Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  “What happened after Ryland got there?” Darcy asked.

  “We fought, and he got very angry.” She frowned. “In fact, I’d never seen him that way before—almost desperate to convince me we should be together. I put it down to his possibly running out of money, because of the civil suits that had been adjudicated against him. The damages from those suits would’ve set him back years, and it was questionable whether he could ever get his license to practice reinstated.”

  “So if anything, Ryland was the one who needed your assets,” Darcy concluded. “Did he know about the inheritance from your granny?”

  Jordan nodded. “Probate was finalized while we were married. But the account was always in my name only—the probate lawyer said Grandmother’s will stipulated that the money was mine and mine alone.”

  “Sounds like Granny knew what kind of man you’d married,” Darcy observed.

  “Long before I did, it seems.” Jordan sighed. “That’s it—we argued, Ryland pleaded with me, I refused, he got angrier, I asked him to leave, and he stormed out.” She looked at both of them. “I have no idea how to cut the brake lines on a car—I don’t even know where to look for them. And I didn’t have anyone else do it for me.”

  “I can certainly vouch for your lack of DIY experience,” Jase said, relenting enough to smile a little. “It’s difficult to envision how you could tamper with the brakes when you don’t know one tool from another. The D.A. will argue, though, that such things are easily researched. And Drake is convinced you did it.”

  “That much is obvious.”

  The waitress returned with their food, and they let the subject drop while they filled their plates. Jordan discovered that she was ravenous, but when she tried to use her chopsticks, she found her hands were shaking too badly to make them work.

  Jase was watching her carefully. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not—I’m mad.” She realized it was true. She was angry at a system that allowed such flawed investigations, and angry with Drake for focusing exclusively on her. She looked at Darcy. “Drake’s not interested in finding out who really did this, is he?”

  Darcy speared a pot sticker. “Nope. He’s got you in his sights, and he’s got witness statements that evidently corroborate his assumptions.” She chewed for a moment. “God knows I’m a suspicious soul, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think someone was setting you up.”

  Jordan’s chopsticks wobbled, the food falling back to her plate. Darcy was right—it was possible someone was feeding the police information in an effort to keep Drake focused on her.

  “The question is, who?” Darcy mused.

  Jordan shook her head. “The only person who comes to mind as a remote possibility is Didi Wyeth. Maybe she thinks I did it, and she wants revenge.”

  “She could’ve followed Ryland to your condo, witnessed the argument, and decided to take advantage of the situation,” Jase said. “How angry was she when Ryland broke up with her?”

  Jordan shrugged. “Carol mentioned that the gossip columnists had plastered pictures of their breakup all over the tabloids, speculating that Didi was washed up as an actress. If her career was harmed by the press coverage, I suppose that’s a motive.”

  “Or, in the spirit of keeping her motive simple,” Darcy countered, “she could’ve just been really pissed off at the son of a bitch for dumping her and wanted him dead. Your argument presented the perfect opportunity, and she took it. Then you come along, telling Drake to talk to her and find out whether she had an alibi, and she uses that opportunity to redirect Drake’s attention right back to you.”

  And if not Didi, Jordan had to wonder how many other women were floating around out there with similar levels of anger.

  As always, Darcy seemed to be on the same wavelength. “Who in your opinion are the most likely suspects in Ryland’s murder?”

  “Besides Didi? Anyone Ryland diddled who failed to win a judgment against him.”

  “Names?”

  “Marcy Brentworth—she comes from old Hollywood producer money. Alice Langston, another actress.” Jordan thought about it, then shook her head. “Those are the only two I can come up with off the top of my head, but if we look at the civil suits, we’ll come up with at least a dozen names.”

  “Any of them stand out as being particularly strident or furious during the trial?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t in court, and I avoided reading the press coverage. My goal was to stay as far away from that circus as possible.” She turned to Jase. “Do you know any good private investigators in L.A.?”

