The accounting for such activities, which included finding lodging for the sailors while in port, was probably quite complex. It simply wouldn’t do to remain in the dark—she had to gain a better understanding of Longren Shipping and its finances. And, she realized, she knew just who could help her, no matter how distasteful the thought was.
Frank Lewis.
She shifted uneasily, uncomfortable with the notion of inviting her husband’s nemesis to the house. After all, Lewis’s union operated the shipping office that was Longren Shipping’s largest competitor. Allowing him access to the books could possibly give him substantial insight and leverage over Longren Shipping.
But did she really have a choice? If she approached Eleanor Canby for help, Eleanor would react as others had, judging her sudden interest in the business as unseemly. And even if Eleanor knew of someone who could help her, she wouldn’t provide any names. No, Hattie thought, she was on her own, and Frank Lewis was the one person she knew with the education and intellect needed to help her understand the truth behind the numbers. She could count on him to be plainspoken in his explanations. He would, in fact, relish educating her regarding her deceased husband’s amoral business practices.
Her decision made, she quickly penned a thank-you note to Mona Starr, asking her for information about how to contact Lewis, then gave it to Sara to have it delivered.
Once the housekeeper left the room, Hattie began pulling open desk drawers, not certain what she sought. Inside the center drawer, she found a check ledger and their household accounts, which she set aside to look at in a day or two, after she had a better handle on the business. Side drawers revealed rows of files, some seemingly personal in nature, others business related.
She flipped through them, stunned to discover that Charles had kept detailed dossiers compiled by a private investigator on a number of prominent businessmen as well as politicians. Her mouth fell open when she found a file on her family containing confidential information regarding their personal finances, as well as character witness statements. Given the dates of the paperwork, Charles had had them investigated before he had proposed to her. Pulling the file out, she read the scrawled notes in Charles’s handwriting, her stomach churning.
The family seems honorable enough, though the free clinic connection is of questionable propriety, he’d written. And the dowry is adequate. Once Hattie is removed from her parents’ influence, she will make an obedient enough wife.
Her hands fisted, crumpling the paper. Methodically shredding the documents, she placed them in a cigar ashtray on the desk, striking a match to them.
The rest of the files contained papers relating to various business ventures. The only one that caught her eye was Charles’s substantial investment in the proposed railway from Portland, Oregon, along Hood Canal to Port Chatham—a railway she knew many of the town’s businessmen hoped would provide the basis for an ever-expanding local economy. And many of these businessmen, it turned out, were the very same ones on whom Charles had compiled dossiers.
Her late husband, Hattie concluded, had been either a careful businessman or a paranoid one, depending on one’s point of view. She was uneasy with this revelation into his business practices, and she had no doubt the men whose dossiers she held would be unhappy to know she had access to such information about them.
At the very back of the same desk drawer that contained the dossiers, she found a slim file with only one small slip of paper, upon which Charles had written what appeared to be a safe combination. Standing, she walked to the wall behind her and swung aside the portrait of Charles’s grandfather, revealing a small safe. Using the combination, she opened it.
Her mouth fell open. The small, rectangular space was filled with stacks of cash, along with a nondescript black leather journal. Never before had she seen so much money—it had to be thousands of dollars. Surely Charles didn’t conduct that much shipping business on the basis of cash.
Increasingly uneasy, she retrieved the journal and flipped through it, finding mostly empty pages. However, at the far back, Charles had written a short list of dollar amounts with no notations to explain them. Large dollar amounts, she realized with a chill, totaling well over fifty thousand dollars.
Sara entered, holding a calling card. Hattie quickly snapped the book shut, shoving it back inside the wall safe and returning the picture to its place on the wall.
“A Mr. Michael Seavey, ma’am.” Sara handed her a card made of white vellum, embossed with ornate engraved script.
Placing the card on the desk, Hattie sat, smoothing her skirt. “I’ll receive him in here, Sara.”
The housekeeper frowned. “Won’t you be wanting to freshen up first, ma’am, and greet him properly in the parlor?”
“I’m in the middle of my work—he’ll have to accept me as I am, dust and all. If you would be so kind as to prepare tea for us.”
“Very well, ma’am,” Sara sighed, obviously despairing of Hattie’s negligent attitude toward etiquette.
Moments later, Seavey appeared in the doorway, resplendently attired in a close-fitting gray frock coat with silk lapels, matching waistcoat, gray-on-gray striped silk tie, and black trousers. His pale gaze settled on her, and he bowed, his manner as subtly mocking as it had been that night on the beach. “Mrs. Longren.”
She inclined her head, indicating he should take the seat across from her and then clasping her trembling hands in her lap. It did not please her to realize that a man rumored to be involved in shanghaiing and the white slave trade had the ability to undermine her composure. He was beneath contempt, yet she would strive to remain polite. “Your visit comes as a surprise, Mr. Seavey.”
He settled into the wingback chair. “Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” he murmured. Tugging off his gloves one finger at a time, he placed them on the desk, a slight smile curving his lips. “I’ve come to inquire after your health.”
She raised both eyebrows. “You are the second person to do so today.”
