Okay, admittedly she’d made a few impulsive decisions lately. But once committed, she’d backed up those decisions with solid plans. So she probably wasn’t as impetuous as Hattie, nor did she have the same thirst for adventure.
Then again, comparing herself to a woman who’d ended up murdered probably didn’t make for the healthiest form of self-analysis.
Parking the Prius around the corner from the pub, Jordan climbed out. The dog knew where to go and bounded in that direction, leaving her to follow at her own pace, shaking her head. After just two days in his company, she was fairly certain he was smarter than she was.
As she turned onto the main arterial, she halted, her gaze drawn down the sloping hill to the inlet beyond. The sunset promised to be stunning—the water already glistened in bands of midnight blue, orange, and neon pink. Lights on the ferry returning from Whidbey Island twinkled against the darkening sky, its wake rippling through the prism of colors. Downtown, the ornate outlines of historical buildings were backlit against the crimson sky. She felt like a tourist, gaping at the picture-perfect, post-cardlike scene spread below her.
A young man rode past her on an old-fashioned high-wheel bicycle, completing the charm of the scene.
“Nice evening for a ride,” she called to him, and he grinned, giving her a quick salute. Then he spread his arms wide and tilted his head back, coasting down the hill.
A chill wind gusted down the street behind him, dragging pine needles and bits of debris in its wake. She shivered, hugging herself. According to the locals, she could expect wind year-round. Because Port Chatham sat surrounded by inlets and bays, no matter which direction the wind blew, the town sustained a direct hit off water that averaged temperatures in the forty-degree range. She would definitely have to modify her wardrobe before she froze to death.
The tavern was already crowded, heat and bright light spilling onto the sidewalk. Jase stood behind the bar, helping Bill mix drinks. Mellow jazz played from the sound system’s speakers but was mostly drowned out by shouts of laughter and loud conversation.
The minute Jordan entered, Darcy pointed to the empty chair at her table, her expression determined. “I might consent to you relaxing with a drink first, but you owe me a detailed report.”
“Alcohol loosens my tongue, so that’s definitely your best strategy.” Jordan dropped into the chair.
“Then allow me to pour it down your throat. Just out of curiosity, how many drinks does it take to get you drunk?”
“Two.”
“Huh. Probably best not to admit that in mixed company.” Darcy drank some beer. “I suppose the ghosts were there this afternoon?”
“I plead the Fifth.”
“Shit.” Darcy flopped back in her chair. “I’m pissed that you can see them and I can’t.”
“Want to trade places?”
Jase brought over a glass of Australian Shiraz. “Figured out who dunnit yet?” he asked.
Jordan narrowed her gaze. “It’s early days. Don’t you have customers to tend to?”
He shot her a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
She followed his progress back to the bar, then watched him mix drinks. He handled the task the way he handled everything—confidently and capably. “There ought to be a patch,” she muttered.
Darcy gave her a sideways glance. “Come again?”
“You know, like those nicotine patches? Only these would provide nice little vanilla orgasms, to take the edge off so you’re not inclined to do something foolish.”
“Vanilla orgasms,” Darcy repeated, shaking her head. “How’s that Four-Point Plan working for you?”
“Just peachy.”
A dark-haired woman of average height, rail thin and radiating a grim intensity, approached their table. “Are you going to buy that fancy crap at the deli or eat dinner here tonight?”
“Jordan, meet Kathleen, the chef of All That Jazz,” Darcy offered.
“Eat here?” Jordan replied faintly.
“Good choice.” Kathleen cocked her head at the dog, who had stretched out on his designated patch of floor. “A couple of burgers for him? It’s grass-fed, organic beef.”
“Sure, okay.”
“You name him yet?”
“He doesn’t like the names I’ve come up with so far, but I think I’m making progress.”
Kathleen snorted and left.
Jordan looked at Darcy. “She didn’t ask what I wanted.”
“You’ll get whatever she thinks you should have.”
“She also didn’t seem too concerned about Health Department regulations.” Jordan cocked her head at the dog.
