Ghost Ship pcm-2

by P. J. Alderman

  Her face must have blanched, because he sighed and then continued. “Stilwell discovered the undamaged portion of the hull on his initial dive. Then he came back on subsequent days to retrieve a number of the tins.”

  “Interesting.” To her knowledge, nothing of the sort had been found in either Holt’s house or his truck. If it had, Darcy certainly would have told her. “You don’t happen to know what he did with them, do you?”

  “In that regard, I have no interest in helping you,” Garrett replied. “It’s not as if I followed the man around town between his dives. I just happened to be on hand, curious about what he was up to, when he was near the shipwreck. The fool was going to sell them in some kind of auction. He called it a name that doesn’t match any auction house I’m familiar with …”

  “eBay, perhaps?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I was right there, listening when he told his plans to the person who brought him out to the beach in his boat. Stilwell described that his intent was to hold a press conference, then open bidding on the tins.”

  “What guy? Holt wasn’t diving with anyone else. At least, we haven’t been able to locate anyone—”

  “The other person wasn’t a diver,” Garrett corrected her, looking impatient again. “But the person was quite angry with Stilwell. I presume that’s why Stilwell was murdered. I’ve never understood the reason to murder in circumstances such as those, when torture or a sound beating, at a minimum, can be far more effective—”

  “Wait,” Jordan interrupted, excited. “Do you mean to tell me you saw Holt get shot?”

  Kathleen stopped what she was doing and looked up.

  Garrett shrugged. “Not that it’s of any import, but yes, I witnessed the entire affair.”

  Chapter 15

  YOU have got to be kidding me,” Darcy groused. “There’s an eyewitness to Holt’s murder, and it’s a ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he refused to tell you who did it.” Darcy’s expression was one of utter disbelief.

  “Yep.”

  The jazz band was on break before its last set of the evening. Customers who didn’t count themselves among the diehards had called it quits and left for home. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Darcy, Jordan, and several of the men had retreated to a table on the far side of the room to discuss the latest development. Microbrew beer was flowing freely.

  Darcy had moved into full rant mode. “I don’t fucking believe this! It’s not as if I can arrest a ghost as a material witness and compel him to testify.”

  “He said he wouldn’t reveal facts that might implicate someone he felt the need to protect,” Jordan explained. “Actually, he acted oddly, given that he’s a sociopath. Sociopaths have no conscience.”

  “This case is so in the crapper.”

  “Who would a sociopath feel the need to protect?” Bob asked. “Another sociopath?”

  “Maybe,” Jordan replied, unconvinced.

  “No other dead bodies floating around that we know of,” Tom pointed out.

  “What I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around,” Jase said, looking grimly at Jordan as he placed a full pitcher on the table and took a seat, “is that you were conversing with the ghost of a murderous drug runner in my kitchen. Did it ever occur to either you or Kathleen that you were in mortal danger from this guy?”

  “Of course,” Jordan replied. “But what were we supposed to do? It’s not like I can control the movements of the ghosts in this town any more than Darcy can successfully arrest one. They can do pretty much whatever they want.”

  “You could’ve run like hell.”

  “I considered it,” Jordan admitted. “But he made it clear that I’d never get away. And call me crazy, but I definitely had the sense it was far better to humor him than to anger him.”

  “Jase is right, though—the trend is worrisome,” Darcy said. “In the beginning, the ghosts with whom you came in contact were relatively benign. There’s been an escalation toward more dangerous ones since then, starting with the ghost of Michael Seavey.”

  Jordan frowned. “I don’t think Michael Seavey is very dangerous. Not really.”

  “He’s not exactly the local choirboy, either,” Jase retorted, standing to gather empties from the next table.

  Darcy looked thoughtful. “Do you know what Garrett meant when he said he felt the need to protect someone?”

