Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  She jolted as an arm snaked around her waist. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the pretty lady who offed her old man for sleeping around,” a deep, gritty voice murmured in her ear.

  She smelled the alcohol on his breath before she looked up into Holt Stilwell’s leer. Calmly, she stepped to one side, but his grip tightened, keeping her where she was. Rather than struggle with him, she looked him in the eye. “How convenient, Mr. Stilwell. I’ve been meaning to ask you about borrowing your family papers.”

  It wasn’t the reaction he’d obviously hoped for. “What’re you talking about?”

  “I’m looking for any diaries you might have from the late 1800s.”

  He dropped his hand to her hip. “Well, now, if I do have any, I wouldn’t let you see them.” He grinned, purposely crowding her. “That is, unless you want to drop by my place later tonight.”

  “Holt.” Jase had approached without her knowledge. His eyes lacked their customary warmth, and his voice was deceptively quiet.

  Stilwell stared at him for a long moment. “She yours?”

  Jordan gaped at Stilwell, wondering whether she’d time-traveled back a century.

  Jase shook his head. “Don’t.”

  Darcy was out of her chair and looking determined, but Jordan shook her head at her. “Excuse me.” She took the tray of drinks Jase had set on the bar and moved away, effectively breaking the tension. From a safe distance, she turned back, her expression polite. “If you wouldn’t mind looking for those papers, Mr. Stilwell, I’d appreciate it.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  After delivering the drinks, she gave Stilwell time to focus his attention elsewhere by walking over to the stage. “You guys want any water to drink during your set?” she asked the band members.

  Ted frowned, wiping down his horn with a soft cloth. “You’re working here?”

  She shook her head. “Just helping out for the evening.”

  “That’s not okay,” he protested. “You shouldn’t be hauling our drinks.”

  He’d always voiced strong opinions about what she should be doing with her life, opinions she felt were inappropriate. She kept her tone light. “I’m just getting a little exercise and helping out a friend.”

  “Let her bust her butt, hon.” Didi Wyeth’s clothes and makeup were stunning, her voice artificially sultry, her body slender to the point of emaciation. Her glance flicked over Jordan dismissively as she snuggled up to Ted’s side.

  Jordan noted that the gesture seemed to annoy him, and given the brittleness of Didi’s expression, she suspected the actress had picked up on his reaction as well.

  “I’m sure Jordan needs the money, since insurance companies don’t pay out to murderesses,” Didi continued, smiling with false sympathy at Jordan.

  “Didi,” Ted warned.

  She shrugged. “Grey Goose martini, double, dirty,” she ordered.

  “No problem.” Jordan smiled politely and wrote down the order, then returned to the bar.

  “Is she bothering you?” Jase asked, evidently having observed the interchange.

  “You mean, do I mind that she’s here?” Jordan shrugged. “Thanks for the thought, but, no, I’m fine. Ryland pretty much killed whatever feelings I had for him long before she arrived on the scene.”

  “Good to know,” Jase said quietly.

  Their gazes met and held. She moved to place two pitchers of ice water for the band onto her tray, silently willing her hands to remain steady.

  “That should do it for the moment,” he said in a more businesslike tone. “Sit with Darcy and enjoy the music—I’ll let you know whether I need you again.”

  “Deal.” She hesitated. “And thanks.”

  He smiled, catching her reference to Stilwell. “Standard knight-in-shining-armor stuff, though my armor may be a bit tarnished here and there.”

  Tarnished just enough, she suspected, to enhance his appeal.

  * * *

  DARCY had somehow managed to save her chair from the boisterous crowd. The pub was now standing room only, the roar of laughter and clink of glasses loud enough that Jordan had to strain to hear Darcy. As many people were simply listening to the music as were purchasing drinks, though Jase didn’t seem to mind. Tom had decamped to stand with friends at the opposite end of the bar.

  “So Ted Rawlins lives most of the year in L.A.?” Darcy asked.

  Jordan gave her a questioning look. “As far as I know. Why?”