“The inspector is someone’s stepmother’s cousin—I can’t remember exactly who—but we don’t worry overly much.” Darcy made a hurry-up motion with her hand. “Now quit stalling and spill it.”
Jordan brought her up-to-date on what she’d read that afternoon about the men in Hattie’s life. “The thing is, any of them could’ve had a motive to kill Hattie, and any of them could’ve been either an abusive or pathological personality type.”
Darcy drummed her fingers on the table. “I think your problem is that you’re viewing this from current-day perspective. Historically speaking, men were possessive, controlling chauvinists.”
“You mean, rethink my definition of ‘normal.’ Right—been doing that a lot lately. So there were no laws on the books regarding domestic abuse or sexual harassment?”
“The terms weren’t even known back then. I whine about men like Holt Stilwell, but the reality is, if he steps over the line, he’s broken the law. Back then, not so much. And within a marriage, women had even fewer rights.”
Jordan took a healthy sip of wine, enjoying the crisp bite of the Shiraz while she thought about it. “You know, Michael Seavey could be as strong a suspect as Frank Lewis.” Jordan summarized his involvement in waterfront crime for Darcy.
“Maybe.” Darcy looked unconvinced. “What about potential female suspects? Given a sturdy murder weapon, a woman has the strength to bash in a skull.”
“Eleanor Canby, the owner of the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette, comes to mind. She disapproved of Hattie’s actions, even openly accused her of poor judgment in an editorial. That’s a little over the top.”
“Who was in the house that night?”
“Besides Frank Lewis? The housekeeper and Charlotte. I doubt either had a motive to kill Hattie.”
Kathleen served their dinners—salads of fresh organic greens topped with ahi tuna seared in ginger and garlic, accompanied by warm, crusty chunks of bread to be dipped in olive oil. Jordan abruptly realized how famished she was. She cut the two hamburgers into bite-sized chunks, placing the plate on the floor for the dog, then dug in to her salad.
The first bite registered with her taste buds. “This is good.”
Darcy nodded, her mouth already full.
Once Jordan had sated the worst of her hunger and was willing to talk between bites, she continued. “I read that in the 1890s, Port Chatham was the second-largest port on the West Coast behind San Francisco. And that it had all the prostitutes, smuggling, et cetera, et cetera, you typically find in a port town.”
Darcy sprinkled sea salt on her olive oil and dipped the bread into it. “Yeah, the waterfront was literally lawless.”
“And yet, if the editorial I read today was any indication, Port Chatham did have an upper-crust society.”
“As far as I know, that’s accurate. I’ve heard mention of a group of women, referred to as Mercer Girls, who would’ve been the matrons of Port Chatham society by the time Hattie arrived.”
“Was Eleanor Canby one of them?”
Darcy looked toward the bar. “Tom! Eleanor Canby, Port Chatham Weekly Gazette—Mercer Girl?”
“Yep.” He picked up a box that had been sitting on the bar and brought it over to the table. “Back in the 1860s, William Mercer, the president of the University of Washington, realized how scarce marriageable women were in the region, so he traveled
back East and returned with young, single, educated women from good families.” Tom placed the box on the floor beside Jordan’s chair, then pulled up his own. “Several Mercer Girls married ships’ captains in the area and went on to become socially powerful in their communities.”
“That explains the moralistic tone of Eleanor’s editorials,” Jordan said.
Tom pointed to the box. “My great-granddaddy’s diaries. Jase said you wanted to take a look at them.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Jordan put down her fork and carefully wiped her hands on her napkin before removing the box lid. The cardboard was the acid-free type used for storing rare documents. Inside, each small volume had been sealed in plastic to keep out dust and mildew. Jordan picked up the top one and carefully slid it out of its wrapping. Using the tips of her fingers, she flipped through page after page of neat cursive script. Excitement curled along her spine.
“These should be fascinating. I’ve got Greeley’s memoir, but his personal diaries might provide more insight into his true feelings about the events.”
Tom raised a brow.