“Ah.” He feigned chagrin. “I fear I’ve been disingenuous. Dare I ask what man has bettered me at my own game?”
“Chief Greeley paid us a quick visit this morning. I will tell you what I told him, that the girls and I are fine.”
Sara brought in the tea tray, and Hattie busied herself with serving. Though her pulse still beat quickly, she was pleased to see that her hands were steady.
“Greeley was here to see the fair young Charlotte, I presume,” Seavey said.
“Yes.”
“He’d keep her safe. However, he would also crush her spirit.”
Hattie stared at him, teapot in midair. “Yes, that’s it precisely, isn’t it?”
Seavey gave a nod. “Unfortunately, that is all a woman can hope for.”
Hattie held back an automatic retort. This man was dangerous; it would not be wise to openly challenge him.
Seavey sipped his tea in silence, glancing around the room, apparently feeling no need to keep the conversation going. Hattie had to restrain herself from fidgeting.
“This room has always pleased me,” he finally commented, surprising her yet again. “I told Charles on numerous occasions that he couldn’t have created a more comfortable space from which to conduct business.”
“I had no idea you’d been to the house,” Hattie said, unwillingly intrigued. “Was it before Charles and I married?”
Seavey’s expression turned wry. “On the contrary, I visited frequently after your arrival. I even had the pleasure of a glimpse of you in the garden from time to time, though Charles was usually very careful to keep you tucked away from sight.”
She swallowed, feeling unaccountably betrayed. The garden had been her escape, yet now she was discovering she’d never had a moment alone or gone unobserved—even, it appeared, by strangers.
Seavey seemed unaware of her reaction, raising his cup to salute her. “It is easy to see why Charles was so possessive. You are a woman of great beauty as well as strength of character. I con
fess I find myself equally fascinated by both.”
She frowned. “I’m in mourning, Mr. Seavey. Your remarks are inappropriate.”
He leaned back, lazily propping a low-cut, black leather boot on one knee. “I rarely worry about propriety, Mrs. Longren. And I was led to believe, given your recent adventure, that we were kindred souls of a sort.”
“We are nothing of the kind,” she said, alarmed that he would have drawn such a conclusion. “As owner of Longren Shipping, I simply felt an obligation to ensure that my sailing crews were safe.”
He looked amused. “You did more than that. I seem to remember you standing shoulder to shoulder with Port Chatham’s most famous madam. That takes grit, as well as a certain, shall we say, flexible frame of mind.”
She shrugged, piqued by his accurate portrayal. “Once I saw the state of things, I could hardly turn my back, could I? You, on the other hand, seem to have been endowed with little or no social conscience. You stood by all through the night and did nothing to help.”
He threw his head back and laughed out loud. “My sleek little cat has claws.”
She set her teeth. “Where are your bodyguards, Mr. Seavey? Should I ask Sara to take them some tea and cake?”
Her attempt to change the subject only served to amuse him further. “They don’t feel the need to protect me from my women.”
“I’m not one of your women,” she snapped, goaded.
“Not yet, perhaps.”
She slashed a hand through the air. “Why are you here, Mr. Seavey?”
He sighed, returning his cup to its saucer. “Very well, if you insist on directness.”
“I prefer it.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised, though I thoroughly enjoy sparring with you.” He held up a hand to forestall her next retort. “Eleanor Canby’s editorial this morning, I’m told, was influenced by remarks you made in public the night of the fire.”
Hattie frowned. “I voiced an opinion that the fire might have been started intentionally, if that is what you are referring to. Can you deny it?”
“Why would you think I would have any knowledge of the matter?” he queried, his tone mild.
“You live on the waterfront, do you not?”
“On the top floor of my hotel, yes. I find the energy in that part of town … exhilarating.”
“Then you must be privy to what goes on.”
He studied her for a long moment. “I thought it best to pay you a visit,” he said, his tone gentle, “to encourage you not to voice opinions on issues about which you have little or no direct knowledge. Such opinions, when made known to the wrong people, could put you at risk.”
She arched her brows. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Seavey?”
He sighed. “You have an overly suspicious nature, my dear. I’m merely concerned for your safety. A widow in this town has little enough security as it is.”
She stared at him, trying to discern the truthfulness of his statement. “Tell me, Mr. Seavey, why were you and Charles so well acquainted that you profess to have a fondness for this library? Were your visits for social or business purposes?”
He drank more tea before answering. “A little of both.”
“Given the line of business I’m told you engage in, I can’t imagine what Charles could’ve possibly gained by a liaison with you.”
“No, I don’t suppose you can. Charles kept you well away from both his business and social affairs.”
“Did Charles collude with you to procure crews by any means necessary?” she asked bluntly.
Something shifted in his pale eyes, but he answered calmly enough. “The shipping masters need crews to fulfill sailing contracts, and the sailors need berths. I merely ensure that the two come together, taking a small profit for the effort I expend.”
