Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery

by P. J. Alderman

  Jordan stared out the window at the neat rows of expensive power boats and yachts in the marina. “So other than the sheer insanity of his faulty mental processing,” she said slowly, thinking it through, “that means someone else might have planted the gun.”

  “Tragically, yes. I freaking hate this case. As of now, I’m concentrating on Sally as a Person of Interest, because she has the strongest motive. That could evaporate, though, if her ISP verifies that she was using email at the time of Holt’s murder.” Darcy sighed. “I don’t suppose you remember the last time you were in the library?”

  “No, not really … maybe that morning? I was gone all that afternoon and evening. And the house was wide-open. Anyone could have put the gun there.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to lock your doors when you leave,” Darcy said sarcastically.

  “Hey.”

  “Sorry, I’m a little testy.” Jordan heard her fiddle with some papers on her desk. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but can you question the ghosts and see if any of them know anything or saw anything? We could use the information to point us to the right person.”

  “I can ask, though they disappear with alarming regularity,” Jordan replied. “One of these days I’m going to ask them where they go. Not, mind you, that I’m sure I really want to know.”

  “Well, get back to me as soon as you can, will you? I’m booking Walters on the attempted robbery, but a lawyer will have him back on the streets within hours.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” She ended the call. “Sorry about that,” she said, turning. “That was Darcy, as I suspected.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Bob said.

  She froze midturn.

  He held a very, very scary-looking, really, really big black gun in his hand. And it was pointed at her.

  “But what about the conference call?” she asked stupidly, staring at the hole in the end of the barrel.

  “I’m afraid I felt compelled to mislead you,” Bob replied gently.

  Chapter 21

  FUCK.” Jordan bent over, trying to control the roaring in her ears. With the thumb of her left hand, she surreptitiously speed-dialed Darcy. “I’m going to pee my pants.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Bob said. “Suck it up.”

  “You try having a b-big gun pointed at you,” she retorted, feeling both nauseous and faint.

  “Shut up.” He followed her sidelong glance toward the other room. “And unless you want me to kill all those nice, innocent tourists as well, you won’t try to get their attention.”

  Which was exactly what she’d been thinking. Shit. Where was a damn ghost when she needed one? Even Charlotte could have caused some kind of commotion with all the crap lying around his office, and the distraction would have given her a chance to run for it. The front door wasn’t that far away.

  She straightened gingerly. And focused on the hole in the end of the gun barrel. Again. “Why?”

  “Why what?” He kept the gun trained on her as he leaned over to pick up the wastebasket beside the desk. “You mean, why did I kill Holt? That’s simple—he was going to expose my family background.”

  “But everyone already knows about your great-great-grandfather MacDonough.”

  “Not that ancestor. Sam Garrett.”

  “You’re related to Garrett?” She stared at him, utterly confused.

  “Good ole Grady married Garrett’s sister not too long after Seavey’s death. And I knew once you started looking at the marriage records, you’d figure it out. I couldn’t have that. Cellphone, in here, now.” He gestured with the wastebasket. “I can’t have you trying to contact anyone.”

  Shit, shit, shit. She reached into her back jeans pocket and slowly withdrew it. Hopefully, Darcy was hearing all of this.

  “I still don’t understand,” she said, trying to buy herself time. “What difference does it make if you’re related to Sam Garrett? I would think that kind of notoriety would bring people in by the droves to the Wooden Boat Festival.”

  Bob snorted. “Being the descendant of a master ship’s carpenter is prestigious. Being related to a mass murderer? Not so much. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s an economic recession, and people aren’t making charitable contributions like they used to. One whiff of my being related to a mass murderer, and the contributions to the Wooden Boat Society would have dried up. Not to mention that the festival would have bombed this year. And Holt had plans to hold a press conference, the fool.”

  “You sent out a call?” Michael Seavey asked, materializing beside her. “Why does this man have a gun pointed at you? What have you done now?”

  Her knees almost gave out in relief. She splayed a hand out at her side, hoping he understood the signal.

