Bracing her knee on the worn velvet seat cushion, she gazed down at the street through the leafy boughs of the maple tree. The neighborhood was quiet, filled with quaint, carefully tended houses and mature trees, reminiscent of small-town America from a bygone era. Ryland would have hated this place, she mused, as much as she was drawn to it.
The dog trotted up the stairs but stopped short of coming into the room, watching her hopefully with soft, liquid brown eyes. She straightened, sighing. “You really do need to go home.”
Walking over to him, she rubbed his head some more, then ran a hand down his back. She could feel every joint of his spine, she realized in horror. Whoever owned him certainly didn’t deserve him. “Come on, fella. Let’s find you something to eat.”
She bounded down the stairs. Glancing into the library as she walked past, she noted what she estimated to be a few thousand books stacked in random piles and jammed into glass-fronted bookcases. A wingback chair sat in the center of the room, flanked by a rickety pedestal table and a floor lamp with a leaded-glass shade. Across the room, a huge oak desk sat stacked with more books and yellowed newspapers. But it was the French doors on the opposite wall that beckoned.
She held up a hand to the dog. “I’ll only be a moment …”
The doors swung open onto a stone patio tangled with weeds. An intoxicatingly sweet scent blew in, and she ventured out a few steps and looked up, trying to locate its source. She gasped. Wisteria covered the entire side of the house. Its cascading lilac flowers drowned her in fragrance.
“Oh … oh!” She knelt and wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the garden as it would be when she cleaned it up—overflowing with flowers, bounded by bentwood fencing lush with climbing roses blooming in a riot of pink and white. What she’d felt the first time she’d seen the house had been a serious crush, but this … this was love.
“I’ll be okay,” she sniffed, burying her face in the dog’s fur and pushing back the ever-present grief. “We’ll be just fine.”
“Hello?” The call came from the front hall.
“Coming!” She stood, swiping at tears, and crossed the library. Through the window, she spied a police cruiser parked at the front curb. Damn.
A woman stood inside the door, her gaze as sharp as the razor cut of her chin-length ash-blond hair. She spied Jordan. “Oh, good. I was afraid Sandy—the real estate agent—had left the door open. You must be the psychologist.”
Though dressed casually in pressed jeans and a tailored jacket, she reminded Jordan of a Scandinavian Valkyrie—around six feet tall, she estimated, athletic and imposing as hell. Jordan had had her fill of cops in the last few months, asking questions for which she had no answers, treating her as if she were a criminal.
The Valkyrie thrust out a hand nearly twice the size of her own. “Darcy Moran. Port Chatham chief of police.”
Chief of police. Even worse. Jordan reluctantly introduced herself. “What can I do for you, Chief Moran?”
“Make it Darcy. Stopped by to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
Jordan relaxed marginally. “Thanks.”
Darcy jerked her head toward the front door. “Looks like you could use some help carrying boxes.”
“That’s okay. You don’t—” She was talking to empty space. The woman was already at the curb, pulling boxes from the trunk of Jordan’s Prius.
Jordan followed at a more leisurely pace. “Slow day?” she asked wryly.
“Waiting for the tourists to wake up and hit the streets.” Darcy shoved a box into her arms, then picked up two more. “Where do you want these?”
“Um, the kitchen?”
They carried the boxes down the hall to the roomy country kitchen at the back of the house.
“When did you hit town?” Darcy asked over her shoulder as she deposited her boxes on the warped linoleum counter and headed back outside.
Jordan had to trot to keep up. “This morning. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
“Buyer’s remorse.” Darcy handed her another box. “You’ll get over it.”
“The wisteria’s helping.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. Bit of a pain to keep in check, though.”
It took only two more trips to empty the car. “See?” Darcy dusted off her hands. “Much easier when someone helps.”
Jordan eyed her, trying to catch her breath. “Anyone ever compare you to a human cyclone?”
“I may have heard similar comments a time or two. Got anything to drink?”