  “No.” Jordan scrubbed her face with both hands. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving her feeling like she’d been flattened by a truck. “I got the impression that at least partially, Garrett just didn’t care. Bob could be on the right track: Thinking from the perspective of a sociopath, you would feel a kinship to others like you. So he could just be protecting the identity of a fellow criminal. But I got the strong sense that it was more than that—that whoever had murdered Holt was someone for whom Garrett felt a sense of obligation.”

  Darcy leaned her elbows on the table, pressing her fingers against closed eyes. “I’m now officially suicidal.”

  “And it turns out I was right about the two murders being related,” Jordan continued. “Holt was salvaging the opium tins from the hull of the Henrietta Dale. His plans to reveal what he’d found and to auction off the tins were a threat to someone in present day.”

  “That’s nice,” Darcy said.

  “The question is, who? And what kind of threat?”

  “Uh-huh.” Darcy hadn’t moved.

  “This is progress,” Jordan insisted. “We now know Holt’s girlfriends didn’t do him in.”

  “I don’t see how you can rule out Sally, though,” Bob argued. “Didn’t Holt date her sister, the one who committed suicide? That’s a hell of a motive.”

  “Have you been able to determine if she has an alibi?” Jordan asked Darcy.

  “No. Not unless we can nail down when she was on email that evening. We had to subpoena her Internet service provider, who declined to be nice and hand over her usage records. Subpoenas take time.”

  “Well regardless, you should be thrilled to narrow the field of potential suspects,” Jordan said to Darcy. “What’s your problem?”

  She opened her eyes to glare at Jordan. “Well, gee. I’ve got a ghost for the only witness to a murder. That means I have no proof that will stand up in court, and no real evidence so far. And we haven’t narrowed the field of suspects, we’ve eliminated most of them.”

  “What about Crazy Clive?” Tom asked.

  “He has an alibi,” Jordan replied, then looked at Darcy. “Unless you haven’t been able to verify it?”

  “I’m still trying to get hold of some of the guests at the winetasting.” Darcy straightened on a sigh. “Even if you could get Garrett the Ghost to tell us who shot Holt, we’d have to figure out a way to trap the killer into confessing. Which usually gives the defense lawyer the chance to scream entrapment when the case comes to trial.”

  “Garrett won’t talk,” Jordan said with certainty. She paused, thinking back over their conversation. “I’m convinced he was lying about something, as well. I just can’t figure out what.”

  “Don’t even think about getting close enough to him to ask,” Jase growled, approaching with a loaded tray.

  “I won’t,” Jordan hurriedly agreed. “Though as I pointed out, I don’t control the movements of the ghosts.”

  “You can at least make an effort to avoid those locations where you think you might run into him,” Jase insisted.

  “He came to me, sought me out in the pub,” Jordan pointed out. “He was here last night as well, sitting at one of the tables. So unless I avoid the pub, it’s going to be hard to keep out of his way.” She shook her head. “My suggestion is that we try to figure out what connects Sam Garrett with someone in this town, and then go from there.”

  Jase clearly didn’t like her answer. “Okay,” he replied, his tone reluctant, “so what type of connection would a man l
ike Garrett want to keep secret?”

  “The obvious one is some kind of honor among murderers,” Bob said. “Like honor among thieves.”

  “Maybe,” Darcy answered, her expression skeptical. “But from what I’ve read about sociopaths, they’re usually only motivated to hide the kills of a copycat killer, because they believe their own work is so admirable and consider the copycat a form of flattery. And Holt was shot pointblank, a technique he would consider amateurish and uninspired.”

  “Okay, how about those missing tins of opium?” Tom asked. “They would be considered collectibles and fetch a nice price at auction. Holt was right about that. Maybe the killer has Holt’s cache and wants to sell them to private collectors.”

  “So perhaps what Holt was doing wasn’t so much a threat as an opportunity for someone to cash in on those tins?” Jase asked. “Makes sense to me.”

  “But why would Garrett care about that?” Jordan asked. “According to what he told me, he sank the Henrietta Dale to get back at Seavey, not because of the opium. In fact, I’m fairly certain from what he said that he didn’t even know about the secret compartments in the hull until recently. So I doubt he would care if someone in present day was out to make money off the salvage.”