  Seavey raised a brow. “Indeed, I never willingly engage in physical violence unless there is sufficient provocation.”

  “Have you ‘called’ the others?” she asked, sotto voce.

  “I don’t recommend calling anyone, unless you want me to shoot you right here and now.” Bob gestured with the gun. “Come on, I’m losing patience with your juvenile stall tactics. Give me the damn phone.”

  She palmed it so that he couldn’t see the lit screen and dropped it into the plastic basket. “The least you could do is have a nice hardwood wastebasket,” she prattled. “Plastic is so, well, low class—”

  “Oh, that’s excellent,” Seavey said, his eyes rolling around in their sockets. “Increase the ire of the person holding the gun. I’m amazed you’ve managed to remain alive this long, given your lack of survival instinct.”

  He had a point.

  “I’m not stupid enough to spend money on a goddamn wastebasket, when that money would otherwise go straight into my bank account,” Bob said impatiently. Setting down the wastebasket, he said in a more pleasant tone, “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do: You’ll come around behind the desk, and then we’ll quietly leave by the back door. If you make any noise, I’ll drop you right here with a bullet through your spine. If you try to get anyone’s attention, I’ll kill you, then shoot them. Got it?”

  “Oh, dear. This indeed might be more serious than I first believed,” Seavey murmured.

  “You think?” Jordan asked.

  “I think what?” Bob knit his brow.

  “Never mind. Where are you taking me?” She was afraid she already knew the answer.

  “You and I are going on a little boat ride. Bodies are much harder to find if they’re dumped out in the Inlet.”

  “He’s quite correct in that regard,” Seavey said.

  “No shit,” Jordan snapped. “Are you going to do something, or not?”

  “What would you have me do? Try to knock the gun out of his hand? These are very close quarters—you might inadvertently be shot. I believe our best opportunity will occur once we are outside.”

  “Jesus,” Bob snapped. “I just told you what I’m going to do. You’re fucking crazy! I have a fucking gun, and I’m calling the shots. Now, move.”

  She rubbed trembling hands against her jeans, then walked around the desk. If she let him put her on the boat, she knew she was a goner.

  Taking her upper arm in a painful grip, Bob snugged the gun barrel against her back. “Okay, let’s go. Look like we’re having a pleasant walk and chat, or you’ll be responsible for the deaths of others as well as your own.”

  He pushed her toward the back door, told her to open it, and then they were outside on the docks. Seavey floated along next to them. Turning her toward a long line of boat slips, Bob said, “Keep going, but not too fast.”

  “Believe me,” she retorted, her mind racing to come up with some sort of strategy, “I’m in no hurry.”

  “A sense of humor,” he replied with a chuckle. “I like that. In fact, I like you, Jordan. It’s a damn shame I can’t keep you around.”

  He actually sounded as if he regretted what he was about to do. “So why don’t you give it some thought?” she bargained. “I’
m willing to keep everything quiet. We can make a deal.”

  “No, you aren’t,” he replied, sounding amused. “This whole goddamn town listens to you now. They all think you talk to ghosts, which I know is a bunch of crap. You’re just making this stuff up as you go.”

  Seavey puffed up threateningly. “He believes you are lying about us?”

  “Call the others,” Jordan murmured. “The more chaos, the better.”

  Seavey shook his head. “I don’t want to put Hattie at risk. Or Charlotte, for that matter.”

  “How would they be at risk? He can’t see you.” Jordan added for incentive, “He murdered your nephew, you know.”

  Seavey’s expression darkened.

  “Oh, that’s cute, Jordan.” Bob chuckled again, this time digging the gun hard into her side and making her yelp. “Do you really think pretending to talk to ghosts is going to convince me they exist? I’m not that gullible. You must really need a lot of attention to feel good, babe, that’s all I can say.”

  “But what about all that stuff you said about me seeing ghost ships?” she asked.

  “I needed to keep tabs on you, that’s all.”

