Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  “Actually, many of the old homes are thought to be haunted,” Darcy said. “So people don’t necessarily think a resident ghost or two is all that awful.”

  “Okay, ‘normal,’ then. Ghosts aren’t normal. And I make a point of dealing in ‘normal.’”

  “In this town, we prefer ‘quirky’ over ‘normal.’” Jase laid a soothing hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “Bill? Bring me a brandy, would you?”

  “Hattie and Charlotte are known for their pranks more than anything else,” Tom continued. “While the prior owners were living there and operating a B and B, the ghosts used to run the guests off in droves. It put the owners out of business.”

  “Gee, how reassuring.”

  “They’re probably more reasonable if you don’t do things they object to,” Darcy assured her. “From all accounts, they really didn’t want Longren House turned into a B and B.”

  “So you think they impersonated Nora and Delia as some kind of prank?” Jordan shook her head, still not believing she was having this conversation. “Follow the logic—why would they do something like that? I’m not buying it.”

  “They’ve gotten some pretty negative reactions over the years,” Tom said.

  “Imagine my surprise.”

  Darcy grinned. “They probably figured it was better to disguise themselves this time. At least, until you’d gotten settled and they knew what your intentions were.”

  Jordan studied each of their faces. They appeared to be accepting Darcy’s explanation as plausible—even Jase. She shook her head back and forth. “No, no, no. I’m calling the real estate agent. I want those disclosure forms.”

  “What good will they do you now?” Tom asked pragmatically.

  “How the hell should I know?” Jordan gulped down the brandy Jase handed her. “Hey, I’ve got it.” She waved the brandy snifter in the air. “Since you all are so fond of your ghosts, maybe the local judge is a true believer and will let me back out of the sale.”

  “Now you’re really being sarcastic,” Darcy said.

  “It’s a gift,” Jordan snapped.

  “You might as well accept the inevitable.”

  A new thought occurred to her. “Oh, God, I get it now.” She stood abruptly, feeling ill. The dog leapt to his feet. “This is all a ruse, isn’t it?” She folded the rope and put it in his mouth. “You thought you could be entertained at my expense.”

  “Whoa. Wait a minute.” Darcy’s amusement faded. “We didn’t think that at all.”

  “Then it’s my notoriety—that I’m suspected of murder.” Hands shaking, Jordan fumbled for money to pay the bill. “You don’t want someone like me in your town.”

  “That’s not it.” Darcy hesitated. “Okay, I admit that maybe some people might have thought that as a psychologist, you’d cope better with the ghosts … I mean, what with your ability to be empathetic—”

  “Shut up, Darcy,” Jase said pleasantly. He turned to Jordan, his expression apologetic. “Please, stay and enjoy the music.”

  Jordan shook her head mutely, throwing cash on the table.

  “Look,” he explained quietly. “Most people only catch an occasional or fleeting glimpse of ghosts. We didn’t even know for sure that you’d ever see them, and we certainly didn’t think you’d be able to converse with them.”

  “Hell,” Darcy said, “I’m flat-out envious. I’d love to be able to talk to them.”

  “They’re probably thrilled to finally have someone to talk to,” Tom added.

  Jordan backed away. “I’ll prove you all wrong. When I get to the research center tomorrow, it will be open, and Nora and Delia will be waiting for me.”

  “Then why don’t I walk you home,” Jase suggested, standing, “and check the place out? Just so you’ll feel safe tonight.”

  “I don’t think so.” Tears burned behind her eyes. Would she ever learn not to be so damn trusting?

  She turned and walked out, the dog at her heels, leaving the three of them staring after her with what appeared to be concerned looks on their faces.

  Too bad she knew better.

  * * *

  TEN minutes later, Jordan stood in her front yard, hugging herself, afraid to go inside. She half wished she’d taken Jase up on his offer. Their story was crazy, but … well, it made a weird sort of sense. Nora and Delia had been pretty strange, she had to admit.