  “Just curious how well you know him.”

  The light dawned. “Ah, you think maybe I had a relationship with him, and that’s what I’m keeping quiet about? That Ryland and I were both into kink with our patients? No way.”

  “Then why is the actress sending you death rays?”

  “She probably still feels threatened by my presence, given that she dated Ryland before the divorce was finalized,” Jordan replied. She cocked her head. “You have an overly suspicious mind.”

  “Comes with the territory. I spent five years in the Minneapolis PD as a homicide detective, so I’m more jaded than most.”

  That certainly explained Darcy’s fair coloring—the upper Midwest was heavily populated with Scandinavians. Still, Jordan was surprised. “I thought you were a local.”

  “Nope. I’ve been here eight years, which in the locals’ eyes still makes me a newcomer. You’d be amazed by the number of folks in this town who have a past life.” Darcy cocked her head toward the bar. “Bill, for instance, used to be a Wall Street trader. And Tom was a tenured professor at the University of Washington; he taught chemistry.”

  Jordan raised her eyebrows. “And he now paints for a living?”

  Darcy shrugged. “People around here tend to value quality of life over money.”

  Jordan wanted to ask whether Jase was one of them, but she didn’t want to reveal her curiosity.

  “Lawyer.” Darcy read her mind with uncanny accuracy. “I’ll let him give you the lowdown, though.”

  Jordan picked up a piece of bread and nibbled while she chewed on that new little tidbit of information. She never would’ve pegged Jase for a lawyer—he was far too laid back.

  “Have you at least mentioned other possible suspects to Detective Drake?” Darcy asked, bringing the conversation back around.

  “I gave him a few names.” Jordan had mentioned Didi’s, and she’d also supplied the names of ex-patients who had sued Ryland for sexual harassment.

  “That so? I requested a copy of the case file, which arrived this afternoon, and from what I’ve read, Drake may not be investigating anyone else.”

  Jordan refrained from comment, and Darcy shook her head, leaning over so that her voice wouldn’t carry. “Look, I know I’m just another cop in your eyes, but unless you really did kill the jerk, I’m not the enemy. Cutting the brake lines on a car takes knowledge and advance planning—in other words, it’s a premeditated act. I’ve spent enough time on the force to know a murderer when I see one, and you aren’t the type. Hell, even if you had lost your temper and felt like killing the son of a bitch, I figure you would’ve simply yelled at him to get counseling.” Darcy paused. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Jordan said faintly.

  “So if you want my help with this, ask, dammit.”

  “Thanks,” she said, surprised and touched, and also feeling more than a little guilty for continuing to withhold information from her.

  Darcy nodded as if that settled it. “Now, are you gonna let me help solve Hattie’s murder or not?”

  Jordan smiled. “How about nightly updates?”

  * * *

  FOR the next few hours, Jordan listened to music and helped Jase when needed. Twice, she asked the man up front whether he wanted a fresh drink, since he hadn’t touched his whiskey. Both times, he turned her down with only slightly more than a grunt. She’d been tempted to ask him to produce his badge, but in the end, she decided to leave him alone and ignore the itch he gave her between her shoulders.

 
; By midnight, she was feeling the effects of the lack of sleep from the night before. She woke up the dog, collected the box of diaries, and headed out the door, yawning.

  Half a block from the tavern, though, Stilwell suddenly materialized out of the shadows, blocking her path. The dog leapt between them, growling. Setting the box on the pavement, Jordan placed a hand on his collar, surreptitiously glancing around to see whether she could count on help from any passersby.

  Stilwell caught her action and grinned, obviously enjoying her discomfort. He tossed her a book with a cracked binding held together with string. She fumbled, almost dropping it, scrambling to protect the fragile pages.

  “That’s all I got from the family,” he said with a shrug. “I figure you owe me one now. I’ll decide how and when to collect.”

  “Thanks,” she said, ignoring his innuendo. “This will be a great help.” She stepped back, pulling the dog with her.

  He shifted to block her escape. “What do you want it for, anyway?”