  Unbelievable. She glanced over her shoulder in sheer astonishment. The man was way deep into transference, thinking she was vying for the limelight when he was the one going to such great lengths to do exactly that. The freaking bane of every psychologist’s existence: the client’s emotional drive to accuse his therapist of the psychological problems he suffered from. And she wasn’t even getting paid to deal with this drivel.

  But she’d be damned if she’d stand for him accusing her of making this crap up. She dug in her heels, slowing them down. “Okay, first of all, I really do see ghosts and ghost ships, you asshole. And second, why would I have the need to make any of it up?”

  He shoved her to keep her moving forward. “How the hell do I know? Maybe you’re new in town and feeling lonely. Maybe you think if you’re quirky, Jase will take you to bed sooner. The bottom line? I don’t really give a damn. The end result is that your lies and stories convinced enough idiots in this town that you really do talk to ghosts and can solve old murders. So Holt was going to ask you to look into Seavey’s murder. And that meant you’d figure out the family connection to Garrett.”

  “You know,” she said crankily, “if you’d just chosen denial over transference, none of this would have happened. You could’ve ignored the fallout from Holt’s press conference, because it was just too horrible to contemplate actually having to murder someone. And really, denial is wonderfully effective. You could have claimed the historical data were wrong—that you weren’t actually related to Garrett. People might never have even cared.”

  “You really are a pain in the ass, you know that? I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about. Maybe killing you will be a pleasure.”

  “Fits with your family heritage,” she snapped.

  “I can confirm that,” Seavey agreed. “Garrett took far too much pleasure from the violence he engaged in.”

  “You can jump in anytime now,” Jordan told him, feeling more than a little desperate to get Bob’s gun pointed in a different direction.

  “Shut up,” Bob growled.

  “And I was right,” she persisted. “Holt really did care more about family than he let on, if he was going to ask me to solve Seavey’s murder.”

  “Yeah, he cared about the extra money he would make if he had a really good story to tell about those old opium tins,” Bob scoffed. “Otherwise, they were just rusted crap he’d brought up from some old wreck. I tossed him and the tins back into the water.” He jammed the gun into her ribs a second time. “Now move it. I’ve had enough of your stalling.”

  “Drop the gun, Bob.” Darcy moved out from behind the bow on a large sailboat, her gun leveled at him.

  Relief rushed through Jordan, and her knees buckled.

  But as she crumpled, Bob wrapped an arm around her neck, yanking her against him and pressing the gun barrel against the side of her head. “Stand up, bitch!”

  She gasped for air and locked her knees to ease the pressure against her throat.

  “Keep your distance, Chief, or she gets it right here.”

  In her peripheral vision, Jordan saw Charlotte and Hattie materialize.

  “He’s got a gun!” Charlotte screamed, zipping in and out of the moored boats. “Do something, Michael!”

  “If I make the wrong move, she could get shot,” Michael explained. “We must wait for the right opportunity—”

  “And if you don’t take action soon,” Frank said from behind Jordan and Bob, “she’ll die regardless.”

  “Then I suggest you come up with a plan,” Seavey retorted mildly. “I don’t want Jordan’s death or serious injury on my conscience.”

  “On that we agree,” Frank replied. “The current living arrangements are adequate; I don’t want them disrupted.”

  “This is not the time for an argument over the best strategy,” Hattie pointed out.

  Charlotte hissed, her zipping motions becoming ever more erratic.

  “Would someone please just do something?” Jordan pleaded.

  Bob’s laugh sounded ugly. “No one can save you, not your imagined ghosts, not even your cop buddy here. We’re getting on that boat.”

  “Imagined?” Hattie asked, her expression turning irritated. “He believes we don’t exist?”

  “The nerve!” Charlotte hissed.

  “Can we focus on what’s important here?” Jordan croaked as Bob’s arm tightened.

  “Yes, why don’t we?” Darcy said calmly, her gun never wavering, her expression coldly professional. “This is a death-penalty state, Bob. It’s iffy whether the DA will ask for it in Holt’s case, but if you kill Jordan, that’s seriously premeditated murder and kidnapping. Virtually guarantees a lethal injection.”

