Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  “Knock yourself out.”

  The girl retrieved a plastic bag containing coffee beans and some sort of cereal mix from inside the tent, then headed into the house. Shaking her head, Jordan turned in the direction of the alley.

  The dog stayed where he was, his head cocked toward the house, his expression dismayed.

  “Don’t start with me,” she warned. “I’m currently without caffeine.”

  He heaved a sigh, then stood and trotted in front of her through the backyard, leading the way.

  They walked a few blocks to a French café she’d noticed the other night just down from the grocery. When she’d spied the small sign for the restaurant, she’d noticed that they served European-style coffee with breakfast and had been intrigued enough to make a mental note to try out the place the first chance she got.

  The owner, a plump, cheerful woman in her fifties, showed Jordan to a table in the restaurant’s small courtyard where the dog could sit with her. Despite the early hour, the other tables were filled with patrons, some of whom were eating or drinking coffee, others who were reading the newspaper. She smiled at a few of them and received nods, then set the books she’d brought with her on the table, settling back in her chair to peruse the menu.

  Clearly, her next order of business needed to be to join a health club. Espresso infused with cream and served in a bowl, lemon pancakes topped with raspberry puree, French toast soaked in vanilla, cinnamon, and orange custard, then grilled—she could feel the pounds leaping off the page and onto her hips. Then again, she had a long day ahead of her, unpacking and moving furniture, right?

  Rationalization in place, she ordered espresso and French toast. The dog propped his chin on her shoulder, his tail sweeping the flagstones.

  “How about Marley? You know, after Bob Marley?” she asked, rubbing his ears while she waited for her coffee to arrive. “You seem like you’d be more into reggae than jazz, am I right?”

  “Raaooomph!” He closed his eyes, obviously expecting her to continue her ministrations.

  The owner returned with the steaming bowl of coffee adorned with a decorative pattern in the cream and mocha-colored foam floating on top, and set it before her. “You’re trying too hard,” she advised. “He’ll eventually tell you what name he wants.”

  “Rooooo.” He yawned in agreement, then closed his eyes again.

  The woman chuckled, giving his head a pat before she headed back inside.

  Jordan took her first gulp, letting the caffeine reach her brain, then picked up the book she’d brought on renovation. The introduction, which went into mind-numbing detail about the National Register of Historic Homes, had her eyes immediately glazing over. Leafing through a few more chapters, she skimmed enough to determine that the entire book was written in the same manner, so she flipped it shut. This morning wasn’t the time for complex subjects.

  Succumbing to temptation, she pulled out the smaller book she’d brought with her, John Greeley’s memoir. She’d perused enough of it yesterday to note it contained a discussion of Hattie’s murder investigation by the Port Chatham Police Department. Evidently, Greeley had headed up the investigation himself, which made sense. Back then, they would’ve had a small police department—there wouldn’t have been homicide detectives.

  Flipping to the table of contents, she located the chapter on the murder investigation and hunted for the page. After another fortifying sip of espresso, she started to read.

  Though I am a man whose work exemplifies sobriety and industry, I feel it necessary to record the investigation that resulted in the arrest of the individual who was responsible for the terrible murder of Mrs. Charles Longren on that tragic night of June 6, 1890. It is my intent by recording the details of this horrendous crime that others may learn from the straightforward and thorough work of the Port Chatham Police Department, and that this learning will influence future investigations, providing a good example for generations to come.

  The victim, Mrs. Charles Longren, had been recently widowed from one of Port Chatham’s most respected businessmen, who was rumored to have perished at sea at the hands of a mutinous crew. This unfortunate incident marked the beginning of a period of extreme mental instability for his widow, who it can be said then made several ill-advised decisions, resulting in her reckless and inappropriate behavior on more than one occasion, and ultimately leading to her own murder, as well as the ruination of her younger, innocent sister, Miss Charlotte Walker. Be that as it may, the Port Chatham Police Department did not shirk in its duties, as you, dear reader, will soon surmise.

