Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  Darcy’s eyes lit up. “You’re researching the murder?”

  “I can get her gun for you!” Charlotte hissed, hovering behind Jordan’s left shoulder.

  Jordan slipped a hand behind her back and made a shooing motion. “How about I tell you all about it over a beer in about an hour?”

  Darcy pursed her lips. “So get out of here and let you get back to it, huh? That’s the thanks I get.”

  “I promise—”

  Darcy held up a hand. “I was kidding, though I’ll expect a full report. You’ll leave the place as you found it, including putting away all those fashion magazines scattered about upstairs? And replace the plywood barricade across the entry?”

  “You have my word.”

  She tossed Jordan the key to the front door, then paused. “You know, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to spend time reading up on fashions of the rich and famous of yesteryear.” When Jordan remained silent, she muttered something under her breath and turned toward the stairs, almost walking straight through Hattie, who flitted out of the way. “One hour, or I’m coming back.”

  “Deal.”

  Once Darcy was gone, Jordan turned back to Hattie. “So where were we? Oh, right. So—there’s Frank, who had a history of violence and the physical conditioning to easily murder you, and with whom you’d already had a public confrontation, witnessed by the police chief. That’s the guy you chose to fall in love with. And Clive Johnson hated you and didn’t hesitate to use violence against the crews on your ships. But Seavey, who couldn’t keep his eyes off you and who acted chivalrously toward you, is the one you believe murdered you.”

  Hattie shook her head. “You don’t understand—Seavey was evil. Longren Shipping was all that interested him, and I was simply in his way.”

  “You’re wrong!” Charlotte cried, and they both looked at her, surprised. “You never saw that he loved you, just like you never saw how much John Greeley loved me!”

  “Yeah, Greeley was a real prize,” Jordan observed. “If he were alive today, I’d be warning every single woman within three counties to stay clear of him.”

  Charlotte burst into tears and abruptly disappeared in a puff of particles. Jordan raised a brow at Hattie.

  “Faulty materialization—her emotions interfere.”

  “So I gather she never saw through Greeley, even after you were gone?”

  “No. She never believed me when I told her that Greeley was a lot like Charles—cold and controlling. Oh, Greeley was a good enough police chief, I suppose, though he certainly arrested the wrong man for my murder. But he was hard, and cruel.” Hattie looked pensive, then shook her head. “I’ll take her home and settle her down while you finish reading.”

  Jordan turned back to Seavey’s memoir, then remembered what she’d wanted to ask. “Wait.” She called Hattie back as she began to fade. “Why are you so convinced that Seavey was evil?”

  “Because he kidnapped Charlotte.”

  Jordan’s jaw dropped.

  “He thought he could force me to cooperate.” Hattie trembled. “His men held Charlotte in the tunnels. She lay in the dark, bound and gagged so no one could hear her terrified screams, soaked in cold, foul-smelling water with rats only a few feet away, waiting for her to fall asleep.”

  Hattie drew a breath, her expression distant and filled with loathing. “I have no doubt that Michael Seavey deserved everything he eventually got.”

  Soiled Goods

  TWO days hence, Hattie received a reply from Mona that included Frank Lewis’s address. She penned a quick note to him, requesting he call upon her that afternoon at Longren House to discuss a business matter.

  The night before, she’d found a stack of Seacoast Journal issues and located the “Red Letters” column that had incited Charles’s crew to mutiny. After reading it through, she admitted to herself it was possible the charges Lewis made against Charles and Clive Johnson might have been accurate. They certainly fit with what Mona had hinted, as well as with her own impression of Johnson.

  Lewis had published what appeared to be factual accounts of sailors who had been drugged and shanghaied, and then, after having been turned over to Charles, beaten when they tried to escape to shore. Their stories sickened her. Their treatment was as inhumane as Lewis had indicated to her the morning after the fire, and as owner of Longren Shipping, she refused to condone such tactics.

  Still, she felt Lewis should have to prove that the company’s practices were as bad as he alleged. And with any luck, his proof would also include the information she needed to understand why the library safe held all that cash.

