Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  Sara plunked down the last of the plates on the desk, rattling the china.

  “Sara …” Hattie admonished.

  “Hmmph.” She gave Frank one last hard look, then stalked out.

  “You’ll have to forgive my housekeeper,” Hattie said as she held out a plate of sandwiches, then poured tea. “I seem to shock her daily, and she is dedicated to me.”

  “On the contrary, I find her loyalty admirable.” Frank’s tone was wry. “She is right to worry about you.” He took the tea she offered and set it down. “Show me the ledger. Perhaps the notations will reveal payments made for procurement.”

  She handed over the heavy book, and he shoved food and drink aside to make room. Selecting a beef and hard cheese sandwich with one hand, he flipped the ledger open and started reading.

  She nibbled on a cucumber triangle and waited. He finished his first sandwich, and she handed him a second without thinking, responding to an unconscious urge to feed him. He took it, glancing up at her, and she sat back, embarrassed by her action. His mouth quirked, but he returned to the task at hand.

  After a long interlude, he stopped reading to drink some tea. “I may see a pattern,” he said. “Deposits are occurring with regularity, probably in the form of advance wages from ships’ captains to Longren Shipping. Expenses of corresponding but smaller amounts are then logged to a number of vendor accounts—these would be, in all likelihood, accounts for boardinghouse operators or shanghaiers. One of these vendor accounts is always credited at the time of the deposits, so I’m guessing that amount is the cut Clive Johnson takes. The amounts going to the other vendors are only slightly more than what is required to pay the sailors’ ‘boarding’ expenses. In some cases, if we trace back to where these sailors are renting rooms, we will probably find that the owner of the boardinghouse is the shanghaier.”

  Hattie shook her head, totally confused. “I don’t understand.”

  Frank settled back in his chair. “When a ship drops anchor in the harbor,” he explained, “the shanghaiers like Mike Seavey pay longshoremen to take their Whitehall boats out and lure the crews away with promises of jobs and free rent while in port. Though the ships’ captains try to protest this practice, the sailors are motivated to desert ship because of the treatment they’ve suffered while at sea—the lure of better conditions is simply too hard to resist. This frees the ships’ captains, by the way, from paying back wages, since the sailors have technically deserted ship. The sailors are then transported to shore and forced into the tunnels. Those more willing to oblige the shanghaiers are allowed to ‘rent’ rooms in the boardinghouses; the rest are kept in chains in the tunnels.”

  Hattie set down her sandwich, her appetite gone. “That’s appalling,” she admitted. “But I don’t see where Longren Shipping comes in.”

  “I’m getting to that. As the time to set sail nears, the ships’ captains contract with Longren Shipping for a crew. The captain pays an advance against the sailors’ wages, along with a procurement fee to Longren Shipping. Clive Johnson pockets a portion of the wages, deposits the procurement fee to the business, then pays out to the boardinghouse operator—or the shanghaier—the rest. The shanghaier releases the sailors without pay, claiming their room and board are barely covered by the payment received. Once back in Johnson’s custody, longshoremen transport the sailors back out to a ship. Anyone attempting to resist is drugged or worse, to guarantee they will be ‘accommodating.’”

  Hattie thought it through. “So you’re saying that the deposits and payments back out to the vendors are proof that Longren Shipping is colluding with shanghaiers. How can you be certain?”

  “It’s a well-known method of indebting the sailors to their handlers,” Frank insisted. “And the pattern of payments backs up what I’m saying.”

  “Show me the entries,” she demanded.

  He stood, bringing the ledger around to her side of the desk, placing it open before her and leaning down. She raised her head. Their gazes locked, and her breath backed up in her throat. She suddenly wished she weren’t wearing black, that her dress was made of one of the colorful fabrics she’d seen that morning at the dressmaker’s. That he would see her, not his enemy’s widow. Shaken, Hattie forced herself to focus on the ledger page.