  He raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Yeah, someone I used in the old days. He’s thorough, and he’s also one of the good guys.”

  “Give him a call.” She pulled out a piece of paper and started writing down names. “While Drake is indulging his personal prejudices against me, a killer is walking around loose. And I want him found.” She handed Jase the paper. “I’ll hire your guy to look into the whereabouts and alibis of these people. That should be a start.”

  Jase read the names on the slip of paper, then added Drake’s. “When a homicide detective in a case holds a personal grudge, I want to know why,” he said by way of explanation when he saw her questioning look. “It could come in handy if we ever have to go to trial.”

  Jordan reflected on it, then nodded. “Go for it.”

  “No more Ms. Nice Guy, huh?” Darcy asked.

  “No more Ms. Nice Guy, no more Ms. Gullible. Someone killed Ryland, and though he had many faults, he didn’t deserve it. The least I can do is find his murderer. Then maybe I can put this behind me.”

  “As long as you’re being proactive, I don’t much care why,” Darcy said, “though I’d rather you were doing this for yourself, not Ryland.”

  “I am, believe me.”

  * * *

  DARCY left them outside the restaurant with the explanation that she had paperwork to catch up on. Jordan walked with Jase a half block to the wharf on the waterfront. She stood leaning against the railing, watching wisps of fog float on the waters of the bay. A refurbished nineteenth-century clipper ship was tied to the end of the wharf, and Jordan took a moment to study its intricate rigging and graceful lines.

  “They use it to take tourists out at sunset during the warmer months,” Jase explained, following her gaze. “Port Chatham has its own Wooden Boat Society, dedicated to keeping alive the art of building wood-hulled boats and refurbishing the historic ships.”

  She knew he was giving her time to say whatever was on her mind. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Jase nodded, then said in an even tone, “I’ll cut you slack on this one. But for the record, if you continue to keep me in the dark, I’ll encourage the prosecutor to toss you in jail. If I’m to defend you to the best of my ability, I need to know everything.”

  “I didn’t want you to think badly of me,” she admitted.

  He gave her a chiding look, but his tone remained businesslike. “I’ll call JT and get him started on the investigation.”

  “Do you think he’ll have time in his schedule?”

  “He’ll have to make time. I doubt Drake is going to wait long before he returns to town, this time armed with an arrest warrant.”

  Chapter 13

  JORDAN swung by the vet’s office on her way back to the house, arriving hours later than she’d promised the dog and feeling more guilt than she’d ever felt over the failure of her marriage. At the sound of her voice, the dog started howling from the back area.

  The receptionist grinned. “He’s been despondent since you dropped him off yesterday. I think you just reaffirmed his faith in human beings.” She told the technician who was sitting beside her to bring him out. “You didn’t give us his name though. We need it for our records.”

  Jordan felt her face heat. “We haven’t agreed on one yet.”

  The receptionist didn’t seem to find her comment the least bit odd. “Then we’ll use your name for now. But c
all us when you decide so we can properly file his records.”

  Jordan handed her a credit card to pay the bill, then quickly braced as the dog exploded through the door from the kennel area, dragging two people in his wake. He ran straight at her, planting his paws on her shoulders. Jordan staggered under the impact, laughing and letting him lick her face and neck.

  “Aren’t you gorgeous!” She hugged him, stunned by the change in his appearance.

  The vet, a trim woman in her midforties and attractive in a natural, farm-girl sort of way, helped pull him off Jordan. “I’m so sorry—he’s a little hard to control once he gets an idea in his head. You didn’t leave a leash—”

  “He doesn’t like them,” Jordan explained. “Any health problems?”

  “None that we found.” The vet rubbed his head. “He’s around four years old and in good health, other than being underweight. We brought him current on his shots, so he may sleep a little more than usual today. I’ve prepared a list of foods and supplements you’ll want to consider, to bring his weight back to normal and boost his immune system.”