  As she replayed the conversation from earlier that afternoon inside her head, she realized many of the things they’d said could be interpreted in a different light. Take Delia’s argument, for example, that Frank would never have murdered Hattie. She had sounded as if she’d actually known him. And then there was the odd hair comment, which might indicate they didn’t understand modern speech idioms.

  Jordan blew out a breath. This was crazy. Nuts. She was making something out of nothing. Pretty soon, she’d be the one she referred to a psychiatrist for meds.

  She took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, and climbed the porch steps, reaching out to open the door for the dog. He trotted right in, unconcerned.

  “See?” she muttered. “Nothing to worry about.” She fumbled for the light switch, turning on several lights, including the chandelier high up in the stairwell before she located the one in the hall. She left them all blazing.

  Standing just inside the door, she listened.

  Nothing.

  The house was quiet … settled. No creaks or groans, no moans … no goddamn ghosts. Just in case, though, she looked around for something she could use as a weapon.

  Clutching a library lamp in front of her with both hands, she crept down the hallway to the kitchen. On the way, she didn’t walk through any cold spots, which—if she remembered correctly from movies she’d seen—were supposed to be a sign of spectral activity. She did, however, jump a foot when a floorboard creaked loudly, almost losing her grip on the lamp.

  She reached inside the kitchen door and flipped on the light switch, then walked to the center of the room. “If you’re here, I frigging dare you to come out!” she said in a loud voice.

  Silence.

  There, that proved it. No ghosts.

  “Uh-ohhh. We’ve been outed.” The whisper came from several feet behind her.

  Jordan whirled, the lamp dropping with a deafening crash. The air sort of shimmered in the middle of the kitchen, and the two women materialized before her.

  Charlotte’s image faded in and out like a spastic highway construction warning light, but Hattie’s was clear as a bell. At least Hattie had the decency to look chagrined.

  Jordan glanced around surreptitiously for the dog, hoping for some protection, but he’d disappeared. She hyperventilated.

  “Paper bag”—she gasped, waving her hands wildly—“cupboard.”

  Charlotte floated over to the sink, her blue satin slippers barely touching the floor. The cupboard door slammed open and a paper bag flew through the air. Jordan managed to snag it as it winged past her.

  She collapsed onto a kitchen chair and breathed into the bag, eyes closed. The bent lamp leapt from the floor to the table, wildly teetering back and forth on its base before settling. A hand patted her lightly on her shoulder, the feeling somewhat akin to static electricity crawling across her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  “You keep your paper bags by the kitchen sink?” Charlotte asked. “That’s what the butler’s pantry is for.”

  “Now, Charlotte, don’t nag,” Hattie admonished, rubbing Jordan’s shoulder. “We can worry about the arrangement of the kitchen later—Jordan’s had a fright.”

  “Well, she doesn’t want to unpack and arrange things in here twice, does she?”

  “Nevertheless, she has plenty of time to think about where she’ll put her kitchen items,” Hattie said, her tone firm.

  “I’m only trying to be helpful.”

  Jordan raised her head to stare blearily at Charlotte. She was pouting again, which seemed to be her perpetual state. Something to look forward to, if Jord
an had to live with her. On that note, she closed her eyes again.

  “Can’t you see she’s shaken?” Hattie continued. “No one thinks about organizing their cupboards when they’re in shock.”

  “A stylish home, along with a keen sense of fashion, are critical foundations of a well-ordered life—”

  Jordan stood on shaky legs and walked over to the open cupboard. She dry-swallowed three tablets from the aspirin bottle she’d put in there earlier. Why the hell hadn’t she thought to pack something stronger?

  “And look at that!” Charlotte’s tone was outraged. “She’s got medicine in there. Everyone knows herbal tinctures should be kept well away from the preparation of the food.”

  “Times have changed,” Jordan managed. “Why don’t you two teleport yourselves to the local home improvement store? They’re probably still open, and you can check out the latest kitchen designs. That’ll give me the time I need to pack my bags and check into a hotel.”