  After a lengthy pause, he cleared his throat and pointed. “See the third column of figures? The notations refer to account numbers which”—he reached out, his arm brushing her shoulder, and flipped to the back of the ledger—“correspond to names of boardinghouses and saloons that are known to let rooms.” He turned to yet a different section of the ledger. “And look here—this is your petty cash account. The dates of these credits match those of the payments associated with the first vendor entry for the crew. They’re probably kickbacks to Johnson, but there are no explanations regarding to whom the money goes. Cash is notoriously difficult to track.”

  He turned his head to regard her, a lock of dark brown hair falling across his high forehead. She had the strongest urge to brush the hair back from his eyes, and she clasped her hands in her lap, mortified. How could she have these irrational feelings, so soon after Charles’s death, and with this man, of all men?

  Returning to his chair, he said, as if nothing had transpired between them, “Longren Shipping is making a tidy profit, but it’s coming at the expense of the crews you hire. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

  “But we have no concrete proof that you are correct.”

  “No, not without further documentation. You’ll need the chart of accounts, which provides a detailed explanation of the purpose of each account represented by a number in the ledger, and you’ll have to request from Johnson or his clerk a documented list of the petty cash payments.”

  She nodded. “Very well. I will return to the office tomorrow and demand that information.”

  “I’ll ask around on the docks, see whether anyone has heard any rumors. I can also verify the dates ships came into port and set sail, which should tie to the dates of the deposits.” He hesitated, frowning. “Mrs. Longren …”

  “You called me Hattie down at the beach,” she reminded him. “We’ve gone beyond formal names, I believe.”

  Frank’s expression turned self-deprecating. “I doubt that’s a good idea, but very well … Hattie.” He paused a second time. “Are you certain you want to pursue this line of inquiry? It’s not without an element of risk.”

  “Yes, I’m certain.”

  He frowned. “As a union organizer, I’m pleased you are acting honorably. And I can’t deny that the opportunity to convert Longren Shipping to a union house would be a major coup, in terms of both workers’ rights and a boost to the credibility of the union. But … I’m concerned about your welfare.” He seemed uncomfortable with the admission, and she was unaccountably touched. “It would be hard enough for a man to take on this task, let alone a woman.” He hesitated, then added, “And Johnson won’t back you up.”

  “Clive Johnson has fought me since the day we received word of Charles’s death,” she pointed. “His lack of support will be nothing new.”

  “It’s in his best interests to keep you away from the business. He’s benefiting from the current arrangement, far beyond the salary you pay him.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “It’s rumored on the docks.”

  Hattie thought about it. A system of lucrative kickbacks would certainly explain Johnson’s fury over her “meddling” in the business. She paused, wondering whether she should trust Frank, then went with her instincts. Rising, she opened the safe, careful to keep the door angled so he couldn’t see the cash. Removing the small journal, she opened it to the list of dollar amounts in the back and handed it to him. “Do these mean anything to you?”

  He glanced down the list, then whistled softly. “This is a substantial amount of money—I’ve known men to kill for far less.” He took back the ledger and searched through the entries once more. “I can find no corresponding payments of th
ese amounts, nor any obvious smaller payments to a similar account or description that would add up to these sums. Have you checked your personal household accounts?”

  “No.” She felt foolish that she hadn’t thought to do so. “I’ll look at those this evening, but surely the amounts are far too exorbitant?”

  Frank shrugged. “The explanation could be as simple as payments to workmen and landscapers, perhaps combined with some personal investments, though you’re right—I can’t fathom the house costing even close to that amount.”

  She hadn’t considered the possibility of other business ventures. Her thoughts returned to the stacks of cash in the safe. It was possible that Charles had invested in side business ventures such as the railroad, and that the cash represented his return on those investments. But why keep so much cash around? Why not deposit it in the bank, unless he hadn’t wanted any record of receiving it?

  Frank’s expression remained troubled. “My advice would be that you don’t show these to anyone else. At least, for now.”

  “Because they could have something to do with Longren Shipping?”