  Jordan rolled her eyes. The man’s gargantuan sense of self-importance was enough to almost, but not quite, trigger her gag reflex. She refrained from speculating about the borderline personality required to write such pompous drivel and continued to read.

  At twelve minutes before midnight on that fatal night, this author was called upon to examine the body of Hattie Longren, whom it appeared had been bludgeoned with an auger. Within hours of the commission of the crime, I had vigorously pursued and arrested Mrs. Longren’s murderer, one Frank Lewis, a union representative with a history of violence who also may have been her illicit lover …

  The restaurant owner set Jordan’s breakfast before her, the aromas of warm citrus and maple syrup jerking her back to the present. She marked her place with a torn corner of her napkin and shut the book, thinking about what she’d learned as she dug in.

  According to Greeley’s version of events, Hattie had been hit from behind with an iron hand auger, described as a vise with long handles on either side, weighing approximately eight pounds. Greeley had found it lying next to her body, one handle smeared with blood. Given Greeley’s description of the tool, it was obviously heavy enough to have split open Hattie’s skull when wielded with sufficient force. Using recently imported European techniques in the science of fingerprinting, Greeley had identified a bloody print on the master bedroom door as Frank Lewis’s.

  Frank claimed to have been drugged and unconscious in the library at the time of the murder. When he’d regained consciousness, he’d immediately looked for Hattie, concerned for her safety. He’d discovered her body, tried to revive her, then contacted Greeley. Frank had admitted he was woozy from the effects of whatever drug someone had slipped into his tea and was not thinking clearly—he thought he might’ve left the bloody print on the door handle as he ran out of the room to contact the police.

  Greeley had written that he hadn’t believed Frank’s version of events. Based on Frank’s presence at the crime scene and the bloody print, Greeley had immediately arrested him.

  Though Frank had vehemently denied killing Hattie and claimed that Greeley should investigate Clive Johnson, the police chief had dismissed his arguments. In the weeks before the trial, Greeley had gone on to establish Frank’s motive by interviewing witnesses from the neighborhood who claimed to have heard frequent arguments between Hattie and Frank, though the substance of those arguments was unknown.

  Jordan frowned as she chewed. Even with the fingerprint, the evidence seemed circumstantial at best, though perhaps back then it would’ve been considered sufficient to gain a conviction. However, given what she’d already learned about Hattie’s life and her strained relationships with her neighbors, Jordan thought it entirely possible some hadn’t given truthful statements—or, at the very least, had been influenced by circumstances to believe the worst. She made a mental note to ask whether any signed statements or witness testimony from the trial might still exist.

  What bothered her the most, though, were the parallels between Hattie’s murder investigation and Ryland’s. In both cases, an arrogant cop was in charge, and in both cases, one suspect had been the focus from the very beginning. Why hadn’t Greeley looked at other possible suspects? Surely Charlotte and the housekeeper had told him about Michael Seavey and Clive Johnson, even if they wouldn’t have thought to mention Eleanor Canby. Then again, according to Hattie’s diary, Greeley had held Johnson in
high regard, and his relationship with Seavey was unknown. Greeley therefore might have discounted what the women had told him; he certainly made a habit of discounting what any woman said.

  Perhaps Seavey’s papers would shed further light on the investigation—that is, if he’d written about it. And Jordan would have to ask Hattie what Frank had been doing in the house that night—why he’d been in the library, and whether she knew who could have drugged him. But no matter how Jordan looked at it, Greeley seemed to have focused on Frank from the very beginning, having arrested him the very same night, then concentrated on building the case against him.