  Hattie knew that by inviting Lewis to review the company books, she was making a pact with the devil. His actions were reprehensible—he had to have known he’d sealed Charles’s fate when he wrote that column. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time the content of “Red Letters” had been used to justify violence against ships’ captains.

  Lewis wouldn’t arrive until that afternoon, leaving Hattie idle for the rest of the morning. To make up for her inattentiveness the day before, she suggested to Charlotte and Tabitha that they visit the local dressmaker’s shop to purchase matching thread and ribbons for the fabric Mona had given them. The girls were thrilled at the prospect, racing to put on their cloaks and gloves.

  Though fog enshrouded the ships in the harbor and clung to the headlands, chilling the air, the wind was calm. She and the girls walked the three blocks to the shop in no time. Charlotte seemed to have regained her good humor after Chief Greeley’s visit, chattering away with Tabitha about dress styles and ideas for how best to use the new fabric.

  “The sun will come out within a few hours, right, Hattie?” Charlotte asked, putting a skip in her stride.

  Hattie agreed. “It should be a very pleasant spring afternoon. You girls should plan to spend it in the garden. There’s much to be done to prepare the beds for the next planting of vegetables and herbs.”

  “I was thinking it might be warm enough to warrant a trip to the ice-cream parlor,” Charlotte said, her expression hopeful.

  “Unfortunately, I have a meeting this afternoon. It wouldn’t do to have you girls visit Mr. Fuller’s establishment without a chaperone.”

  “But it’s just a few blocks from the house,” Charlotte protested, “and I could take Tabitha with me. Nothing could possibly happen to us!”

  “Nevertheless, it wouldn’t be appropriate.” Hattie didn’t want to alarm Charlotte by mentioning what Mona had said about girls from the hill area kidnapped and sold into prostitution.

  “Then Sara could take us.”

  “Sara won’t have the time. Now that we’ve let go the rest of the household staff, she has more duties to fulfill.”

  “Please?” Charlotte wheedled. “She’d make the time if you asked her.”

  “And then she’d feel she had to work extra hard tomorrow to make up for the time she took off to indulge you.” Hattie gave Charlotte a chastising look. “That would hardly be fair.”

  As they had arrived at Miss Willoughby’s shop, she shushed Charlotte’s continued objections. Opening the door, she ushered the girls inside. To her dismay, Eleanor Canby stood at the counter, discussing dress designs with the shop’s proprietress.

  A satisfied look settled over Eleanor’s face when she saw them. “Hattie,” she acknowledged with a slight nod. “You’ve chosen a nice day to venture out with the girls. I trust you’ve wisely decided to focus on domestic chores in accordance with the dictates of your period of mourning.”

  Hattie forced a smile. “The girls and I have the urge to make several new dresses, yes.”

  “It does get tedious, wearing the same mourning outfits,” Eleanor agreed, glancing over Hattie’s conservatively cut black muslin day dress and walking boots with approval. “I assume you’re hoping to make a few new dresses that will be suitable, once summer is behind us? I’m sure Celeste can advise you as to the latest fashions.”

  “Yes, that woul
d be lovely.” Hattie smiled at the seamstress, who was Eleanor’s niece, the daughter of her brother, a well-respected local physician. The diminutive woman was quiet and shy, and easily intimidated by Eleanor. But once away from Eleanor’s influence, Celeste tended to relax and chat knowledgeably about the latest styles.

  Eleanor seemed to want to continue the conversation, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to bring up her latest editorial. Refusing to be drawn, Hattie gave her a polite nod. “The girls and I will be examining your ribbons, Celeste, while you finish with Eleanor.”

  A look of frustration passed over Eleanor’s face. “I gather you read this week’s issue of the Gazette?” she demanded.

  Hattie turned back, sighing inwardly. “Yes, though you know I don’t agree with your views.”

  “My reporters are never wrong.”

  “Perhaps, but a second fire could have been started in that location to deliberately mislead the fire department. Have the authorities considered that possibility?”