  Jordan signed the credit card receipt, then leaned down to give him another hug. “I can’t believe how handsome he is, now that he’s clean.”

  “He’s a mix of Great Pyrenees, Saint Bernard, and German shepherd, all smart breeds. He’s very gentle and intelligent, and—we seem to have established—loyal.”

  “I’d already figured out the intelligent part,” Jordan said wryly. “So you have no idea who owned him before me?”

  “Nope.” The vet smiled. “And it doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s chosen the person he wants to be with.”

  * * *

  AFTER loading the dog plus all the food and supplements she’d purchased into the Prius, she drove to the house. The men were gone, along with the detritus from the wisteria. Though Amanda’s tent was still in the backyard, she was nowhere to be found. Tom had left notes taped to a kitchen cupboard indicating he’d get back to her within a couple of days with the remodeling plan.

  When Jordan stuck her head into the library, she found Hattie and Charlotte still mysteriously absent, which had her wondering whether they were occasionally called back to wherever ghosts came from, for some kind of confab with their superiors. Surely there was some sort of society, complete with its own laws that ruled the spectral realm. It made sense, didn’t it?

  Feeling antsy and unable to settle, she headed for the kitchen to retrieve her portable CD player. She’d take advantage of the ghosts’ absence while keeping her mind off the meeting with Drake by putting some work into those stacks of books in the library. Restoring a sense of order to the room would make her feel as if she’d accomplished something productive for the day.

  She put one of Ted’s CDs in and set the player atop the stacks of newspapers on the corner of the old oak desk. With the trio playing in the background, she started sorting through piles of books. The dog collapsed on the floor, stretching out to sleep with a grateful sigh.

  Ancient, leather-bound volumes of classics had been heaped together with modern fiction—everything from The Complete Works of Henry James to Vonnegut and Grisham. Alphabetizing the collection, which had to number in the thousands, was out of the question, though she actually considered it for a brief, insane moment. The thought of establishing that level of control over even a small corner of her life held great appeal. In the end, she settled for sorting out the worst of the moldy volumes to be taken to a used-book dealer for assessment, then dusting and stacking the others in the bookcases.

  At dinnertime, having organized one entire wall, she knocked off for the day. She was about to wake up the dog when she spied a stack of small, thin volumes that she’d set aside while filling the last bookcase. They didn’t look like published books. Curious, she picked one up and flipped through it. They were diaries—more of Hattie’s, by the look of the writing. She picked them up and headed upstairs to add them to the growing pile of reading materials next to her bed.

  Fifteen minutes later, she and the dog were on their way to the pub. Though clouds were building to the southwest, she decided they could both use the walk to stretch their legs. If they were caught in the rain on the way home, it was only a few blocks—they wouldn’t melt.

  As they walked, Jordan realized she was feeling more confident, and less panicked, now that she’d decided to hire a private investigator. Despite the nerve-wracking interview with Drake, and despite knowing he had every intention of arresting her for Ryland’s murder, she felt, well, good. Charged up. Ready to take on the world.

  She shoved both hands into her jeans pockets, frowning. Over the last year, she’d become far more insular than she’d been at any other point in her life. She’d always been a planner, but she’d never been one to avoid problems. Her MO was to analyze, consider alternative strategies, then take action. Since when had she become so passive, so willing to rely on others to come up with solutions?

  Because of the public nature of Ryland’s legal problems and their divorce, she realized, she’d gotten in the habit of lying low to avoid the press, and of waiting for others to take action. But in the case of Ryland’s murder, she now saw she’d been far too trusting, assuming the cops would find the real murderer.

  Well, no more of that, she decided as they reached All That Jazz. Deciding to launch her own investigation, albeit from afar, was a step in the right direction. Hopefully, she thought as she and the dog entered the pub, Jase would tell her this evening that the private investigator was already on the case, working to develop viable suspects.

  “Well, aren’t you just the handsome guy.” Darcy reached out to run a hand down the dog’s back as Jordan followed him over to her table. “He cleans up good.”