  She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone. From what Darcy and Carol had told her, Drake seemed to have focused exclusively on her since the night of Ryland’s murder. Did that mean Drake was building a case against her, compiling what he believed to be strong evidence that she’d tampered with Ryland’s Beemer? Had people like Didi Wyeth manipulated the facts out of spite? The thought that someone might be deliberately encouraging Drake’s tunnel vision …

  No. The LAPD was a highly professional organization with more than a hundred years of technological advances in forensics at their fingertips. Surely, even if Drake did suffer from tunnel vision, the prosecutors wouldn’t indict on less than damning evidence against her, given the press’s laser focus. And that evidence simply didn’t exist, because she hadn’t killed Ryland.

  She glanced at her watch. More time had passed than she’d realized—the movers were probably waiting for her. And she’d wasted far too much time already that morning obsessing. That had to stop. Downing the last of her coffee, she paid her bill, then headed home, still lost in thought, the dog in the lead as usual.

  The good news, she concluded, was that she seemed to be adjusting to her spectral roommates—as long as she could find peaceful, contemplative moments like these away from them. Obsessing aside, she had a house she loved, a new town she might love even more, and an ancient murder investigation that had her more hooked than most mystery books. The cops would do their job and find Ryland’s murderer.

  She needed to stay positive.

  * * *

  THE moving van pulled to a stop at the curb just as she arrived, sending Charlotte into a spastic frenzy, flying from window to window. Doing her best to ignore Charlotte’s ceiling-level hovering, Jordan walked the movers through the house and handed out instructions. Downstairs furniture would go in the parlor on the main floor, overflow furniture would be stored in the parlor on the second floor, and boxes would be delivered to the room designated on their labels. Then she and Hattie lured Charlotte into the library, whereupon Jordan produced the Vanity Fair she’d purchased the night before. She slipped out, shutting the doors—just in case others could hear ghost shrieks or see magazine pages flying—and taped up a note, declaring the room off-limits.

  Walking into the kitchen, she noted that Amanda was already at work, pounding in stakes and marking off quadrants in the garden with red string. Promising herself she’d get the upper hand in the Amanda situation at some point, she made espressos for the movers, then carried a book on home repair and Seavey’s papers—the ones Holt Stilwell had tossed at her the night before—out to the porch, sitting down in the swing where she would be available for questions.

  Curious, she flipped through a chapter on tools in the home repair book that included useful pictures and clear explanations, hoping to find a picture of a hand auger. No such luck. Evidently, they weren’t considered a necessary purchase these days.

  She was about to flip the book shut and move on to Michael Seavey’s papers when she spied a row of pictures of hammers. There really was a wide range of hammers. Framing hammers looked like they could do serious damage, making them her favorite. She was fairly certain Jase had had her buy one the day before. The hammers with the big, curved claws looked more elegant but equally deadly, which appealed to her aesthetic sensibilities. But the cutest ones were the little ball-peen hammers with their round heads, which Jase had failed to have her purchase. She was puzzling over that when she was interrupted.

  “Where do you want this?”

  She looked up to find a mover standing on the porch, the mattress to her prized king-size bed bent over his shoulder. He sported a short, spiked black haircut and enough prison tattoos to resemble a mass murderer, but if he could set up her bed and she didn’t have to sleep a third night on the floor, she was willing to worship at his feet. “Upstairs, master bedroom around to the front. The one with the window seat.”

  He didn’t move. “You sure? Because I could prop it out in the hallway, you know, until you decide.”

  She raised a brow.

  “That room has a weird feeling, is all,” he explained. “The boss mentioned a lot of homes in this town are maybe haunted.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Well, I couldn’t sleep in there.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “It has a window seat.”

  He shook his head, his expression indicating he thought she was nuts, then headed inside without another word.

  She set aside the home improvement book, picked up Seavey’s papers, removing the string that held them together, and settled in to read.

  The Invitation

  MICHAEL Seavey was under no illusion that he had ever possessed the virtue of patience. In the more than two decades he’d ruled the waterfront, making a comfortable living off the misfortune of others, he’d never tolerated anyone standing in his way.