Jordan rummaged in the ice chest they’d brought in, coming up with a soda. Then she found a bowl and headed for the sink. Nothing but a hiss of air came out when she turned the faucet handle, so she uncapped a bottle of Evian and poured it into the bowl for the dog. Unwrapping the all-natural chicken breast she’d been saving for a sandwich, she held it out to him. He scarfed it down in one gulp, then looked at her expectantly.
“I’ve been trying to catch up with that dog all week.” Darcy flipped open her cellphone. “Let me put in a call to Animal Control—”
He lowered his head and whined.
“No!”
Darcy paused, her finger poised over the keypad, brows raised.
“He’s mine,” Jordan improvised.
“Uh-huh. Didn’t you say you just drove in this morning?”
“Minor technicality,” she replied brightly. “Why don’t we take our drinks and go sit out front? I’ve always wanted a front stoop to sit on.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed Darcy’s soda can, leaving her to follow.
“So what made you decide on Port Chatham?” Darcy asked once they were settled on the porch steps.
“An acquaintance of mine gave me tickets to last year’s jazz concert. A few days in town was all it took to hook me on the idea of moving up here. Are you familiar with the Ted Rawlins Trio?”
Darcy nodded. “Rawlins is the friend? I’ve heard him play—he’s very good. I think he purchased a summer home south of town on the golf course, didn’t he?”
“He comes up every summer, as far as I know.”
“How long are you planning to stay in town? Will Longren House be your vacation home, or your primary residence?”
The police chief was grilling her—and not all that subtly, either. Jordan kept her answers friendly. “I’ll be here at least a year, maybe more, depending on how the remodel goes. And no, I don’t plan to split my time—I’m gone from L.A. for good, I think.” She shrugged. “We’ll see. I want to research the house’s history, plan the remodel right. Got any suggestions on where to start?”
“County. They might even have a copy of the original plans.” Darcy propped an elbow on the top step. “If memory serves, a Captain Charles Longren built the place for his bride, Hattie, in the late 1800s. Hattie didn’t live here all that long, though. There’ve been a number of owners over the years—”
Her cellphone wailed, startling Jordan.
After a brief conversation, Darcy hung up, sighing. “I’ve got to head back to the station.”
“Your phone is programmed for Miles Davis?”
“Of course. We take our jazz seriously around here.” Darcy drained her soda and stood, then studied Jordan for a moment. “So I’m betting you weren’t the one who cut the brake lines on your husband’s Beemer.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Jordan managed to keep her tone matter-of-fact.
Darcy nodded. “Needed to ask.”
“I can give you the name of the detective in L.A. who is handling the case. I’m sure he’ll be glad to fill you in.”
“Not necessary. The LAPD has already been in contact to say you’re part of an ongoing investigation. It got me curious, so I asked a few questions.”
Jordan didn’t respond—over the past few months she’d learned not to volunteer information.
They walked to the curb, Darcy in the lead. “Listen, why don’t you drop by the pub tonight? I’ll introduce you around.”
&nb
sp; “Pub?”
“The neighborhood hangout, over on the main drag. Come to think of it, your buddy Rawlins is slated to perform there tomorrow night. It’s a laid-back place—the food is great and Jase doesn’t water the drinks.”
So he owned a pub. “I met him a bit ago, I think. Dark, wavy hair, killer blue eyes—”
“—and sexy as all hell? Yep, that’s Jase.” She flashed a grin, and Jordan relented, smiling back. “Seeing as how you don’t strike me as a black widow in training,” Darcy added, “I’ll also mention that Jase is unattached.”
Jordan held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Not on the agenda anytime soon.”
“Good thing you’ve adopted a dog to keep you company, then.” Darcy opened the door of the police cruiser. “Hey, do you like to hike? I’m always looking for new blood, and there’s a great trek out on Dungeness Spit if we time the tides right.”