She shook her head. “Your reasoning is self-serving, is it not? Shanghaiing is a reprehensible practice, though few in this town seem to be concerned with that fact. But I intend to put a stop to it, at least with regard to Longren Shipping. As you can see,” she said, gesturing at the stacks of papers before her, “my level of involvement in the business is now changing.”
He didn’t seem alarmed by her announcement. Indeed, his expression was one of polite boredom. “I doubt you’ll find the work Charles engaged in either interesting or fulfilling. I shouldn’t imagine a woman of your refinement would be pleased to have to deal with such mundane tasks.”
“I have little choice in the matter,” she said briskly, “if Charlotte and I are to survive. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t believe I intended to.” His tone remained diffident as he toyed with one snowy white cuff. “Your man Johnson seems competent enough. Why not leave the business to him?”
“Clive Johnson was well regarded by my husband. However, by becoming more involved in Longren Shipping, I will have a glimpse into my late husband’s life, and therefore perhaps a better understanding of who he was.” She opened the desk drawer and withdrew one of Charles’s dossiers, handing it to him. “Files such as these exemplify how little I knew about Charles, and they throw into question his judgment.”
Seavey opened it and quickly glanced at the contents. His head jerked up, his expression hard, and she wondered how she could’ve been drawn into believing for even a few moments that his veneer of sophistication was anything but that—a thin camouflage of what lay beneath. She wouldn’t, however, allow herself to be afraid.
“I haven’t read the file,” she assured him. “The letterhead was enough to convince me of the nature of its contents. However, I suspect you’d prefer to keep the information contained within private.”
Seavey regarded her for a moment without comment. “It seems I am in your debt,” he said finally.
“Not at all. I ran across the file while looking through Charles’s desk drawers and thought to return it to you.”
“This is the only copy, I presume?”
“Yes.”
He abruptly stood, tucking the file inside his coat, then drawing on his gloves. His expression was pensive. “I don’t recommend living in the past, Mrs. Longren,” he said at length. “It will prove a lonely place.”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t married to Charles long. I’d like to know more about him before I put his memory to rest.”
“A laudable sentiment, perhaps, though I’ve never been one to appreciate sentimentality.”
He walked to the library door, then turned back. “I can sympathize with your need to find answers, Hattie,” he said quietly. “However, I shouldn’t think you’ll be pleased with what you discover.”
Chapter 7
“WAIT a minute,” Jordan said, now surrounded by piles of newspapers and Hattie’s diaries. “I think Charlotte was right in a way—Seavey seemed fond of you.”
Hattie, who hovered in the stacks, shook her head. “He wanted to control me, to ensure that I didn’t harm his business. He was the kind of man who thrived on acquiring power and holding it over people.”
“Maybe, but history is littered with powerful, ruthless men who also loved obsessively. He might have been capable of employing one set of ethics in business, yet another with a woman he cared about. So he may have been a shanghaier and white slave trader, and he may also have had a hidden agenda during that visit. But the way I see it, he definitely was interested in you.”
“Hidden agenda?” Hattie looked confused.
“An unspoken reason for his visit,” Jordan rephrased.
“Oh, well, yes—he did seem to cut his visit short on that occasion. Then again, I never completely understood what motivated Seavey.” Hattie frowned, her expression turned inward. “I’m hoping his personal papers will reveal more than I wrote in my diary.”
Jordan perked up and began thumbing through the stacks of documents. Seavey’s papers would make fascinating reading. “You put them here?”
Hattie shook her head. “I don’t know where they are—you’ll have to locate them. He must
have relatives in town; surely they’ll know what became of them.”
She floated over to the next aisle and a book landed in front of Jordan. “That’s his memoir, but of course you can’t believe a word he wrote in it. It’s merely a justification for his business dealings. He wanted to believe he provided a much-needed service.”
“The author of the history book I have back at the house did claim that many sailors actively participated in the practice of shanghaiing,” Jordan pointed out as she flipped through the pages of the thin memoir.
Hattie snorted. “All that means is that they went along so they wouldn’t be beaten. Seavey always claimed that he never mistreated the sailors unless they resisted his offer.”
Footsteps suddenly reverberated through the ceiling, and they both looked up. It took Jordan a moment to realize that ghosts don’t clomp, that someone must’ve entered the building.
Charlotte flew down the stairwell. “The fuzz! The fuzz!”
Hattie sighed. “She read a Kurt Vonnegut book last week that the prior owners left in the library.”
The footsteps were now on the risers, and Darcy came into view. Jordan’s shoulders sagged in relief. If another of Port Chatham’s finest had appeared, Jordan would’ve ended up justifying her unauthorized presence in court. Ghosts made me do it, Judge. Right. Like that would be admissible anywhere outside of a sanity hearing.
“How’s the research going?” Darcy asked.
“Run!” Charlotte screeched, flying around the basement.
“Fine. Why are you back so early?” Jordan asked, trying not to duck when Charlotte swooped overhead.
“It’s been a couple of hours, actually, and I vary my route. I find it’s always good to keep the perps guessing,” Darcy said, her tone wry. She folded her arms and propped a shoulder against one of the stacks, completely unaware of the ghosts. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been reading about the time frame right before Hattie was murdered.”
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