressos?” she asked brightly. She gestured in the direction of the other side of the house. “I’ll just, er, use the back door …”
She retreated to the sound of his soft laugh.
So much for her plans for a peaceful, solitary breakfast at her favorite French restaurant.
* * *
JASE came into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with his feet still bare, as she was grinding the coffee beans. Leaning against the counter, he folded his arms and watched her work. It was starting to feel natural—and comfortable—to have him there.
“Who sent you red roses?” he asked casually.
She gave him a sideways glance as she tamped coffee grounds into the Gruppo. “They weren’t for me.”
He waited, his expression expectant.
“They were for Hattie,” she explained reluctantly. “The ghost of Michael Seavey stole them from the shop a few blocks away. He’s
courting her.”
“Really?” Jase grinned. “I like it. The man may have been a shanghaier, but from everything you’ve told me about him, he had class.”
Jordan rolled her eyes, then poured water into the reservoir.
The racket outside started up again, causing her to wince. “That’s worse than a chainsaw, in my opinion. I hope I don’t get complaints from the neighbors.”
“He won’t be at it long. You can tear down an entire house with a sawsall in less than a day. The only reason it’s taking him this long is that they’re probably stopping to remove any salvageable siding. Reproducing historically accurate siding can cost an arm and a leg. It’s worth the labor to remove and refurbish the original shingles.”
She was still stuck back on his remark about destroying an entire house, shuddering at the thought.
“So what’s this about a safe and some money?” Jase asked.
“What? Oh.” She told him the story Hattie had related to her. “So we’ll see. I doubt the money is still there.”
“Hmm.” Jase reached over her for espresso cups. “I wonder why Hattie didn’t make certain Charlotte knew of it. Didn’t Charlotte end up working in a brothel after her sister died? That kind of money would have been enough to support Charlotte well into adulthood, as well as provide a dowry for a husband.”
“I wondered about that myself,” Jordan admitted. “The answer Hattie gave me has more to do with how one ‘comes back’ as a ghost than anything else. If I understood the convoluted explanation I was trying hard not to examine too closely”—Jase grinned again, and she ignored him—“it takes a while to learn the skills you need to return in spectral form. By the time Hattie, er, reappeared, Charlotte was already dead. As was Michael Seavey.”
Jase nodded as if that made sense. “So you have the combination to the safe?”
She finished making a shot of espresso and stared at him in consternation. “Well, shit.”
He chuckled. “You’d better conjure up Hattie between now and when Tom removes that bookcase, unless you don’t mind destroying the safe. And they can be pretty hard to break into without an acetylene torch.”
Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery Page 18