  Eleanor pursed her lips. “I fail to understand why you continue to defend the actions of such depraved individuals.”

  “I don’t like to see innocents accused of wrongdoing. And I sincerely doubt the fire was the result of the actions of a prostitute.”

  “It will do you no good to voice that opinion in this neighborhood.”

  Hattie abruptly lost patience. “So it’s come to that, has it, Eleanor? I’m not allowed to say what I think in public? I thought members of the press were staunch supporters of the First Amendment.”

  “This has more to do with your poor judgment than the First Amendment,” Eleanor retorted. “It’s bad enough that you took the girls down to fight the fire. But to continue to openly accuse this town’s businessmen of illegal acts will only further ostracize you, as well as jeopardize any possibility Charlotte will have of making a good match.”

  Charlotte touched Hattie’s arm, her expression beseeching, but Hattie shook her head. “Just what do you fear, Eleanor? The truth? Or your investors? Is Michael Seavey one of them?”

  “Surely you aren’t accusing me of slanting the news!”

  “You don’t need to, as long as you control the editorial page.”

  Eleanor’s face flushed dull red, and she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Watch your tongue, Hattie. If I should make it known I’ve cut you from the list of guests for my social events, no one in this town will have anything to do with you. I hold all the power here.”

  From the corner of her eye, Hattie caught Charlotte’s flinch. “To take such a petty action would be beneath you,” she said evenly.

  Eleanor stepped back and nodded. “Perhaps. But if you become a social liability, I’ll have no choice.”

  Hattie gazed steadily at Eleanor. “If you’ll excuse us, we have ribbons to select. Girls?”

  As they walked over to the ribbon display, Hattie realized Eleanor hadn’t answered her question about whether Michael Seavey was an investor in the Gazette.

  * * *

  UNWILLING to allow her argument with Eleanor to cast a pall on their outing, Hattie indulged Charlotte’s whims for ribbons and lace more than she probably should have. But by the time they arrived back at the house, Charlotte was chatting excitedly with her young maid about the dress patterns they would start cutting that afternoon, so Hattie felt the expenditures were justified. And though Charlotte tried once more to convince Hattie of the dire necessity of a visit to Fuller’s Ice Cream Parlor, she seemed content enough to remain at home with Tabitha.

  Relieved, Hattie retired to the library to continue to read through the business files. She’d barely gotten started, though, when Frank Lewis responded to her summons by presenting himself at the kitchen door. At Hattie’s request, Sara brought him to the library, her eyes wide with curiosity.

  “There was no reason to assume you have to use the workers’ entry, Mr. Lewis,” Hattie chided.

  “On the contrary.” He leaned against the library doors, arms crossed, his gaze cool. “To have come to the front door would’ve given the wrong impression. I don’t aspire to be on equal footing with your neighbors.”

  “Reverse snobbery?” she asked lightly.

  “Nothing so lofty—I simply don’t respect many of them.” He added, “And you are in mourning, are you not? Your neighbors can’t be left wondering whether you’re receiving gentlemen callers.”

  She conceded the point. “You are correct, though I chafe against the societal restraints of the mourning period. A woman is expected to do nothing—sitting in her house with the curtains drawn day after day—going slowly mad from the inactivity.” She glanced at the housekeeper, who continued to hover in the doorway behind him. “Tea and sandwiches, please, Sara.”

  Sara sniffed. “Shall I feed him in the kitchen, ma’am?”

  “No, he’ll have a light lunch in here with me. We have work to do.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows but said nothing while Sara huffed her disapproval all the way down the hall. He didn’t move from the door. “What is it that you want from me, Mrs. Longren? Last time we talked, you accused me of all but murdering your husband.”

  “Can you deny that you gave no thought to the potential consequences of what you printed?”

  “I printed the truth,” he said, shrugging. “I feel no need to justify myself to you, nor do I feel any remorse that your husband is dead. He was not a man who deserved loyalty, from his crew or from a woman such as yourself.”