  “There’s no cause to get testy,” Hattie said mildly. “Or to leave. We have no intention of harming you.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ve heard you two are a real joy to live with.” Jordan gripped the edge of the counter with one hand to hold herself up, since her knees were still nonfunctional. Though the roaring in her ears had begun to subside, she breathed into the paper bag again for good measure.

  Charlotte sniffed. “If you’re referring to the prior inhabitants who ran that wretched boardinghouse—”

  “Bed-and-breakfast,” Hattie corrected.

  “—they got what they deserved. Why, they were considering knocking down the wall between the parlor and front hall!”

  “Hell, no wonder you drove them to financial ruin,” Jordan muttered. “World peace hung in the balance.”

  “Well, of course it didn’t … Oh, you meant that as a joke.”

  Jordan could feel herself crashing as the adrenaline seeped away. “I don’t suppose I can talk you two into leaving for the evening and coming back in the morning, after I’ve had eight hours of sleep and some caffeine and can cope better?”

  They glanced at each other with confused expressions. “We live here,” Hattie said. “Where would we go? You can’t really mean that you want to turn us away from our home.”

  “That would be tragic,” Jordan said grimly, then snapped her fingers. “Got it! What about a portal? Didn’t I read somewhere that ghosts have portals, like little holes in the wall? You two could disappear into one and then I could stuff a rag into it.”

  Charlotte folded her arms. “That’s insulting.”

  “Well, what, then? Am I supposed to just accept that I’m now rooming with you two? And what have you done with my dog?”

  “He’s around.” Hattie waved a hand. “Actually, we’re glad you finally arrived. It’s been hard to steal enough food for him. If you take the same item often enough, people notice. The poor thing has been getting thinner and thinner.”

  “And we’re still developing our powers,” Charlotte confided, her image brightening, then fading, as if on cue. “We signed up for the seminar as soon as we heard you bought our house, but our instructor said it takes a lot of practice to perfect telekinesis.”

  “Sorry about the smashed cake,” Hattie added. “We tried.”

  Jordan rubbed her forehead. The aspirin wasn’t even going to make a dent. “So what do you want? Approval of the renovation plans?”

  Hattie hesitated, then put an arm around Charlotte, who pressed trembling lips together and nodded encouragingly.

  “We want you to solve my murder.”

  A Crisis of Confidence

  BY dawn, the fire had been contained to two blocks facing the harbor, sparing City Hall. Nine were dead, scores more injured. Overhead, the sky slowly lightened to streaks of pale pink and bluish gray, marred only occasionally by black wisps of smoke. Hattie dropped a bucket in the mud at her feet and rubbed the small of her back, gazing past smoldering ruins to the harbor.

  Ships lay quietly, anchored on glassy water reflecting the colors of the early morning light. Yet the harbor already resonated with the cries of first mates, ordering crews up masts to secure sails against the growing threat of clouds on the horizon. Wind and rain would move onshore before noon.

  Since moving to Port Chatham, gauging the weather had become second nature. Until recently, she would’ve checked the harbor throughout the day, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charles’s ship on the horizon. A dense bank of clouds such as the one visible this morning would’ve meant his return would be delayed. Even now, Admiralty Inlet was unusually empty of ships—none would set sail until the storm had passed.

  Though it had been weeks since Hattie had received word of Charles’s death in the South Seas, she still found herself unconsciously searching the waters for his barque. She hadn’t had his body to lay to rest, nor any way to properly grieve. It was as if he’d sailed out of the harbor and would return any day now. She felt like an interloper, running his business. An interloper, yet one with responsibilities, she reminded herself.

  Given the threatening weather, she’d have to order Clive Johnson to return the crews to their schooners. No doubt he’d take the opportunity to point out that if they’d been on board throughout the night, they would already have the rigging secured. But at the moment, she was simply too tired to care about his barbed criticisms.