  “You’ve got three seconds to drop your gun, Chief.” Bob didn’t sound the least concerned, which really, really terrified Jordan. “If you don’t, your girlfriend dies. And I know how much you like her.”

  “I can take her or leave her, to tell the truth,” Darcy replied mildly. “She’s a bit of a hassle.”

  “Hey,” Jordan croaked.

  “Well, you are,” Darcy replied. “Every time I turn around, I’m getting you out of trouble. Frankly, I’m tired of it.” She locked gazes with Jordan for a second and cocked her head slightly to her right, as if she were considering whether she really was worth saving.

  Jordan slid her eyes to her left and spied Jase and Tom moving in silently from a dock that intersected theirs, keeping low to the ground. She pushed, trying to angle Bob more to her right, to keep them out of sight.

  He tightened his arm, cutting off her air. Stars sparked in her peripheral vision. “Quit it.” He jammed the barrel harder against her temple, splitting the skin. She felt blood trickle down the side of her face.

  “He’s hurting her!” Charlotte cried out and zipped around. “Do something, Michael!”

  Jordan felt Bob stiffen and closed her eyes, realizing she’d just made the possibly fatal mistake of alerting him.

  “Join the party, boys,” Bob called. “Come on over here, hands raised, unless you want to watch your girlfriend get it.”

  Jase and Tom straightened, their expressions resigned. Jase sent her a look filled with chagrin, then settled his gaze on Bob with cold determination.

  “Real smooth,” Darcy told her. “Remind me never to bring you to a shoot-out again.”

  “Sorry,” Jordan croaked.

  Bob motioned for the men to join Darcy. “Over there, where I can see you.”

  “I always knew you were a prick, Bob,” Jase said mildly.

  “And you’re a self-righteous asshole,” Bob told him.

  “Boys, boys,” Darcy scolded, sounding bored, her eyes anything but. “No need to trade insults.”

  “Really, Jordan,” Seavey reproved. “Are any of these humans of use to you at the moment?”

>   “They might be if you cause enough of a commotion,” Jordan retorted. “What good is it to have ghosts around if all you’re going to do is comment on the proceedings?”

  Jase exchanged looks with Bob and Darcy, it dawning on them that they weren’t alone.

  “So I’m going to count to three, Chief.” Bob sounded surprisingly genial. “And you’re going to drop your weapon. One … two—”

  “Okay, okay, fine.” Darcy held her gun up, then lowered it slowly to the dock, never taking her eyes off him.

  “Oh, great,” Frank said, disgusted. “Law enforcement today must receive little or no training.”

  “Excellent,” Bob told Darcy. “Now, your backup. The one in your left ankle holster?”

  “Sure, no problem.” Darcy kept both hands outstretched, then reached down with one and hitched up the leg of her jeans. She pulled a small gun out of a hidden holster and placed it next to the other one.

  “Kick them into the water,” he ordered.

  “Good Christ!” Seavey exclaimed “Order her not to comply, Jordan!”

  Darcy hesitated, then sighed. “Those guns cost good money, Bob. I don’t exactly have the department budget to replace them.”

  “Shut up. I’m not going to ask you again.”

  Darcy gave him another quiet look for a couple of beats, then did as she was told.

  Jordan closed her eyes. Think, dammit. She had to do something that would distract him, that would give the others the opening they needed. But what?

  “The marine charts,” she said suddenly, opening her eyes.

  Everyone looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Who gives a shit about the marine charts?” Bob asked.

  “I do,” Jordan insisted. “You didn’t go out to Holt’s to retrieve marine charts—you went out there to try to find the documents Holt had discovered at the hotel. Right?”

  “Who the fuck cares?” Bob started dragging her backward down the docks, his gun trained on the others.

  “I care, dammit,” she gasped, bringing both her hands up to claw his arm where it pressed against her windpipe. “If I’m going to die, I want my friends to make certain Hattie and Michael Seavey know the truth about the shipwreck.”