  “Just some research I’m doing about the town back when my house was built,” she replied, leaving out any specifics. “I’ll make sure this gets back to you in a few days or so. All right?”

  He shrugged and turned to go. “Makes no difference to me whether I ever get it back.” With that, he disappeared into the night as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Jordan stood on the sidewalk, frowning after him, willing her pulse to return to normal. He’d just tossed a rare document at her that might well be worth a significant sum of money. In her experience, only the strongest of emotions overrode greed in a man like Stilwell. So why had he been so cavalier about parting with the book? And she had the oddest feeling that he was overplaying a part, trying too hard to make everyone think he was the baddest of bad boys.

  She shook her head. On the other hand, she was functioning on only a few hours of sleep, so she probably shouldn’t be willing to attribute altruistic motives to the man’s actions.

  The small spurt of adrenaline caused by his appearance seeped away, leaving her even more exhausted. She took several deep breaths, then leaned down to place Stil-well’s packet on top of the box and pick both up. “Time to go home, boy.”

  By the time she got the dog settled in the back of the car, her responses were so sluggish that she wondered whether she should drive the three blocks to her house. But even though every muscle in her body ached, the lingering uneasiness from the encounter with Stilwell had her eyes wide open.

  Enough so that on the way home, she made a detour to an all-night grocery on the edge of downtown, to buy some groceries and the latest issue of Vanity Fair.

  Chapter 9

  BY seven the next morning, Jordan was wide awake and twitching inside her sleeping bag, her overactive brain no longer willing to let her linger in that pleasantly relaxed state between deep sleep and fully alert. She pushed her arms out of the sleeping bag—a feat, since the dog, who seemed to have gotten over his unwillingness to enter the bedroom, was plastered along her right side, pinning her. Luxuriating in a jaw-cracking yawn, she stretched to relieve the stiffness caused by two nights on a hard floor.

  She paused, arms over her head, frowning. Actually, her sleep hadn’t been deep or relaxed. She’d dreamt of the incidents leading up to Hattie’s murder, one of those god-awful frustration dreams in which the more she’d learned, the further she’d been from discovering the killer’s identity. She’d watched herself pace through the deep gloom of the library, pausing to read excerpts from diaries and memoirs, then wearing new tracks in the Aubusson carpet as she puzzled over the clues to the writers’ psyches she found hidden in every line of text.

  Sighing, she pushed back the edges of the sleeping bag. She had a busy day planned—the movers were due to arrive by midmorning, she’d made an appointment with the local vet to take the dog in for a wellness check and grooming, and Tom and Jase were dropping by to help her assess the work needed on the house.

  And she couldn’t forget she’d promised Ted a tour. Though he was a distraction she didn’t need, she couldn’t beg off without upsetting him. He was still fragile and, when thwarted, prone to act inappropriately. As his ex-therapist, she had a responsibility to support his efforts to put his life back on track. She sincerely hoped, though, that he left Didi at home.

  She tugged harder on the sleeping bag in an attempt to free herself. The dog took her struggles as a sign that it was time to get up. Rolling over, he slapped a paw across her midsection, almost knocking the breath from her lungs, and reached his head up to lick her face. She laughed and pulled the edge of the sleeping bag over her face, which he took as a sign that it was time to play.

  The next thing she knew, she was being dragged—inside the sleeping bag—toward the bedroom door. She wrestled, and he growled and refused to let go, all the while wagging his tail. She managed to crawl out just before he pulled her down the stairs.

  Heading for the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, then glanced out the window to gauge the weather. No rain, no clouds—a perfect day to escape for an hour before the rush began. Pulling on jeans, a sweatshirt, and high-tops, she ran a comb through her hair, securing the most unruly strands with clips, creating an overall effect that was vaguely—but not quite—stylish. Story of her life.

  Hoping to avoid the ghosts, she tiptoed down the stairs, then halted at the library door. She took a tentative step inside, half expecting to see the people from her dream still lurking in the shadows not yet dispelled by the early morning sun. But the room stood silent, refusing to reveal its secrets.