  Turning toward the beach, she spied Charlotte and Tabitha curled up together on a blanket, sound asleep, their faces showing the same signs of exhaustion she was certain could be seen on her own, their dresses as soiled and soaked with muddy water as hers. Chief Greeley, though busy throughout the night, had never wandered far from Charlotte’s side. Even now, he stood watch. Hattie was grateful, yet uneasy. Greeley was big and stern looking, and she’d never observed in him any evidence of good humor. Charlotte was far too fragile for a hard man like Greeley.

  “Ma’am?” Two of Mona’s girls stood a few feet away, holding folded blankets from the Green Light.

  She walked over to take them. “Thank you,” she said gently.

  They dipped in nervous curtsies and fled, but not before Hattie had noticed the newly healed cuts and bruises on the smaller of the two. She wanted to inquire about the girl’s injuries, to ask if she needed help, but she suspected her questions would only serve to frighten the two even more.

  “They aren’t comfortable around respectable women of means,” Mona explained as she approached. The hard lines in her face were more deeply pronounced in the morning light.

  Hattie remembered Eleanor’s earlier warnings and condemnation, and her expression turned wry. “My position in society may be more precarious than you realize.”

  “And you haven’t improved it, coming down here to help,” Mona concluded astutely.

  “If so, I can’t worry about it.”

  “Perhaps you would be wise to return home now that the fire is out.”

  Hattie shook her head. “I’m not leaving while people still need tending.” She held out the blankets. “If you’ll pass these out, I’ll see whether the hand pump on that well across the street is still working. The injured need water.”

  Mona studied her for a moment, then shrugged. She cast a look at the rapidly darkening western sky. “We’d best hurry—that storm may put out the rest of the fire, but it will bring its own form of misery. We’ll have to use the tunnels for the supplies, and move the injured to the Green Light. We can access the tunnels from the basement of Seavey’s hotel.”

  Hattie surreptitiously glanced toward the beach, where he still stood with his bodyguards. He’d watched her all night long, making her shiver more than once from the weight of his gaze.

  From what little Charles had told her about his business, Port Chatham’s booming shipping industry relied on a steady supply of sailors. Shanghaiers like Seavey either worked in concert with boardinghouse operators to provide crews to the shipping masters or, in some cases, owned the boardinghouses outright. The tunnels supposedly s
erved as a temporary prison for those least willing to go along with the shanghaiers’ demands.

  “Charles told me he refused to pay the shanghaiers for his crews,” she said now.

  Mona snorted her disbelief. “It’s common practice with all the shipping companies, your husband’s included. How do you think he got the crews he needed to run that many ships? And with some sailors turning to the union, cheap crews are more scarce than ever.” She glanced around, then continued before Hattie could argue, keeping her voice low. “Rumor is now that Seavey has the local shanghaiing business all but tied up he’s moved on to kidnapping young girls.”

  “What? He ransoms them?”

  “He sells them into prostitution rings operating in the Far East. Young white virgins are in great demand over there.”

  “But if everyone knows what he’s doing, why don’t the police raid the tunnels?” Hattie asked, sickened.

  “When someone up on the hill is kidnapped, the police might investigate, though they would have trouble finding enough proof to convict. But most of the time, they look the other way.” Mona’s tone was bitter. “Prostitutes don’t matter.”

  Hattie had heard similar complaints regarding lack of police protection from women down on their luck back East—a hard truth of the times she had trouble accepting. Shuddering, she glanced over to reassure herself that Charlotte and Tabitha were still safe. No wonder Greeley had been so attentive.

  “I trust I don’t have to tell you to never let your girls go out without a chaperone—even in your immediate neighborhood,” Mona said. “Even respectable business establishments in your neighborhood have been targeted.”

  “No, I’m insistent that the girls are always accompanied by an adult.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to Seavey about storing supplies in the tunnels after I distribute these.” She took the blankets. “I don’t want you wandering down to that end of the street.”