  “Possibly. The fact that they don’t show up as legitimate accounting entries indicates they might be associated with illegal contraband that wouldn’t be listed as inventory. Have you ever heard your husband discuss opium or other smuggled items?”

  “Absolutely not.” She halted her unconscious defense of him. “Though from what I’ve been told, Charles evidently did his best to shield me from what he did, even socially.”

  “You’re referring to his visits to the Green Light,” Frank said softly.

  She flushed. “Then the rumors are true?”

  He contemplated her, probably trying to decide what to reveal. “It’s not my place to discuss his … proclivities. If you want answers, ask Mona.”

  “I have a right to know.”

  He hesitated. “You’re right, you do. But I’ll not be the one to tell you, and if I had my way, I’d make certain you never found out the details.”

  She wanted to push him, but she could tell by his expression it would do no good. She sighed. “Then I will be in touch. I’ll request the documentation you mentioned first thing in the morning.”

  “Very well.” Frank stood, his gaze warm, yet worried. “Most women wouldn’t even consider taking this on.”

  She shrugged. “You may have been right all along—I may not have any clue about the man I married,” she admitted. “But I’m determined to find out.”

  “If Clive Johnson is complicit in what we have discovered today, he won’t change his ways without a fight. And the fact that you’re a woman won’t even give him pause.”

  “I refuse to be afraid of him,” she said, her chin lifting. “I own the company, and I will have control.”

  Frank walked to the door, then turned to quietly study her one last time. She had the oddest feeling he wanted to say something of a personal nature, but he said instead, “I’ll expect to hear from you.”

  With a nod, he walked out as he had come, through the kitchen.

  * * *

  HATTIE scarcely had time to tidy Charles’s desk and return files to drawers before she heard a knock on the front door. Her immediate thought was one of concern that whoever was calling might see Frank Lewis leaving and wonder at the reason for his visit. Then she chastised herself—she had been the one to insist that he not worry about such issues. Her business with him was legitimate, and she wouldn’t ask him to skulk around. Even in light of Frank’s concern over the risk she was taking, she’d be damned if she’d worry that someone would spy on the two of them and inform Clive Johnson.

  Rising, she walked around the desk just as Sara received Chief Greeley in the front hallway, Charlotte on his arm. Tabitha trailed a few steps behind, looking anxious. Hattie’s brow knit—what had they been doing outside?

  Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed as she laughed up at the police chief, her young love written across her face for all to see. He leaned down and murmured something to her, his manner slightly cocky, and she blushed.

  “Miss Charlotte!” Sara rushed to take the girls’ capes and gloves. “Where have you been?”

  “Out, Sara,” Charlotte answered gaily, waving a hand. “It’s a beautiful day!”

  Hattie moved forward, stopping at the library doors. “Chief Greeley,” she said, nodding coolly. “Charlotte, please explain yourself. You and Tabitha were supposed to be in the parlor, working on dress designs.”

  Charlotte hesitated, showing the first signs that she might have done something wrong, then she tossed her head, her gaze defiant. “As I believe I indicated this morning, Hattie,” she said, her tone artificially mature, “today was perfect weather for an outing to Fuller’s. Tabitha and I were enjoying a delicious raspberry ice when Chief Greeley stopped by.” She leaned into the police chief’s side, her hand still on his arm. “We had a wonderfully pleasant time, wouldn’t you agree, John?”

  Greeley smiled down at her indulgently, though his gaze, when he looked at Hattie, was censorious.

  Hattie sighed inwardly. “Sara, please take Charlotte into the parlor to wait for me there while I talk to Chief Greeley.” She turned her gaze back to Tabitha. “Go with Sara, Tabitha.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tabitha said, shooting a sulky look at Charlotte.

  Hattie had no doubt Charlotte had pushed Tabitha into agreeing to the outing. She leveled a hard look at Charlotte. “And you and I will discuss your rebellious behavior in a moment.”

  “But—”

  “Now, young lady.”

  Charlotte blanched at being chastised in front of the police chief. Her eyes filling with tears, she whirled and stormed across the hall.