Jordan had a sudden vision of being dragged, breathless, along a boulder-strewn promontory. “We’ll see.”
“Wise to be cautious.” Darcy’s grin broadened. “Talk to Jase—he’ll tell you I don’t lose too many of my hiking buddies. Well, just the uncoordinated ones.”
Jordan shook her head, amused in spite of herself. “Thanks for the help unpacking the car.”
“No problem. We tend to do for each other around here. Give it a couple of days and you’ll be buried in food from the various welcoming committees.”
“You live here in the neighborhood?”
“Two streets over—the Gothic Revival in the middle of the block.”
Jordan must have looked perplexed.
“Blue with white trim, clean, symmetrical lines, a couple of Adirondacks on the porch,” Darcy elaborated. “None of those frilly cottage garden flowers. You can’t miss it.”
She started to climb into the driver’s seat, then paused, angling her head to look up at the second floor of Longren House. “So which bedroom are you planning to commandeer?”
“The front one. It’s the largest, and the window seat in the turret is pretty hard to resist.”
“You might want to rethink that if you plan on getting a good night’s sleep.”
“Why?”
“You mean Sandy didn’t tell you?” Darcy shook her head in apparent disgust. “Back around the turn of the last century, Hattie Longren was bludgeoned to death in that very room.”
Chapter 2
AS the police cruiser disappeared around the corner, Jordan squeezed her eyes shut.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Murder definitely constitutes a giant checkmark in the buyer’s remorse column.”
But now that she thought about it, she’d been able to buy Longren House for a lot less than other homes for sale in town. Not that writing the amount on the check hadn’t caused her serious heartburn at the time, but still, she remembered having one of those niggling feelings …
Abruptly, she sat down on the curb and scrubbed her face with both hands. When it came to dealing with the unintended consequences of impulsive acts, murder—even one a century old—bumped the thirteen colors of paint and sagging porch all the way down to the white noise level. She was a therapist, for chrissakes. She strongly believed in, and practiced, Rational Therapy. So how in God’s name had she considered it rational to act so impulsively?
A small, hysterical laugh escaped. And what were the damn odds that she would buy a house tainted by murder? No one would believe it was mere coincidence. She had no problem envisioning that headline:
Suspected Black Widow Fascinated by Murder Buys Longren House
No wonder the police chief had shown up on her doorstep twenty minutes after she’d hit town.
She really needed to work on the gullibility issue. Not that this would be the first time she’d fallen prey—witness her seven-year marriage to one of L.A.’s smoothest operators. She’d had no clue of the double life he’d led; she’d actually believed him when he’d said he had to work late all those evenings.
She sighed. No matter what Ryland’s faults had been—and they’d turned out to be legion—he hadn’t deserved to die. And though she might’ve fantasized a time or two about wringing his neck, she hadn’t actually given in to impulse, regardless of what the L.A. cops believed.
The dog sat next to her, whining, and licked her cheek. She threw an arm around his neck and hugged him. “I’m okay,” she reassured him. “But thanks for asking.”
Then she rolled her eyes. “Great,” she muttered. “I’m thanking a dog.”
Definitely time to take charge. She couldn’t do anything about the past, but the future … well, she’d keep a low profile, work on the house, and pray the LAPD would look at other suspects. As far as they knew, she didn’t have a strong motive to kill Ryland, what with the divorce almost final. They’d bought her reasoning.
At least, she thought they had.
And as for the murder that had taken place in Longren House, she’d simply ignore it. It had nothing to do with her.
As she used to tell her patients, Focus on today, and tomorrow will take care of itself. Ignore that little voice inside your head whispering they’re out to get you. Avoid the urge to put foil on your windows.
Unpack. Review the Four-Point Plan. In light of the day’s events, consider modification of the FPP. Make a list for the hardware store.
“An ancient murder will not stop me from loving this place,” she told the dog, “and it will not make me start obsessing again.”
“Raaooooow.”