“Thanks a lot,” Darcy said. “You’d think a psychologist would know how to keep her mouth shut.”
Jordan realized she’d as much as admitted she’d been at the Historical Society, and that Darcy was complicit. It was too late to do anything but dig herself in deeper, so she gave Tom her most charming smile. “Feel free to forget I said that.”
He grinned. “Nah, I think I’ll tuck that little tidbit away so I can use it as leverage against Ms. Law and Order over here.”
Quickly redirecting the conversation, Jordan said, “No offense, but from what I’ve read about your ancestor so far, he was a bit on the controlling side.”
Tom nodded. “That comes across in his writing. Of course, a police chief in his day would have to be made of pretty stern stuff.” He swiped a chunk of bread from the basket and reached over to dip it into Darcy’s olive oil. “So your plan is to come up with an alternative theory for Hattie’s murder?”
Jordan glanced at him to see whether he looked offended, but he only seemed curious. “From what I’ve read so far, it’s possible the murder could be linked to the practice of shanghaiing,” she admitted. “Hattie wanted to eradicate the use of shanghaiers by Longren Shipping, and she was meeting with strong resistance.”
Tom frowned. “My great-granddaddy felt Hattie’s murder was a crime of passion, pure and simple.”
“I’m not ruling that out,” Jordan hastily assured him. “God knows, Frank Lewis was capable of it. And to be honest, I still have my doubts about his innocence. If someone is bludgeoned to death, that indicates spur-of-the-moment passion, just as your ancestor assumed.” She noticed the speculative looks from Tom and Darcy and stopped herself. “Not that I have any firsthand knowledge of crimes of passion, of course.”
“Right,” Darcy said.
Moving right along, Jordan said, “These diaries should give me more facts about the events after Hattie’s death, which will be very useful. Everything I read today had to do with the time leading up to the murder, and with Hattie’s attempts to take control of Longren Shipping.” She remembered Hattie’s comment about Seavey’s family papers. “Do either of you know whether the shanghaier Michael Seavey has any living relatives still in town? I have his memoir—” She winced, then shrugged. “It’s possible his personal papers might be worth reading, if any exist.”
Darcy exchanged a look with Tom. “That would be Holt Stilwell.”
“Oh.” Muscle shirt macho guy. Great.
“Seavey had an estranged sister who married into the Stilwell clan and produced several offspring,” Tom said. “Holt’s the only child of the son of the daughter of one of those offspring, if you followed that. Holt’s parents are dead, along with most of his cousins. And the family wasn’t exactly into preserving their heritage, for reasons you can probably surmise. But you never know, he might have a box of stuff somewhere at his place. That is, if the rats haven’t chewed the contents.”
“Yuck,” Jordan said, earning a grin from Tom.
“I can ask him, if you want. Holt is less likely to be difficult if the request comes from me.”
“And I don’t like the idea of you driving out to his place by yourself,” Darcy added. “You’re Stilwell’s type—he’s partial to women who are still breathing.”
Jordan sputtered out a laugh. “Thanks, but I can handle him. To be safe, though, I’ll approach him here at the pub.”
“By the way,” Darcy said, “I looked through the incident reports this afternoon down at the station. Nothing popped. So if someone is making a habit of watching, they haven’t been reported by anyone else.”
“Which rules out your garden-variety sex offender.”
Darcy shrugged. “Only if they’ve been at it long enough to get caught. You still getting an itch between your shoulder blades?”
“Sometimes, but it’s probably just my overactive imagination.”
“Yeah, well, I have the utmost respect for those little itches, so keep your eyes open.”
“How’s it going with Hattie and Charlotte?” Tom asked with a grin.
Jordan narrowed her eyes. “How come no one in this town seems concerned that I can supposedly talk to ghosts? Even the neighbors are showing up in droves to lend their support.”
“Hey, you’re big news,” Darcy pointed out. “That has a lot of weight around here.”
“And if you think about it,” Tom said, “you’re providing a much-needed community service. Historical preservation and righting old wrongs are important community issues in this town.”
“Uh-huh.” Jordan’s tone was skeptical.