  The callousness of his statement shocked her. Still, she managed not to show it. “Please, won’t you be seated?”

  He studied her for a long moment, his gaze making her nerves skitter. Then he pushed away from the door, wandering over to a wall of bookcases.

  Watching him circle the room, she was struck by how tall he was, yet lanky, almost thin, even. He radiated an intense energy she could feel even from where she sat—she suspected he rarely relaxed. He ran his fingers lightly over the bindings of the library’s extensive collection of leather-bound books—lightly and reverently, she thought.

  She found him to be an intriguingly complex man. Under different circumstances, she would have been drawn to know him better, perhaps to even form a lasting friendship with him. It had been a long time since she’d indulged in the simple pleasure of intelligent conversation. But unfortunately, they’d ended up on opposite sides—she had no choice but to remain guarded around him.

  He abruptly turned, facing her. “Longren Shipping is blacklisted by the union. It has been instrumental in forcing lower sailors’ wages, and it has condoned violence against union members. I doubt you and I will find any common ground.”

  “That remains to be seen.” She gestured at the stack of files in front of her. “These are the ledgers and files for Charles’s business. I brought you here to make a proposal, that you use them to prove you are right about his business practices.” She ignored his look of surprise. “By giving you access to my husband’s files, you can prove to me whether or not he regularly used shanghaiers, and also whether the company can afford to hire unionized sailors.”

  His expression was skeptical. “And what do you hope to gain from this arrangement? Do you aspire to salvage your husband’s good name?” he mocked. “Or perhaps you wish to let it be known you gave the sailors’ union a chance, so that you can continue to support a corrupt system?”

  “I could simply wish to derive satisfaction from having improved the rights of workers, could I not?” she asked lightly.

  He snorted. “I rarely find that business owners are motivated by humanitarian principles. If not for the reasons I’ve just stated, why have you brought me here?”

  She sighed. “Very well. To be frank, you and Mona Starr both made accusations about my husband that trouble me. I wish to prove them either true or false.”

  “And you don’t have the training to decipher the books,” Frank concluded shrewdly.

  “No,” she replied, loath to admit any weakness in his presence. His b
rashness annoyed her, but at the same time, she had to admit that after her dealings with Greeley and Johnson, she found Frank’s straightforward manner refreshing, even when he was deliberately attempting to rile her.

  He remained silent for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Very well. I can hardly resist an opportunity to review the books, can I? But if I prove what I believe to be true about Longren Shipping’s policies, you agree in return to change them. All new hires must be union sailors at union-specified wages, and you will give me the chance to talk to your existing crews, to see whether I can convince them to join up. Agreed?”

  She shook her head. “You must think me naïve, Mr. Lewis. I can’t commit to pay wages of an unspecified amount that could potentially cripple my company. However, I will agree to give your suggestions serious consideration, as well as make every attempt to negotiate a contract with the union that makes provisions for hiring union sailors at fair wages. In addition, if you can prove the sailors are mistreated during voyages, I will immediately alter the practices by the ships’ captains and first mates while at sea.”

  “And what of Clive Johnson? God knows I’d love to see his power on the waterfront diminished, but he’ll never agree to what you’re proposing. I’ve seen, and heard firsthand accounts of, his brutal tactics.”

  “If he doesn’t mend his ways,” Hattie replied with deceptive mildness, “I’ll replace him.”

  Frank raised his brows but didn’t pursue the subject. “You’re currently paying your crews twenty dollars per month. The wages that are necessary, at a minimum, are thirty dollars in Puget Sound, thirty-five dollars for outside ports. Are you willing to consider those figures?”

  “Prove to me that I can afford it,” she shot back as Sara entered with a tray.

  “Fair enough. Where would you like me to start?”

  “Well, to begin with,” she said, unaccountably frustrated by his insistence on keeping her at a distance, “I’d like you to be seated.”

  He smiled slightly, but moved forward to sit across from her. While Sara served, his gaze returned to the walls of books. Hattie made a mental note to offer him the use of her library for the duration of the time they worked together.