  “Maybe Garrett has some kind of personal connection to the murderer,” Jase mused. “A relative, perhaps? Even murderers have family.”

  “No one like that has popped up in any of my research,” Bob pointed out.

  “Mine, either,” Tom said. “I’m fairly familiar with the descendants of the founding families—at least, those who still live in the area, and no one pops onto my radar.” He looked at Jordan. “Have you seen any mention of what happened to Garrett in Seavey’s papers?”

  “No, but let me hunt around,” Jordan replied. “I’m not done reading Eleanor Canby’s memoirs, or with going through the newspapers from the period surrounding the shipwreck. It’s also possible Charlotte might know something—Garrett was a Green Light client back then.”

  “See if you can find any marriage announcements, births, or obituaries,” Darcy suggested.

  “Good idea,” Jordan agreed, reaching over to add her empty glass to Jase’s tray.

  The band members were filing back onto the stage, tuning their instruments.

  “Time to get back to work.” Jase stood, placing a hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “You’re done for the night—Bill and I can handle it from here.”

  “Come on. I’ll give you and Malachi a lift home,” Darcy added. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the murderer will be standing on your front porch, waiting to confess.”

  * * *

  DARCY dropped off Jordan and Malachi a few minutes later, after an uneventful ride through quiet streets. At that time of night, most of both communities were at home in bed or in their portals, so Jordan could worry less about witnessing the debacle of Darcy unknowingly driving through someone.

  Jordan climbed the front steps and opened the door to discover yet another vase of red roses in the hallway.

  Dammit. “Hattie!” she yelled.

  “No need to raise your voice beyond what is considered a polite tone,” Hattie replied from the entry to the library. “Yelling is extremely unladylike.”

  Jordan ignored that. “You’ve got to convince Seavey to quit filching flowers from the florist. I’m going broke cleaning up after him.”

  “I assure you, though I claim responsibility for the original bouquet, I had no hand in the delivery of these,” Michael Seavey said from behind her. “I wouldn’t be so crass as to send duplicate gifts to a beautiful woman. Each trinket or gesture during courtship should impart a unique, artfully constructed message, designed to communicate the seriousness of the suit. This evening, Hattie and I have been sharing a book of poetry.”

  From somewhere in the depths of the library, Jordan heard Frank growl.

  “No fistfights this evening,” she warned in a raised voice. “I’m beat, and I have reading to do.” She paused. “So who are the flowers from?”

  “Since the card is addressed to you,” Hattie pointed out in an arch tone, “I have no way of ascertaining that, do I? I’m not in the habit of reading someone’s private missives.”

  “I’ll wager they’re from your handsome beau!” Charlotte gushed from somewhere overhead. “Hattie, we should expect him to offer for her hand within the fortnight. Do you realize the import of this new development? We must plan for a double wedding! How romantic!”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Jordan warned grimly. “In modern times, men don’t ‘offer’ for a woman’s hand.”

  “Well, I find that to be simply outrageous,” Charlotte sniffed. “Some conventions should withstand the test of time.”

  “Yeah, and obviously, that one didn’t.” Curious, Jordan walked over to examine the flowers. A card was nestled in the leaves. She plucked it out and removed it from its envelope. There was no message, just a boldly scrawled “J.”

  She replaced the card and, smiling, leaned over to sniff the fragrant flowers.

  “I believe you may be correct regarding the source, Charlotte.” Seavey sounded amused. “Of course, the man got the idea from me, which indicates an appalling lack of imagination.”

  “He was merely making certain I didn’t feel left out,” Jordan said. “It was a kind, thoughtful gesture.” And charmingly sneaky.

  “I fail to see why women lose all sense of reason over a handful of hothouse flowers,” Frank said, his tone disdainful. “You are, as a sex, such disgustingly sentimental creatures.”

  Seavey sighed and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “Given your attitude, Lewis, is it any wonder that Hattie prefers me over you?”