  Fortunately, he no longer had to handle the disposal himself—he employed loyal enforcers who understood it was their job to use whatever methods were required. If anyone encroached upon his business holdings, they were warned. If they didn’t heed the warning, they quietly disappeared. Michael had long ago gotten in the habit of simply taking what he wanted. Which was why, as he stood in the offices of Longren Shipping, watching Clive Johnson pace, he couldn’t understand his reticence with regard to Hattie Longren.

  He’d had other women in his life, of course. In the past, his tastes had run the gamut from young, frightened virgins to older, wiser women who knew not to cross him. Even his late wife, who’d shown a talent for wielding a bullwhip against rebellious sailors, hadn’t had the courage to stand up to him. He’d found her quite amusing until she’d turned that bullwhip on him after he’d discovered her in bed with one of his bodyguards.

  He most decidedly didn’t find Hattie Longren amusing, however. Stubborn, enthralling, and exasperating, but definitely not amusing. And at the moment, she held enough power to damage his business holdings, which he had no intention of condoning.

  Michael leaned over, striking a match against the pointed toe of his ankle boot. He held the flame to the tip of his cigar, slowly rolling it while drawing to create an even burn. The Cuban crackled and hissed, and he breathed its potent fragrance in deep, taking a moment to appreciate one of the many perks of having access to high-quality smuggled goods: cigars, opium, fine liquor, and willing women. Women far more willing than Hattie.

  He felt a rare anger take hold. He simply couldn’t understand why he was giving her any leeway. Or, for that matter, why he’d backed off from the threats he’d planned to deliver during last week’s visit. He must’ve been momentarily disarmed by that business with the dossier Charles had compiled. Michael should’ve found Hattie’s refusal to read the contents hopelessly naïve, yet he’d found himself thinking it was … admirable.

  Damnation! The entire affair had him feeling as if he no longer comfortably fit inside his own skin. If he wanted Hattie in his bed, he should simply put her there—he’d never balked before at taking a woman.

  She was a widow and, as such, without protection. It would be child’s play to abduct her and keep her at his hotel. He doubted Greeley would care or even bother to look for her. After all, Michael would be doing Greeley a favor, removing Hattie so that he had unimpeded access to young Charlotte.

  Clive Johnson continued to pace in front of his desk, trying
—and clearly failing—to deal with his impotent fury over Hattie’s visit to the office. If the man weren’t so useful, Michael thought with genuine regret, he would’ve figured out a way to make him disappear long ago.

  The business manager was crass and stupid, but unfortunately also good at following orders, which was probably why Charles had kept him around for so long. However, since Charles’s death, Johnson had been running wild, extorting increasingly larger kickbacks from the boardinghouse owners, and when he didn’t get what he wanted, exacting brutal retribution when he didn’t get what he wanted. Though Michael had always run his businesses efficiently, he’d never employed—or admired the application of—senseless violence. If Michael’s enforcers showed up on a man’s doorstep, that man knew why.

  “You handled her all wrong, you know,” Michael finally said, keeping his tone mild. “A spirited woman such as Hattie requires more … finesse.”

  Johnson halted long enough to glare at him. “If we’re not careful, that bitch’ll take us all down.”

  Michael sighed inwardly. He found it tedious to have to explain the obvious, though he supposed there was a certain comfort in knowing that Johnson didn’t have the imagination to double-cross him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about—the worst she’ll do is order you to stop using my services.”

  “And if she does, what then?”

  Michael shrugged. “We’ll figure out a way to hide the transactions, of course.” He pushed away from the wall and tapped cigar ash into Hattie’s teacup, which Johnson hadn’t bothered to clear from his desk. “I never understood why Charles was so willing to openly document the payoffs.”

  “Charles was obsessive about more than his women.” Johnson scowled. “You read the paper. She’s makin’ public statements about the fire, for God’s sake. It won’t be long until she puts that together with the boardin’houses, and makes the connection to Longren Shipping. Once she does that, the trail’ll lead right to us.”