  Hattie motioned Greeley to follow her into the library. “I’m not in the habit of allowing the girls to go out without a chaperone, if that is what you were about to comment on, Chief Greeley,” she said once they stood before the fireplace. “Charlotte left the house without my knowledge and permission, after I expressly forbade her this morning to do so.”

  “Be that as it may, Mrs. Longren,” Greeley said, slapping his gloves against his pant leg, “you clearly weren’t attentive enough. You should consider yourself extremely lucky that I happened by Fuller’s establishment and noticed Charlotte at one of the tables by the front window. Though I didn’t go so far as to reprimand Charlotte publicly, I can’t condone such licentious behavior in the girl I intend to marry.”

  Hattie would’ve considered herself far luckier if he hadn’t happened by, but she refrained from saying so. “Rest assured I will be punishing Charlotte for disobeying my orders, as well as questioning the household staff as to how this could have happened.”

  Greeley rocked back on his heels, his eyebrows arched. “Charlotte merely needs a firm hand, Mrs. Longren. I would point out that this type of behavior—as well as the obviously lax supervision in your household—argues in favor of a brief courtship. I trust you’ve thought over my request and have agreed to my suit?”

  “On the contrary, Chief Greeley,” Hattie said, grinding her teeth. “I said I would give you an answer by the end of the week, and I plan to stick to that schedule. I have far too many concerns about a possible liaison between you and my sister to make such a decision in haste. Today’s lapse in judgment, though deserving of disciplinary action, does not rise to a level that would justify a precipitous decision. Our parents had the faith to leave Charlotte in my hands. I owe it to them to consider carefully any possible change in that guardianship that might be against their express wishes.”

  Greeley’s expression had hardened as she spoke. “Charlotte’s presence at Fuller’s, whether or not accompanied by her friend, was reckless and inappropriate. I must warn you that I won’t be interested in ‘soiled goods.’” Greeley pulled on his gloves. “I’ll be back at the end of the week, Mrs. Longren. In the meantime, see that you keep Charlotte’s girlish impulses properly in check.”

  Hattie didn’t reply, gripping the
edge of the desk so hard she felt a fingernail break.

  Once Greeley was out the door, she took a moment to rein in her temper, as well as to congratulate herself for not having given in to the urge to hurl Charles’s paperweight at Greeley’s retreating back.

  Chapter 8

  TRUE to her promise, Jordan forced herself to stop reading an hour later and locked up, driving straight from the Historical Society to All That Jazz. On the way out the door, she’d added to her growing list of transgressions by filching several memoirs for her bedtime reading. To her way of thinking, it was better to steal what she needed now, rather than repeatedly sneak back into the building.

  Of course, career burglars probably made similar rationalizations.

  She did have another reason for taking the books, but she wasn’t yet willing to admit it, even to herself. After all, no sane, normal person would acknowledge that she now felt compelled to solve a century-old murder for a resident ghost. Right?

  The light at the first intersection on the outskirts of downtown turned red, forcing her to stop. Traffic was sparse, though, and moments later, she was on her way again, leaving behind the relatively flat land next to the waterfront and climbing the hills into the residential neighborhoods along the bluff. As she passed block after block of quaint old homes, she realized how peaceful the town seemed today in comparison to its violent past. What must it have been like to live here in the late nineteenth century? Undoubtedly for women like Hattie and Charlotte, life tended to be short, even tragic. But Jordan suspected it had also been more exciting.

  Hattie had left the safety of the only home she knew and traveled across the country with a man who was in many ways a virtual stranger. What an adventure! Would Jordan have had that kind of courage? Would she have been lured by the excitement and danger? Would she have initially romanticized the marriage, as Hattie had appeared to?

  She wasn’t altogether certain, but she doubted it. She had leapt into marriage with Ryland while still in school. (And look how that had turned out.) But she couldn’t deny that every chance she got, she planned her life down to the nth degree before taking the next step. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t working out so hot, either.