  Jordan took a seat. “According to the vet, he sailed through his homeless phase with no health problems. Good genes, evidently. He’ll probably become even more insufferable, now that he knows.”

  “What makes you think he hasn’t known all along?”

  “Valid point.” She pulled her passport out of her jacket pocket and held it out. After a brief tug of war that had Darcy raising one eyebrow, she forced herself to let go.

  She glanced around—the pub was already filling up, some people standing around and chatting, others ordering drinks or food. Jordan was once again impressed that Jase felt laid back enough about the business to allow folks to drop in simply to enjoy the music. Most tavern owners would have required people to pay a cover charge and purchase at least one drink.

  “Is Ted scheduled to play again this evening?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Darcy replied. “He came in earlier with his band members and Didi Wyeth.”

  “Good.” Jordan had questions for Didi. She wanted to know whether the actress was the “witness” who had told Drake about Ryland’s attempts to reconcile. Didi would’ve known, because according to what Ryland had told Jordan the night he died, he’d used his desire to patch up his marriage as the reason to break off the affair with Didi.

  Kathleen stopped on her way past the table, raising her eyebrows at Jordan in an unspoken question.

  “Yes,” she said hastily.

  Jase brought her a glass of red wine. “It’s an old-vine Zinfandel I’d like to start carrying. Let me know what you think.”

  His manner was once again friendly, and Jordan was able to relax a bit. In truth, she was grateful for his help, but she still didn’t know how she felt about his past. What she knew for certain, though, was that a slight distance had been created between them, and she regretted it.

  She held the wineglass up to breathe in its bouquet, then sipped. Her eyes drifted closed.

  “I take it that’s a solid yes vote,” Jase said.

  She nodded. She took another sip, savoring, then asked, “Did you get ahold of the private investigator?”

  He gave the room an assessing glance, evidently deciding he had a few minutes to relax, and pulled up a chair. “JT’s already digging up information
. He should have something by tomorrow.”

  “That’s fast.” Jordan was surprised.

  “He owed me.”

  “Ah. Thanks for calling in favors. As soon as he has any information to report back, I’d like to set up a conference call with him.”

  Jase nodded. “I’ll arrange it.”

  Kathleen arrived with plates of food—tonight’s selection was grilled salmon, steamed local asparagus, and rice pilaf. She’d included a plate of home-baked treats for the dog.

  “They probably don’t serve food like this in the California State Penitentiary System, huh?” Jordan asked as she put the dog’s plate on the floor.

  “You’re not going to jail,” Jase and Darcy said simultaneously, glowering at her.

  “No, I’m not,” Jordan said calmly. “Geez. Lighten up—it was a joke.”

  Jase’s expression remained tense, and Darcy gave her a halfhearted smile.

  Bad sign. Jordan swallowed nervously. “But maybe I should take my passport back, just in case.”

  “Maybe,” Jase acknowledged, earning a glare from Darcy.

  Jordan sighed and dug into her food. “Look, the PI will find something Drake overlooked, or I’ll dig up information on my own.” When they didn’t look reassured, she decided a change of subject was in order. “So how about I bring you up-to-date on what I’ve learned about Hattie’s murder?”

  “Right, good,” Darcy said, looking relieved.

  Jase took that as his cue to excuse himself to help out behind the bar.

  While they ate, Jordan told Darcy about the attack on Frank, and Hattie’s coming to the conclusion that Clive Johnson was behind it, then about how Michael Seavey had thwarted Hattie’s attempt to fire Johnson. “The two were definitely in cahoots, but I still think Seavey was torn between his growing feelings for her and her jeopardizing his business with Longren Shipping. And I think part of his motivation for offering her his protection was that he was truly worried for her safety.”

  “That’s plausible.” Darcy forked up a bite of salmon. “So now we know how Frank ended up in Hattie’s home around the time of the murder?”