“After all, it was a really long time ago, right?”
“Rooooo.”
“Precisely.”
She dragged a bucket of cleaning supplies from the backseat of the car and headed inside.
* * *
IT took her an hour, crawling among the lethal brambles along the back kitchen wall, to locate the water main and turn it on, then flip the circuit breaker on the electric panel. While she waited for hot water, she grabbed a packet of dust cloths and a bottle of lemon oil and headed back upstairs.
She hesitated at the door to the front bedroom. Then she scolded herself for being ridiculous. The fantasy of whiling away the hours in the window seat with a good book definitely trumped an old homicide.
First thing in the morning, though, she’d head over to the county offices, maybe even check the local newspaper archives. She had to admit, she was curious about what had happened to Hattie Longren.
Had the murder been a random act by a drifter? Or committed in a moment of passion by someone close to her? Had she known she would die beforehand? For that matter, had Ryland known—in those last seconds as his car plunged into the ravine—that he would die?
Jordan halted halfway across the room, shuddering at the morbid direction of her thoughts. Forcing herself to focus on the present, she waited to see whether she felt anything from the room, like old, malevolent vibes. People always swore they could feel the remnants of the violence—even decades later—in a room where a crime had occurred.
She cocked her head … Nope, nothing. All she felt was that she’d finally come home, that this was the house she belonged in, not in the ultramodern condominium in Malibu that Ryland had talked her into buying.
After securing her shoulder-length hair with claw clips, she grabbed a dust cloth and got down to work, chasing away personal demons along with the cobwebs. The dog lay down in the doorway to watch her.
It took her a while to notice that he wasn’t coming into the room. She paused while unrolling her sleeping bag in front of the window seat and, bending over, slapped her hands on her knees. “C’mere, sweetie.”
He lowered his ears and thumped his tail on the floor.
She injected a firm note into her voice. “Come.”
He stood and disappeared down the hall.
“Clearly I have a bright future ahead of me as a dog trainer,” she muttered, rising to follow.
She found him sitting in the middle of the bedroom at the back of the house. When she entered, h
e barked and grinned, his tongue lolling.
The room was full of light and charming with its angled ceilings and faded floral wallpaper, some of it even still hanging. The dormer window that looked down on the overgrown backyard opened without much protest.
In the winter when the leaves had fallen from the trees, the view of Admiralty Inlet and the shipping lanes would be stunning. She couldn’t help but wonder if Hattie Longren had stood in this very spot more than a century ago, watching for her husband’s ship on the horizon.
Directly below, through the boughs of a magnolia tree, she could still see the faint outline of the garden’s original beds, which would’ve been filled with herbs and flowers and vegetables. The debris-covered remains of a flagstone path led around to the side, probably to the patio off the library. Once restored to its original design …
The dog whined, capturing her attention. He stood at a closet door, scratching. Walking over, she opened it, revealing a funky, oddly shaped triangle built into the corner of the room. After sniffing excitedly, the dog started scratching the inside back wall, so she dropped to her knees to see what had captured his interest. Prying away a loose board, she spied a tattered edge of lace and reached for it. The lace was attached to an old porcelain doll.
“Well, well,” she murmured, carefully removing the doll from its hiding place. “How did you know it was there, fella?”
Sitting on the floor, she smoothed its dress, yellowed by time, using her thumb to wipe a smudge off the doll’s chipped, rosy cheek. Had this been Hattie’s daughter’s room? If so, what had happened to her after Hattie’s death?
“Yoooo-hoooooooo?”
The trill came from downstairs, startling Jordan, and she scowled. Where was that peace and quiet she’d moved to a small town to find?
“Anybody home?” The voice was closer and more insistent now, at the foot of the stairs.
Sighing, she set the doll on the lower shelf and stood. Heading for the hall, she looked back for the dog, but he’d disappeared. “Smart,” she muttered under her breath.
Haunting Jordan pcm-1 Page 2