Jase came by with a full tray of empties, stopping to pick up Jordan’s.
“Right, Jase?” Tom asked.
“Right.” He smiled at Jordan. “Another?”
“Yes, thanks,” she said, throwing sobriety to the wind.
“May take a few minutes to get it to you,” he muttered, looking harried.
“Are you short a waitress tonight?” Always aware of where he was in the room, she’d noticed him delivering multiple trays of drinks while they’d been talking and eating.
“Yeah. Honeymoon.”
“Want some help? I put myself through college by waiting tables—I can probably still balance a tray.”
“Would you mind?” he asked, relieved. “Just for a few minutes until I catch up the backlog? I didn’t anticipate tonight’s crowd.”
“So the Ted Rawlins Trio is really bringing them out?” Tom asked him.
The mention of Ted’s name reminded Jordan that he would be playing that evening. Glancing toward the stage, she noted that he and his band were already setting up. Jordan had already met the other two musicians who made up the trio, in L.A. But the stunning woman who walked over to where Ted stood on the stage, placing a proprietary hand on his arm and leaning in close to whisper in his ear, looked only vaguely familiar. It took Jordan a moment to place her.
“You know her?” Jase asked, noting the direction of Jordan’s gaze.
“Not personally, no, but I’m fairly certain her name is Didi Wyeth.”
“Your husband’s ex-girlfriend, the Hollywood actress?” Darcy’s gaze sharpened, and she turned in her chair to look. “What’s she doing with Ted Rawlins?”
Jordan wondered the same. “Oh, wait—Ted and Didi have the same talent agent, I think. Ted dropped his other one last year, according to what he told me. He and Didi must’ve met through the agent.”
“That still doesn’t explain what she’s doing up here, unless she hopped out of your hubby’s bed and right into Ted’s.”
“Maybe Ryland’s death hit her hard—maybe she’s on the rebound,” Jordan speculated. “He broke up with her a week or so before he died in the accident. It was all over the papers.”
Darcy frowned at that bit of information. “Interesting. That gives her motive, possibly. Did you mention her to Drake?”
&nbs
p; “Of course.”
Jase was waiting, so after telling the dog to stay, Jordan walked over to the bar, hefting a tray of drinks that Bill had mixed. “Where do these go?”
Jase pointed out the tables, then asked her to check others nearby for orders. A few customers noted the efficiency with which she handled the drinks and asked whether she planned to hire on. She laughed, replying that the way her checking account was being depleted, she might have to, which drew a few pained chuckles from people who were also renovating their historic homes.
She walked to the section of the room next to the front door to take orders. Some looked surprised, then smiled and told her they’d only come for the music, though a few others ordered drinks. She eventually made her way to where a man stood inside the front door, reading a newspaper. He hadn’t been there long—she’d noticed him when he walked in.
“What would you like?” she asked, pencil poised over the small order pad Jase had given her.
The man glanced up from the newspaper, his light-colored eyes sweeping over her without expression. She had only a brief moment to realize he made her uneasy before he replied. “Jack Daniel’s.”
“Neat?” she clarified, writing it down.
“Sure.”
“Be right back with that.” She turned to go, mentally shrugging. She could feel his eyes on her back, and it occurred to her as she crossed to the bar that the LAPD might have sent him to keep an eye on her.
Controlling a spurt of irritation at the thought, she gave her orders to Jase, made several more trips through the packed room, then returned to lean both elbows against the bar. If she was under surveillance, so be it—she was determined to enjoy herself. She purposefully ignored the stranger, listening to the musicians warm up while she waited for the next round to be mixed.
Ted raised his horn, working his way through a complicated riff, his fingers caressing the valves, and she was reminded once again of his tremendous talent—he truly was one of the greats. Or he would’ve been, if his career hadn’t been interrupted by a stint of drugs and alcohol. He’d always claimed that he could be the next Miles Davis, and his band members had privately admitted to her that he wasn’t being arrogant. Perhaps now that his career was back on track, he’d get the recognition he deserved.
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