  All the men in Hattie’s life—the ones who’d had reason to murder her—had at one time stood in this very room. As she peered into the gloom, it took only a quick blink of her eyes to imagine their presence.

  Frank Lewis stood to one side, a shoulder insolently propped against a tall bookcase, while Michael Seavey reclined in stylish elegance in the wingback chair. John Greeley, impatient and grim, stood next to the desk, clenching his huge fists. Clive Johnson lurked by the French doors, a feral light in his eyes, waiting for an opportunity to exact his own personal form of brutal retribution.

  To a man, their expressions were at once enigmatic and threatening. Yet whenever Jordan came close to understanding their true motivations, she’d discover some new tidbit in a memoir or diary that had her altering her opinion.

  Without a doubt, Clive Johnson made her skin crawl. Though it was callous of her, she sincerely hoped to discover that the man had died a horrible, painful death. And though Tom had a point about his ancestor being a hard man out of necessity, Jordan still couldn’t warm to Chief Greeley any more than Hattie had. He reminded her of the sheriff in the movie Unforgiven, she realized, whose ethics had been situational at best.

  Frank Lewis, on the other hand, was classic alpha male in a literary-bad-boy sort of way, with hints of anger alternating with glimpses of genuine warmth and concern for Hattie. Clearly, he’d been driven to improve the rights of sailors. But had he eventually allowed the reins to slip on his temper? Jordan didn’t yet know—but she was keeping her eye on him, not nearly as besotted with him as Hattie seemed to be.

  Then again, Jordan found herself unwillingly charmed by Michael Seavey, even though she knew he had to have been a dangerous man. If Hattie was correct, he’d cold-bloodedly kidnapped Charlotte and allowed his thugs to terrorize her. And yet he seemed perfectly comfortable with himself. He exuded confidence and self-knowledge, both of which were attractive traits. Jordan had always had a soft spot for strong, confident men, and she could’ve sworn he truly cared for Hattie, no matter how much Hattie denied it …

  Jordan blinked. Holy God. Seavey reminded her of Ryland—handsome, elegant, and polished, with just a hint of amused self-deprecation, yet capable of ruthless calculation in his dealings with others. She shuddered. Just great. She was allowing her personal blind spot for charming psychopaths to affect her ability to solve Hattie’s murder.

  Disgusted and more than a
little spooked by what had morphed from fleeting glimpses into a full-blown, vivid daydream populated by people from another century, she headed down the hall, slipping out the back door … and immediately slid to a halt as the dog lunged, barking. Someone had pitched a bright orange single-person expedition tent in her backyard.

  Shushing the dog, she walked over and tentatively rapped on one of the tent’s aluminum supports. “Hello?”

  “Be with you in a minute,” a sleepy feminine voice called out.

  Jordan heard fabric rustling, then a young woman with pale brown hair caught in a ponytail stuck her head out. Dressed in gray sweats and thick wool socks, she crawled through the low opening, then straightened and stretched on a yawn.

  Blinking sleepy brown eyes at Jordan, she said, “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” Jordan replied, keeping her tone friendly, then waited.

  The girl yawned. “I’m Amanda?”

  The neighbor’s daughter, Jordan remembered. Landscaper.

  “I restore the gardens of haunted houses,” Amanda added helpfully.

  Jordan couldn’t help herself—she had to ask. “Doesn’t that limit your potential client base?”

  “Not in this town.”

  Okay. She cleared her throat. “Did you pitch your tent in the wrong yard?”

  Amanda looked confused. “Oh. No, I like to get a spiritual sense of the garden I’ll be working on. It’s all part of my process.”

  “I see.” Jordan didn’t, but she was beginning to suspect that the inhabitants of Port Chatham had their own unique approach to life. “I’m headed out for breakfast. Perhaps we should talk when I get back?”

  “No problem.” Amanda yawned again. “You’ve got an espresso maker in the kitchen, right? I’ll just grab my beans, if that’s all right with you.”