  “Michael,” Hattie admonished. “As you are perfectly well aware, I haven’t made a decision yet. Please do not taunt your competition.”

  “Regardless of your attempts to manipulate her emotions, Seavey, I feel confident that Hattie will see through you.” Frank remained stubbonly focused on his opponent. “She has, after all, an outstanding mind and admirable ethics.”

  “Thank you, Frank,” Hattie replied softly. “You are a good man.”

  “Enough,” Jordan ordered. “I’m way too tired to referee this evening. I’m fixing a cup of tea and then heading up to bed with my stack of reading.”

  “What, precisely, are you reading?” Seavey asked.

  Already halfway down the hall to the kitchen, Jordan slowed and looked over her shoulder. “Your personal papers. I’m looking for information about Sam Garrett. I talked to him earlier this evening, and—”

  Charlotte gasped and flew to Hattie’s side, clutching her arm. “Garrett is here?”

  “He is an extremely dangerous man,” Seavey admonished Jordan. “I strongly suggest that you have nothing to do with him.”

  “Believe me,” she said fervently, “I never want to cross paths with him again. But I need to know more about him.”

  “Your investigation into this man could put you, as well as the rest of us, at extreme risk,” Hattie warned. “I beg of you to drop whatever line of inquiry you are pursuing.”

  “You do want me to solve Michael’s murder, don’t you?” At Hattie’s grudging nod, Jordan added, “Then I need answers.”

  Charlotte started sobbing uncontrollably. “If Garrett comes near me again, I simply won’t survive! I can’t bear to see him!”

  Jordan looked at her, perplexed. “What do you mean, ‘again’? Has he been coming around Longren House?”

  “She means before,” Seavey explained quietly. He moved to place a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “My dear, if Garrett approaches you, you need only to summon me, and I will endeavor to protect you as I did in the past.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jordan asked, bewildered.

  “Yes, I would like to know the answer to that question myself,” Hattie said firmly. “Charlotte, did Garrett harm you in some way? And if so, why is this the first time I’m hearing of it?”

&n
bsp; Charlotte looked at Seavey with pleading eyes.

  He sighed. “Very well, I shall explain. It is probably best that it all come to light. Perhaps we should adjourn to the kitchen, where we can be more comfortable while I relate this sordid little tale.”

  Unintended Consequences

  Cosmopolitan Hotel

  August 3, 1893

  MICHAEL was awakened by his bodyguard in the early morning hours and informed that unexpected guests awaited him in his sitting room.

  Remy’s expression was solemn. “It’s young Mr. Canby, Boss, accompanied by an injured young lady.”

  “Please make them comfortable, Remy. I will join them momentarily.” He paused while pulling on his silk dressing gown. “How badly is the young woman hurt?”

  “She’s unconscious, Boss. Someone beat her up bad.” Remy hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I believe she’s a soiled dove. One of Mona Starr’s girls?”

  “Never mind that,” Seavey replied, knotting the tie of the dressing gown, then sitting down to don the calfskin slippers his bodyguard produced. “Summon Dr. Willoughby immediately.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “And Remy—remain at Willoughby’s and accompany him back to the hotel. I don’t trust the man to respond to my summons without the threat of persuasion. Take care, however, not to injure him—we will need his skills intact this evening.”

  His bodyguard nodded, then withdrew silently.

  Opening the sitting room door, Michael stopped at the sight that greeted him. Jesse Canby knelt by Michael’s maroon velvet settee, stroking the bruised forehead of Charlotte Walker, who lay unmoving, eyes closed. Her complexion was pale, her gown ripped. Michael thought he could see evidence of some blood spatter on her sleeve.

  He closed his eyes briefly. Dear God! As he’d feared, he’d gravely miscalculated.

  “Seavey!” Jesse stood to execute an unsteady bow. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “This is the work of Sam Garrett?” Michael asked grimly.

  “Yes.” Jesse wrung his hands. “I was in the next room when I heard Charlotte’s screams. S’truth, I tried to stop him!”